I thought I may as well put this here. PLEASE NOTE - THIS A CRACK FIC, A PARODY, A SPOOF ETC ETC ETC. IT IS NOT MEANT TO BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY. It is supposed to show how overly wordy and ridiculous we can get when writing about these fictional men, and how we elevate their stature and, err, physique to proportions beyond human possibility. It is a fic aimed solely at taking the piss out of oneself. My writing, I really really hope, is not like this anymore, but I think I may have had some moments early on where it may have had glimpses of this (urgh - sorry). Still, I had A LOT of fun writing this and hope you enjoy it. It enables us to gawp and gasp at everyone's favourite mature blond Death Eater (just to be specific) in a world of excruciatingly purple prose. It was originally something I came up with very quickly and posted on LJ. I wasn't sure what to call it, hence the random title. Enjoy. x

Hermione had been shown through the Manor to the verdant, expansive gardens at the back. (Cue strings). The sun, voluptuous in its circular perfection, was searing the air and the earth, and Hermione could feel her perspiration pooling idly in the heaving recess between the lush valley of her breasts.

She was led around a corner of the ancient and magnificent dwelling and brought to a vast swimming pool, Doric columns rising with noble splendour up around it, where she was left to wait for her host.

Hermione stared at the wide expanse of crystal blue water, dappled and rippling, the scorching rays of the sun dancing off the surface with blinding bedazzlement. There was someone in the water.

A long, pale shape moved smooth, streamlined and elegant, cutting through the surface with barely a splash. The body, ethereal almost in its sparkling luminosity, moved to the side and reached up to climb out. (Strings shimmer appropriately)

Lucius Malfoy pulled himself from the water, his hand gripping the rail, the taut muscles on his forearms flexing and shifting under the velvet skin, water running in tantalising rivulets down to drip languidly back into the shimmering pool beneath.

Hermione gasped but could only stare, the fire in her belly pulsating with sheer unadulterated wonder at the sight of the lustrous love-god rising like a deity of desire from his dripping domain. (No, seriously.)

He rose from the water. (Cue slow motion)

His body appeared before her, Adonis-like, and he stood, naked save only for the sheerest pair of trunks which barely concealed the great heavy mass of male potency cupped agonisingly within.

His arms stretched up, flexing out his exertion, and he turned, giving her the fullest most delectable view of his perfectly toned, swelling torso, honed through years of deadly, dark and dangerous deeds too delinquent and dastardly and ... umm ... dodgy to deliberate on for too long. (What?)

Water dripped from it, pouring in rivers off the smooth surface and running in tantalising snakes down to pool briefly in his tight noduled belly button before descending further to disappear enticingly into the trunks. Hermione slicked her lips, bit her tongue and crossed and uncrossed her legs several times (and then some!), her eyes glazing with the sheer sublime beauty of the sight of perfect masculine divinity before her.

(We're still in slow motion here and now cue 'Take my breath away' by Berlin)

His biceps tightened as he gripped his towel, his chest muscles primed themselves as he bent from vulpine hips, the firm ripples of his exquisite abdominals moved with erotic sensuous undulations before her eyes, straining against the silken wetness of his delicious skin, skin her tongue tingled - nay longed - to taste, lick, savour.

And then he let his head fall back, his eyes close. His long lush eyelashes fell upon his skin, stroking it with tender caress – how Hermione longed to do the same. She moaned with desire, her lust prompting an immediate flooding gush between her legs. She groaned, she gasped, she gaped. Her hands came up instinctively and unwittingly to rub over her nipples which had risen tight and hard, little buds of needy flesh, crying out for his lips and tongue to tease and nibble and entice.

The man before her shook his head, sending delicate drops of moisture flying around him, his silver blond mane of lustrous tempting locks swirling and cascading around his head.

(Don't forget – slow motion for the hair bit! And music! ...)

She could only groan in agony at not having him against her now.

And still he moved, his beauty blinding, his body's sinews and fibres writhing majestically in a great symphony of sensuous, sensual sensation. His limbs, long and lithe and languid, caused Hermione to cry out with need.

He looked up and saw her. (Close up on eyes now, girls)

The fire within the crystal grey of his wide, limpid, entrancingly hypnotic orbs beckoned to her, called to her, spoke only to her, the black of his pupils flashing, widening in desirous recognition, his immediate lust as undeniable as ...

(Hang on ... I forgot the peacock. Just a minute)

Hermione's attention was caught momentarily elsewhere – but fear not, reader, only for the merest moment, for our young lusty maiden (well, I use that term loosely) could not take her eyes off the feast of heavenly meat before her for too long – as a peacock strolled behind him, the iridescent lustre of its tail feathers on full display, as beautiful in itself as the lust-god now before her, raising its head and crying to the heavens as if proclaiming the perfection of its master. (Don't worry – it will be going home to Mrs Peahen for its own night of ornithological rumpy pumpy later on)

(OK, now, where were we?)

... his immediate lust as undeniable as hers. He walked towards her, his body tall, firm, tight, his legs taking sinuous strides, the damp hairs trailing down with casual languor to cling to the hard flesh beneath.

Hermione gasped (again) as he approached her. Did she notice a swelling in those stupendously tight trunks? (Alright, Speedos. Let's just admit it, it has to be. I couldn't bring myself to write 'Lucius Malfoy' and 'Speedos' in the same paragraph, but how could they be anything else?) Was his ardour as unstoppable as her own? Yes. (Of course it bloody was. Where would be the fun otherwise? ) Her eyes were fixed on his magnificent groin and she was sure she could detect it growing and rising before her. Malfoy reached down and pushed off his SPEEDOS! (Huzzah!) in one fluid, smooth, elegant, stylish, graceful, (insert own adjective here) flourish, amazing her with his dextrous abilities.

She gasped ... again.

And there before her rose up the most extraordinary, enormous, luscious, primed, hard, throbbing, engorged, tumescent love shaft ever from this great god of erotic, crazed lust-inducing sexuality. She wanted it. She wanted it on her, in her, around her, under her (steady on ... not quite getting the mental image here), pounding, filling, thrusting, plunging, again and again and again.

She gasped. (Yeah, yeah ...)

Lucius Malfoy looked down at her with a tantalising smirk on his face (well, what else would it be?), one refined eyebrow cocked (Love that word. Let's just say it again, shall we? COCKED) teasingly.

"Awright, luv? Fancy a shag?"

Yes, in a word.

Anyone else?