Trigger warning: this isn't not non-con but may have triggering moments
I was rereading The Folk Of The Air by Holly Black and was inspired by the relationship dynamics between Cardan and Jude...and then it started to rain.
Happy spring
"I hate you." She rams her knee into his gut and he folds over with a husky oomph.
A pair of logs crackle in the hearth behind him, her hair is drenched with the sweet smoke. He wears a crisp, white shirt and a pair of grey, tailored slacks. No tie and the first few buttons are undone. An angry red scar peeks above his open collar. His mouth is twisted into a familiar scowl. "You'll pay for that." He approaches leisurely, a jaguar flirting with its prey.
She wants to tear his shirt to shreds, drag her claws through his skin, then take her time tasting each precious scar.
She curls her fingers around a letter opener, cold marble with a pure gold blade that has Malfoy engraved in cursive letters. Hideously expensive for something he doesn't even use but it proves useful as she whips it at his head.
He ducks not a moment too soon and it lodges below a painting of his parents posed coolly in dark velvet dress robes. They gasp and storm out of the ostentatious but gloomy painting studio, all shadows and dark greens.
He continues towards her as if he wasn't moments away from losing a precious eye. She's caught between him and a heavy hunk of wood against her thighs. His gaze is wicked but it's focused behind her. The table screeches back and she plummets gracelessly to the floor.
She removes a pointy stiletto and whips it at him. It hits his shoulders. His mouth opens to speak but heel number two grazes his cheekbone, slicing a thin, red line. He dabs his cheek with his right hand. Two rings sit above his knuckles, one plain silver and the other shaped like a serpent, curled around his middle digit. "Kitten has claws."
"I told you not to call me that." With the heels strewn across the room, she rises easily. He lifts her by the hips and tosses her across the table, moving so fast the breath is knocked out of her,
A sharp quill pierces into her bicep. Sheets of paper flutter to the floor, a rainstorm of signed contracts and investment proposals. She reaches for the unsuspecting weapon but her finger dips into something wet. The object topples over with a clang and the tops of her fingers slip into a puddle of cold ink. Ugh inconvenient…or useful? She smacks a shiny, black mark below the new scratch on his cheek.
He snatches her wrist and twists it around so sharply she whimpers. Undeterred, he angles her inky fingers against her. She doesn't shift her head quickly enough and still-wet ink glides across her neck.
When he finally releases his hold, she shakes her wrist to flick away the hurt, no doubt it will bruise later. Hot hands cover her kneecaps, splitting her legs apart in one swift motion. She kicks him in the chest. "Fuck off."
He looks both ridiculous and wicked, face coated in blood and ink, pupils blown wide, mouth hitched into a crooked grin. "I think not." A hand cuffs around each of her ankles and he drags her to the edge of the desk. She's in a tight pencil skirt with a side slit and his fingers find the exact spot where her thigh is bare. A shiver slithers up her spine when he grazes the naked skin. His other hand curls around her neck, smearing the ink there.
A traitorous giggle bursts from her lips and makes him pause. Her neck's always been ticklish. "Something funny, Granger?" he whispers into her ear, repeating the motion. Bollocks, now he knows.
"Stop it!" She slaps his hand away and tries to kick him again. But he's too quick and pins her thighs down and slams against her groin. Heat arches across her spine. Undeterred, she rams her heel into the curve of his firm arse.
"I hate you so much I want to bite that smile off your mouth until you bleed," she says.
He bends over her, chest above her own, heat on heat, breath to breath. "Fancy a taste of something so pure it'll make you dizzy?"
She goes for the bite. He tries to pull away but she's merciless as his lower lip compresses between her clamped teeth, it's like biting into a stale gummy with a satisfying squish but no give. A protesting yelp is followed by something wet trickling into her mouth. She shows him her crimson tongue and then swallows. "Tastes like blood. Completely ordinary."
He wipes his bleeding lip with his index finger, eyes furious. "Not surprised you'd say that. You never had good taste."
She slaps both palms against his chest and shoves. "Get off me."
He cups her cheek tenderly. Draco Malfoy is a carousel of emotion, fierce then furious then famished then fascinated and now his gaze is utterly fond. "Wrong word order, darling."
A frightening gust of wind howls at the window, followed by tiny clicks of rain. She envisions an old hag tapping her jagged fingernails against the glass. It's a wooden house and it creaks and croaks to life beneath the storm's caress. Shouldn't be long until thunder, she loves the explosion of noise and how it can be heard miles away, it's glorious.
Draco is her thunder. Full of rage and feeling and passion and his voice has reach—when he wants something, he gets it. He torments her, touches her, triumphs over her, but only because she allows it. He's all consuming whether there's inches of space between them or miles upon miles.
Hermione has only just discovered this side of herself. Unleashed and crazy, terrible and truant, she often wonders what it would've been like to be a snively, little Slytherin, wreaking havoc around the school only because she could get away with it. He helps her navigate this foreign space, shows her that there's nothing wrong with it, that sometimes rage needs to be unleashed and he wants all of her ferocity. He wants all of her crazy. He wants all of her.
"Don't pretend like you're not obsessed with me," she says.
Draco Malfoy might be her thunder, but she's his storm.
"Fuck, Hermione." He melts. His fingers sink deep into her curls and their mouths smash into a vicious kiss. He wedges his tongue between her teeth, tasting his own pureblood—the summit of his pride, and later the inmost depth of his shame.
Her skin feels too tight. He's not close enough. She curls around him until the bulge of his trousers prods the apex of her thighs. The pencil skirt has ridden up and the dainty lace knickers underneath are imperceptible against his shape.
He untucks the blouse from her skirt but doesn't bother with the buttons. His palms are hot and sweaty shoved up her shirt but a zap of cold from his rings makes her jolt. One hand cups her over a wireless, lace bra while the other sails down the ladder of her ribs. The high waist skirt covers too much skin. She quickly undoes the side zipper and says, "Take it off."
He raises a brow, not used to taking orders. "Maybe later." He's drawing circles around her pebbled nipple with the pad of his thumb, floral embroidery pressing into her sensitive skin. She grabs at the hair on the back of his head but it's too soft and slips through her fingers. On the second try, she fists a larger clump and yanks.
He howls and stands to full height.
"No, now."
"You're not Minister yet, haughty witch," he grumbles but his fingers hook around the waistband of her skirt, removing it with a confident tug. She sees the exact moment he notices her knickers. His hands seize either side of her blouse and tear. Tiny, cream buttons clink to the floor, on the desk, one lands in the container holding the quills. His voice changes, "I knew they would suit you. Do you like them?"
The innocent question makes her belly clench and she foregoes the witty comment on the tip of her tongue. "Very much."
He uses his index finger to trace the frilly outer edge of the bra. "Is it comfortable?" His eyes follow its invisible path.
Grudgingly she says, "Yes."
He made a comment once about how her underwear was too sensible, that she should at least try to boil his blood—as if she couldn't do that anyway. Hermione suspects she could show up to Draco's door in a full Azkaban jumpsuit and he'd still become hard at the sight of her. But the comment rankled nevertheless and she complained that lingerie was uncomfortable and she couldn't be bothered to pay for something that was going to be ripped to shreds anyway.
Draco is an apparel-ripper. When you can afford a new shirt every day of the week, ruining something so trivial hardly makes you blink. Hermione's Ministry salary isn't quite so generous.
The day after the discussion, she received a little, black box tied with a silk, emerald bow. Wrapped meticulously inside frivolous, scented tissue paper was tonight's two-piece lingerie set, along with four more pairs in: black, dark cypress green, purest pink, Aegean blue and lipstick red. She chose the blue pair today.
"Do you like them?" she turns the question on him, staring up at him through long lashes.
"I want to eat you alive." He folds forward to kiss her but she presses a hand on his forehead and pushes him back. He glares. "What now?"
"I don't want to do it on the desk. We've already done it here before."
"Where then? We're running out of places."
"True." He's had her across his marble kitchen island, has pinned her against the corridor wall and forced the paintings to scatter, he's eaten her on his knees in the lavender steam of the shower, they've shagged many, many times on his king-sized bed, she's sat on his lap in foaming bubbles in his personal clawfoot bathtub, he's sunk deep into her as she was strewn across her sofa and later bent her over the armrest and had her again, they've rolled around the floor a time or two…
And then thunder erupts, so shattering it feels like the entire house trembles against its wrath.
"In the storm," she decides, a jolt of heat pulsing straight through her core at the thought.
He blinks. "You're insane."
"Is that a no?"
He doesn't waste time, doesn't even have to think about it. She's scooped into his arms and he begins to move. Draco never refuses her anything.
Early in their relationship, a pipe burst in her kitchen and its damage totalled to four months' worth of mortgage payments. She had to take out a loan to have it mended, but the day she'd intended to visit Gringotts an independent contractor appeared claiming the costs were covered in full and that her kitchen would be like new in two weeks. Of course, she was furious. Who gave him the right? And then she realized how much of a relief it was not to have to take out a second loan to cover the damages. She wasn't used to dating men who took on the weight of her problems, it was nice to be taken care of even if he'd given her a thorough scolding for her lack of homeowner's insurance. If he found out she's thinking of plumbing and insurance right now, he'd probably scold her some more.
She buries her face into his open collar and smells Draco, the scent is all over her sheets, it's embedded into every bit of her life from the shirts tucked into her wardrobe to the decorative cushions on the sofa. It's a scent that's all confidence, charisma, and seduction. She can't pin every note but over time has identified clean bergamot, white cedar, sandalwood and hints of delightfully sweet ingredients like juicy pineapple and heady lavandin. He's a man who isn't afraid to be pretty, he likes nice things, cares about his aesthetic, and hardly ever looks a hair out of place… except, of course, for when she's ruining him.
There's a part of him that likes that too, and it has only made Hermione more starved to claw into him and devour him one scrumptious morsel at a time.
He performs a wandless spell on the sliding door to his backyard and carries her into the storm. She's almost naked but he's fully clothed. Tiny goose pimples cover her limbs, and her hair whips into her eyes. For a moment, she wants to tell him she's changed her mind, that she's too bloody freezing and doesn't want to do it anymore.
But then thunder explodes again and her nipples peak to hard points. No, never mind. She does want it. She wants to scream with the wrathful sky, climax in the summit of nature's tantrum. They're sheltered by the hood of the veranda but that won't do. She slips out of his arms and regrets it immediately because the stones are like ice on the soles of her feet. Her wand is somewhere inside so a warming spell is out of the question, it doesn't matter because she'll be hot in moments. She leads him to the side of the building where there's no cover from the rain.
It's not torrential downpour like one would think during a thunderstorm. Gentle rain kisses the Earth as if the weather cannot make up its mind, bark louder than bite. Still the raindrops are cold as they splash and trickle down her arms and shoulders. She thinks of the ink currently spilled on his desk, if rain were black, it would create a masterpiece upon her body.
Parts of his white shirt are already translucent while clear beads trickle from the ends of his hair to slip across his hollowed cheeks like shiny tear tracks. The ink smeared on his face begins to run, looking gothic against his paleness.
She rips his shirt open, the same way he did hers. His Sectumsempra scars are the first thing she sees. She ought to thank Harry for them because they make him inhumanly beautiful. Her fingertips have memorized the patterns of the lines lashed across his torso—the near-death experience served by her dearest friend in the whole world. There's something poetic about it—something poetic about them, the boy who wished her dead in Second Year would now die for her, and she for him.
His belt comes off next. The palladium buckle clangs as it slips from her hand. Hair begins to flatten against her skull, much longer when wet. He stares at her like he wants to tuck her on his shelf and keep her there forever. He curls a strand of her hair around his finger but changes his mind to grab a handful more. A tenacious yank forces her to bare her neck. She cries out in pain which only worsens when he bites the pale flesh, drained of colour from the cold.
She punches him in the gut and his free hand wrenches her wrist away. The sting of teeth is gone but his lips remain, sucking so roughly she knows her skin will be mottled purple in seconds.
She frees her wrist from his grip to unzip his trousers. Her gaze follows hungrily as they slip from his hips, past his muscular thighs, down his calves brushing the near-invisible blond hair, and pool around his ankles. A pair of innocuous, white boxer briefs is the last article of clothing to remain. He lifts her by her hips.
Thunder rumbles above like a tragic train wreck far off in the distance. His eyes glow silver as a flash of lightning strikes a field beyond his shoulder. "Is this what you wanted?" he says into her ear. "Does it turn you on?"
"You turn me on."
Their lips connect roughly, one kiss sliding into the next. He manoeuvres her legs around his hips so she's holding herself up. Expert fingers unlatch the clasp of her new bra. He tugs it off and tosses it away. She hardly notices it's missing, too busy rubbing herself against his erection. At last, heat ignites her body—she knew she wouldn't need a warming spell.
Draco digs one hand into the softness of her breast, the one he didn't pay attention to in his study. His other arm rewraps around her hips to raise her higher. It's almost impossible to hold herself up, her fingers keep slipping down his back so she digs with her nails. He's flexing to support her weight but also because he likes to show off and she's eager to admire him. Draco is magnificent and he belongs to her.
"Tell me you're mine," she says desperately.
"You already know," he murmurs against her jawbone.
"Say it." He releases her and she scrambles to land onto her feet. The outer bricks of the house tear into her back. "Damn you."
He ignores her and drops his pants instead. His cock stands erect against his pelvis, red and ready, a bead of pre-cum at the tip that is promptly rinsed away by the rain. He pulls her wet knickers off her, damp from the weather and her own arousal. "Spread your legs."
"Say your mine," she denies him stubbornly.
He takes a step closer, crowding her personal space. Her eyes are level with his collarbone, their chests brush with each feverish breath. She's surrounded by his scent mingled with rain and damp earth. Blades of grass poke stubbornly between cracks in the stone and tickle her bare feet.
"Spread your legs," he says again.
"No." She clamps her legs all the way closed. Her lashes are dripping, she blinks several times to clear her vision. "Not until you say it."
"I'm supposed to be the possessive one."
"Since when?"
"Since I was named Draco," his hand draws up her arm, crosses the curve of her shoulder and slips behind her head, "dragons don't like being deprived of their belongings."
She scoffs. "I'm not your belonging."
He cups her, forcing her legs open with his hand. "You're mine." There isn't a shadow of a doubt in his voice, only greed and thickly layered lust.
"That's not what I wanted to hear." Still, she rubs herself against his hand because it feels too good to slap away. Foreplay has come and gone.
He watches the motion and holds himself steady, allowing her to use him as she pleases. A moan tumbles from her lips and she wiggles her hips more frantically, positioning herself so his middle finger is on her clit. Sparks of pleasure surge to every nerve ending. The cold on the tip of her nipples coupled with the heat gathering inside her cunt makes her tremble.
"Come for me, love."
"Not until you say you're mine," she insists but cannot stop chasing release. "Say it, please." Because she's so close and her belly is tightening, and her eyelids are beginning to flutter shut and a crash of thunder roars from the sky just as her mouth gapes open and—
"I'm yours."
—her climax is all breath, reminiscent to ocean waves crashing upon shore. Her body caves into itself as tide after tide of sensation courses through her. Her toes curl, her fingers dig into his sides, her head hangs back supported entirely by his palm, each electric pulse is punctuated by a small, breathy moan.
He watches her ravenously. For all the selfishness that makes up Draco Malfoy, the one place he lacks self-indulgence is with her. At times, she's convinced that he desires her pleasure more than his own, that he'd choose to watch her unravel over and over before ever considering his own needs. Each time they fuck he makes sure she comes once and then twice, often three or four times, it's a game to him and her screams are his prize.
Nevertheless, she's swept into his arms once more, her back braced against damp, biting bricks. Aftershocks of her orgasm still sizzle through her veins when he plunges into her. She screams.
An elongated breath parts his lips as he loses himself. Her fingers sweep into his damp hair and she shuts her eyes against the pellets of rain, now pouring more quickly from the sky. His grip is steadfast despite the slippery surface of their skin. The sound of their lovemaking is only slightly muffled by the frenzied pitter-patter of rain.
His voice is brimming with emotion when he says, "You're the greatest adventure I've ever had. Don't leave me."
"I won't," she promises, she'd be crazy to ever give this up.
His chest presses into her tits, flattening her curves between them. Her eyes open a sliver and she sees the discarded scraps of their clothing scattered on the terrace, the fabric soaked dark. Another flash of lightning illuminates the sky as he plunges into her again and the dual sensory assault makes her come a second time.
"Fuck, Hermione." He tenses as her cunt hugs his cock in a vice grip. Her inner thighs quiver and her muscles grow taut, anchored to him. "You don't know how good that feels."
She moans into his ear, completely lost in the second wave of pleasure—more intense than the first, it's always more intense when he's inside of her. The intrusion feels naughty and delicious and having him so close that he's literally a part of her makes her tremble all over.
Another roll of thunder echoes around them as the storm heightens and the rain intensifies and lightning flashes again. She bites his neck to quell her screams not because she doesn't want to be loud but because she likes claiming him in this way, his fair skin bruises too easily and she loves taking advantage of it. If it were up to her, every inch of him would be red, blue and purple with her love bites. Because he's hers and she's never wanted to hold onto anything more intensely. She's crazy for him in every sense of the word, she never envisioned a manic sort of love like this, but now she can't live without it.
He thrusts into her three more times. His teeth sink into her shoulder as he comes deep inside of her. They melt into one another, drenched and shaking, both hot and cold, and completely dazed. He opens his eyes and presses his forehead to hers, grey irises aglow, his light blond lashes are separated in small, wet clumps. "Thunderstorms, huh?"
She kisses him sweetly, fire temporarily quenched. "Aren't they glorious?"
thunderstorm shags anyone? lolol