le banquet céleste
The dampening wards keep the scent below a certain level, but even then, they can only do so much.
The world, briefly, is this: wet mouths, wet heat. Hunger. Honey. Petrichor. Draco's tongue licking a stripe up her dripping cunt to her clit. Draco's mouth on her, filthy, the sounds blatant, obscene. Hermione hears them alongside blood rushing in her ears, the labored thump-thump of her heartbeat.
(Some still-coherent part of her thinks briefly Draco? before it dissolves, flimsy as spun sugar, on the flat of his tongue, the tiniest press of teeth.)
The ache spreading through her body manifests itself in the form of a ragged breath, a half-formed plea, the fists of her hands in his hair. Draco moans, and the vibrations settle somewhere at the base of her spine, and she echoes him, helpless: action, reaction. It seems ineluctable, this, the stroke of his tongue, her pleasure dripping down his throat. He seals his lips around her swollen clit and sucks.
Hermione has previously imagined what it would be like to have her mouth on him; the reality of the reverse, now, is almost unbearable.
A clench on nothing. She makes an inordinate sound, a cross between disappointment and desperation, hips rocking forward a little to chase the little teasing flicks of his withdrawing mouth.
"Please," Hermione says, voice unwieldy, even though the shape of the word feels familiar on her tongue. (Later she will remember, floaty and distant, the sound of her voice, please and god and Draco, overlaid on the memory, sheer as fine muslin.) "Please—"
The curve of a smirk against her hip. She curls her fingers tighter in his hair, tugs; his breath hitches, but he doesn't move.
"Come on," Draco says, voice rough but far more intelligible than hers, "I know you can be just a little more patient, yeah?"
He waits for her breathless nod, silver eyes peering up from between her legs, fat-pupilled and ravenous. It's a scene ripped straight from any fantasy, down to the curl of his glistening mouth, the slow swipe of his tongue as he meets her gaze—whether to emphasise her taste on his lips or the promise of undoing, she doesn't know.
Draco spreads her thigh further, holds it there with one large warm palm. His other hand shifts, a thumb nudging through slick: it's his left hand, the one with the signet ring. She knows this because its cool surface is currently nudging up against her clit. She can feel its edge, only just, friction against wet flesh; it feels somehow more a marking than the way he begins sucking a bruise into her inner thigh.
"Let me just—mark you up a little—" and the words are half a groan, flat edge of his incisors against the crease where thigh meets hip. Don't, she wants to protest, but it's hard to convince even herself when she knows nobody else will see, when his hand is tracing her cunt and lips and clit in slow, burning movements.
Instead her answer is a garbled mess of curses and threats; her glands, a little higher up, throb, and he tongues over the delicate swell of flesh, safe—and far too smug—in the knowledge that her following through would only lead to more frustration.
As if in indulgence, though, fingers slide into her—one, two. The stretch, a slight burn, is exquisite.
His mouth leaves her entirely. The sudden coolness of air against her damp thighs juxtaposes itself with his eyes, hot, on her face.
Cold band of his ring up against her entrance; crook of fingertips, a slide against a delicious spot inside her, and, like a tug on so much loose yarn, a whine spills out of Hermione, hot and wet and filthy to match the sound of his slowly pumping fingers.
Draco has to force himself to wait, to savour. He distracts himself by leaving marks anywhere she'll be able to conceal, by memorising the way her lips part on a strangled sound as he eases his fingers in.
He wants to make her come so very badly.
(He wants her so very badly.)
He wants to make her moan and cry and scream. To bury himself between those perfectly biteable thighs. To put his tongue in her mouth, in her cunt, on the stroke of her collarbones, the barely-visible gland—blush-pink and sweet, like how she smells, tastes, everywhere—he's not picky.
A slow circle around her clit just to hear the way she whimpers.
He wants to hear her say her name again. Every instance of it, scattered between ragged breaths and please, he tucks away in his mind. She says it so many different ways, but this, now, two syllables on a drawn-out sigh, is his favourite.
It would be ironic, if he were thinking about it now, the way Hermione says oh and god, pleas in rapture, like he's not the one kneeling. Because she told (asked? begged?) him to. Is the sound of his name on her tongue a command, or a prayer?
(Is there really any difference?)
Draco rewards her by leaning down, his gaze still locked with hers. The tension stretches like pulled toffee: her eyes on his, the line of tension in her muscles, leaning half-up on an elbow. Her head tipped forward, his tilted back. Her hand in his hair.
He can give her this, at least; he can't stop himself from doing so, too late now for anything but wet mouths and honey and desire.
The soft slip of tongue. Hermione trembles. The sound she makes is a hybrid of moan and sigh and sob. It sticks in his throat, coats his teeth, curls around his spine.
God, he wants so very badly.
He has to reach a hand between his own thighs and squeeze to take the edge off. Her fingers against his scalp aren't doing him any favours, either—but he swirls his tongue around her clit until her thighs are trembling, tensing—
Hermione does not scream as she comes on his tongue. She only whimpers and shudders and clutches his hair, DracoDracoDraco coming out in quick gasps, back arching up into him.
It's perfect.
He takes her through it, slowing his tongue a little, stilling his fingers a little more. She clenches around them; he licks, a tad too heavily, and she arches just a little more.
He does it again.
Honey and salt.
Her hips buck and she whines, straddling satiety and overstimulation, fingers relaxing somewhat in his hair. He's tempted to pull away just so he can see her face better.
Instead he continues licking up the slick on her skin. From this angle, he can only glimpse the stray curls falling around her face, sticking to her neck, her mouth open and panting, eyes dazed—he pulls his fingers from her and laves his tongue over her cunt—
"Fuck, Draco—"
Her hand in his hair, tightening again, but now pushing, not pulling. He redoubles his efforts—
"—oh god please—"
He eases her up toward the edge again; she's already halfway there, still sensitive from her first orgasm, and he's careful but deliberate, not too hard, but persistent, unfaltering.
She comes on his tongue, warm and shivery, beautiful.
Hermione, panting, manages stop, and Draco lifts his head. She tugs him up to her, lets him kiss her senseless, even more breathless than she already is. He's very clearly hard, an insistent press against her hip.
She searches one-handed for the fly of his trousers. Her hand moves over taut material and he moans into her mouth. It makes her flush hot, in more ways than one; strangely gratifying, in fact, to drink down his pleasure like he has hers.
She sits up fully, using both hands to fumble at his buttons, heat seeping through the finely made material. The angle's awkward, but the first button gives after some wriggling.
The second button is enough space for her to get her hand in, and she does, without any preamble. He groans, guttural, against her neck, and mutters a spell that banishes his trousers and boxers to the floor. The impatience-fuelled display of wandless magic is weirdly attractive.
Hermione gives him a look, which is quite possibly not very effective given the lingering heat in her veins. "Draco—"
"I—please," he interrupts, and—his voice makes her stomach flip, the note of desperation, the want matching her own.
She slides her hand down his hip. Smooth, warm, firm. His abs tense under her palm. He's watching her touch him, the look in his eyes almost pained; it only intensifies when she runs a finger along the length of his cock to the head, flushed red, already leaking. It shouldn't be surprising—he's more than shown he wants her, already—but her mouth aches, enough so she leans up to press her mouth to his neck.
Draco actually whimpers when she slicks his precome over his shaft and begins to stroke. His hips buck against her hand, breaths deepening, juddering out through gritted teeth. She feathers a kiss along his jaw.
His hand, flat on her thigh, tenses. She twists her wrist on the upstroke.
"Fuck—yes, like that, please—rub your thumb over the head—yes—so good—Merlin—"
Hermione is nothing if not a fast learner.
And Draco, as with many other aspects of his life, is really rather loud. Not that either of them mind.
It doesn't take long. Every second brands itself into her memory.
Draco turns his head and catches her mouth in a kiss, again, tongue and teeth, and his moan vibrates from his chest to hers; she can feel him twitching in her hand, come spilling over her palm, her rumpled skirt.
He catches her wrist when his heaving breaths grow steady and she moves to pull away. Without a word, he dips a finger in his own mess, brings it to her lips; there's a silent request in his eyes, only half a question, enough to make heat stir in her gut.
She opens.
"Fuck, Hermione," he breathes, as he slides two fingers in, dragging them against her tongue, not deep enough to be uncomfortable. The taste is bitter, fairly mild, belying the satisfaction and hunger written across his features.
When he's satisfied, he pulls his fingers from her mouth with a wet pop. His mouth is set somewhere back to its usual smugness, but his pupils are still slightly dilated, hands still lingering on her body.
She understands the feeling.
Hermione leans up to bury her nose in his neck. Something inside her thinks finally, and she's far too aware of the still-simmering heat in her stomach, the heavy mix of scents in the air around them. His, and hers.
The juncture of his shoulder and neck is warm. It tastes, smells, like him. It's deeply satisfying, in a way, having him close, holding him on her skin, in her body. She could clamber over his lap right now, but even the thought of how good it would feel, to have him further inside her—his nose, buried in her hair, is a convincing argument otherwise.
For now, that is.
They stay like that, for a while, breathing against the other, before Draco murmurs, "How'd you know I was Occluding yesterday, anyway?"
His voice is low, a lazy drawl, the vibrations rolling across her jaw pleasantly. She huffs a laugh. "The eyes. Darkness, opacity. Your eyes are normally much brighter grey. Like today."
"Mm. Smart. But—normally?"
That gives her pause. "Well, we're not strangers, per se—"
"No," he agrees, wry. Infuriating, as usual. "Certainly not now."
"Malfoy—"
"Hermione. Do you remember why I would have had to Occlude?"
Her voice comes out in a whisper. "When you want something so badly you can't stand it."
A low hum. "Good girl."
She has to fight back a hitch in her breath; he seems to notice anyway.
"Hermione. God. Do you think—for you, has this been enough?"
Hermione Granger is beautiful, now more so than ever, when she tells him no.