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."
A beat. Both of them tentative, weighing this decision, feeling out their changed dynamic.
“I’d like that,” Draco says. Then, a confession for a confession: “I don’t often go to the cafes or restaurants, even around here.”
An old paranoia gone rancid: skirting away from the public eye, long sleeves always covering that faded tattoo on his left forearm, the exceedingly visible mark of his shame. Random passersby probably wouldn’t actually notice; people didn’t pay half so much attention to Draco Malfoy as he thought they did, but he still felt uneasy in his skin, watched, judged. And he was a shit cook, so he tended to order in, or go to expensive restaurants with private rooms, catering to pureblood society. He has the money for it, even after his father’s assets were frozen during the war crime tribunals.
Long story short, he doesn’t know the local cafe.
“Can’t promise I won’t steal the duvet,” he was selfish with it, an only child and perpetual bachelor syndrome, “but you can stay over if you like. It’ll mean less coordination in the morning.”
"I'd like that," she says, mimicking his own hopeful, tentative answer from before with not even a trace of mockery. It's a gentle ribbing, because she can't help herself, because Malfoy brings this out in her, and isn't it better to be friendly rivals over a good cause than enemies in a war?
She knows why he doesn't go out to restaurants, she gets it; the eyes follow even her around; in the three years after the war, they'd been relentless; the year directly after, when the crime tribunals were still ongoing, they'd been merciless. There were many people out there who would have loved to rake her over hot coals (literally) because she committed the offense of testifying in a few cases (Draco's, namely) . The idea of the whole world having an opinion about what Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger possibly get up to in their free time fills her with the same sort of dread as Skeeter slutshaming a fourteen-year-old.
She won't drag him to one to be mean, but she will show him that she's not ashamed of him in this way. Whatever else some people might think, and they'll draw their wrong conclusions regardless of how discreet they are, Hermione's rather pleased they have come to this.
"I'll enlarge it if you piss me off," she says airily, dismissing his concerns about the duvet. She rolls properly onto her side now, somewhat recovered, and props her head up. "Are you a cuddler, Draco? Or should we share the bed like we're currently debating, internally, if we're going to regret this?"
Draco is normally so aloof and buttoned-up, tied into highstrung knots and stiff and intractable; but post-coital he’s managing to relax, those edges thawing. She’s fun. She’s funny. It’s frustrating how long it took for him to realise, or for either of them to lower their knives long enough to see it in each other.
“We should lie a full meter apart and stare haunted at the ceiling and obsess too long over our life choices, probably.”
Was he a cuddler? They rarely stayed over long enough for him to find out. He shifts his position, makes himself comfortable against those pillows and where he can look to the side at Hermione, and answer her teasing question properly.
“I don’t actually know. Which means I might be. I disavow myself of any personal responsibility if I do cuddle you in my sleep; it’s literally unconscious.”
They're having breakfast, she's sleeping over. They had a round of absolutely fantastic sex, she wants to raid his bookshelves before she goes for any loaner at all, and she snogged him in a cupboard full of cleaning supplies. What, if not the clothes they very much are not wearing, is there left for them to be awkward about?
She is going to introduce him to Hermione Granger: Rule Breaker the fast way. Immersive therapy.
She slips closer, and slips one knee between his, letting her leg drape over his calf, tugging herself a little closer. Close enough to remember they're still decidedly naked, and post-sex warm.
"I am. I cuddle in my sleep," she interrupts, a little smile at the corner of her lips. "And I cuddle when I'm awake, too, so." She wraps her hand around his waist, pressing her palm to the top of his buttock just to be, well, cheeky. "You're going to have to deal with that, since you've asked me to stay the night. No takebacks, I'm afraid."
It isn’t how he pictured this evening going, when he’d first sighed and shrugged on his jacket for the work function — or how he ever thought this particular turn of events might come about between him and Hermione. How might it have gone? An ill-advised mistake on too much wine, maybe: she’d fuck him after the party and then leave and they’d never speak of it again, besides it being more tense when they ran into each other in the Ministry hallways.
But here’s the miracle of it: it’s not awkward. The night keeps inching on and on and it keeps being not-awkward, just as Hermione coils around him and Draco smirks and tangles his feet with hers. This version is better. His thumb runs along the edge of her arm where he can reach her, absentmindedly following the line of her warmed skin.
“No takebacks,” he repeats. “Which is funny, that. I actually pictured you dropping me back in the gutter as soon as you were done with me.”
Oh gods, good. He isn't just lying there, valiantly enduring her proximity and touches. She doesn't realise she's been nervous about that part until he touches her, the simplest graze along her arm sufficing to make her relax the tension in her shoulders.
"I'm not," she murmurs, and runs her fingertips up a sensual line along his spine. "Done with you. I'm not really the one and done type, and I don't sleep with people I despise. I'd think that, you know, after enduring a whole war and all, we're owed more than just hateful fucks."
She leans back enough to catch his eyes, taking in the dishevelled state of him. Post orgasm Draco Malfoy is quite a sight.
"I'll say it clearly now that we're not distracted by... you know." Sex. "I've wanted to do this for a while."
Where his touch smoothed out that quiet coil of tension in her, her words do the same for him. Had he genuinely thought she still hated him? Maybe. Possibly. There was just so much fucking baggage: being on opposite sides of a war, her torture at his aunt’s hands, captured in his own Merlin-damned family basement, a knife at her throat.
It’s a lot. It’s complicated. Draco often wonders how things would’ve played out differently if the war hadn’t happened.
Then again, he’d likely never have wound up working at the Ministry with her otherwise, so.
His fingers curl along her forearm, the same scarred skin he’s already kissed. Hermione’s confession unwinds something further in him and he exhales. “I said something along those lines, didn’t I?” he says, contemplative, genuinely trying to remember. His mouth had been running away with him while she was riding him hard and fast, the truth spilling loose in a flood, and it’s hard to recall the specifics of what he’d blurted out. But now that they’re both clear-headed again, and she’s said it back—
“Good. Because, well, same.” There’s a beat, a calculation of timelines and remembering that interminable period when she’d been with Weasley, and Draco finds himself wondering when he’d finally graduated out of despicable. How long it had taken for her hatred to cool, or at least metastasise into another kind of heat. “Wait, how long is a while?”
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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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“I’d like that,” Draco says. Then, a confession for a confession: “I don’t often go to the cafes or restaurants, even around here.”
An old paranoia gone rancid: skirting away from the public eye, long sleeves always covering that faded tattoo on his left forearm, the exceedingly visible mark of his shame. Random passersby probably wouldn’t actually notice; people didn’t pay half so much attention to Draco Malfoy as he thought they did, but he still felt uneasy in his skin, watched, judged. And he was a shit cook, so he tended to order in, or go to expensive restaurants with private rooms, catering to pureblood society. He has the money for it, even after his father’s assets were frozen during the war crime tribunals.
Long story short, he doesn’t know the local cafe.
“Can’t promise I won’t steal the duvet,” he was selfish with it, an only child and perpetual bachelor syndrome, “but you can stay over if you like. It’ll mean less coordination in the morning.”
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She knows why he doesn't go out to restaurants, she gets it; the eyes follow even her around; in the three years after the war, they'd been relentless; the year directly after, when the crime tribunals were still ongoing, they'd been merciless. There were many people out there who would have loved to rake her over hot coals (literally) because she committed the offense of testifying in a few cases (Draco's, namely) . The idea of the whole world having an opinion about what Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger possibly get up to in their free time fills her with the same sort of dread as Skeeter slutshaming a fourteen-year-old.
She won't drag him to one to be mean, but she will show him that she's not ashamed of him in this way. Whatever else some people might think, and they'll draw their wrong conclusions regardless of how discreet they are, Hermione's rather pleased they have come to this.
"I'll enlarge it if you piss me off," she says airily, dismissing his concerns about the duvet. She rolls properly onto her side now, somewhat recovered, and props her head up. "Are you a cuddler, Draco? Or should we share the bed like we're currently debating, internally, if we're going to regret this?"
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Draco is normally so aloof and buttoned-up, tied into highstrung knots and stiff and intractable; but post-coital he’s managing to relax, those edges thawing. She’s fun. She’s funny. It’s frustrating how long it took for him to realise, or for either of them to lower their knives long enough to see it in each other.
“We should lie a full meter apart and stare haunted at the ceiling and obsess too long over our life choices, probably.”
Was he a cuddler? They rarely stayed over long enough for him to find out. He shifts his position, makes himself comfortable against those pillows and where he can look to the side at Hermione, and answer her teasing question properly.
“I don’t actually know. Which means I might be. I disavow myself of any personal responsibility if I do cuddle you in my sleep; it’s literally unconscious.”
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She is going to introduce him to Hermione Granger: Rule Breaker the fast way. Immersive therapy.
She slips closer, and slips one knee between his, letting her leg drape over his calf, tugging herself a little closer. Close enough to remember they're still decidedly naked, and post-sex warm.
"I am. I cuddle in my sleep," she interrupts, a little smile at the corner of her lips. "And I cuddle when I'm awake, too, so." She wraps her hand around his waist, pressing her palm to the top of his buttock just to be, well, cheeky. "You're going to have to deal with that, since you've asked me to stay the night. No takebacks, I'm afraid."
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But here’s the miracle of it: it’s not awkward. The night keeps inching on and on and it keeps being not-awkward, just as Hermione coils around him and Draco smirks and tangles his feet with hers. This version is better. His thumb runs along the edge of her arm where he can reach her, absentmindedly following the line of her warmed skin.
“No takebacks,” he repeats. “Which is funny, that. I actually pictured you dropping me back in the gutter as soon as you were done with me.”
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"I'm not," she murmurs, and runs her fingertips up a sensual line along his spine. "Done with you. I'm not really the one and done type, and I don't sleep with people I despise. I'd think that, you know, after enduring a whole war and all, we're owed more than just hateful fucks."
She leans back enough to catch his eyes, taking in the dishevelled state of him. Post orgasm Draco Malfoy is quite a sight.
"I'll say it clearly now that we're not distracted by... you know." Sex. "I've wanted to do this for a while."
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Where his touch smoothed out that quiet coil of tension in her, her words do the same for him. Had he genuinely thought she still hated him? Maybe. Possibly. There was just so much fucking baggage: being on opposite sides of a war, her torture at his aunt’s hands, captured in his own Merlin-damned family basement, a knife at her throat.
It’s a lot. It’s complicated. Draco often wonders how things would’ve played out differently if the war hadn’t happened.
Then again, he’d likely never have wound up working at the Ministry with her otherwise, so.
His fingers curl along her forearm, the same scarred skin he’s already kissed. Hermione’s confession unwinds something further in him and he exhales. “I said something along those lines, didn’t I?” he says, contemplative, genuinely trying to remember. His mouth had been running away with him while she was riding him hard and fast, the truth spilling loose in a flood, and it’s hard to recall the specifics of what he’d blurted out. But now that they’re both clear-headed again, and she’s said it back—
“Good. Because, well, same.” There’s a beat, a calculation of timelines and remembering that interminable period when she’d been with Weasley, and Draco finds himself wondering when he’d finally graduated out of despicable. How long it had taken for her hatred to cool, or at least metastasise into another kind of heat. “Wait, how long is a while?”
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