gild-and-fire - Tumblr blog

gild-and-fire · 16 hours

Text

At Ginny Weasley's 25th birthday party, Hermione found out 2 things:

1. Ron was dating Theo, which was an uneventful reveal ("No gasps?" Theo complained, "I almost got the mark! I'm dangerous!").

2. Pansy had invited Draco Malfoy.

And he had shown up.

“Thank you so much for coming.” Ginny sighed, sounding like she was about to cry, an empty glass clutched in her tiny fingers, “I love you.”

Pansy nodded enthusiastically, arms wrapped around Ginny’s middle, lipstick smeared beyond repair. “We waited to cut the cake for you!”

Behind the two of them, the cake sat pristine — untouched, 25 lit candles balancing precariously around the edge. A definite fire hazard, Hermione decided.

“Sorry I’m late,” Hermione said, digging Ginny’s present out of her bag (new wand holster!) “Collins kept me in his office after a meeting.”

“Did he try to kiss you again?” Ginny said loudly, “Do you want Pansy and I to ruin his life?”

“We can fuck his dad.” Pansy agreed. “Become his stepmother. Ground him.”

“He’s 45.” Hermione said flatly, “And I’m fairly confident his father is dead.”

“Well,” Ginny pouted, attention quickly drifting to her fiancée, trailing tiny little kitten licks up Pansy’s neck, “If you don’t let us do something, someone else will do much worse.”

“I don’t need to be taken care of.” Hermione argued, ignoring that last bit, “I can actually be quite scary.”

Pansy smiled, but it seemed a bit forced. “You’re very small.”

“Like a chihuahua.” Theo said, snuggled up to Ron’s side, voice slightly muffled.

“But a feral one.” Ron said helpfully, like that made everything better. “One that bites ankles.”

“Let’s cut the cake, shall we?” Hermione said. Out of the corner of her eye she could see several candles oozing off the top, a definite flaw in the structural integrity of the cake. “You all have waited long enough!”

The evening went on, in glorious delight. Hermione was almost able to ignore the way Malfoy was watching her, until he cornered her in the kitchen.

Alone, with only a stack of dirty dishes to witness their conversation.

“Hello!” She said, voice a bit too cheery for the dark look on his face, “Can you believe Luna is dating George Weasley? Quite the plot twist, if you ask me — ”

“You didn’t tell me Collins tried to kiss you.”

“I didn’t.” Hermione agreed. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“Hm.” Malfoy said, “Capable in all avenues of your life? Don’t need me to fuck you anymore?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “That is not what I said.”

“Am I allowed to kill him?”

Before, she would’ve laughed, watched as his eyes glittered until they melted, until he laughed, too. But now, after fucking him for six and half months, Hermione knew the unfortunate truth: Malfoy was not joking. He never had been.

He was overly dramatic (the buckbeak incident from third year still was occasionally mentioned) but also quite sincere about his threats. A terrible combination, Hermione found.

Hermione shook her head solemnly. “No.” She said, “You are not.”

“Figured I should ask permission. You can punish me later.”

She caught his wrist. “Draco.” Hermione said softly, “Don’t be dramatic.”

He feigned a gasp. “I’m not doing anything.” Which was currently true. All he was doing was looking down at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

“I’m just annoyed that my girlf—” he hesitated, and Hermione glanced away. So casually cruel, dangling that word out in front of her when he didn’t actually mean it.

“My person,” he continued “didn’t tell me that Collins from work, who is quite possibly the worst individual I’ve ever met, has tried, on what seems to be multiple occasions, to kiss her.”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I can do that myself.” Hermione hissed. “Once, I punched Harry. He got a bloody nose!”

(She did not mention that said punch had been an accident, and she had cried about giving Harry a bloody nose for roughly 15 minutes after it happened. Harry had to console her, it had been, for a lack of better words: a mess.)

“I know you can,” Malfoy nodded, his smile, as always, a little mean, “But taking care of you is one of my favorite things to do. Those duties extend to light amounts of assault.”

“No need,” Hermione said primly, “I jinxed his balls to his left kneecap.”

Malfoy winced. “Effective,” he said, “my murderous little chihuahua.”

The air seemed to grow thicker, the muted silence stretching between them. Like clockwork, Hermione felt her eyes darting to his mouth, felt her skin prickling with a familiar heat. It felt, almost, as if she was someone else whenever he was around — a different version of herself, desperate for only his attention, longing for his approval.

Malfoy’s eyes were soft as he looked down at her, hands on either side of her, skin warm to the touch. Hermione wondered how he managed to keep all his softness sacred to only her.

Their first time had been a blur of sharp teeth and bruised flesh. He’d fucked her on the floor of her office, skirts rucked around her waist, whispered filthy words in her ear. In return, she had bit his neck until blood trickled down his flesh, smeared across her lips, the taste of copper mixing with the salt of their sweat.

After, when he’d tucked himself around her frame, holding her whole body, Hermione realized she liked this, too.

To sink into his embrace, to allow him to hold the weight of her bones. It had been bliss unlike anything she’d ever experienced, a freedom of thought; the world had been soft and quiet, his body a barrier between her and the noise.

The second and third time had happened in the same way: a challenge, someone to meet it — a broom closet, her groans blocked by his thumb heavy on her tongue, his face twisted in pleasure as he sunk inside her, inch by inch; a stolen moment in the bathroom of a crowded pub, his fingers tight in her hair, her hands pressed against the cool tile as he had pounded her from the back, grinning at her friends moments later, his cum dripping down her thighs.

But after that, they slipped into something more. His softness grew beyond the moments after they’d fucked, uncontained; she saw it in his eyes when she spoke, felt it when he guided her along the street, hand warm on her lower back.

And here they were, six and a half months later, the same feelings fresh, evergreen. It always felt a bit like the first time with him, limbs trembling, skin flushed; mind blissfully empty.

Malfoy touched her face, bringing her back to the kitchen, to the present, to the soft sounds of the party in the room next door. Back to him, and his inescapable warmth. He tilted his head to the side. Waiting.

Hermione nodded.

“Stick out your tongue.” He said, voice soft.

Heart hammering, Hermione did just that. Watched, in frozen anticipation, as Malfoy leaned over her frame, his front pressed tightly to her own, and spit into her mouth.

Wet and sloppy, dribbling off the edge of her tongue.

His fingers slipped under her skirt, flipping it over her stomach, tugging her knickers down her thighs, eyes hard on her trembling tongue. “Good,” he whispered when he found her wet, dripping down her thighs. “Spit.”

Hermione's eyes fluttered as she lowered her tongue. His saliva — her own, now — dripping down to land on her exposed cunt, joining the mess he created.

At the same time as he slipped his fingers between her legs, he pressed his other fingers into her mouth, muffling her whimpers.

“Keep you stuffed on both ends,” he whispered, thumb pressing down on her tongue, three fingers sunk into her cunt, “Nice and full.”

A muffled sound came from behind the cracked door. “I’ll get more fire whiskey!” Theo’s drunken voice cut through the murkiness of Hermione’s mind. slicing through the kitchen with the effectiveness of only the best cooking knives, “There’s got to me more inside the cabinet!”

Malfoy was hunched over her, his entire body curved around her back, fingers stilling inside her cunt. She felt his muscles tense, preparing to pull his fingers out, but her own tightened around his wrist, keeping him trapped. Within her, above her, inside her.

The door knob twitched, but then, Ron’s voice — “No, baby, I found another one. Under Harry’s head, he’s using it as a pillow, but I think we can take it —”

She hurried to release him, to set him free, to appear unaffected and pretend like she hadn’t clutched his arm tighter at the thought of someone catching them but it was already too late.

“Shy, all the sudden?” He whispered, teeth grazing her flesh, thumb finding her clit, pressing through the wetness.

“Do you want me to fuck you in front of all of our friends? Would that make you happy?” Hermione had a terrible feeling he would do it, too. Split her open for all to see — and that she’d let him.

“At least,” She gasped around his fingers, tongue thick, spit dripping down her neck, “then they’d know about us.”

He froze above her.

“What?” He took his fingers out of her mouth, and her traitorous tongue followed the line of spit.

“I said,” Hermione repeated in a voice that could be interpreted as petulant, “at least, everyone would know about us.”

“You don’t want anyone to know about us.”

Hermione scoffed. “No,” she said, “You are the one who doesn't want any of our friends to know — ”

“Come on, angel.” Malfoy said, eyes serious. “Think for me. Use that beautiful brain. When have I ever said that I didn’t want people to know about us? If you allowed me, I would tell the entire world that you let me fuck you. That you let me worship at your altar, take care of your every need. It would be the only thing I spoke about.”

“No,” Hermione whined, thoughts thick and heavy in her brain, she could still feel his unmoving fingers inside of her, “That. That’s not true, you said let’s just keep it between us.”

“As in, let's keep sex between us.” He squinted down at her in the yellow light of the kitchen. “Are you fucking other people? I’d like a list.”

“There isn’t a list.”

“I wasn’t clear before,” Malfoy was saying with great effort, “That is my fault, but please, allow me to be clear now. I’d like to be the only person you have sex with. If you’d have me.”

“When would I even have time to have sex with other people?”

He frowned. “I just said something very romantic.”

Hermione waved her hand, “Yes, very romantic, but — you sleep in my bed. With me. Every night. When do you think I’m hypothetically finding the time to fuck other people?”

A horrible thought occurred, “Have you been sleeping with other people?”

Malfoy recoiled as if she’d slapped him. “I think about fucking you all the time. Always you.” He said, looking a bit mad. “If you’re not beside me, I wait, like a dog at the door for your return. I am at your disposal. I am yours to use, to keep, to toss away — there is nothing, nothing I’d refuse, if only you asked.”

Heart in her throat, Hermione asked: “You want more?”

“I want everything.”

Hermione nodded. “You can have it.” She said, the grin on her face too bright for the dim kitchen, “I want all that you are, too.”

Malfoy let out a shaky exhale. “Later, we’ll tell everyone. I’ll become a nuisance to casual conversation, with the amount I’ll mention you. But, I’m going to fuck you now, alright? Will that be a problem?”

Hermione shook her head, stomach squirming. With more than just arousal, she realized.

Excitement was brewing — he wanted her, just as much as she did. Wanted the sleepy evenings and lazy mornings. Wanted to sit beside her at the pub, hand on her thigh for all to see; wanted to be her date to exhausting ministry galas, wanted to be seen. Wanted everyone to know.

“No,” she gasped as he pressed in to her, “That won’t be a problem.”

#dramione

124 notes · View notes