The Fallout by EveryThursday (reposted)

Forty-One

Day: 1539; Hour: 17

It started in the library, after he had awoken and showered, and the look on his face promised a lot more than conversation. She knows he won't talk about it, that he needs to disappear, for whatever happened to stop flashing through his mind. She knows he needs her, and so she does the one thing she's learned from him that can make her forget an entire world.

She had returned the fire of his kisses, but hadn't allowed her hands to move. His smirk proved he could see through her stillness and silence, and that he knew the half-hooded look on her flushed face too well to be fooled. His body became a weapon; his hard-earned knowledge of hers formed a solid plan. She had dug her fingers into her hips when he finally buried his face between her thighs, breaking silence. When she finally broke stillness, reaching forward to grab his head, to push, and thrust, and have him where she needed him most, it still felt like she won.

When he had stood, bunching her skirt up around her hips and grinding himself against her on moans, she had pushed his hands away and led him toward his bedroom. Well, to a series of hallways before getting completely lost, and he had snorted at her and led her there himself. He was confused, in the space of his bed, when she refused the arch of his hips and his determined steering of her body.

She doesn't know if there is a spot on his body that her hands or mouth do not travel across, burning paths and exploring each inch of him. She discovers new things, like his strange fondness for her tongue between his fingers, and that he hates her touching the back of his knee. He's ticklish when she brushes her lips over his hipbone, curls his toes with her hot breath on his perineum, and gurgles spit when she hums around him. He squirms in a good way when she sucks right beneath his bellybutton, and in a bad way when she kisses the corner between his arm and chest.

She greets all the places she knows cause a reaction, and she meets every new place too. She memorizes the sounds and movements he makes, and tells him she will have to do it again soon to remember them all. She pushes him away and down every time he tries to regain control. Whenever his questing hands are too close to distracting her, she pushes them away too.

She barely manages to escape one time, her senses coming back a second after he has rolled them over. She grabs her wand in determination, and has him on his back with his hands bound to the headboard before he can blink twice. She had been surprised at her own audacity, the fuel of her determination to break him like he had her so many times, and had stared at him in embarrassment for several seconds. It was the hard glint in his eyes, the hitch of his eyebrow, and the short-lived smirk that had her dropping her wand. She had fondled herself as retribution, an inch above him while she blushed and they glared at one another.

He made promises, growled and hissed, and then desperate. He promised her how good he would make it for her, how hard she would get off, how loud she would scream, how crooked she would walk. Then, he promised her days of being trapped in his bed, he told her she better hope he didn't break through the ropes, he promised revenge, and brinks of insanity. She touched, squeezed, sucked, bit, licked until he couldn't form his promises anymore. Until he could only force a word or two out between the sounds of his pleasure, the wild bucking of his hips, the rattle of the headboard as he fought to break his binds.

Finally, finally, finally, his body shaking under hers, the rough, carnal growling broke from his throat to form words. "Please. Please, Hermione."

He sounds as pained as he does desperate, and she grins triumphantly. She had been afraid she wouldn't be able to make him do it. She had been fearing some embarrassing situation, where she would be forced to untie him and let him have at it, because there was no way he could want her enough to beg. She had been imagining a roll of his eyes, or laughing, or that look he gives her when she says something that doesn't match up with the level of her intelligence.