girl dinner
“Hungry?”
There’s a bag of food in his hand that smells far better than the toastie she picked at six hours ago, but that’s not what he’s talking about. Not really.
He asks as though he can read her thoughts. As though he knows that in the morning, Astoria thought about his cock folded in her hand, and in the afternoon, how it feels when it hits the back of her throat. That she spent the past half-hour while Hermione took her turn doing rounds sitting at her desk, staring out at the rain-damp pavement, the cold sky, thinking about how it looks when it slides between her thighs.
Theo isn’t a Legilimens, though, and so he asks because throughout the past year, he’s learned to read her the way he reads everything else: between the lines, memorising every word.
She told him she’d see him at home at half eleven—that they’d celebrate Valentine’s then—but it’s eight o’clock now, the Janus Thickey ward quieted with post-dinner calm, and he has her pressed against her desk as soon as he kicks the door closed and sets the food down.
“This is a nice surprise,” she murmurs, to which he mumbles between kisses some approximation of thought you could use a break.
They’re a tangle of limbs. A mess of tongue and teeth. By the time her silk blouse is undone, there are lipstick prints already scattered along his neck, beneath the collar of his crisp white shirt, strewn like petals from the roses she’ll find later in a vase by her side of the bed.
“Come here,” he rasps, redirecting her attention from his trousers back to his lips. They capture her gasp when he swipes a thumb across a lace-covered nipple, and her moan when he releases the garment’s band and leans down to tug one into his mouth.
The food hums quietly with the magic of a stasis charm, and a quill scratches away, copying her patient notes from throughout her shift. Other than that, the only sounds filling the room come from his fingers sliding in and out of her cunt, obscenely loud, and her breathy moans, answered by low groans from deep in the back of his throat.
He continues teasing her—winding her up before he lets her go—until she says, “I need you,” and he asks her, “How? In what way?” He turns her around, rucks up her skirt, and runs his palms across the smooth cheeks of her arse.
“You already know,” she manages to say as his thumb finds her clit. It circles slowly. Strokes up and down.
He notches his cock at her entrance as he presses a kiss at the top of her spine. He weaves a hand through her dark hair so he can tilt her head, tug on it the way she likes, while he scrapes his teeth up the pale line of her throat.
“I do know,” he whispers against the curve of her ear, “but I like to hear you say it. And I know you like to tell me, too.”
And she does. So, she tells him how good he feels, how she loves how he fucks her. How she wants him to finish inside her and fill her up.
“And you’re going to keep it there,” he breathes once he’s bottomed out, “where it should be, until you’re home and I can do it again.”
She can only nod, whimpering into his open mouth as his palms dig into her hips, squeezing harder each time his pelvis strikes her arse. Her legs begin to quiver, silver spots forming behind her eyes.
And then, her body goes taught, everything shatters. She’s mumbling nonsense as he talks her through it, increases his pace, and as she wants—as he promised—she has him until she’s full.