"You're too formal," she mutters, as she struggles with the last row of his dress-shirt. Who wears a button-up to a party at the office? It's almost endearing how fixated he is on some of those proper old money ways, even though right now it means more work for her. At least she had the decency of not wearing a shirt that made him want to rip her buttons off - because it does cross her mind, she could just yank it open come what may, or vanish every offensive button.
His skin gets revealed inch by inch, the light in the room not dim enough to hide his scars. Scars from Harry's curse, scars from living. She frees him of his shirt, and only when he's naked from the waist up does she pause for a second.
He's seen hers. The word Bella carved into her arm in front of him. The scar from Dolohov's curse, the one from his aunt's blade close to her throat. They're not the only ones she has, but they are the heaviest she carries - the only ones that magic can't whisk away.
She knows that maybe they should avoid addressing this, and that maybe pausing to take in the jagged lines across his chest is the antithesis of sensual, but it happens. What's more, it leaves her feeling that same level of kinship that drew her to him from the start of their professional partnership.
So, speaking of professional behaviour, she leans in and licks one, no foreplay. Traces the length of it, and finishes with a kiss to his shoulder, then one closer to his neck, and a gentle bite there. Finally, she goes to remove his trousers.
It had been easy enough to just let himself get swept away in it, carried along on this wave of passion, without stopping to pay attention to the details. Safer, maybe. If they just keep running before the floor falls out beneath them, there's no chance of any of this sticking or mattering or lingering.
But then there's Hermione stepping beneath his legs and her tongue tracing a line along one of his scars, up the crook of his shoulder, and the contact makes his skin buzz and prickle and warm beneath her. He hitches a shaky, indrawn breath.
At this angle, she can look down and easily see the Dark Mark on his left forearm. It's faded since the Dark Lord died — it's not the livid red it used to be when he was active, when Draco was being yanked about like a puppet on strings — but it's still visible. No amount of healing magic has been able to make a dent in it, like it's a permanent brand. It practically mirrors the mudblood scar on her own arm.
What words would even be enough?
As she works on the last button, Draco angles his hips, helps her tug off his trousers and wriggle out of it, kicking them loose. He's down to just black briefs now, tented with a noticeable erection. But, mirroring her movements, he shifts closer on the edge of the bed and catches Hermione's arm before she can move on; he draws her closer and presses his mouth against the letters engraved there.
And the next words that trip off his tongue aren't teasing, aren't a needling ploy. They're surprisingly earnest, simple, dangerously simple. "You're beautiful," he says.
She holds her breath, not out of disgust or tension, but because the kiss to the inside of her arm is ticklish - regardless of the ugly word there. And maybe because of that, because it makes her want to laugh, the fact that he kisses that spot, precisely, makes her feel warm and grateful.
So - she's beautiful, he sayd.
"Yes," she agrees, because at this point in time, she has come to that conclusion herself. If men and (dumb) boys like Ron and Harry can take ages to realise she's even a girl, and it takes changing her whole appearance to make a school shut up about her untameable hair, that's on them.
She is beautiful. But also: "So are you," she adds earnestly. He should know that.
"And naked," she murmurs, a little lower, her gaze raking down the length of his considerably gorgeous body, a flutter of pleasure and arousal in her stomach when she reaches his hips, and his briefs. Her reaction is instinctive: she licks her lips, and reaches down with her free hand to hook one fingers into the waistband of his briefs, tugging them down just an inch or so. "Almost, anyway."
"Almost," Draco agrees wryly. "We're about even on that score."
And to think: he almost hadn't gone to this stupid holiday party. He wasn't good at crowds; preferred small gatherings with people he got on with, who he actually liked, who he didn't have to smile thinly and put on a teeth-grittingly polite air with. But if he hadn't swallowed his pride and gone to this Ministry function, he wouldn't have wound up here: him perched on the end of his bed, a near-naked Hermione standing over him. There's always that frisson buzzing along in moments like this, crackling between two people getting each others' clothes off for the first time. Who takes the first step? What does she like? How does she like it? (Another question where he hadn't fully realised how desperate he was to ask it, until now.)
So he just goes ahead and asks it.
Draco leans back on the heels of his hands, looking up to meet her eye, one knee tipped against hers. "How d'you want me," he says — asks — as he feels those opportunities and possibilities unfold. A few years ago, he might've been a little snot about saying it aloud, but it turns out that laying their communication out into the open had gone well enough. Had gotten them out of that closet and away from that party and over to his flat.
Her inhibitions are lowered enough that when he asks her how she wants him, she speaks without carefully (and politically) considering her words, and just says: "Often."
Before she can get bashful over that admission, she takes possession of his lap, sitting down with her knees on each side of his hips and pulls him in for a slow, thoroughly deep kiss.
She nips at his lower lip, her hands roaming down his shoulders, his chest, one sneaking between them to cup his tented erection through the fabric of his briefs, just to feel it, just to (hopefully) make him groan.
Often, she says, and she can't miss the way his face breaks into a surprised, delighted smile. It isn't the answer he expected, but it's one he wanted.
Hermione clambers into his lap, her weight settling tantalisingly over him, and Draco kisses her back with a desperate groan in the back of his throat, just as planned. One hand rises to brace against her lower back and clutch her against him, while the other palms a breast again, just eager to be touching her, to have his hands on her skin.
He's already a mess of wanting when she grasps him through the fabric; he'd be bucking up into her hand if he had enough room to move. He kisses her back hungrily, messily — Hermione nips his lip and he bites back, leaning forward into her. Mirroring her, his hand slides down between them, fingers running along the arch of her ribs, lower, and then dips into her underwear, fingers slipping between her legs and starting to circle, already finding her drenched where she straddles him.
"Merlin, you're wet," he says against her mouth, between kisses, his breath hitching.
It was the plan to make him groan, and yet she still draws in a quick breath and holds it when he does, burying the resulting moan against his lips, curling her free hand over the back of his head and holding him close almost tenderly, kissing him nice and deep, until she's breathless.
It comes quickly, with his fingers brushing down her side and slipping into her underwear. She breaks the kiss with a gasp of surprise, not pulling far enough to make it hard for him to chase her for another kiss, and he's right. She's very wet.
She does have the space to roll her hips against his fingers, and bucks a little as he finishes the circle against her clit, the sensation sending a bolt of pleasure up her spine to the crown of her head.
So this is happening. They're having sex, she's going to sleep with Draco Malfoy - and, considering the breathless laugh she lets out at his marvelled discovery of her arousal, she is going to enjoy it. Good - it's been forever since she enjoyed every aspect of sex.
She goes in for one more kiss, teasing her tongue along his bottom lip, before she pushes him to lie back, her hands on his chest. She leans down to press a kiss to the centre of his chest - as she doesn't want to sit up from his lap, it's as far as she reaches - then pulls his underwear down his hips. Not fully off, just enough to free his erection, enough for her to be able to see it, and wraps her hand around it and gives him a slow stroke.
"I want you inside me," she murmurs, gaze focused down on his cock, on the way it looks in her hand as she strokes him a second time. She glances up at him quickly with a little smile. "We can sort out foreplay later."
His breath is catching in his throat, held suspended in his lungs as he sprawls backwards and just drinks in that sight of Hermione sitting over him. And he'd have been surprised as anyone if you'd ever told him that this, apparently, was what he'd wanted all along: him flat on his back, Hermione above him, her hands pressing him into that expensive mattress. But perhaps it wasn't such a surprise after all. Every single time he'd gotten snagged on the fact that she pushed back; hadn't fallen over herself to mindlessly fawn like the Slytherin girls, no matter what a git he was being; hadn't shrunk and wilted at a snide word from him.
He regretted some of those words, now. But there was such a horrifically predictable line drawn from A to B, from tugging her metaphorical pigtails to just wanting Hermione Granger to look at him, to notice him, to be thinking about him.
He'd find better ways, going forward.
Such as.
"No objections," Draco says, and even to his ears that sounds stupid. Her hand around his cock has already seared his mind mostly-blank, leaving nothing behind in its wake except the maddening pressure of her touch and Yes, please. He clears his throat, tries again, some uncustomary profanity slipping into that prim, silver-spoon mouth: "Hermione, if you don't climb on and ride the fuck out of me in the next moment, I'm going to lose my damned mind. Let's."
Well, well - isn't he bossy too? She makes a snap decision about it: tonight she'll reduce Draco Malfoy to begging. Even if it takes all night.
But for now, she leans down and kisses him quickly, while she brings the tip of his cock to her entrance, just to distract him from losing his mind. Her focus is as sharp as always, but in this momentuous occasion, she draws back from the kiss as she takes him in, sinking down until their hips meet in one slow and slick move.
"Oh." That's nice. He has a very lovely - gods, it feels very lovely, so full, so maddeningly nice already. It's unfair and infuriating that Draco should qualify as good at sex just on the basis of being inside her, but there's something about it that makes her heart flutter in her chest, and spurs her on to grind her hips down against him, her fingers splayed against his chest.
"Fuh - damn..." she lets out, catching herself away from the profanity at the very last minute. Her eyebrows draw together in intense concentration, as she lifts her hips and brings them down with a resounding slap of skin against skin. Once, twice, then again and again. "Oh fuck," she gasps, and again and again. "Mmm, Draco. Move."
Draco's head falls back against the pillow, his breath shallow as she sinks down on him, and he bottoms out and she catches her own words, reining them in just in time. It's the little things. It's hearing that ragged Oh fuck, and wanting to hear it from her again and again.
Now that he's sheathed inside her, he's adjusting to the weight and feel of her. His hands slide to the inner curve of Hermione's knee, the arch of her thigh, and his fingers dig into her skin as she shifts her weight. Move, she says, and with a hum of satisfaction, Draco falls obediently into line with a gasped "Yes, shit, yes": bracing himself against the mattress and gaining enough traction to roll his hips up to meet hers, thrusting upwards with a foot against the mattress. There's a moment at first where it's ungainly, out of sync — a stutter in the movement, the timing — but then, as these things always go, they find the rhythm. Her sinking back down onto him each time he pushes back up.
Thank Merlin for stupid Muggle traditions and spinning bottles and that wine and that closet.
The sight of her naked above him is both glorious and irritatingly out of reach. He wants to be able to touch more of her, he realises. So, his own decision made, Draco lurches upward to a seated position so Hermione's sitting in his lap instead, so he can chase her mouth into another kiss, so he can palm another handful of naked breast even as she keeps grinding down on his cock.
It's not that she's a perfectionist when it comes to sex, but the first out of synch movements are frustrating enough to pull a whine out of her. It might have more to do with want, and urgency, because it gets easily placated by the rhythm being found.
It feels so good. He asked her to ride the fuck out of him - and here, she's a guest in his home, how could she refuse him the favour - so she does. Brings her hands to grab onto his hips for balance and meets his hips, thrust for thrust, with enough enthusiasm that skin slaps against skin at a point.
Then he lurges upwards; they kiss, and she loses track of time again, in responding to the kiss. By the end of it, when she's breathless enough to put a few inches of distance and gasp for air, he's got a hand on her breast, she's got hers messing up his hair again, and they've changed the rhythm again. Slow, agonising and teasingly slow rolls of her hips, to feel his cock fully inside her, to let him feel her flutter and clamp around him when she grinds against him just so, just at the right angle to press against her clit too.
Now that they're closer, their hands are everywhere: her winding into his now thoroughly-tousled hair; one of Draco's clutching at the small of her back as if he can't bear to let her go, his grip digging in with each slow roll of her hips; another hand still enjoying soft warm flesh, the pert nipple beneath his thumb.
They've had to break apart for air — when did that happen — and so he finds himself catching his breath against her throat, pressing his mouth to the arch of her neck with something between a kiss and a lick. "You feel so good," he murmurs; everything clever and cool and aloof scoured out of him, everything narrowed down instead to that wet heat clenching around him. "Fuck, Hermione, you're so—"
Another languorous thrust upwards, another hitch in his breath and the words strangled in his throat. When was the last time sex had been this good? He couldn't remember. It had been aimless, before: perfunctory, like scratching an itch, taking society-vetted pureblood girls on dates because that was the sort of thing he was expected to do, inviting them back when they batted doe eyes at him. But it wasn't what he'd wanted. He didn't have to work for it, didn't have to earn it, like he's now determined to do— to prove himself to Hermione Granger, as he's always wanted.
For a few moments - countless, uncountable, she loses track completely - they're just a tangle of limbs and a meeting of mouths and urgent hands. She finds a pace, a little frantic and urgent, rocking against him and grinding down until it feels like he can't get any deeper, and she keeps at it. Over and over, while one hand stays tangled in his hair, and the other roams.
She touches his shoulder, traces his arm all the way up to where his hand cups her breast, scrapes her nails against his wrist in reaction to his thumb teasing against her nipple; in encouragement, because "There, stay close, ah, stay - Draco..."
His name stumbles out of her mouth so easily, it almost feels like this part was meant to be. They were meant to stumble into bed together and learn each other's names through this, exactly. The consummate intellectuals, somehow burning each other up with the physical proof of their lust.
She pulls on his hair lightly, just to bring his head up so she can crush her lips against his again, and again.
"Keep..." between kisses, panted out, "talking..."
"So that's what you like?" Draco's grinning against her mouth, delighted, chronicling each piece of information about her as he learns it. It's always like mapping new territory, being with someone new in bed. Discovering if Hermione likes some mouthy talk; which angle is the best to drive into her; where her fingernails dig into his skin, his wrist, and where she's tugging at that perfect and carefully-coiffed blond hair which is now, frankly, a mess. Her own hair has fallen out of its work-appropriate updo, now falling loose and chaotic over her shoulders, and his fingers interweave into those unruly curls.
His corner of society is old-fashioned enough, so he's not accustomed to a dirty mouth and filthy tongue, but he gives it a try. He keeps talking: "I've been wanting," in a stuttered gasp between thrusts, "to do this for ages. You're so tight and wet, fuck— you're gonna be the death of me— I would've fucked you in that closet, I would've gone to my knees, pushed up your skirt, my mouth between your legs—"
It turns out it's easy enough to talk about everything he'd like to do with her when there's just so much he'd like to do with her; when she's bucking in his lap, consuming all his thoughts.
Telling him to keep talking was a stroke of genius, she'll take all the points to Gryffindor for that one. She has worked with him long enough, and - hell - even been in school with him long enough to have gotten the impression that all those old families values shoved a stick up his arse and made him incapable of not being prim. Sure, she's seen him be petty, childish, seen him be confrontational, but his choice of words have always been sharp.
These are sharp too, in a different way. They send shiver after shiver up her spine, they put her imagination to work. She pictures exactly that, them in that broom closet, knocking things down with the intensity of each kiss.
It's the idea of him sinking to his knees for her that makes her squeeze, hips bucking frantically for a moment, the hand not in his hair coming up to grab his chin and draw him back into another kiss.
"Next time," she whispers in between kisses, and breathless laughter, breathy moans. Like there could be a next time, if they don't muck it up in between. Like this could be not just now. Could be often.
She won't pretend that she's in love with him, or that she's been pining after him for years, but she wants him. That should be enough for right now.
"Gods, Draco, you feel so - mmh..." She does finally pull back from his mouth, bringing her hands to his shoulders to grab onto something, and really applies herself to riding him fast, hard, skin slapping skin with every move.
It's that Next time, and that last tightening of her thighs clenching around him, and her hands planted on his shoulders for stability as she leans forward and picks up the pace, which starts to usher them towards the end. Draco's still trying to keep up his mumbling narration of what he'd like to do to her, but he's sliding further into incoherence, distraction. His fingers dig into Hermione's hips as she rides him mercilessly, stoking that pleasure higher and higher until—
it's like a string finally snaps, Draco bucking up into her as he mouths one last strangled I want to; but then his words fall apart into an unintelligible groan as he comes. He pushes up, muscles straining beneath her, tensing and coiling as he presses another messy kiss to her mouth; and to help drag her the rest of the way with him, his hand slips between them to where he's still buried inside her, dips low to find her clit again and stroke her to that edge.
She buries a moan against his lips as soon as he catches her for a kiss, feeling the precise moment he comes, the wave of relief that sweeps over her, the pleasure at being able to give him pleasure - and a small sense of victory for making him come first, ha! - but that moan turns higher pitched quickly. His fingers find her clit, her lips stay pressed to his, and she manages a few more, sloppy, messy kisses before she pulls away from his lips to let go.
She throws her head back as she comes, leaning back and grabbing onto his thighs to bare herself to the attack of his fingers, letting him have an uninterrupted view of Hermione Granger's orgasmically blissed out face. The parted lips, the closed eyes, the loud, loud sequence of moans, the shivers that run all the way down her body and -
When it's done, she collects herself, lets his thighs go (leaves nailmarks on his skin too) and cups his face for a slow, decadently slow kiss.
They’re both debauched and sated: Hermione’s hair a tangled mess, Draco’s faring little better, sweat at the napes of their necks and slicked against their skin, his breath shaky against her mouth as she kisses him again, and again. And then Draco finally relaxes and sinks back against the headboard, dragging her with him as they fall back into the pillows (there are very many and they’re very fluffy; his bed really is stupidly comfortable). She’s still straddling him, he’s still spent and inside her, but she doesn’t have to brace her weight and sit up on her knees anymore. As he flops back, she can sprawl over his chest instead.
He makes an undignified little oof noise as they re-settle themselves, trying to find a comfortable position, the air driven out of his lungs. His heartbeat is still thrumming away in his throat, his chest, still coming down from that high. When they break the kiss to catch their breath one more time, Draco sighs, presses his lips to her bare shoulder.
She feels like a shaky, wet mess. Her breath burns with every exhale, her thighs ache in the best of ways, her skin feels sticky where it comes into contact with his. All in all, an excellent fuck. She had a feeling he would be; there's nothing more satisfying to her day than knocking heads with Malfoy on an intellectual level, and of course that translated to the physical realm.
They should have done this sooner. They should do this more.
"Yes," she murmurs back to the compliment, arching like a satisfied cat. It's only because he's still inside her that she isn't stretching out in satisfaction, in fact. But this is good. This is so good. "You, also."
This is very much not the debate level they get up to at work.
Which is, in and of itself, a potential problem. If they intend to do this again and again (and they’ve already made it very clear that they do, and vigorously), then there might be a wrinkle in the works. Draco just wants to let the moment sit, wants to savour it and live in the minute and not have to think of the future and ideally never have to discuss the logistics, but. He exhales beneath her, where she's sprawled over him.
At the end of the day, he’s also that stubborn clever bastard who figured out how to repair and use a Vanishing Cabinet on his own. Trained in Occlumency. Dedicated himself to a yearlong impossible infiltration of an incredibly powerful castle's wards, no matter the toll it took on him. So he was meticulous and prepared when he wanted to be (an unexpected similarity between them, a streak he tried not to reveal much), and he knew how by-the-book Hermione could be, and so the question which eventually wriggles loose is a kind of half-bemused, half-horrified:
“Oh, Merlin, are we going to have to sign Ministry paperwork? Is there a disclosure form for being colleagues-with-benefits?”
Or do they just hide it? Hiding it sounds sexier. But point to Malfoy: at least he doesn’t immediately blurt that suggestion aloud, for fear it’ll sound like she’s some shameful secret he wants to sweep beneath the rug. Honestly, the road goes two ways: he can only imagine the look on Potter and Weasley’s faces if-when they find out whose bed their best friend fell into.
Considering he brings up paperwork, of all things, it's only fair that her immediate reaction is to burst out laughing. It's a short-lived laugh, interrupted by her awareness of how close to his ear she produced that sound and how she may have left his ear ringing with the sound.
"Malfoy, please. If the Ministry ever sticks its nose into our sex lives to that level, I'll set the entire Registry on fire myself."
It's the first step, isn't it? It goes without saying, but it would be the first step: the Ministry controlling sex, then marriage reproduction, blood purity... No, never again.
She pushes herself up to sit in his lap, not noticing how many of her untangling spells have run their course by now, and how much of a tangled, dishevelled, wild mess of curls she's assaulting his sight with with now.
"Do you mind if we keep this to ourselves? For now. While it's new."
It’s an undefinable relief, a slight easing of a panicky tension in the back of his throat which looms its head if he actually looks at the prospect of tomorrow, or the week after, or the month after. So, thank Merlin, they’re on the same page.
He doesn’t even mind the chaos of her appearance right now; quite the opposite. He had once been cruel about it. But pre-teen boys were fools and the sight of her so dishevelled, tonight, is just a sign of time well-spent. So he reaches up, absentmindedly brushes some of her loose curls over her bare shoulder, and twines a lock around a finger.
“No, that sounds good,” Draco says. “I don’t even know what the fuck this is, so I’d rather it just be— ours, to deal with. It has the potential to get complicated if we bring in anyone else. And I don’t know about you, but I’m sick and tired of complications.”
Disapproving friends. Disapproving colleagues. Disapproving parents. He doesn’t want the entire world brought into this, like watchful eyes in their bed; he just wants Hermione.
Disapproving best friends, not to mention, and disapproving exes. She doesn't even want to think of Ron in this moment, but if she were to think of him she'd think about how no kiss after that one shared during the final battle at Hogwarts ever truly satisfied her as much as the ones she's had tonight.
A marvel, really, that Draco is her equal in appetites.
Honesty, then, she decides - honesty is required.
"We're neighbours, actually. Did you know? I live around the corner," she blurts out, reaching out to brush a strand of hair that stuck itself to his forehead in all its sweaty glory.
“Wait, you— what?” His mind spins for a moment, trying to absorb that particular detail, this new tidbit about her. “I had no idea. Over which shop?”
He hadn’t put much thought into where she might live. Hermione just materialised at the Ministry each day and filed her paperwork diligently and rolled her eyes at him when he forgot to refill the coffee pot in the office breakroom, and he pictured her living with lots of books, but the actual location had never really occurred to him. Somewhere in Muggle London, probably; not Diagon.
But then, for her question… He hesitates.
(Don’t be an ass, Draco.)
“Breakfast? I’m in favour. Most important meal of the day.” Cautiously, probing, because for a moment the worst possible thing which could happen is to sound too eager: “What d’you have in mind?”
He’s too accustomed to fleeting trysts and Apparating back home after, and savouring the privacy of having his flat to himself, and not having to walk circles around some Zabini’s cousin’s cousin and struggling to remember his shitty French and carry on awkward not-conversation over breakfast. But he already knows he can safely carry on a conversation with Hermione Granger. And lying here in a sprawl of sweat-tangled limbs is, well, nice. So.
I forgot where I made her live but I'm 99% I'm right with this guess
"The used books shop," she answers, because evidently Hermione Granger picked herself a home somewhere where comforting scents could flood her private abode at every time of the day.
Which brings her to point number two, said with some trepidation, and a little smile at the corner of her lips. "There's a café across the street, they make pancakes and excellent poached eggs, for wizarding London."
There's a non-invitational invite. They should have breakfast - whether it is because they're going to just meet there on a weekend day, or because they're going to have a few more rounds and exhaust each other into sleep, and tomorrow their heads will beg for caffeine, they should have breakfast.
It's a solid ground to build all this on.
"And they open early, even on Saturday. So, I guess what I have in mind is to go there tomorrow together."
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His skin gets revealed inch by inch, the light in the room not dim enough to hide his scars. Scars from Harry's curse, scars from living. She frees him of his shirt, and only when he's naked from the waist up does she pause for a second.
He's seen hers. The word Bella carved into her arm in front of him. The scar from Dolohov's curse, the one from his aunt's blade close to her throat. They're not the only ones she has, but they are the heaviest she carries - the only ones that magic can't whisk away.
She knows that maybe they should avoid addressing this, and that maybe pausing to take in the jagged lines across his chest is the antithesis of sensual, but it happens. What's more, it leaves her feeling that same level of kinship that drew her to him from the start of their professional partnership.
So, speaking of professional behaviour, she leans in and licks one, no foreplay. Traces the length of it, and finishes with a kiss to his shoulder, then one closer to his neck, and a gentle bite there. Finally, she goes to remove his trousers.
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But then there's Hermione stepping beneath his legs and her tongue tracing a line along one of his scars, up the crook of his shoulder, and the contact makes his skin buzz and prickle and warm beneath her. He hitches a shaky, indrawn breath.
At this angle, she can look down and easily see the Dark Mark on his left forearm. It's faded since the Dark Lord died — it's not the livid red it used to be when he was active, when Draco was being yanked about like a puppet on strings — but it's still visible. No amount of healing magic has been able to make a dent in it, like it's a permanent brand. It practically mirrors the mudblood scar on her own arm.
What words would even be enough?
As she works on the last button, Draco angles his hips, helps her tug off his trousers and wriggle out of it, kicking them loose. He's down to just black briefs now, tented with a noticeable erection. But, mirroring her movements, he shifts closer on the edge of the bed and catches Hermione's arm before she can move on; he draws her closer and presses his mouth against the letters engraved there.
And the next words that trip off his tongue aren't teasing, aren't a needling ploy. They're surprisingly earnest, simple, dangerously simple. "You're beautiful," he says.
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So - she's beautiful, he sayd.
"Yes," she agrees, because at this point in time, she has come to that conclusion herself. If men and (dumb) boys like Ron and Harry can take ages to realise she's even a girl, and it takes changing her whole appearance to make a school shut up about her untameable hair, that's on them.
She is beautiful. But also: "So are you," she adds earnestly. He should know that.
"And naked," she murmurs, a little lower, her gaze raking down the length of his considerably gorgeous body, a flutter of pleasure and arousal in her stomach when she reaches his hips, and his briefs. Her reaction is instinctive: she licks her lips, and reaches down with her free hand to hook one fingers into the waistband of his briefs, tugging them down just an inch or so. "Almost, anyway."
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And to think: he almost hadn't gone to this stupid holiday party. He wasn't good at crowds; preferred small gatherings with people he got on with, who he actually liked, who he didn't have to smile thinly and put on a teeth-grittingly polite air with. But if he hadn't swallowed his pride and gone to this Ministry function, he wouldn't have wound up here: him perched on the end of his bed, a near-naked Hermione standing over him. There's always that frisson buzzing along in moments like this, crackling between two people getting each others' clothes off for the first time. Who takes the first step? What does she like? How does she like it? (Another question where he hadn't fully realised how desperate he was to ask it, until now.)
So he just goes ahead and asks it.
Draco leans back on the heels of his hands, looking up to meet her eye, one knee tipped against hers. "How d'you want me," he says — asks — as he feels those opportunities and possibilities unfold. A few years ago, he might've been a little snot about saying it aloud, but it turns out that laying their communication out into the open had gone well enough. Had gotten them out of that closet and away from that party and over to his flat.
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Before she can get bashful over that admission, she takes possession of his lap, sitting down with her knees on each side of his hips and pulls him in for a slow, thoroughly deep kiss.
She nips at his lower lip, her hands roaming down his shoulders, his chest, one sneaking between them to cup his tented erection through the fabric of his briefs, just to feel it, just to (hopefully) make him groan.
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Hermione clambers into his lap, her weight settling tantalisingly over him, and Draco kisses her back with a desperate groan in the back of his throat, just as planned. One hand rises to brace against her lower back and clutch her against him, while the other palms a breast again, just eager to be touching her, to have his hands on her skin.
He's already a mess of wanting when she grasps him through the fabric; he'd be bucking up into her hand if he had enough room to move. He kisses her back hungrily, messily — Hermione nips his lip and he bites back, leaning forward into her. Mirroring her, his hand slides down between them, fingers running along the arch of her ribs, lower, and then dips into her underwear, fingers slipping between her legs and starting to circle, already finding her drenched where she straddles him.
"Merlin, you're wet," he says against her mouth, between kisses, his breath hitching.
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It comes quickly, with his fingers brushing down her side and slipping into her underwear. She breaks the kiss with a gasp of surprise, not pulling far enough to make it hard for him to chase her for another kiss, and he's right. She's very wet.
She does have the space to roll her hips against his fingers, and bucks a little as he finishes the circle against her clit, the sensation sending a bolt of pleasure up her spine to the crown of her head.
So this is happening. They're having sex, she's going to sleep with Draco Malfoy - and, considering the breathless laugh she lets out at his marvelled discovery of her arousal, she is going to enjoy it. Good - it's been forever since she enjoyed every aspect of sex.
She goes in for one more kiss, teasing her tongue along his bottom lip, before she pushes him to lie back, her hands on his chest. She leans down to press a kiss to the centre of his chest - as she doesn't want to sit up from his lap, it's as far as she reaches - then pulls his underwear down his hips. Not fully off, just enough to free his erection, enough for her to be able to see it, and wraps her hand around it and gives him a slow stroke.
"I want you inside me," she murmurs, gaze focused down on his cock, on the way it looks in her hand as she strokes him a second time. She glances up at him quickly with a little smile. "We can sort out foreplay later."
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He regretted some of those words, now. But there was such a horrifically predictable line drawn from A to B, from tugging her metaphorical pigtails to just wanting Hermione Granger to look at him, to notice him, to be thinking about him.
He'd find better ways, going forward.
Such as.
"No objections," Draco says, and even to his ears that sounds stupid. Her hand around his cock has already seared his mind mostly-blank, leaving nothing behind in its wake except the maddening pressure of her touch and Yes, please. He clears his throat, tries again, some uncustomary profanity slipping into that prim, silver-spoon mouth: "Hermione, if you don't climb on and ride the fuck out of me in the next moment, I'm going to lose my damned mind. Let's."
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But for now, she leans down and kisses him quickly, while she brings the tip of his cock to her entrance, just to distract him from losing his mind. Her focus is as sharp as always, but in this momentuous occasion, she draws back from the kiss as she takes him in, sinking down until their hips meet in one slow and slick move.
"Oh." That's nice. He has a very lovely - gods, it feels very lovely, so full, so maddeningly nice already. It's unfair and infuriating that Draco should qualify as good at sex just on the basis of being inside her, but there's something about it that makes her heart flutter in her chest, and spurs her on to grind her hips down against him, her fingers splayed against his chest.
"Fuh - damn..." she lets out, catching herself away from the profanity at the very last minute. Her eyebrows draw together in intense concentration, as she lifts her hips and brings them down with a resounding slap of skin against skin. Once, twice, then again and again. "Oh fuck," she gasps, and again and again. "Mmm, Draco. Move."
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Now that he's sheathed inside her, he's adjusting to the weight and feel of her. His hands slide to the inner curve of Hermione's knee, the arch of her thigh, and his fingers dig into her skin as she shifts her weight. Move, she says, and with a hum of satisfaction, Draco falls obediently into line with a gasped "Yes, shit, yes": bracing himself against the mattress and gaining enough traction to roll his hips up to meet hers, thrusting upwards with a foot against the mattress. There's a moment at first where it's ungainly, out of sync — a stutter in the movement, the timing — but then, as these things always go, they find the rhythm. Her sinking back down onto him each time he pushes back up.
Thank Merlin for stupid Muggle traditions and spinning bottles and that wine and that closet.
The sight of her naked above him is both glorious and irritatingly out of reach. He wants to be able to touch more of her, he realises. So, his own decision made, Draco lurches upward to a seated position so Hermione's sitting in his lap instead, so he can chase her mouth into another kiss, so he can palm another handful of naked breast even as she keeps grinding down on his cock.
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It feels so good. He asked her to ride the fuck out of him - and here, she's a guest in his home, how could she refuse him the favour - so she does. Brings her hands to grab onto his hips for balance and meets his hips, thrust for thrust, with enough enthusiasm that skin slaps against skin at a point.
Then he lurges upwards; they kiss, and she loses track of time again, in responding to the kiss. By the end of it, when she's breathless enough to put a few inches of distance and gasp for air, he's got a hand on her breast, she's got hers messing up his hair again, and they've changed the rhythm again. Slow, agonising and teasingly slow rolls of her hips, to feel his cock fully inside her, to let him feel her flutter and clamp around him when she grinds against him just so, just at the right angle to press against her clit too.
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They've had to break apart for air — when did that happen — and so he finds himself catching his breath against her throat, pressing his mouth to the arch of her neck with something between a kiss and a lick. "You feel so good," he murmurs; everything clever and cool and aloof scoured out of him, everything narrowed down instead to that wet heat clenching around him. "Fuck, Hermione, you're so—"
Another languorous thrust upwards, another hitch in his breath and the words strangled in his throat. When was the last time sex had been this good? He couldn't remember. It had been aimless, before: perfunctory, like scratching an itch, taking society-vetted pureblood girls on dates because that was the sort of thing he was expected to do, inviting them back when they batted doe eyes at him. But it wasn't what he'd wanted. He didn't have to work for it, didn't have to earn it, like he's now determined to do— to prove himself to Hermione Granger, as he's always wanted.
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She touches his shoulder, traces his arm all the way up to where his hand cups her breast, scrapes her nails against his wrist in reaction to his thumb teasing against her nipple; in encouragement, because "There, stay close, ah, stay - Draco..."
His name stumbles out of her mouth so easily, it almost feels like this part was meant to be. They were meant to stumble into bed together and learn each other's names through this, exactly. The consummate intellectuals, somehow burning each other up with the physical proof of their lust.
She pulls on his hair lightly, just to bring his head up so she can crush her lips against his again, and again.
"Keep..." between kisses, panted out, "talking..."
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His corner of society is old-fashioned enough, so he's not accustomed to a dirty mouth and filthy tongue, but he gives it a try. He keeps talking: "I've been wanting," in a stuttered gasp between thrusts, "to do this for ages. You're so tight and wet, fuck— you're gonna be the death of me— I would've fucked you in that closet, I would've gone to my knees, pushed up your skirt, my mouth between your legs—"
It turns out it's easy enough to talk about everything he'd like to do with her when there's just so much he'd like to do with her; when she's bucking in his lap, consuming all his thoughts.
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These are sharp too, in a different way. They send shiver after shiver up her spine, they put her imagination to work. She pictures exactly that, them in that broom closet, knocking things down with the intensity of each kiss.
It's the idea of him sinking to his knees for her that makes her squeeze, hips bucking frantically for a moment, the hand not in his hair coming up to grab his chin and draw him back into another kiss.
"Next time," she whispers in between kisses, and breathless laughter, breathy moans. Like there could be a next time, if they don't muck it up in between. Like this could be not just now. Could be often.
She won't pretend that she's in love with him, or that she's been pining after him for years, but she wants him. That should be enough for right now.
"Gods, Draco, you feel so - mmh..." She does finally pull back from his mouth, bringing her hands to his shoulders to grab onto something, and really applies herself to riding him fast, hard, skin slapping skin with every move.
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it's like a string finally snaps, Draco bucking up into her as he mouths one last strangled I want to; but then his words fall apart into an unintelligible groan as he comes. He pushes up, muscles straining beneath her, tensing and coiling as he presses another messy kiss to her mouth; and to help drag her the rest of the way with him, his hand slips between them to where he's still buried inside her, dips low to find her clit again and stroke her to that edge.
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She throws her head back as she comes, leaning back and grabbing onto his thighs to bare herself to the attack of his fingers, letting him have an uninterrupted view of Hermione Granger's orgasmically blissed out face. The parted lips, the closed eyes, the loud, loud sequence of moans, the shivers that run all the way down her body and -
When it's done, she collects herself, lets his thighs go (leaves nailmarks on his skin too) and cups his face for a slow, decadently slow kiss.
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He makes an undignified little oof noise as they re-settle themselves, trying to find a comfortable position, the air driven out of his lungs. His heartbeat is still thrumming away in his throat, his chest, still coming down from that high. When they break the kiss to catch their breath one more time, Draco sighs, presses his lips to her bare shoulder.
“Fuck, you’re good,” he says, simply.
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They should have done this sooner. They should do this more.
"Yes," she murmurs back to the compliment, arching like a satisfied cat. It's only because he's still inside her that she isn't stretching out in satisfaction, in fact. But this is good. This is so good. "You, also."
This is very much not the debate level they get up to at work.
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At the end of the day, he’s also that stubborn clever bastard who figured out how to repair and use a Vanishing Cabinet on his own. Trained in Occlumency. Dedicated himself to a yearlong impossible infiltration of an incredibly powerful castle's wards, no matter the toll it took on him. So he was meticulous and prepared when he wanted to be (an unexpected similarity between them, a streak he tried not to reveal much), and he knew how by-the-book Hermione could be, and so the question which eventually wriggles loose is a kind of half-bemused, half-horrified:
“Oh, Merlin, are we going to have to sign Ministry paperwork? Is there a disclosure form for being colleagues-with-benefits?”
Or do they just hide it? Hiding it sounds sexier. But point to Malfoy: at least he doesn’t immediately blurt that suggestion aloud, for fear it’ll sound like she’s some shameful secret he wants to sweep beneath the rug. Honestly, the road goes two ways: he can only imagine the look on Potter and Weasley’s faces if-when they find out whose bed their best friend fell into.
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"Malfoy, please. If the Ministry ever sticks its nose into our sex lives to that level, I'll set the entire Registry on fire myself."
It's the first step, isn't it? It goes without saying, but it would be the first step: the Ministry controlling sex, then marriage reproduction, blood purity... No, never again.
She pushes herself up to sit in his lap, not noticing how many of her untangling spells have run their course by now, and how much of a tangled, dishevelled, wild mess of curls she's assaulting his sight with with now.
"Do you mind if we keep this to ourselves? For now. While it's new."
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He doesn’t even mind the chaos of her appearance right now; quite the opposite. He had once been cruel about it. But pre-teen boys were fools and the sight of her so dishevelled, tonight, is just a sign of time well-spent. So he reaches up, absentmindedly brushes some of her loose curls over her bare shoulder, and twines a lock around a finger.
“No, that sounds good,” Draco says. “I don’t even know what the fuck this is, so I’d rather it just be— ours, to deal with. It has the potential to get complicated if we bring in anyone else. And I don’t know about you, but I’m sick and tired of complications.”
Disapproving friends. Disapproving colleagues. Disapproving parents. He doesn’t want the entire world brought into this, like watchful eyes in their bed; he just wants Hermione.
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A marvel, really, that Draco is her equal in appetites.
Honesty, then, she decides - honesty is required.
"We're neighbours, actually. Did you know? I live around the corner," she blurts out, reaching out to brush a strand of hair that stuck itself to his forehead in all its sweaty glory.
"What are your opinions on breakfast?"
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He hadn’t put much thought into where she might live. Hermione just materialised at the Ministry each day and filed her paperwork diligently and rolled her eyes at him when he forgot to refill the coffee pot in the office breakroom, and he pictured her living with lots of books, but the actual location had never really occurred to him. Somewhere in Muggle London, probably; not Diagon.
But then, for her question… He hesitates.
(Don’t be an ass, Draco.)
“Breakfast? I’m in favour. Most important meal of the day.” Cautiously, probing, because for a moment the worst possible thing which could happen is to sound too eager: “What d’you have in mind?”
He’s too accustomed to fleeting trysts and Apparating back home after, and savouring the privacy of having his flat to himself, and not having to walk circles around some Zabini’s cousin’s cousin and struggling to remember his shitty French and carry on awkward not-conversation over breakfast. But he already knows he can safely carry on a conversation with Hermione Granger. And lying here in a sprawl of sweat-tangled limbs is, well, nice. So.
I forgot where I made her live but I'm 99% I'm right with this guess
Which brings her to point number two, said with some trepidation, and a little smile at the corner of her lips. "There's a café across the street, they make pancakes and excellent poached eggs, for wizarding London."
There's a non-invitational invite. They should have breakfast - whether it is because they're going to just meet there on a weekend day, or because they're going to have a few more rounds and exhaust each other into sleep, and tomorrow their heads will beg for caffeine, they should have breakfast.
It's a solid ground to build all this on.
"And they open early, even on Saturday. So, I guess what I have in mind is to go there tomorrow together."
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