Day Ninety Three

Warnings: sexual content

It was the ninety third day, and he still was in shock. That she'd said yes, that they'd managed to keep it up for so long, that they were still here, together… It was enough to make his head spin, just thinking about it. He'd started keeping count, expecting things to fall apart as quickly as they'd started. He figured, if or when they did break it off, he'd be much happier with a number to hold on to. He'd always liked the numbers—they were solid, irrefutable, stable. A number would make a better memory for him than blurred images he wouldn't be able to piece together, or smells and sounds that he couldn't quite place anymore.

Now the ninety third day had turned into the ninety third night, and the pale moonlight cast long, soft shadows across anything it touched. She was peaceful beside him, the blankets twisted around her legs, and only her legs. He didn't mind—the chill kept him awake, and with awake-ness came a lovely view. She was facing half towards the ceiling, half towards him, her breath slowly lifting and dropping her chest, her cinnamon curls flowing across her pillow. Her face was blanketed in shadow, but he could still make out every feature… the slight upturn of her nose, the freckles that dappled her skin, the thin, long lashes that reached out from her eyelid like skinny spider legs, the dip of skin between her nose and mouth, and the slight arch of her eyebrows. He was still in shock, that these were all his now.

He wanted to touch her. To take the palm of his hand and run it over her smooth legs and pale cheeks and the column of her neck, and the soft curve of her hips and stomach. To make sure that she was real. But she would surely wake up, and she looked so tired…

So instead, he took his hand and drew it over her body, letting it glide millimeters away from her skin, pretending that he could feel her. He could feel her heat, though, as it wafted up from her pale flesh and warmed his cold hand. From her ankles under the blankets, up towards her thighs, past her stomach and chest and neck until reaching her face, where his hand lingered slightly over her lips…

"Draco," she said suddenly, her eyes remaining closed, his name passing from her lips on a whisper, feather-light. He wondered if she'd been awake the whole time. "What are you doing?"

He vaguely remembered a time, when he was younger, when he was excellent at masking his feelings and keeping his cool and making other people guess at what he possibly could have been thinking. He was still quite good at it, though not nearly as good as he had been. But with her… that time was forgotten. Her words made him stumble, her touch made him stagger, her scent nearly knocked him flat. If he were younger, he would have resented it. Now he enjoyed it.

"Making sure you're real," he whispered, and she laughed. It was beautiful sound, one that he wanted to hear every day for the rest of his life, one that he never wanted to leave him, one that he needed like other people needed air or food or water.

His hand was still suspended above her face, and she reached up to take it in her own. Her grip was comforting and reassuring, her skin soft and warm underneath his. "I am real," she said softly, bringing his hand to down to rest against her cheek. She pressed his hand into it. "See?"

His breath had begun to come in short gasps—he had to focus on making sure he got enough air. He let his thumb gently run over her skin, let it nudge the corner of her lips lightly. Her eyes were pools of chocolate, deep and dark and beautiful, shining even though the moonlight was behind her.

"I see," he murmured, brushing a loose curl behind her ear and placing his hand at her neck. His gaze ventured down to her lips. They were slightly parted, the white of her teeth peaking from underneath her upper lip, which was a bright shade of bright pink.

He kissed her once, twice, three times, memorizing the ridges of her mouth where her skin was slightly chapped, and exactly what it felt like for her lips to be pressed against his. Her own hands reached out to take his hair in one hand, his jaw in the other. Her palm coasted from his jawline down his neck, past his collar bone until it came to rest on his chest. His breath hitched in his throat. This would never get old.

"Would you like to find out exactly how real I am?" she whispered, the meaning of her words far from lost on him. His whole body flushed. Instead of responding with words, he kissed her again, only harder this time, more demanding, crushing her lips with his own and gently forcing them open. Her breath flooded into the cavern of his mouth, heating the insides of his cheeks and his tongue. He slowly traced the tips of her teeth with his tongue, tasting her—the sharp flavor of mint danced across his taste buds, and she moaned.

He sat up, quickly dragging her onto him so that she was sitting on his lap, a leg at either side of his hips, knees bent just behind his shoulders. Her fingers were back at his hair, pushing stray strands from his face and twirling through his near-white locks. The pads of his fingers traced figure eights on her sides—"The symbol for infinity," he murmured softly into her ear. "For forever. For always."

She smiled against his mouth and began to kiss him harder, pulling him closer to that their chests were flattened against the other's. She slowly pulled her lips from his, instead trailing them down his jaw and his neck before coming to rest at the junction between his shoulder and his neck. She nibbled gently at the skin there, her back arching as she pressed herself into him.

His hand tugged at the hem of her tank top, and she understood right away, pulling her mouth from him before quickly pulling off the offending garment. She was bare now, from the waist up, the moonlight expertly illuminating her pale figure—the soft curve of her breasts, the dip above her collarbone, the slight swell of her hips. He leaned forward to press his lips into her ribcage, taking a deep breath, memorizing her scent and the feeling of her soft skin against the smooth flesh of his lips. He could feel her breath shudder in her lungs, and turned his head so he could press his ear to her chest, his hands coming to rest at her hips as he listened to her breathe. She hugged his head to her, fingers knotting in his hair.

"This is wonderful sound," he said to her. "The most precious sound in the world. I don't think I would be able to exist without it." He began a trail of kisses, starting directly beneath her cleavage and going down in a straight line until he hit her bellybutton. He dipped his tongue into the small hollow—she gasped.

The next few seconds were a blur. He vaguely remembered his t-shirt being pulled from over his head, and then his pajama pants, and then her shorts, until all that was left between them were her panties and his boxers. Currently the were laying back on the bed again, and she was hovering over him, her tongue swirling over one of his nipples as his labored breathing echoed around the room. She licked across his chest and the muscles underneath the taut skin there tensed. His eyes failed to droop shut in bliss and were instead clenched tight, his fists clenched just as firmly at his sides.

She resurfaced, looming over him, a hand at either side of him. She was drinking him in, her eyes taking in every detail about him, sweeping across his body and his face. "You're beautiful," she murmured, reached out to run her hand along his torso, shoulder to hip. "Unbelievable."

If he was unbelievable, then she was unreal, he thought, and he chuckled to himself—wasn't the point of this to prove that she was in fact real?

She gave him a questioning look and he explained, and then cracked a smile before bending down to kiss him again. Gradually, languidly, flowingly, their bodies began to meld together, skin caressing skin, hands running everywhere they could manage, lips molding themselves against the other. Somehow the last of the clothes were lost, and suddenly he was inside her, lips latched onto her neck as her arms reached over his shoulders, elbows leaning against them as her hands played absent-mindedly with his hair. She was more focused on other things.

It was started slow, as per usual. He cherished every moment, every movement, every thrust, memorizing the feel of her around him, the feel of her most sensitive flesh burning against his own. "Draco," she whispered, over and over again, countless times, but slowly the numbers ceased to matter, and all he could focus on were the words, or, rather, the one name that poured from her lips and flowed into his ear. "Draco, I love you," she murmured before soaring over the edge, her nails digging in his back and her body arching underneath his.

Slowly, gently, he rolled over so he was lying beside her, and took her into his arms, enveloping her in his warmth before pulling the blankets on top of them. He buried his face into her neck and hair, breathing in her scent again and clutching her to him, one hand splayed against her stomach and the other curled into a fist against her hip bone.

"Do you really love me?" he whispered into his ear, his breath tickling the sensitive skin there.

"Infinitely. Forever. Always."

Always, she'd said. Draco grinned. Always sounded wonderful—after all, it was only day ninety-three.