#FunAndFancyFreeFriday challenge at Dramione FB writers group. I used one of the prompts from the Summer Challenge. It's written from Draco's Pov. A new one for me.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognise except my plunny.
They say the love of a man goes through his stomach.
I'm glad that the love for my amazing wife goes through her witty brain, her adorable smile and that little inclination of her head when she's bantering with me over odds and ends, to end up consistently in a shag which leaves us satisfied to the bone.
Because if there's something Hermione Granger-Malfoy can't do - yes, she hyphenates the name, stubborn witch - is cooking. And today it was one of those days where I have to endure her "talent" for cooking. For 364 days in a year, I succeed in dismantling the bomb, thanks to a cooperating elf, Barbie - yes, I know, don't ask! - who offers to cook while we both go to work; or sporadically I surprise her with her favourite dish made by yours truly, tagliatelle with cheese, bacon and mushrooms plus -hold on for it - the secret ingredient I'll never reveal - a recipe I got from Blaise, long time ago.
Barbie, previously known as Magpie, decided to change her name into that of the blond Muggle doll, after watching an advertisement on the telly. A few Muggle contraptions found their way into our home, and some tweaks later - thanks to my darling's doing - it all works as if we live in an ordinary Muggle house. I'm the last one to oppose against a movie night, my morning late with foamy milk on the top; or home-made ice cream: this month's favourite flavour: butterbeer.
There are days when Barbie, aka Magpie, wears a custom-made blond wig, and she waves the hair around like in the commercial. She just comes a Ken short, but the love life of my house-elf is not my number one subject. Thank you for your understanding.
But today is the only day in a year, when the girl who holds my heart insists on cooking. My birthday. For the third time, in as many years of marriage, I endure it with the smile because her beaming face and the shag that follows, makes the sacrifice worth to suffer.
I didn't believe it, when Potter and Weaslebee told me, "Let her do everything but cook." It was a gentleman's warning, the kind you should listen to, but the sources weren't my best friends at the time, now they are at best tolerable presences. I'll never tell them this, but, Salazar's tits, they were so on point.
"Happy birthday, my dear dragon. Go to work, don't be too mean to my Harry and Ron, and when you come back, I'll have your favourite, meatloaf with green beans and mash potatoes. Plus your favourite dessert, Dame Blanche." How can I deny her joy?
The bright spot of tonight's meal? She can't mess dessert, her vanilla ice cream is so much better than Magpie - oh, sorry Barbie - much to the elf's frustration.
The pat on my shoulder jerks my body to the front. "Yo, my man, happy twenty-fourth birthday." Blaise's baritone yells in my ear. "And, share with the class, have you already received a gift from your wife? Herself and that sexy body of hers wrapped in a new blue set of lingerie?"
I gave him a nasty; dark look, "My wife's body is mine to drool over, Blaise. And no, no gift yet, I suspect tonight after dinner."
"Is she cooking?" His best friend's face showed compassion. "We'll take you to lunch somewhere nice, at least you'll have one decent meal on your special day." Apparently, the diner Hermione prepared three years ago, left scars in my friend's minds. All of them, Pansy, Theo and Greg. I threatened them that night; if they said anything nasty to my wife, who made an effort to build the bridge, I would hex them into oblivion.
But I guess that, what really it did, was my wife's good mood and blatant attempt at a start with a new leaf. Let the past be what it was and start all over. None of my Slytherin friends had the balls to complain about the meatballs which were so hard, that you could make dents if you threw them against the wall.
Now, snake diners still happened, but they were all Barbie's doing. Guaranteed, and Hermione agreed as I sneakily planned them after a busy workday. I knew her calendar as good as she did. Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin. I grin.
My desk was by the end of my workday full of presents, a nice box of cigars - I don't smoke!, three bottles of bad Firewhiskey - for when we have guests we don't like, and a good old Ogden's bottle from Blaise - thank Merlin!
Potter surprised me with tickets for an international Quidditch game, inviting me for a Gryffindor's night-out. Tolerable might become not so bad, I guess. Even Weaselbee brought me a bag of jelly beans for my sweet tooth. Don't make me say it, I beg you…
I end up inviting them to my birthday lunch. "Is Hermione cooking tonight?" Potter looks at me with pity in his eyes, "You need to start a new habit,Malfoy, like taking her out for a weekend get-away."
"We do it already for her birthday, Potter."
"No law says you can't do it, twice a year." Harry shrugs, "What's cooking?"
"Meatloaf."
"I'm so sorry." Harry orders a refill of firewhiskey, "Here, for courage." I smile green.
It smelled okay when I arrive at home. From afar, I discern oregano, thyme and nutmeg.
I ditch the burdens in my arms and approach the battle zone carefully.
Her OCD only works in her office. The kitchen resembles the rubble at Hogwarts after the battle. Utter chaos.
In the corner, a blond Barbie shakes her head, yet beaming like a bright diamond. I guess someone's happy with the amount of decluttering later. I'm summoned to the cooking zone. Avoiding a shiny tomato accident, I accept the offered wooden spoon. It could be worse.
"And, Draco, what do you think?"
"A bit more of oregano, perhaps?" I get an 'oh', and she moves away to chop some fresh herbs. In the meantime, I add salt and pepper, randomly measured, behind her back. I wonder if she's afraid of seasoning. Salt doesn't bite, methinks.
I indeed suspect fear, as she barely chops a fingertip of the green herb. I try to tell her to add some more but in vain.
"Go take a shower, you smell, Draco. Did you go with the boys to a pub? Oh, after your shower, come back. By then, the meal is ready." With Hermione's hands on my buttocks, she shoves me away from the kitchen. I prefer to receive a personal back rub under the shower with the complementary blow job, instead of her self-cooked meal. But I bite my tongue. What a man does for love…
A good twenty minutes later, I sit on my chair and wait. A trail of dishes enter the dining room slash living room, and she lands them perfectly on their spot. Hermione does this big act of serving me - which never happens during the other 364 days - and sets a steaming plate in front of my face.
I gather my courage to give her a loving smile.
The meatloaf looks as if it comes straight from the Sahara, I don't have to taste it to know it's bone-dry. The tomato sauce with its chunky pieces of tomato - she takes time to peel the skin and remove the seeds; it's the real stuff, not some jarred food - and the green cuts of the fresh oregano glisten at me.
The green beans have more brown spots than green surfaces, a tad too dry, and limp. She simmered them in something with the looks of onion - I'm praying I have it right, they look like breadcrumbs which got too much toasting time.
The mashed potatoes look normal, to my relief, yet that is until I taste it as first. I think: Honey, salt doesn't bite, have you add some nutmeg or just a whiff for the colour? I only sense potato, the saltless kind - forget the creamy velvety feel, there are more chunks in then mashed, I guess she messed up the cooking time again. Traces of butter, but not enough to add its rich flavour.
Man up, Malfoy. Try the meatloaf. Oh, Merlin. Salazar, give me strength. I smile and hope she doesn't notice how fake it looks. Man, I'm eating sawdust. I will spare the details of the seasoning, better the lack of, again, the most elementary of the spices. "Oh, I sense you've added an egg."
"Only the egg white, Draco. The yolk has too much cholesterol." She lectures me, and I contain, barely, a whimper. I nod and flush the wood chips with a huge swig of wine.
If I eat this with big forks, the sacrifice will be short lived. The green beans. Yes, I was right, it's onion. Overcooked, burnt-tasting onion. And that's that. Onion and green beans. "Did you simmer these in butter, love?"
"Olive oil, the healthiest option dear. Cholesterol is bad for the heart." Eating this is bad for my heart. I'm no fan of olive oil. I prefer the good butter from the dairy farmer. I count on my magic to deal with her choles-whatever.
I eat, I thank her for her work, the time she spent on it, and I suggest next time a unique getaway, there's no need to force her in a kitchen. "We can have a candlelight dinner somewhere by the shore." I'll follow Potter's advice for once.
"But I love to cook for you. Isn't it good?"
"It's delicious." Merlin, forgive me, for I'm lying. "You work so hard already, spend a whole day in the kitchen, isn't necessary."
I'm on my third glass of wine to flush the meatloaf, I eat the beans with the tomato sauce, or with the potatoes to mask the taste of the onion. My plate is nearly clean. Thank Merlin. "Do you want so more, Draco? I have plenty left."
"No. No. No. I'm not so hungry, forgive me, love. The boys spoiled me this afternoon...I'm still full." Her tsk shows disappointment. She had, after all, spent a half day on cooking him this meal. "I'm leaving some room for your delicious ice cream." She beams, and I'm saved by the bell.
I blow a big breath, when she brings me a four-scoop vanilla ice cream, covered in chocolate sauce, whipped cream - freshly beaten, not from a spray can! - And chocolate snippets. I moan. She fucks up dinner, but her ice cream with good fat milk - from the dairy farmer, not bought in a Tesco of sorts - is so divine, it melts in my tongue.
To get this heaven, I had to survive purgatory. I deserve a medal.
"Are you still hungry?" Hermione's eyes shine. There's malicious in there, I bet the question isn't about food.
I play the ignorant. "I'm so full." I'm tipsy too, but that's a minor detail. Sawdust demands to be flushed.
"Oh, that's a shame." She opens her blouse suggestively, "I guess I'll trade my clothing from my nightgown." Underneath the fabric, a brand new balconet appears. It was a flimsy thing, I could see her nipples through a sheer of dark blue.
I lick my lips. "Are you suggesting something, Hermione?"
"Only a little nightcap. But your stomach is full, it's such a pity."
I use my seeker reflexes to catch her in my arms. Now we are talking. "I have room for a lick or two…"
The bedroom is luckily not so far, and I find underneath all her clothes a g-string that barely covers the basics. I'm a starved man. I'm the birthday boy, and I've just unwrapped my gift.
Three years is it now, four if you include the time we dated before taking the plunge. And I never grow tired of her taste in my lips, how her walls flutter around my fingers, the moans that give away how far she is, down the road of orgasm number one. When she squeezes my two fingers, and her hips jerk uncontrollably because I ignited the fire within her, I feel powerful.
Her blurry gaze summons me to give her a taste, and I possess her mouth, while the tip of my cock plays with her entrance, getting wetter, and rubs from nub to her puckered hole. I know she loves it, the erotic feel of the head against her back entrance. I dip the tip again inside her before I repeat the movement. She gasps.
But I'm not strong enough to last longer than four full rubs, and I surrender myself deep in her channel. Her quim feels fire hot. I hear the squelching noise everytime I enter her, thrusting hilt deep. She's soaking wet, just how I love it.
My mouth doesn't know what to consume first. Her nipple, sucking it deep, teeth grinding it gently but with a light sting. Her little whimper warns me not to pinch harder. I wonder why she's more sensitive today.
Taking it into account, I bit gently just enough to draw her moans out. One breast, then the other, neglecting sides is not my forte. I duel with her tongue, use my teeth on her earlobe and hiss when her nails trail down my back. I suspect they must draw blood, but I consider it a medal of honour.
Her heels dig deep in my arse, demanding a higher pace. And I comply. Until I'm a mess too, losing my beat, the thrusts more erratic. She's close to number two, but so am I.
"Draco!"
Her cry pushes me over, and I explode. I feel my seed pulse inside her, while I groan of pleasure. The ripples of her pussy around my dick, milk out the last drops and I fall just for a moment on the top of her. I feel encaged, her arms snake around my body, pulling me closer.
I kiss her softly, while I stroke the sweaty strands of hair away from her beautiful face.
"I love you." And I mean it. Every. Single. Word.
She whispers back, "I love you too." And I move away, so I don't crush her too much. My cock slips away from its warm spot. Yet, I refuse to break contact, taking her with me, while I lie on my back. Her fingers play my breast hair, I feel her breath tickle against my nipple. I love it when she purrs satisfied.
My old shags were solely focussed on my own pleasure. I would service the lady, I was raised with good manners, after all. But cuddling after the deed? Nah. Forget it.
But with Hermione? It makes part of our lovemaking. Often, we didn't say a word, yet we do give into sleep. Exhausted. In each others arms. I know what heaven feels like.
She grabs my hand, "I have one last gift." We stare at each other, and I smile lazily. She laces her fingers with mine, squeezes them lightly and guides my hand lower. To her abdomen. I cup the light swell, which I only notice now. There's the answer to her sensitivity.
I'm lost for words.
Changing positions, I pay the honours to her belly, kissing it softly before I claim her lips.
Despite the worst meal ever, this is my best birthday ever. Our baby is the best birthday gift. Life is good. Only find a way to prevent her from cooking. Ever. Again.
A.N.: I love reviews...