Blue dew from dangerous skin.
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Draco/Hermione
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
3,021
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Draco/Hermione
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
3,021
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Blue dew from dangerous skin.
TITLE: Blue dew from dangerous skin.
AUTHOR: Mexx.
EMAIL: GeekTragedy@gmail.com
RATING: NC-17 for sexual situations and coarse language. If you’re old enough to be doing it, you’re old enough to be reading it.
DISCLAIMER: The characters are not mine, and the title is borrowed from a line of ‘Stings’ by Sylvia Plath.
SUMMARY: The war changed everyone; everyone that was left, anyway.
AN: Thanks to the wonderful siryn99 for the beta!
The first time Draco Malfoy fucks Hermione Granger they are eighteen. It is four days before they leave school forever, and he has never hated anyone more than he hates her at that moment. She’d beaten him in every subject, and he thinks her pert breasts beneath her thin shirt distracting him in Potions and Arithmancy has something to do with that.
They’re in the library, in a rarely used aisle in the Potions section. He thinks there’s something ironic or meaningful about the location, but when the Head Girl has her slim fingers around his dick he’s not inclined to ponder the metaphysics of the location of their coupling.
She’s hot and slick around him, biting the juncture between his neck and shoulder in a way he’d never imagined the prim Head Girl to behave. Still, he would never have dreamed that in the library, four days from the end of term, when he went to insult her for being an insufferable know-it all for a final time she would back him against the stacks, cup his dick through his trousers, and ask him if he’d like her to help him forget about his second best grades. He said yes, because he’s eighteen and constantly randy and she has the best tits in the year and a hot little red mouth that looks shaped purposely for cock sucking.
She’s underneath him, all over him, and he’s too aroused to remember how dirty she is. They kiss and their teeth clack together and he can taste blood on his lips. He locks his fingers between their joined bodies, fingering her clit as he continues to thrust into her; he may be a conniving, evil git, but he’s a gentleman and makes sure she comes first. She doesn’t take long, and he thinks she must be quite well versed at this. Her shiny red lips part as she comes, moaning silently as she arches off the itchy-carpeted floor, and she opens herself more deeply to him. Her cunt quivers around him as she settles down on the carpet, and the intimate clenching tips him over the edge.
When they dress, he asks her why. She is a prim and proper little Mudblood; it’s hardly the sort of illicit little act he’d expect of her.
She blanches, and turns away to pull her knickers on. When she turns around and looks him in the eye, she eventually replies. “Well, I don’t have to think about it for a little while, do I?”
And he doesn’t reply because he knows she’s right and there’s a good possibility that in four weeks time she could be on the receiving end of a killing curse cast from his wand.
--
Four weeks later the war breaks out as planned, and they don’t see each other or exchange a single curse. He only sees her another month after that, when he is in court offering information on the whereabouts of remaining Death Eaters in exchange for his freedom.
--
The second time Draco Malfoy fucks Hermione Granger they are twenty-six, and she tastes of cigarette ash and strawberries. He found her in a bar, quite by accident, and despite their animosity, he offered to buy her a drink. One drink turned in two and two turned into too many. Briefly he wonders if he’s taking advantage of her drunken state, but then as she slides sharp nails across his back and bites on the juncture between his neck and shoulder it occurs to Draco that she’s using him just as mercilessly.
In bed they are as abusive and cruel as they once were in school corridors. The sex is frantic and wild, and every bit as hateful as scraps in the playground. She screams as he touches her, dirty words spilling from her lips into his mouth. She more aggressive than he remembers; she claws at him, drawing him further into her, and bucks her pelvis against his, thrusting her sharp little hips against his. Her kiss is a biting fusion of teeth and tongue, and no matter where he touches her she bucks aggressively against him, and Draco can’t determine whether it’s an act of passion or anger. It is only when Draco pins her wrists above her head and drives hard into her that she comes, thrashing beneath him and cursing evermore loudly.
When he comes it is not half as brutal as her climax, but he feels as deadened inside as she looks in her eyes. The physical gratification is not enough for either of them, and they are left empty.
He rolls off her, moves to the other side of the bed and doesn’t even attempt to hold her. It’s quite obvious that she doesn’t want to be held.
--
When he wakes hours later, the bed is empty. He searches the dark room, squinting to make out the shadows, and finds her sitting naked in the corner with her knees drawn up to her chest, with one arm looped around them. Her other hand draws a cigarette away from her lips and she breathes out a lungful of smoke. He struggles to believe the skinny little jade smoking naked in the corner is the same girl who had been the golden Gryffindor Head Girl, destined to become Harry Potter’s trophy wife.
He studies her for a moment, and she makes no sign that she’s aware of his doing so, but takes another drag on the cigarette. She’s thinner than he’s sure is healthy, and under the moonlight streaming through the half-drawn curtains he can see how pale she is now that her make-up has worn away. There are bruises on her arms and legs, but he supposes they are his fault.
Draco shifts in the bed, yet still Hermione makes no sign she’s aware of his presence, though Draco supposes if one is to sit, huddled and smoking, it would be normal practice to do it somewhere a little more comfortable than a dusty corner of a bedroom, and that in itself makes him aware she’s all too conscious of his presence in her room.
“I’m going to get a glass of water,” he announces as he shifts off the bed. “My mouth’s dryer the McGonagall’s cunt.” He pauses before he leaves the room, waiting for the explosion, the anger at his crude comment. She remains silent, and he remembers with surprising nostalgia how easy she was to provoke when they were children.
When he returns to the dark bedroom the room is empty, but he can hear the shower in the bathroom across the hall. He tries the door but its locked, and afterwards he half wonders what he would have done if it had been open anyway.
--
The third time Hermione Granger lets Draco Malfoy fuck her she is hungover, and she has to remind herself that this is what she wanted last night.
It hurts as he pumps inside her, but she suspects it is no harsher than last night; she is just less numb. Still, the pain in-between her legs makes her forget about the pain in her heart and for that, she is grateful.
She is sleep-dazed and feels vulnerable in his arms; feels naked and craves a cigarette. She abstractly wonders if he knows he’s not fucking the girl he knew eight years ago, just the shell that’s left of her. But the sex helps; it grounds her and elevates her at the same time. She could get used to it.
--
They fall into an all too uncomfortable pattern; they fuck a lot, and sometimes when they’re sleepy or in an oddly good mood, they’ll talk. They are never gentle in bed, but sometimes when they’re sitting together on her sofa he will massage her feet and enjoy the peculiar normalcy of it. She never cries in front of him, but on occasion he will hear her turn the shower onto maximum power and still it won’t muffle her sobs.
He finds her playing with razor blades in the bathroom three times. She refuses to say anything on the subject, but insists always on being on top when they invariably have their next fuck. He thinks because she leaves the bathroom door open when she toys with them that she’s not serious.
--
There is a pregnancy scare after six months together. Draco is uncomfortably pleased with the idea of fathering her children, and this worries him. It is just sex. Fucking. Screwing and hating and not being alone.
There is an argument while they wait for her muggle device to confirm or prove false her hunch; what they will do if it is positive. He proposes because he knows not what else to do, and she does not speak to him for a week for it.
The test proves negative, and they fuck eight times in the week of her silence.
--
Time passes, and they begin to fight more than they fuck. The oblivious, ignorant hate of their childhood morphs into something disgusting and dark; an intimate hatred based on their knowledge of each other’s darkest places. Still, Draco yearns for a touch and feels peculiarly empty when she is resistant to his hesitant, non-sexual occasional touches.
Still, this dull yearning is nothing to the empty ache he feels when he arrives at her flat one day to find her gone. Most of her clothes remain, as does her wand, but two of the razor blades from the bathroom cabinet are gone. Draco berates himself for the tears he has to force himself to blink back. They had nothing. She meant nothing; she was nothing more than a convenient fuck and he would not mourn the empty space her absence left in his life.
-- finis.
Feedback, please?
AUTHOR: Mexx.
EMAIL: GeekTragedy@gmail.com
RATING: NC-17 for sexual situations and coarse language. If you’re old enough to be doing it, you’re old enough to be reading it.
DISCLAIMER: The characters are not mine, and the title is borrowed from a line of ‘Stings’ by Sylvia Plath.
SUMMARY: The war changed everyone; everyone that was left, anyway.
AN: Thanks to the wonderful siryn99 for the beta!
The first time Draco Malfoy fucks Hermione Granger they are eighteen. It is four days before they leave school forever, and he has never hated anyone more than he hates her at that moment. She’d beaten him in every subject, and he thinks her pert breasts beneath her thin shirt distracting him in Potions and Arithmancy has something to do with that.
They’re in the library, in a rarely used aisle in the Potions section. He thinks there’s something ironic or meaningful about the location, but when the Head Girl has her slim fingers around his dick he’s not inclined to ponder the metaphysics of the location of their coupling.
She’s hot and slick around him, biting the juncture between his neck and shoulder in a way he’d never imagined the prim Head Girl to behave. Still, he would never have dreamed that in the library, four days from the end of term, when he went to insult her for being an insufferable know-it all for a final time she would back him against the stacks, cup his dick through his trousers, and ask him if he’d like her to help him forget about his second best grades. He said yes, because he’s eighteen and constantly randy and she has the best tits in the year and a hot little red mouth that looks shaped purposely for cock sucking.
She’s underneath him, all over him, and he’s too aroused to remember how dirty she is. They kiss and their teeth clack together and he can taste blood on his lips. He locks his fingers between their joined bodies, fingering her clit as he continues to thrust into her; he may be a conniving, evil git, but he’s a gentleman and makes sure she comes first. She doesn’t take long, and he thinks she must be quite well versed at this. Her shiny red lips part as she comes, moaning silently as she arches off the itchy-carpeted floor, and she opens herself more deeply to him. Her cunt quivers around him as she settles down on the carpet, and the intimate clenching tips him over the edge.
When they dress, he asks her why. She is a prim and proper little Mudblood; it’s hardly the sort of illicit little act he’d expect of her.
She blanches, and turns away to pull her knickers on. When she turns around and looks him in the eye, she eventually replies. “Well, I don’t have to think about it for a little while, do I?”
And he doesn’t reply because he knows she’s right and there’s a good possibility that in four weeks time she could be on the receiving end of a killing curse cast from his wand.
--
Four weeks later the war breaks out as planned, and they don’t see each other or exchange a single curse. He only sees her another month after that, when he is in court offering information on the whereabouts of remaining Death Eaters in exchange for his freedom.
--
The second time Draco Malfoy fucks Hermione Granger they are twenty-six, and she tastes of cigarette ash and strawberries. He found her in a bar, quite by accident, and despite their animosity, he offered to buy her a drink. One drink turned in two and two turned into too many. Briefly he wonders if he’s taking advantage of her drunken state, but then as she slides sharp nails across his back and bites on the juncture between his neck and shoulder it occurs to Draco that she’s using him just as mercilessly.
In bed they are as abusive and cruel as they once were in school corridors. The sex is frantic and wild, and every bit as hateful as scraps in the playground. She screams as he touches her, dirty words spilling from her lips into his mouth. She more aggressive than he remembers; she claws at him, drawing him further into her, and bucks her pelvis against his, thrusting her sharp little hips against his. Her kiss is a biting fusion of teeth and tongue, and no matter where he touches her she bucks aggressively against him, and Draco can’t determine whether it’s an act of passion or anger. It is only when Draco pins her wrists above her head and drives hard into her that she comes, thrashing beneath him and cursing evermore loudly.
When he comes it is not half as brutal as her climax, but he feels as deadened inside as she looks in her eyes. The physical gratification is not enough for either of them, and they are left empty.
He rolls off her, moves to the other side of the bed and doesn’t even attempt to hold her. It’s quite obvious that she doesn’t want to be held.
--
When he wakes hours later, the bed is empty. He searches the dark room, squinting to make out the shadows, and finds her sitting naked in the corner with her knees drawn up to her chest, with one arm looped around them. Her other hand draws a cigarette away from her lips and she breathes out a lungful of smoke. He struggles to believe the skinny little jade smoking naked in the corner is the same girl who had been the golden Gryffindor Head Girl, destined to become Harry Potter’s trophy wife.
He studies her for a moment, and she makes no sign that she’s aware of his doing so, but takes another drag on the cigarette. She’s thinner than he’s sure is healthy, and under the moonlight streaming through the half-drawn curtains he can see how pale she is now that her make-up has worn away. There are bruises on her arms and legs, but he supposes they are his fault.
Draco shifts in the bed, yet still Hermione makes no sign she’s aware of his presence, though Draco supposes if one is to sit, huddled and smoking, it would be normal practice to do it somewhere a little more comfortable than a dusty corner of a bedroom, and that in itself makes him aware she’s all too conscious of his presence in her room.
“I’m going to get a glass of water,” he announces as he shifts off the bed. “My mouth’s dryer the McGonagall’s cunt.” He pauses before he leaves the room, waiting for the explosion, the anger at his crude comment. She remains silent, and he remembers with surprising nostalgia how easy she was to provoke when they were children.
When he returns to the dark bedroom the room is empty, but he can hear the shower in the bathroom across the hall. He tries the door but its locked, and afterwards he half wonders what he would have done if it had been open anyway.
--
The third time Hermione Granger lets Draco Malfoy fuck her she is hungover, and she has to remind herself that this is what she wanted last night.
It hurts as he pumps inside her, but she suspects it is no harsher than last night; she is just less numb. Still, the pain in-between her legs makes her forget about the pain in her heart and for that, she is grateful.
She is sleep-dazed and feels vulnerable in his arms; feels naked and craves a cigarette. She abstractly wonders if he knows he’s not fucking the girl he knew eight years ago, just the shell that’s left of her. But the sex helps; it grounds her and elevates her at the same time. She could get used to it.
--
They fall into an all too uncomfortable pattern; they fuck a lot, and sometimes when they’re sleepy or in an oddly good mood, they’ll talk. They are never gentle in bed, but sometimes when they’re sitting together on her sofa he will massage her feet and enjoy the peculiar normalcy of it. She never cries in front of him, but on occasion he will hear her turn the shower onto maximum power and still it won’t muffle her sobs.
He finds her playing with razor blades in the bathroom three times. She refuses to say anything on the subject, but insists always on being on top when they invariably have their next fuck. He thinks because she leaves the bathroom door open when she toys with them that she’s not serious.
--
There is a pregnancy scare after six months together. Draco is uncomfortably pleased with the idea of fathering her children, and this worries him. It is just sex. Fucking. Screwing and hating and not being alone.
There is an argument while they wait for her muggle device to confirm or prove false her hunch; what they will do if it is positive. He proposes because he knows not what else to do, and she does not speak to him for a week for it.
The test proves negative, and they fuck eight times in the week of her silence.
--
Time passes, and they begin to fight more than they fuck. The oblivious, ignorant hate of their childhood morphs into something disgusting and dark; an intimate hatred based on their knowledge of each other’s darkest places. Still, Draco yearns for a touch and feels peculiarly empty when she is resistant to his hesitant, non-sexual occasional touches.
Still, this dull yearning is nothing to the empty ache he feels when he arrives at her flat one day to find her gone. Most of her clothes remain, as does her wand, but two of the razor blades from the bathroom cabinet are gone. Draco berates himself for the tears he has to force himself to blink back. They had nothing. She meant nothing; she was nothing more than a convenient fuck and he would not mourn the empty space her absence left in his life.
-- finis.
Feedback, please?