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He can hear them upstairs.
His ears are attuned to every scant scrap of sound, straining to make out anything to help him form a picture of what might be happening. Watching her ascend the staircase ten minutes earlier, the behemoth of a man at her heels, had sent his blood pressure skyrocketing.
But that’s the point of it all. He needs to prove to her — to himself — that his rampant jealous streak is under control.
They’ve been together for almost two years now and it’s the only thing they routinely fight about: his inability to endure even a brief sideways glance in her direction without wanting to slap the eyes right out of the offending person’s head.
I’m not your property, she’d remind him hotly, though her hand always curled around his bicep to keep him beside her. A look doesn’t mean anything.
Not to her, maybe, but to him, it feels like a threat. Seeing it always rides him hard, turning his blood thick and pounding until he can get her alone, can remind her cunt if not her brain exactly who she belongs to.
But it’s a weakness — a vulnerability — and he doesn’t like being so easily goaded. Doesn’t want to be so easily made to lose control. He’s well-practiced in changing his ways in order to find outer (and inner) peace and though he knows secretly she loves his often unhinged levels of jealousy, he wants to find a leveler head, for himself as much as her.
Hence, his suggestion.
The suggestion which had resulted in Hermione going upstairs to their bedroom with another man — and not just any other man but a Weasley. Draco had asked Hermione to decide who she’d be comfortable taking to bed and so he wasn't entirely surprised when her answer had the familiar surname.
He had been surprised, however, that it was Charlie she selected and not Ron. Surprised, but relieved. He had no specific ill-will toward Ron anymore but still, it would have stung.
Charlie, who is older than them by several years. Charlie, with his broad chest and thick arms; his disarming lopsided smile; his quick, clever eyes. Charlie, a professional dragon tamer (the irony of which was not lost on Draco, always as possessive as his namesake).
Whatever Hermione had said to convince Charlie had taken only minutes. Draco chose not to imagine what it might have been. And then there they were, two days later, standing in Hermione and Draco’s living room on an otherwise insignificant Tuesday evening.
“Stay downstairs,” she’d told him, cupping his jaw and stroking his cheek with her thumb. “For as long as you can, alright?”
It’s for the best, he knows. For his own improvement and at his own instigation. But even so, he’d had to lean back against the far wall, hands deep in his trouser pockets and chest heaving, to keep himself from shoving Charlie down the front steps and slamming the door behind him.
“Yeah,” he’d said, eyes on the man waiting across the room to take Hermione to bed. “Alright.”
She’d snorted an amused sound then pecked a kiss to his cheek, turning to gesture Charlie upstairs. Draco came to his senses enough to catch her wrist and pull her back for a searing kiss, one he punctuated with his favorite three words whispered against her lips.
He then spent the next ten minutes lightly banging his head back against the wall before finally allowing himself to step away and turn a neat circle on the living room rug.
He can hear them upstairs. It keeps his pulse high.
A distant clatter halts him mid-step, eyes darting up to the ceiling. It sounded like the bureau being bumped against the wall, the motion tipping a picture frame over.
Draco shoves a hand into his hair, the careful style already destroyed from the dozen or so times he’s already tugged on it in his agitation. If that ginger brute is pushing her against the furniture, knocking over the photo of them in Avignon—
His hand closes around the bannister before he realizes he strode across the room and to the foot of the stairs.
“Fuck,” he bites out, and squeezes the newel post until his hand hurts.
From upstairs, there’s the rumble of male laughter followed by the breathy, keening sound he knows in his soul. He can’t stop himself from taking the stairs two at a time.
The bedroom door bangs against the wall with the force he uses to throw it open, the sound startling Charlie and Hermione from where they are sprawled across the bed, Hermione on her back, thighs spread wide to let Charlie between them. The sight makes his ears ring.
“Draco,” she keens, and Charlie groans, eyes dropping to where Draco can see his cock buried deep.
“She really does like you,” Charlie muses, gaze flicking sideways to Draco. “Got so tight just from seeing you. Didn’t you, honey?”
Hermione pins her lip with her teeth, cheeks flushed a pretty rose and her tits bouncing with every measured pump Charlie is still sending forward into her. He has no shame, to be caught in bed with another man’s woman and to not stop; to compound the effect by reaching up to squeeze one of those luscious, bouncing breasts in a firm grip.
For a moment, Draco forgets that he asked for this to happen. The sound he makes is raw, tugged straight from the place inside him which is currently overflowing with a possessiveness so intense, it feels atomic. Primal.
“Don’t call her that,” he snarls, furious, then forces himself to swallow, remembering himself.
Charlie chuckles, still languidly rocking his hips, the motion so erotic that it sends a confusing burst of arousal surging through Draco. Charlie is an objectively handsome man, something Draco has observed through all the idle times he’s found himself in Weasley territory, now that he’s committed himself to a pseudo-member of the clan.
But finding someone attractive in theory is quite different to the heady experience of being aroused by them in practice. It’s clear that Charlie knows how to use his body to bring Hermione pleasure. The ambrosial scent of her arousal perfumes the room and her limbs are loose in the way they get when she’s being well tended to.
Hermione’s pleasure is so often his own that for a moment, Draco can’t decide which side of the equation he wants to be on; which person on the bed he’d rather replace.
But then he inhales deeply, filling his lungs with her scent. Charlie. He wants to replace Charlie.
“Back against the wall, Draco,” he reminds him, lifting his hand from Hermione’s tit to point at the wall parallel to the bed.
He obeys automatically, attention predominantly focused on Hermione, naked and spread out among their sheets. Her hands are overhead, fingers loosely tangled amidst her riotous curls. Her knees are bent, legs spread wide so that as his back finds the wall, he gets a good look at the way she’s stuffed full.
The knowledge that simply looking at him gets Hermione hot does little to quench the scalding lick of jealousy that paints his cheeks red. He wasn’t her first (something he’d done his best to fuck out of her memory) and the acknowledgement that as of this very moment, he’s also not her last has his palms sweating.
“If you can’t stay there, I’ll stick your wrists to the wall,” Charlie says, and Draco realizes he’s drifted halfway back to the bed. “Behave, Draco.”
The firm command from such a deep, sure voice is unbearably arousing. He likes being ordered around in bed — in the kitchen, in restaurants, anywhere she wants — and it feels unfair for Charlie to have played him so well.
Standing in his bedroom, watching the most beautiful woman he’s ever had the privilege of knowing getting absolutely railed by a big, dragon-taming man feels like a slap in the face. Like the universe is giving him a little wink and a nudge, reminding him that being closeted and hoarding his things feels good but might not feel best.
It’s like watching custom-made pornography, the actors exactly his preferences. He walks backward until the wall catches him, his eyes riveted between her legs and his hands dropping to his belt.
The release of pressure as he undoes his zip is a relief, and he groans lowly when his cock springs free. He’s as hard as he gets when Hermione is on her knees, ready to receive him on her tongue, a sight that always makes him feral.
She turns her head toward him at the sound, eyes heavy-lidded and mouth ajar. He’s dedicated himself to the art of her orgasm — the hours he’s spent could earn himself a N.E.W.T.; a full mastery — and so he can see right away how close she is.
It makes Draco’s hands stumble in the act of stripping his shirt off, the material catching on his elbow halfway over his head before he reanimates and gets himself properly naked. He needs to be inside her hot little cunt so badly, he’s leaking all over his hand.
“Baby,” he whimpers, stroking himself in a tight fist, miserably turned on. “Oh fuck, baby, look at you.”
Her brows twitch together in pleasure, her open mouth making little ah-ah-ah sounds each time Charlie’s hips bump against her. Draco wants to tell her to touch her clit — wants to march over and do it for her — but the thought of her coming for anyone but him makes his vision blur.
“Please don’t come,” he begs, the words spilling out his tight throat. “Please don’t come for him. Oh gods, baby, please don’t.”
Hermione sucks in a shaky inhale, like she needs it to steady herself, and Draco sees red. He wants to push Charlie off of her, down onto his back so he can suck all remnants of her perfect, holy cunt off that thick, foreign cock. The taste of her cunt is his and he’s greedy for every drop of it.
Charlie licks his lips and Draco can’t help but watch. Did he kiss her cunt to get her ready for his cock? Does his tongue taste like her? Draco’s mouth waters at the thought. He can practically feel it in his mouth, stroking against his own while the short scruff on Charlie’s jaw scrapes against his own pristine cheeks.
The intrusive thought is wildly confusing, arousing and disturbing, and it makes Draco so hard he physically aches.
“She’s close.” Charlie’s voice drags Draco’s eyes up from his mouth, and finds the other man already looking at him. “She’s close,” Charlie says again, once he’s sure Draco’s paying attention.
“Fuck.” Draco has to close his eyes.
If she comes on Charlie’s cock, he’s going to fucking lose it. His balls feel heavy, the heat in his pelvis and inner thighs steadily building until his fist alone isn’t enough. His hips rock forward to greet it, just barely fulfilling his need to fuck something.
Hermione makes a cut-off sound of want and his eyes snap open, finding hers instantly. She’s squirming, hips seeking for something she’s not being given. Charlie’s cock is pressed against her entrance, the thick length glossy from her. He’s teasing her, taunting her with the tip against her entrance, withholding himself from her.
“Tell me,” Charlie murmurs, and when Draco slides his gaze to him, he gets the sense the other man had never looked away. “Tell me to make her come. I won’t do it until you tell me to.”
“Fuck.” Draco tangles his fingers in his hair, pulling tightly.
He wants to stride over and close his hand around her neck, to hold her to the bed and make her take his cock, because he needs it — he fucking needs it — but he’s not allowed to. Not now — not when he’s agreed—
His head thunks back against the wall as his hand jumps to his own throat, fingers squeezing just right.
On the bed, she whimpers. Against the wall, Draco throbs.
He’s never edged her — can’t stand for her to be wanting something and not immediately give it to her — and knowing that he’s delaying her pleasure has his mouth falling open.
“Make her come,” he tells Charlie, and punishes himself for it with another tight squeeze around his throat. His eyes nearly roll as the pleasure of it makes his body hum. “Make her come. Makehercome.”
“Atta boy,” Charlie mutters, then sinks back deep. Hermione squeaks a high-pitched sound that makes Draco clench, his balls aching and cock jerking in his fist.
She comes a moment later, and Draco bites his lip so hard he’s sure he breaks it open. He has to watch her, though — he wouldn’t miss it for anything. He forces both his hands behind his back, breathing raggedly through his sore throat as she arcs up against Charlie, pressing to where he’s got his thumb on her clit and his cock buried deep.
“So good,” Draco groans, unwilling to stop himself now. “Oh gods, I love you, Hermione. Fuck, you’re so pretty baby.” He’s babbling, mindless; destroyed for her.
“You are,” Charlie agrees, eyes downcast on the woman seizing under him. “Such a good girl for coming. And he’s doing so well, isn’t he? You proud of him, honey?”
“Don’t,” Draco whines at the same time Hermione moans, “Yes.”
The ooze of precum her words call forth makes it to the carpet. Draco shakes, hands pressed to the wall with a resistance that tests everything inside him. Charlie is panting, his torso flexing with every circuit of his breath, eyes gliding between Hermione and Draco.
“Has he been good enough yet?” he asks, eyes drifting down Draco’s body with an appraising sort of look. It’s gratifying to see that his overt neediness inspires another full-body clench from Charlie.
“Almost,” she breathes. She’s sweaty, disheveled and flushed and sticky. Draco wants to lick every inch of her. She’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen.
“Almost,” he groans, half in despair and half in agreement. He can see how much she loves him in her gaze and for a breath he feels utterly free. And then Charlie picks up the pace, his intention clear.
“Oh—” Draco blurts, panic surging. “Oh, no. Hermione, fuck no.”
“Let him,” she breathes. Her hands drop to her breasts, massaging them and then plucking at her nipples. Draco’s cock jerks again at the sight. “Watch him.”
Draco whines like a dog watching his master walk beyond the fenceline. But fine. If she wants Charlie to finish inside her, that’s her prerogative. He’s fine with it. It’s just cum.
To her, anyway. To him, it’s symbolic. It makes him stupid.
“Fuck, not inside her,” he groans. “God, please don’t come inside her—fuck, fuck.”
Charlie makes a sound of acknowledgement, eyes flicking from watching himself fuck Hermione over to him.
“She wants it though,” he reminds him, hips striking true. “She said she wants it.”
Jealousy burns hotly through Draco’s chest, tearing a primal sound from him. That’s his woman, his partner, his Hermione. To have her full of another man—to have her dripping with—
He’s beside the bed before he realizes he’s stepped forward, his left hand raising to press hard against the expanse of sweaty, hard muscle which comprises Charlie’s abs while he uses the other to hold Hermione’s hips to the bed.
The force of his hand slips Charlie out and before Draco can begin to process the choice he’s made, his hand is wrapped around Charlie’s cock and is pumping hard. Charlie’s going to come, and it’s not going to be inside Hermione.
Charlie grunts, surprise and pleasure mixing deeply in his chest, and then he fucks forward into Draco’s fist. Hermione’s eyes are locked on Draco’s, her expression glassy and heated. He’s going to make her come so fucking hard—
It’s not until Charlie is groaning and swearing under his breath in a language distinctly not English that Draco realizes he’s been pumping his fist tight and fast over Charlie while imagining what he’s going to do to Hermione. He looks down just in time to watch the first pulse of Charlie’s cum shoot across Hermione’s belly, and he feels the second throb through the thick cock in his hand.
Oops.
He just—fuck.
Charlie’s cock bobs as Draco lets go but Charlie is quick to wrap his own fist around himself, pumping over the tip to finish himself off.
Hermione arches up under him, fighting Draco’s hand still pressed low on her belly, and he snaps back to awareness enough to realize she’s not fully sated. She’s needy for more.
He still has a perfectly serviceable cock but his muscle-memory kicks in as he slides his two middle fingers deep. That those fingers are covered with Charlie’s cum only registers a moment later. It makes the top of his spine throb, to be fucking another man’s cum into her, but he can feel how close she is. Stopping is out of the question. She’s hot around him, silky and swollen, primed.
“Mine,” he says, and though he means for it to be a declaration, it comes out desperate and pleading.
The walls of her cunt close down around his fingers and she sobs out a breathless sound, one that makes him dip his head to suck wetly at her clit, not caring that he can taste the salty musk of Charlie’s cum from where it’s smeared over her.
“Draco,” she moans. “Oh god, oh god.”
“Do it,” he hisses against her. “Do it, darling. Please. Please.”
He knows it’s not actually cleansing her but when she wails and gushes around his fingers, he feels the satisfaction of it all the same, as if she’s rinsing out any trace of Charlie sodding Weasley from her cunt.
He groans against her clit, tonguing at her, stroking gently against the soft place inside to keep her coming for as long as possible. She drops a heavy hand to his head a moment later, fingers coiling in the soft blonde to gain a reprieve. His balls cinch up tightly in response to the sharp tug, his own need cresting. He’s dripping; with her, for her.
He needs to empty himself in her. He needs to get her full and messy, the way she ought to be.
He rubs his face on her thigh, content to rut against the bed or, if he can manage it, the crook of her knee; any soft Hermione-adjacent place is more than enough for him.
“Here.” A strong hand encourages him to his feet, guiding him up onto the bed properly. He goes with it, lets Charlie position him between Hermione’s thighs and yes, yes, that’s the only place he wants to be.
She’s still catching her breath but he steals what little she’s found, sliding his tongue into her mouth. A hand closes around his cock, warmer and broader than what he’s used to. He doesn’t care. Charlie aligns him and then pushes him forward, and Hermione’s cunt takes him just as eagerly as her mouth does his tongue.
His brain blanks at the perfectness of her.
“Pretty wife,” he groans deliriously. “My perfect, pretty wife.”
She makes a broken sound, wrapping her arms around his shoulders with a desperation that unleashes his own. He pounds into her, straight to the edge he’s been riding ever since she came the first time.
“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, Draco.”
Belatedly, he realizes that up until this point, he’s only ever called her his wife in his head.
“Gods,” he breathes. “Yes? You’ll—yes?”
It’s the most pathetic proposal he could ever imagine presenting her with, but he can’t bring himself to rectify it yet, not while he’s a second away from coming so hard he’s seriously concerned he’ll black out.
But she laughs, the sound pure joy. “Of course, Draco. Of course I’ll marry you.”
His orgasm takes him down to his forearms, hips rocking as he whimpers and swears into the crook of her neck, vision sparking behind closed lids. Coming in the tight constriction of her body is his greatest pleasure and so he savors it, grinding his hips against hers and groaning into her ear.
She makes complimentary sounds into his, her hands stroking along his back and down to his flexing arse, holding him to her.
“Merlin.” The deep voice is momentarily disorienting. “You two are…”
Hermione’s breathy, amused laugh reminds him of their guest. “Yes,” she agrees happily, and swats at Draco’s bum. He groans, nuzzling into her jaw.
“I’ll leave you to it.” The mattress dips as Charlie gets to his feet on the far side.
Draco refuses to lift himself off her. “Thanks,” he mumbles. “We’ll owl you.”
“Oh?” Hermione makes an amused sound. “We will, will we?”
Draco nips at her neck. “Yes. A wedding invitation,” he drawls and she swats him again.
Charlie chuckles on his way out. “I’ll let you inform mum,” he says, then closes the door behind himself.
“Good bloke,” Draco sighs, finally rolling them over but keeping her draped over him.
“Mm.”
Hermione slips off of him, catching his cock in her hand before it hits his abdomen. He’s slightly sensitive still, though mostly soft now. She pecks a kiss to his cheek, then his chest, then his navel. Her tongue coasts up the length of his cock then swirls lightly around the head.
He twitches, thighs flexing. “Again?”
She hums another affirmative and sucks lightly on the tip. His toes curl but he’s game.
Whatever she wants, he’ll always be right there with her.