Chapter Text
Hermione
🌟
When she awoke, it was to a room that was not her own. The walls were the wrong colour–white, rather than her sage green. The sheets smelled…different. Not bad. Not bad, at all. In fact, the fresh pine reminded her of–
She rolled over, the strength of her smile stretching her cheeks to capacity as she took in the slumbering man beside her.
She’d done it. She had conquered her own symphony of doubt and laid claim to Antonin fucking Dolohov.
Damn, she felt good.
Her pussy throbbed in that way that only a proper dicking down could produce. After not only fulfilling her fantasies, but, quite literally, smashing them to smithereens in her department break room of all places, they’d proceeded to defile his home.
Against the entrance door, then the wall. On top of his leather sofa. Bent over the kitchen counter.
The man was insatiable and so, apparently, was she.
Asleep as he was now, he elicited a visceral need to protect. Not because he was weak, because he was not. No. She felt the overwhelming need to ensure that this happiness of theirs lasted beyond the magic of Christmas, that his relaxed brow remained that way. He should only ever show her more of his dimpled smile, let her hear another one of his unrestrained laughs.
She traced the slope of his brow, his strong nose, the well-kept mustache and beard that tickled delightfully, the way his ear jutted out from beneath loose strands of hair as rich and dark as the most fertile soil. This fearsome man had shown her a side of himself she never could have dreamed existed.
Though she had suspected.
The signs were there even before these recent days. She might not have revealed as such to him, but she had noticed them.
He grumbled as he reached a hand towards her. Hermione scooted forward obligingly until the discontent lining his brow smoothed away and his arm settled around her waist. Taking a page straight out of dear Crookshanks’ book, she leaned forward until her nose was only a hair’s breadth away from his, going nearly cross eyed at the closeness.
Then, she was struck with a brilliant idea.
Wiggling down the hard planes of his body, she vanished beneath the blanket, making sure to reposition his hand to the back of her head so he still had something to hold…maybe even pull and tug to his exact specifications once he realised what was happening.
How could she resist licking the length of him, worshipping his cock as it deserved? Such admirable work demanded the appropriate amount of payment, one Hermione was more than willing to cover in one go or as installments, starting right now. Both were fun, especially with a man as expressive as him.
He remained bare to her, as they’d tumbled into sleep without bothering to put on any clothes. His size was impressive even in a resting state, the shaft long and appallingly thick. She breathed in, savouring the combined perfume that was their lovemaking and the faintest hint of mint.
Kittenish licks caused him to twitch. She paused, peeking up through the gap in the blanket, but Antonin slept on peacefully. She resumed her task, adding hands to the mix to cup and marvel at the heated weight of him. It was no wonder she still felt sore if this was his natural state. Antonin was blessed in mind and body, and, in turn, so was she.
Flattening her tongue, she swallowed him down, nose pressed to the silky soft curls at the base. He hit the back of her throat, and her eyes rolled back at the thought of how he would fill it when swollen, how she wouldn’t be able to breathe from the tight fit. Remaining in place, she twirled her tongue around him, a feat she could only accomplish with him as he presently was. How was it that–covered as he was with the vestiges of their shared passion–he tasted as good as he did?
Hermione continued to explore him: the slope between shaft and head, the slightly thicker ridge along the top, the slit that was already leaking bitter precum. Her tongue began to struggle as he steadily grew in both length and width. As expected, she was forced to breathe through her nose and started to slide off for a deeper gulp of air.
Then, the once-idle hand atop her head firmly pushed her back down.
“Mmmf!” Hermione’s moan was muffled as her hands flew out against his thighs.
There was no verbal response, only the unforgiving grip and a cock that was rapidly becoming a weapon of destruction specifically tailored for Hermione Granger. She wasn’t sure how much she could take, until his hips started to shift back, giving her the hope that she could pop up for a respite.
…only for that plan to go up in smoke when his hips slammed forward, pushing him deep into her throat.
Rather than panic and fight to pull away, the desire pooling between her thighs had her relaxing in acceptance. She spread her jaw as wide as it would go and drew air through her nostrils, her only struggle now being to slide her tongue along the turgid flesh.
The fingers curling into her hair suddenly tensed, and she prepared herself for another thrust.
To her surprise, they loosened and slid down to caress her cheek. At the same time, Antonin’s hips pulled all the way back until he slid free, glistening and ready for more. She whimpered at the loss.
“Mmm.” The appreciative hum sent a flutter through her lower belly. “Good morning to you, too, kroshka.”
She peeked up as the blanket lifted, air and light flooding in, to find Antonin peering down with a closed-lipped smile and his eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Hi.”
She giggled. “Hey.”
“Why don’t you come back up here and let me return the favour?”
“You did that plenty yesterday. It’s my turn to treat you.” Her tongue darted out, but he shifted away before she made contact.
“It doesn’t work like that, love.”
Faster than she could react, he reached down, hauled her up, and rolled onto his back in one smooth motion so that she lay astride him, the blunt head of his cock nudging at her entrance.
“Why not?” she asked, pouting.
The chest beneath her splayed fingers flexed as he revealed that ruinous grin and the dimples to match. “Because you’ll never be able to keep up with how much I plan to spoil you.”
Hermione half-expected him to slide into her right then, and she would have welcomed it. Already, she could feel her arousal pulsing through her. They’d tried many positions, but she had yet to ride on top of him.
Those glorious, veiny hands, commanding in their weight, gripped her at the waist. Anticipation rushed through her, thighs tensing in preparation.
Except he dragged her forward, while he, in turn, scooted down off the pillows. Hermione found herself looking down not at his chest, or at his feet, but at what remained of his mess of curls and the dancing blues of his eyes. He’d set her pussy directly above his face and was in the process of guiding her to sit.
“Antonin!”
She was mortified. Hermione had heard of facesitting before from her oversharing friends–it had taken her weeks to look at Ron in the eyes again. For some reason, the same hadn’t applied to Malfoy. Maybe it had something to do with how well he’d taken her fist to the nose back when they were kids; the prat was probably into that sort of thing.
Hermione had ignored her own fleeting curiosity about how it might feel to be in such a position herself. None of her past boyfriends had ever suggested it, and she’d been too mortified to ask.
Now, she gasped as a sharp slap landed on her arse, which Antonin followed with a firm, kneading grip to both cheeks.
“Antonin!”
“Keep saying my name just like that, and sit down.”
He pulled down. Hard.
Both knees slid out as she collapsed onto him, then, as his stupidly fat tongue buried itself inside of her, she ended up with face and hands plastered to the headboard as she moaned and moaned and moaned.
She loved facesitting. The girls, it turned out, had not been exaggerating one bit.
The sounds that erupted from Antonin as he worked into her made her believe that this wasn’t just for her; it was for him, too. He didn’t stop after she came. He moaned, wrapped both arms around her waist, and resumed uninterrupted.
“Ah! An-An-Anto–”
She held on for her life as the next rush tore through her like a wildfire. The woman that she had been might as well have lived through a drought with how thoroughly she burned. Hermioen was so overwhelmed that she didn’t notice Antonin repositioning her until she already laid gently alongside him, tremors coursing through her in gradually decreasing waves.
His face slowly swam into view as she returned to her senses.
There wasn’t a single doubt in her mind that this wizard was her future. There was no way in hell that she was going to let him go now that he was in her life–not with the way he smouldered at her now, licking the remnants of her obliteration from his lips like the rarest of wines.
“How did I get to be so lucky?”
Teeth flashed as he rolled over to frame her in. “Always so sweet,” he crooned. “Though, I’d argue that it’s me who’s the luckier one.”
“Why can’t both be true?”
“True,” he agreed, nodding, “but you’ve also given me the greatest gift I could have ever asked for this Christmas. Nothing exists in the world that could surpass my time here with you.”
That he felt the same as she increased her need to hold on to whatever this was that they had. Never, with anyone else, had the urge to leap into the unknown struck her so completely. Hermione was a woman of routine. Careful consideration. She had a backup for the backup and never, ever, acted without a safety net.
When she spoke, it wasn’t in a haze, nor like some bystander. She was fully present and aware.
“If I’m a gift, then keep me.”
He’d been in the process of gliding the backs of his fingers down her belly. Her eyes remained fixed on his as he froze, and she quivered in expectant hopefulness.
“You had best not be playing games with me, Hermione,” he said quietly, “because if not, if you speak truthfully, then there is no timeline to which you could jump, no spell or cloak strong enough to hide you. Not even death itself would stop me from making you mine. To have you is all that I have desired for far too long. That is the only dream that I have had in this second chance at life I’ve been given.
So tell me, my love, do you truly wish to be mine?”
Hermione’s heart rose, continued rising, ballooning with frightening speed, until she threw arms and legs around him with exuberant joy. His grunt of surprise at the suddenness of her attack and the full weight of his body on hers only fuelled her triumph.
“Yes, yes, yes! With all of my heart, yes!”
He met her delight with equal ardour, crashing together with fierce abandon, then again, and again.
Any and all attempts at communication from their friends went unanswered, not to be acknowledged until well into the day after the next. There were far more important matters to which they wished to apply themselves, after all. This followed on the heels of Antonin’s sudden realisation that he did not wish to go into work, and that he did wish to use his vacation time.
Ever the magnanimous Head of Department, Hermione granted the last-minute request. She considered it another well-earned gift to them both that was long overdue.