Thirteen
Day: 1237; Hour: 20
"I heard you didn't fuck up a mission for once."
"Oh, piss off."
He gives her a suspicious look when she smiles as she says it, the reminder of the success resurfacing her happiness. She knows that he can't know the details of it, but just that it's going around enough for him to know that the victory was in part to her leadership pleased her.
"It wasn't my plan." She feels as if she shouldn't take the credit for that.
"What a surprise," he drawls, in a tone reminiscent of their old Potions professor.
She gives him a sharp look now, which makes him look more settled, and he moves his bowl of peanuts away from her the moment she lifts her hand to take one. "Don't you know how to share?"
"No."
"Only child complex, then."
"Or... I just don't want your greedy little hand touching things I'm about to put in my mouth."
She raises an eyebrow at him. "Well, it's not like you..."
She trails off, deciding not to go there because it will likely embarrass her too much. He turns his head to look at her, popping a peanut into his mouth, and by the lift at the corner of his lips she knows he figured out what she was going to say anyway.
"Not like I what?"
"Never mind."
"Finish your sentence."
"No. I'm in a good mood, Malfoy, don't ruin it."
"You're the one who started the rebuttal - all I want is for you to finish it."
"And all I want is to not, and since this is my mouth and my vocal chords, I guess I'm not going to."
"Do you put your hands on yourself? Hmm? In the places I put my mouth?"
"What? Look, I-"
"Masturbation, Granger. Do you masturbate?"
She flames red. "I am not talking about this with you."
"Why not? If there's anything you should be comfortable with me about now, it's sex."
"Well I'm not. So shut up."
"Granger."
"No."
"No, you don't, or no, you're not answering?" She ignores him, staring hard at the make-up infomercial they have been watching for twenty minutes now. "Show me."
"What?" She knows this is only going to get worse when he licks the salt off his lips and puts down his bowl, turning toward her on the couch.
"Show me how you get off when I'm not around." He licks the salt from his fingers now, long, slim digits, fingertips brushing over his tastebuds.
"But you are around!" she stutters.
He smirks. "We can get to that part later. For now, we'll pretend you're alone in-"
"No. I'm not comfortable doing that, Malfoy, and I'm not going to."
He pushes his tongue into his cheek, studying her for a moment. He stands then, grabbing the arms of the recliner and pulling it directly in front of her, the coffee table separating them. She watches him curiously; unaware of what he is doing until he begins to unbutton his pants.
"Malfoy! There are... people here."
"It's late, and no one is awake but us."
"But..." She trails off, watching as he shoves his boxers and trousers down to his calves, half hard as he takes a seat. "Still."
"I like to take my time, unless I'm desperate to get off." He ignores her, pulling his shirt up around his shoulders as he leans back. "The more you want it, the harder you're going to come."
He rolls his nipples between his fingers, getting them hard before licking the pad of his thumbs and reaching down to pinch them. Hermione mutters to herself, her breathing already uneven as she watches him in fascination, his hands smoothing over his chest. He's already fully erect when he presses his nails into the hair below his bellybutton, scraping them all the way up and over his nipples. He watches her watch him, his eyes darkening and hooded, and his hips bouncing when he finally grips himself.
"Men are very visually-orientated, but I've been blessed with a vivid imagination. I've thought of you before we even slept together." She looks up to his eyes at the confession, before dropping them down to his slow pumping fist again. "I imagined how tight you would be, the shape of your breasts, your nipples. What you would look like when you came."
A sound forces its way from her throat, and her breath pauses altogether when he lifts his hand to lick the palm, bringing it back down again. She feels hot, breathing labored, and the ache grows more into a need the longer she looks at him. Her fingers are moving anxiously on the couch, filled with indecision as she tries to quickly determine her best action for the moment.
"I saw you spread out below me, riding me, or bent over a desk or chair while I fucked you from behind. I thought of what you must taste like, and how your body would feel slick against mine." He moans, pushing into his hand as he cups his balls. "And then when I knew... I got off even quicker."
He is quiet for a few seconds, his cheeks flushed and hips pumping continuously now. His feet arch, his toes spreading as he makes breathy little noises that she remembers well.
"What are you thinking of now?" she whispers to break any awkwardness from setting in for her over the fact that she is doing nothing while he...does this.
"Sometimes," his voice is deeper, darker as he gives a squeeze to the head of his cock, "I think about things we've already done. Usually, I think about the things I still want to do to you."
"And right now?"
He breathes out in a rush. "Your mouth on me. All hot and wet, and being buried in your throat."
She bites her lip, considering but unwilling. She has just begun to shake off the nerves of inexperience, and though it might be something she would do at some point, she isn't ready for it now. The moment feels too wrong. Instead, she stands, pulling down her knickers and sweatpants with a steadiness she had decided on two minutes ago. His hand stills momentarily, and she is blushing already, but ignores it, sitting down and pulling up her bra and shirt as he had done.
She hesitates; keeping her eyes away from him, and cups her breasts, kneading them. "Lick your fingers, Granger."
She does so, and brings them down to her nipples as he had done earlier, tweaking and rolling them between her wet digits. She tries to relax, to not go about this like it is a test, but she is ever aware of him looking at her. She has only done this in the comfort and privacy of her bedroom, and it is enough to be out in the open like this, let alone to be exposed to him while she does it.
"Spread your legs for me," he whispers, and she realizes that she has them primly shut. She takes a fortifying breath and does as he asked, rewarded with a deep groan from the other side of the room. She looks up at him then, his hand pumping fast now, his lips parted as he takes her in.
"What are you thinking now?" she asks shakily, as if it will take his attention off her at all.
"Nothing but how much I want you to bury your fingers inside yourself right now. Can you do that for me, Granger?"
She exhales and nods, dropping a hand to skim down her stomach. "Open your legs more. Wider. All the way, Granger. There you go... that's perfect."
She brushes her thumb across her clit, whining softly at how sensitive it is, and pushes a tentative finger inside herself. She hasn't done this often, maybe once every few months since she was sixteen, and not at all since she began sleeping with the man across from her. Her fingers now, she thinks, are inadequate - they are not him in size, or motion, or depth, or feeling.
"Add another," he pants, as if he can read her thoughts, and she does, but it is still not enough, not him.
She pushes as deep as she can, arching her hips and pushing back against the couch, her other hand leaves her breast to squeeze the couch pillow. She tries to touch herself like he does, but her fingers are still shorter, and her thumb feels clumsy circling her clit. She pushes against her fingers, looking at his hand again, her own speeding up to match his pace unconsciously.
He comes, thick white spurts on his chest and hand as he thrusts his hips up and locks his body, his teeth sinking into his hand and barely muffling whatever word he grinds out. Her speed slows while she studies him, watching him collapse back into the seat, harshly breathing out against his hand. He catches his breath, coming down, and his eyes open slowly, directly onto her.
She feels very uncomfortable now, as if she should stop and go run and hide somewhere; embarrassed that he has finished and she is left still going at it. Oh, God, she thinks, and wonders if she should go make a break for her bedroom - where she will likely still continue, because that is how badly she needs to get off right now. She pulls her fingers away, but they hover from further motion with the look he gives her.
"Don't you dare." His voice cracks roughly as he gives her another warning look and yanks his shirt over his head.
"But you're... done."
He glances up from wiping off his stomach and hand. "And when has that ever meant you were?"
This is true. If she hasn't gotten off and he has, he always makes sure that she does. Hermione may be new to actually having sex, but she's known for a while that the statistics of women who don't get off after their partners have is far too high. Malfoy has always been good about this to her, and while she never found it something to complain about before, she certainly does now.
"But-"
"I know you want to come." He stands, making his way around the table after he pulls his pants up.
"I don't-" She watches him like prey.
"Let me see," he whispers, sitting in front of her on the table. "Show me."
He runs his palms, hot and sticky, up her legs and parts them again. He looks her in the eye, and she isn't sure if this makes her more uncomfortable than it does if he just looked at where her hand was moving back to. He takes the other from the couch pillow, bringing it to his mouth, and she moans uncontrollably as he sucks two of them into his mouth. His tongue curves around them as his thumb moves in soft circles on the sensitive underside of her wrist, his eyes holding hers.
He pulls her hand away, moving it to her breast, and she misses his touch. His warmth so close to her but not touching her is teasing and aggravating, because she just wants to sink into him - or, better, him sink into her.
"Draco," she whispers, and he sucks in a breath.
"Close your eyes."
"I want... No." Because she wants to see him, but she doesn't know if saying so is too revealing.
"Close them."
She does this time, and jerks when she feels his breath against her cheek. Her fingers move faster inside her in anticipation, and she leans forward but still doesn't touch against him. She runs his saliva over the pebbled surface of her nipples, biting her lip and exhaling hard through her nose.
"What are you thinking about right now?" he whispers, like a breath against the shell of her ear.
"You." She is honest.
"What am I doing?" She thinks he may sound pleased, and later she will laugh at the thought of telling him it was someone else.
"Not touching me," she answers sourly, and he laughs.
"How can I touch you, when I don't know where to touch you?"
"You do."
"In your imagination, Granger, are those my fingers inside of you, or your own?"
She blushes. "Yours."
"And where else am I touching you?" And she catches on to what he had meant.
"My neck. Your mouth. In that spot...here." His lips descend the second her finger leaves the spot, and she moans, pushing forward until her shoulders are against his, her forehead resting on one. "Your hand is on my breast."
He moves, cupping as she drops her own away, but he leaves it still, as if awaiting further instruction. He is making this much harder than it has to be, she thinks, and lays her hand over his, directing the motions. Her hips are moving constantly against her hand now, but it is not enough.
"I... I need more," she pants.
"Add another."
"That's too much, and it's not... deep enough."
"It's not too much. Add another." He bites her ear, licks around the curve. "Relax, Granger."
"I need..."
"Curve your fingers."
"What?"
"Curve them."
She does so, her breath shuttering before she moans loudly, arching against him at the new sensation. His hand leaves her breast to wrap his arm around her back, pulling her chest against his, his other hand yanking her ear to get her head back. He kisses her the moment she pulls her head off his shoulder, and she whimpers into his mouth, so close now, her whole body moving against his as she bucks against her hand. Her free hand curves around the back of his neck, gripping for some more stability.
"That's it. Let go for me," he whispers against her mouth, kissing her again, and she grips his neck so hard her nails bite into his skin.
"I'm... I'm..." she breathes, feeling her climax creep up the lining of her stomach, and is just so close it hurts, before her fingers grind to a halt.
Her heart is a dead weight, like someone cursed it to stone in her chest, and she opens wide eyes to look into Malfoy's own shocked ones. He looks over her head, to the entrance to the living room, but she knows no one is there by the way his eyes dart around the rest of the area.
He pushes her back, grabbing the quilt off the back of the couch and yanking it down to her. Her heart unfreezes, beating painfully now. She knows she heard a door slam, and he must have as well, though with the calm way he was turning the recliner back around she wouldn't think so. Besides his missing shirt, his flushed skin, and his obvious arousal tenting his pants, he looks completely normal. She, on the other hand, thinks she might break out of the confinement of her skin and bones. She wonders if anyone might notice her getting herself off under the covers, because fifteen seconds ago she sure as hell did not think she could stop if even Harry burst into the room.
The ache is absolutely painful now, and she feels like crying from all the pent up feelings that she was seconds away from erupting with. Her hands are shaky, her breathing still labored, and she is close to screaming with frustration.
There's a clatter from the kitchen, followed shortly by the sound of the refrigerator closing. Hermione looks to Malfoy as the microwave pops open to find him already looking at her. He gives a glance to the doorway and stands, grabbing her arm and pulling her off the couch.
"Draco," she practically whines, yanking her shirt down. "I need... it hurts, and... I..."
"I know," he whispers, kissing her mouth before she bends to pull up her pants. "I know, come on."
He grabs her wrist and brings her to his room, the closest to the living room, and shuts the door as quietly as possible behind them. Hermione forgets all discomfort and hesitation, shoving her pants back down as he locks the door, her legs shaking.
"Bed." He nods toward it when he turns, shoving his own pants down and kicking them off his feet as she lies back on his bed.
He doesn't waste time with taking off her shirt, sinking into her the moment he is on top of her, and God, this is perfect. It is exactly what she needed before she even started touching herself before. This is exactly what her fingers and hands cannot make up for, and with good reason.
She comes in seconds, crying out into the palm he pushes against her mouth, never having needed to come so badly in her life. It almost burns, the feel of it, and she clamps her legs so hard around him he's forced to stop moving.
When she comes down enough to open her eyes, he's looking at her, still moving steadily above her. She thinks to thank him for finally giving her what she needed, but remembers that he is the one who came up with the stupid idea to touch themselves in the living room in the first place. She can almost blame him for it until four minutes later, when he makes her come again, so hard she thinks she might blackout. After that, she doesn't think she can blame him for much of anything.
Later, she wakes up beside him, the light still on and dark still outside the window. They are both still the wrong way on the bed, her face buried into his shoulder and her leg thrown over his. It is the first time she's ever not left directly after sex, though this is a complete accident. She had been so worn out after their first go once they got into the room, that she didn't even realize she was passing out - until now that she is awake. He must have been in much the same state, given his current sleeping and the fact that she is still here.
She gets up, aching and drowsy, and stumbles her way into her pants. She hits the lights on her way out the door, shutting it silently behind her and tiptoeing for her own room.
Day: 1243; Hour: 8
"What... are you doing?"
Hermione looks up, pushing back to her knees as she looks up at the imposing figure in the doorway. "I'm planting flowers."
"Why?"
"I was bored." She shrugs. "I found the seeds in the drawer by the sink, and decided to plant them."
"Do they even grow in the cold?"
"I don't know."
"Then isn't it rather useless?"
"No, because I'm bored and it gives me something to do."
Malfoy leans against the door frame, scowling down at her. "You've been unnaturally chipper lately."
"Chipper?" She shrugs again. "I just feel like... everything is sort of getting on track."
"We're in the middle of a war."
"Thanks for the reminder."
"You needed to be reminded?"
"No, hence the sarcasm." He is putting her in a foul mood now, and she thinks this may have been his goal. "You know, just because you're always angry at everything, doesn't mean everyone else has to be."
"I don't care if everyone else is or not. I-"
"Good." She halts the fight that he's looking for. "Do you want to help me plant?"
"What?"
"Plant."
"No." He gives her a strange look.
"Can't get your hands dirty, Malfoy?"
"I don't plant."
"It won't kill you. Promise. See?"
"You can get as dirty as you like, Granger, but there's no reason to get soil all over myself for something I don't have to do."
"What if it's already on you?"
"What?"
She answers by flicking dirt at him, but gravity pulls it too hard from the shirt she was aiming for and it lands on his sock. She watches him expectantly, waiting to see if he freaks out over dirt or retaliates. He studies the small clumps and then looks back down at her, raising an eyebrow high.
"You're childish. And you're going to clean that now."
"No." She shakes her head. "I don't think I am."
"You are."
She flicks more at him. "Make me."
"Do you really want me to have to, twit?"
"Don't call me names, Malfoy. You don't want to make me angry."
"Bitch," he says petulantly, and steps back too slowly for the handful of dirt she wings at him.
She smirks and he looks up slowly from the moist soil smacked onto his shirt, glaring at her. She thinks perhaps she should stand and take to running now, but she almost never backs down from him, and this is no exception. He turns sharply, disappearing into the kitchen with a dark mutter.
"Going to shower now? Wash that pristine, pure skin of yours free from imperfection? Dirt! The horror!" She yells after him, shaking her head and returning to the patch of soil in front of her.
In Hagrid's class in one of their younger years, she remembers a time when Lavender actually cried when she fell back into the dirt. It only took a simple cleaning spell before she was fine again, but Hermione thinks there are some people who freak out about their appearance far too much. Malfoy used to be as perfectly put together as he could manage, and while she has seen him quite the opposite now, she guesses that some things just stay with people.
She is abruptly brought from her thoughts with a gasp, something ice cold hitting her on the top of her bent head and stomach. She is disoriented for just a second, before she looks up to find him in the doorway again, grinning and holding the empty glass in his hand.
"I thought you might want me to clean you up a little."
"Oh... oh, you are going to regret that!"
"Now, now, Granger - don't make me angry," he mocks, but drops the teasing for curiosity. "What is that?"
"This," Hermione mutters, gripping it in her hand as she turns the small metal wheel quickly, "is a hose."
"A... hose."
"Didn't learn this in Muggle Studies, hmm?" She grins, and he has just enough time to register the water jetting out before he's sprayed with it.
"Granger!"
She cackles as he takes off from the door, and she moves closer, waiting until he's out of the kitchen to hoist herself inside. The backdoor is missing steps, and she always has to leap down to get out or pull herself up to get back inside. She creeps as silently as she can through the kitchen, her thumb tight and numb against the opening to block the water from spraying out.
She finds him in the living room, pulling what must be freezing cold fabric away from his skin, and she drops her thumb away again. He yells something about inside, and a nutter, and several curse words as he takes off for the hall. She tries to follow him, but she runs out of slack, jerking to a halt at the end of the living room. She should probably be regretting the idea to bring it inside, as not all the water had hit him and pools of wetness were on the carpet now. She doesn't though, feeling rebellious and maybe just a little crazy too. It is sort of like the first time she was on her own, and ate a whole bowl of pudding - her parents would have died, and she was sick enough to think she might, but it still felt good. If her parents were here now, or any adult for the matter, she is sure she would get reamed. But what is a house that the Ministry owns, but no one really lives in? Common property, she figures. Besides, there is revenge that she had to get.
Malfoy seems to be in hiding, despite any taunts she throws down that hall, and so she retreats back to the door, content in knowing that at least she got him back. She's in the kitchen by the time she stops feeling the pressure against her thumb, and she has a moment of panic, wondering if she ran up all the water in the well now. Her brief worry is put to rest when he walks into her line of sight, staring up at her smugly.
"How did you get out there?" He doesn't answer her, yanking the hose suddenly, and it comes easily from her grasp. She squeaks and dives for it, but he pulls it out the door, running to turn it back on. "Hey! No! Draco Malfoy, put-"
She gives up on speaking when he gets the water on, turning to run out of the kitchen, and screaming her throat hoarse when the water hits her. Jesus, she hadn't known it was that cold when she sprayed him. He's quicker than she had been, the water soaking her nearly the entire time she runs to the hallway. Her back feels frozen, her clothes like a second skin, yet nearly completely dry in the front.
Hermione runs for the front door like he must have, knowing the man will probably wait forever there in dead silence so she thinks he left and she'll come out again. She'll use his own little tricks on him instead, determined for payback now. Though, if she thinks about, she figures they are actually even now, but there's no way she's letting him get the last shot.
He seems just as determined, given that he's standing and waiting for her in the backyard when she turns the corner. "Predictable much?"
She yells as he grins, covering half the hole with his thumb so it sprays a greater distance. She wonders how he managed to figure that out so quickly - it took her until she was eleven.
"Stop! Not in the face! I didn't get you in the face!" She yells, trying to outrun him.
"Because you're not as crafty."
"Slytherin!" she huffs.
"Thank you."
She glares at him and switches tactics, turning her feet from their set motion of running back around the house and aiming her direction toward him. She covers her face with her arm and all out runs, skidding through mud when she gets near him. She is shaking with the cold, and he has to grip the hose with both hands when she tries to yank it away.
"This is cute, Granger." He laughs, turning it toward her head despite all her attempts at him not.
She goes for something different, stomping a foot down on top of it and cutting off the water. She gives him a triumphant look as he stares at her and tilts the hose. She takes advantage of his momentary surprise, shoving the hole toward his face and lifting her foot, laughing maniacally as it shoots him in the face. He spits water and turns it away from him, and she clamps down on the hose again for just two seconds before he yanks her off of it. He fastens an arm around her shoulders, pinning her arms, pulling her back against him as he puts the hose in her face. She screams, but it's just a gurgle of water as she tries turning her head away and forces all her weight back onto him in a shove.
It's enough to unbalance him in the mud, and he takes them both down, his oxygen whizzing past her ear as he grunts. She takes the opportunity given to her by her less severe fall and breaks from his grip, turning and grabbing a handful of mud. It squishes between her fingers before she smacks it onto his forehead, rubbing it into his hair with childish glee. He stares up at her in shock, and she grins wickedly before getting a face full of the stuff herself. She reels for a moment before she's revved with retaliation, jumping off of him as he sits up, and throwing another fistful at him.
The hose falls forgotten as they both struggle to stand with slippery feet, throwing as much mud at one another as possible. She makes a break for the front of the house, and he follows after her, wiping the mud off her own skin and flinging it back when she runs out. He must be doing the same, several more clumps hitting her in the back and her hair even after she is inside the house again, crying out when she feels a slight tug on her shirt. She breaks free but only for a second longer, her feet are pulled out from under her, and she hits the floor on her hands with a thud.
She tries to crawl forward, but he only pulls her back, moving quickly to hover over her, and she turns to face him when she acknowledges that there is no escape. He's looking around the kitchen, his hands pinning her shoulders as he searches for a weapon, but he focuses back onto her when she bursts into laughter.
"So... ridiculous!" she howls about the way he looks and the past fifteen minutes in general.
His hair is brown, matted to his head, and he looks as if he must have painted his face in mud, only small streaks of white showing through. He sneers down at her, and she laughs harder at the brown on his teeth, waving her hands like a white flag and dropping fully onto the floor in defeat.
"You've been doing Muggle drugs, haven't you? All happy suddenly, planting, attacking people with water and mud. I've heard of marijuana you know. Is that what you were planting?"
She continues laughing, and when he realizes that he's not getting through to her, he rolls and drops down next to her to catch his breath. She calms after a few minutes, her cheeks hurting, and lolls her head to look at him.
"That was... so childish. But I swear that was the most fun I've had in so long."
"I'm scarred, I think."
She grins and shakes her head, watching him look at the ceiling. "I never thought you could be like that."
He looks at her now, rolling his head to face her, and she thinks his eyebrows are raised but can't tell with how dirty his face is. "Like what?"
"Joking around. Acting like an idiot - well, wait..." He glares at her, and she laughs. "You know what I mean. Just act... like that."
"Self-defense."
"Sure." She lets him have it, knowing it won't do for him to seem like a normal person who acts like a fool once in a while. "I'm freezing."
"You're the one who decided to use the hose at the end of Fall."
"Self-defense."
He grins, turning his head away and looking back at the ceiling. "Sure."
Day: 1250; Hour: 16
She spends two days with Ginny, and almost tells her everything every ten minutes. She is afraid though, and ashamed in a way she hasn't been before. It is one thing to know what you're doing and like it enough to keep going, and another to tell someone about it when you know they will only point out why it's such a bad idea.
He is different now, she would like to tell her. In a sort of way she hasn't completely grasped, but in a way that makes her okay with what it is they are doing. There is something about Malfoy that pulls her, intrigues her. She wonders if this is the sort of thing people feel when they are addicted to drugs - if perhaps this is wrong, and she should stop, but she just hasn't reached the bottom yet to be able to pull away.
Sometimes, when she hasn't seen him for a few days, she says it out loud to herself and laughs, because it seems so preposterous. Other times, she wonders what she would be doing if he was there and she was not alone.