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Hermione brushed a curl from her face in the cold wind and pulled her collar up against the billowing gusts. Despite the chill, her collar met a fine sheen of sweat against her skin, and she grimaced as she pushed open the heavy door in front of her.
She paused in the entrance of the bar and looked around for an empty seat. She’d hoped more people would try to spend the afternoon at home with their families and loved ones, but it seemed to her now that she’d accidentally joined the procession of the loners Hermione never thought she’d turn into. Most of the men and women looked down at their drinks and picked at their food, none disturbing the silence around them. She took a deep breath before walking up to the bar and removing her coat.
“Anything for you, miss?” a monotone man asked, and she smiled automatically.
“A menu, if you can,” Hermione answered, the fake smile perfect against her face. The barman nodded and turned his back as she settled into the stool.
When he returned, he set down three shot glasses and filled them each to the brim with firewhisky.
“Oh,” she said in surprise, “I didn’t—”
“It’s on the house,” the barman told her, and she pursed her lips in thanks, hoping it looked something like gratitude. She downed the first shot easily, swiftly, her eyes stinging as the acrid flavour sank into her stomach. “Jesus turned water to wine at his last supper, didn’t he? Figured I could do the same—”
“That’s actually not true,” Hermione started, regretting her tone as the man’s face slackened, his eyes rolling dramatically.
“It’s not an exam, Granger,” a voice behind her said, and Hermione whipped her head around to match the unfamiliar voice to a too-familiar face. Hermione rolled her eyes. He even looked smug to have caught her off guard.
“Rowle,” she responded curtly as she sat up straight and raised her chin indignantly.
“Firefly,” he answered, smirking. Her face must’ve betrayed her confusion, because he helpfully clarified a moment later. “You completely light up when you’re mad, or annoyed, or being a know-it-all. It’s the only time anyone notices you, isn’t it?”
Hermione shook her head in exasperation, but ignored his statement. “What are you doing here?” she asked instead.
He shrugged, taking his time. “It’s the end of the world, isn’t it?”
Hermione’s brow pulled together. “I thought someone like you would be happy about that kind of thing.” His eyes widened indignantly, and she tasted the acrid glint of venom in her mouth. “Or is it not suitable anymore now that you’re part of the group that suffers?”
His chair creaked as he leaned back, his eyes trained on her. He looked down at his glass, and after some thought, stood and made his way to the now-empty chair beside Hermione. He set the glass down beside her remaining shots and hovered over her briefly before sitting down. Hermione felt her cheeks warm, her brain working quickly to jump to conclusions about the law taking effect tomorrow. She hardly even noticed when the stranger she’d been attempting to flirt with got up with a huff and moved to the opposite side of the room.
“You won’t be suffering,” he said finally, and her confusion mounted. “You’re the Ministry’s darlings, aren’t you? You and your Potter and the other one. You’ll probably marry famously rich and live the rest of your life in splendor.” His voice held a bite of bitterness, and it only served to disorient Hermione further.
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“What do you think they’ll do to you?” she clarified, her stomach churning.
He laughed, but it held very little humour. “Let’s just say that I have no faith in the Ministry,” he answered. “They’ve never really stood for justice and equality before, so why would they start now?” He shrugged and looked away.
She blinked and focused on his expression, startled at what she found after wiping some of the assumptions away. He looked the same as she did: dejected, depressed, deflated, as if all the air had been kicked from both of their lungs. As if they had been crushed under the machine of the ministry and there was nothing that they could do about it.
Finding her voice, she looked at him skeptically. After all, he had tried to kill her. He’d hunted her down and fought her friends and didn’t aim to injure. He was lethal, even if she’d easily surpassed his skill back then. “I figured someone with your… history … might look at something like this fondly.”
He rolled his eyes at her assertion, churning her insides with them.
“Mock my choices all you want, Granger,” he retorted with a teasing tone. “At least they were mine to make.”
Her eyes softened at him, and with a firm press of her lips, she slid one of the shot glasses in front of her into his hand. He looked at it briefly before looking up, an odd sheen of curiosity in his eyes.
“What would your Potter say if he saw you drinking with a man that once tried to kill you?”
“Probably something about looking for trouble.” Hermione stifled a smirk and held her glass to her lips, but the reminder of her friend stirred a familiar tightening of her lungs. She’d hold his hand now, if she could, if something as small as that could help him through being torn from the woman he loved. Ginny and Harry both wanted to take it slowly, to not rush into things. None of them had known that rushing would have been better for all of them.
With a shaky breath, she turned to look Thorfinn in the eyes.
“Look,” she said, her voice already wanting to abandon her, “as far as I can tell, we’re running out of time to make our own choices. For another,” she checked her watch, “ten hours or so, not even Harry can have a say in how I make mine.”
“A fellow rebel,” Thorfinn praised, his tone approving, prompting Hermione’s cheeks to warm. “In that case, we’ll need a few more of these.”
Hermione’s eyes widened at the notion of actually drinking with Thorfinn Rowle. Sure, he’d slipped all convictions after the war, and while Hermione was inherently skeptical of the Wizengamot’s decision in that sense, it somehow didn’t matter to her right this moment.
What did matter was that soon, too soon, Hermione would be bound to a man she might not even know, and they would be expected to marry and procreate and raise a fucking family together. Worse still, she might be paired with someone she hated, or someone who hated her. Wincing, her heart hurt for her friends. Her heart hurt for the strangers in the bar who were wasting their final moments alone.
Her heart hurt for herself most of all.
Clinking their glasses, Hermione and Thorfinn linked arms and took their shots, wincing as the firewhisky set their throats on fire. Small beads of sweat formed on Hermione’s brow, and she wiped them away hurriedly. Thorfinn held up his fingers to the barman, who rolled his eyes wearily and disappeared beyond a swaying wooden door.
Looking at the imposing man next to her now, Hermione still felt a flutter of intimidation. He was tall — too tall — and his arms were covered in interesting tattoos that wove around his skin like they had a mind of their own. Colourful faces glanced around and she found herself entranced by the art he chose to immortalize on his body.
Realizing that she’d been staring at his arms for some time, she looked up to a coy smile and a bottle of firewhisky beside her.
“What is it?” she asked, unsure how to justify her wandering curiosity.
“Nothing,” he answered. His burning blue eyes stared down at her intently. “I’m just wondering what you’re playing at.”
“I’m not sure I understand your meaning,” Hermione broached hesitantly, her breath catching in her chest.
“You understand my meaning precisely, you’re too smart not to.”
Hermione looked down at her wrists and clenched her fingers. “I just… this is bullshit.” Darting her eyes up, she noticed a look of agreement. Hermione laughed darkly that some of her own friends couldn't understand the sacrifice she'd made, and somehow Thorfinn Rowle, former Death Eater, was the one listening and nodding to her. “In my short life as a witch, I can’t recall a single instance where I wasn’t at the mercy of others. Voldemort, for example,” she said, and he winced. “He wanted me dead, or worse.”
“What could be worse than death?” he tried to interrupt, but Hermione ignored the all-too-familiar question.
“I put my life on the line for a culture that didn’t even want me, and I won, Rowle. I won. And now the Ministry I helped pull into power with my literal blood, sweat, and tears are trying to dictate the rest of my life. Gods,” she swore. “I never even wanted children. Now I’ll be forced into that too. It’s bloody ridiculous.”
Thorfinn’s lips moved as he listened to her, not speaking, not judging.
“You could run,” he suggested. “Tomorrow morning, you could run away and never come back.”
She smiled softly at him. “If I had the money to disappear, I’d have pulled a Malfoy and vanished into thin air a month ago when the law was announced.”
Looking away, Thorfinn ran a hand through his hair and sighed deeply.
“And you?” Hermione asked, prodding him with her shoulder. “Why didn’t you disappear? What are you still doing here?”
"I still might," he admitted. "I keep hoping I won't have to."
Hermione’s brows piqued. “Holding out for a hero?”
“What?”
“Nothing,” she brushed the failed joke off. “What kind of match would make you run?”
He leaned back and turned his attention to the alcohol at his fingers. “Someone too young, too innocent,” he murmured, almost too low for her hear. “I’m too dark now, Granger. The things I’ve seen and done…” He paused to throw back another shot without waiting for her. “I don’t think I could stand corrupting someone innocent. I've got too many vices to add another."
His stark honesty was surprising, and Hermione felt herself softening even further towards him. The evening had taken a strange, completely unexpected turn when Thorfinn had called out to her, but she found that she couldn’t really think of anything better she could be doing.
She was almost having fun, actually.
Pressing her luck, Hermione tried asking another personal question, sure that it would cause him to shut down. “And what is it that you’re doing here? Instead of indulging in the myriad things all your ancestral inheritance could buy you?”
“Looking for something,” he sighed, lifting another shot glass to his lips and downing it easily.
“What for?”
He looked around nervously, as though he were searching for any kind of excuse that would work. “Anything worth finding,” he answered.
Hermione had seen him vulnerable before; when she’d disarmed him and Obliviated him, he’d been so helpless. But here, in front of her, he spoke in a language she understood. It was the language of longing — of yearning. It was so fundamentally different from what she’d ever expected from him, and it surprised her, endearing him to her in a way that few others ever had.
Breathlessly, she tasted a drop of firewhisky between her lips and pressed them together, her thighs tightening against the other and her stomach churning.
“And have you found it?” she asked, her voice quiet and her heart suddenly beating hard and fast.
He looked up to her and stared straight into her eyes, unwavering in his attentions.
“I hope so.”
“And now?” she questioned him, her pulse strong in her veins. “What do you do now?”
Thorfinn took a deep breath, his inhale painting a cheeky expression on his lips.
“So,” he said in what seemed like a non-sequitur, turning to face her fully and pulling her chair to face him. Her legs were neatly confined between his as he sprawled posessively on both sides of her stool. The sound of the chair legs scraping across the floor was loud and unnerving, drawing a few eyes to them, but nobody bothered to keep watching.
“So,” Hermione echoed unsteadily, alertly aware of how close his fingers were to her bare knee. His eyes lingered on her lips as her voice petered off, and a small grin peeked out of rough demeanor.
“So, Little Firefly,” he continued, his eyes gleaming like a cat stalking his prey. “What kind of trouble are you looking for?”
Hermione breathed in sharply at his words, the insinuation enough to colour her cheeks a bright red. She narrowed her eyes, squinting at Thorfinn as though adjusting her focus might help her think better, but all her efforts did nothing for the way her heartbeat quickened.
If she were smart, she’d tell him ‘nothing.’ She’d stand up now and walk away and join Ron’s casual-but-not-really-casual open door evening, promising laughter and comfort between all the singles. If she were smarter, she’d just go spend the evening with her mum and dad and await the Ministry-appointed owl carrying her fate in a tiny envelope.
Instead, she leaned closer and let a half-smile slide over her lips as she nonchalantly wandered her hand toward the bare knees he bracketed.
“And if I’m not looking for trouble?” she asked, dancing a finger across her skin until it met the fabric of his trousers. “Maybe I'm just here to be alone.” Her hand touched his knee before coming to rest on the large thigh muscle just above it.
Thorfinn looked down at her gentle touch and laughed quietly under his breath before looking up and meeting Hermione’s stare.
“Something tells me if you were looking to be alone, you’d have cursed my bollocks off the moment you recognized me,” he said as the barman returned with a heavy bottle of something Hermione had never seen before in her life. The liquid inside was dark and silky, inviting, and Hermione remembered once again the kinds of things men like Rowle could get that she’d never even dreamed of. “I’ll offer you a proposition, though, since I’m feeling generous. I’ll leave you to be alone, if that’s what you’d like.”
Hermione’s expression faltered as he spoke, but she held resolute as he continued.
“I’m going to walk out that door and I’ll never bother you again. You’re welcome to drink on my tab if that’s what you want to do, and tomorrow, when we wake up, I’ll wish you the best.”
“Really?” she asked, testing his resolve. “You’re not worried I’ll drink every expensive or illegal thing here and run you dry?”
His eyes darkened. “I’m not finished,” he growled, and Hermione shut her mouth. Leaning close so that his stubble ghosted Hermione’s skin, her hair stood on end in the sheer anticipation of his touch as he whispered his next words. “If you decide to spend your last night alone surrounded by depressing people with no imagination, that’s fine. But if you decide that you want to spend your last night of freedom having some fun, you know where I’ll be.”
Narrowing her eyes, she looked at him seriously.
“Quite the proposition,” she mustered, and he smirked.
Suddenly, his stool was being pushed back, and cool air met her legs, lighting her with goose pimples. Her mouth hung open as he stood, looked at her carefully as though he were trying to anticipate her next move.
Leaning in again, he pressed his lips against her cheek, and she inhaled the heavy scent of smoke and earth. He smelled like an evening spent by a fire, something deep and rich and warm that drew her in.
If she were a moth, this was the flame.
As she watched in silence as Thorfinn walked out the door, her stomach clenched and her chest thrummed in anticipation. The nerve endings all over her body were firing and sparking, urging her to get up, to go.
Her decision was made for her, it seemed, and she Summoned her coat and hat onto her body as she stood. Chewing her lip, she debated again for another moment until a wave of anticipation and want rolled through her.
She was out the door without another thought.
Her pulse drummed against her from the inside, vibrating throughout her body in excitement that caught her breath in her chest. The sounds of her shoes against the pavement quickened as she wove around the Muggles and passerbys until she caught a glimpse of tousled blond hair bobbing in the distance.
Hermione smirked as she saw him, slowing her pace. She didn’t want to seem desperate, but the more distance she put between herself and Thorfinn, the more she genuinely worried she’d lose him.
Already his head had disappeared from view, and she stood on her toes to try to see around the crowded side street.
Suddenly, a hand snaked out and gripped her arm tightly, pulling her back and into a small alley between buildings. Before she could let out the shriek trapped in her lungs, his warm, rough hand clamped over her jaw, trapping her lips against his palm. Standing over her, she could just barely see the feral grin he flashed at her through the shadows.
Despite the way her heart pounded and her adrenaline spiked, her shoulders relaxed when she realized who it was.
Without a word, Rowle looped his arms around her torso and picked her up by the waist, his hands dangerously close to her arse as he pushed her up against the brick wall.
“I hoped you’d choose this,” he breathed against her soft skin, his own body warm and inviting as he used his height to effectively pin her down. His hands slipped up her waist to wrap around her lower ribs, pressing her sensitized skin into the rough brick. What little resolve she had left melted away when he swiped his thumbs boldly against the undersides of her breasts.
With the slightest roll of her hips, she could feel his waist inches from hers, one of his legs wedged between her thighs and his face dangerously close. She closed the gap quickly, and in her lack of hesitation, she realized that she was choosing this, truly choosing this unfolding of events. For one last time, she could drive her future. She kissed him with dominance, her lips meeting his with intention, and one of his hands wove up to grip her hair and hold it tight.
He wound his fist in the mess of curls and pulled her face to his as though he were lost at sea and she was a floating plank. It could have been anyone at the bar, she reminded herself, another wave of doubt washing over her, but then Rowle moved, and she found her attention firmly brought back to her body and the hand now wrapped around her throat.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed and looked up to meet Rowle’s, and she paused as she saw her own desperate desire reflected, staring back down at her. Her body buzzed with electricity as his hands ran along her skin, as his touch highlighted every scrap of clothing between them.
“Get me out of here,” she decided, gripping him tightly, legs wrapping confidently around his waist as he reached for his wand. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as an unknown incantation spilled from Thorfinn’s lips, and her stomach dropped expectantly as they Apparated from a dark alley into a large and inviting bedroom, but somehow their arrival didn’t come accompanied by nausea and vertigo.
She didn’t have time, though, to wonder about travel-spells or to take in the colours and decoration of the room she presumed must belong in the Rowle family estate.
Without skipping a beat, Thorfinn’s arm tightened under her arse and forced her pelvis into an undulation that brushed against his now-firm erection, and she gasped. She hadn’t been this close to anyone in what felt like a year and the ghosting felt like teasing, but Thorfinn didn’t seem to be in the mood for games anymore.
Instead, he strode with intent toward the large bed set against a windowed wall that looked out over a hazy evening garden.
He dropped her down onto the bed confidently and pulled himself from her to peel his shirt from his torso. Pupils dilating, Hermione gulped, a smile of excitement pulling at her lips as she watched hungrily. He was fit , she thought to herself.
His arms without the sleeves covering them were mouth-watering, and she found the tattoos continued in intricacy and beauty beyond what she could see earlier. If she looked closely she could even make out the outlines of runes that begged to be explored and she promised herself she would translate them later. Right now, however, he’d begun to remove his belt too and she hurried to catch up to him, stripping her clothes from her body without finesse.
She’d only made it as far as her shirt when he raised his head from his half-open trousers. His eyes immediately found her naked chest, sparking a rakish gleam through his eyes before they darkened.
“Such a good girl for me already,” his rough voice said deeply, stepping toward her and the bed. He was still quite intimidating, his huge frame entrancing as it stood over her, almost artistically washing himself in the speckled moonlight that poured in against him. “If you’ll let me,” he grumbled, his voice heady with desire, “I’ll devour you.”
Her eyes widened and she gulped loudly, her jaw tightening as she responded in the flutter of her own lashes.
She took an uneven breath, eyes on the he’d belt left half-fed, but instead of his hands moving to finish the task, they moved to her cool legs. The skin of his palms wasn’t soft, she learned, as his hands trailed delicately over her skin, her nerves lighting up in anticipation. She wanted to be devoured, she wanted to be consumed, to be inhaled and breathless and—
“You’re torturing me,” she accused, her voice light and her eyes narrowed.
His gaze didn’t waver from her body.
He knelt down, his warm mouth placing languid kisses along the tender skin of her stomach as his fingers crept up to her inner thighs. She shivered and scrunched her eyes shut as the warmth of his mouth met her cool skin, and the sensation prickled the fine hair at the back of her neck.
At a small gasp at his movements, Thorfinn hummed in satisfaction against her stomach.
“You like that,” he said, not a question, and Hermione froze. She could feel a smirk against her skin before she opened her eyes to see it for herself. She parted her lids slowly, her heartbeat quickening and stomach swooping as Thorfinn looked up and set his fingers on the placket of her jeans resting just over her pelvis.
Hermione stifled the sharp intake of breath as his warm fingers gripped the zipper’s pull, and she shivered in anticipation as it slowly dragged open, as her jeans disappeared by the grace of some god.
Time slowed as she dissolved into her body; her consciousness awakened and alive by the feeling of him sliding down her legs, fingers stretching as they discovered her slick center, Thorfinn’s mouth against her skin, the unintelligible words lost between them to the past and then his hand searching for her inside herself. It felt nearly as though he were creating her anew entirely, molding her from the inside out, and she drew back as she realized how quickly all this had happened.
It was too fast, too much, too –
Drawing her to life, his face hovered over hers for a moment, his skin shiny with a thin sheen of sweat. His eyes, a deep storming blue, matched the expression she bore, and she was relieved to find excitement and eagerness in him.
“I will stop if it becomes too much for you,” he promised. “You need only say the word ‘stop’ and I will, I swear it.” His sincerity was overwhelming, yet Hermione found that she trusted him.
It was a startling, heady realization, one that she would definitely examine later.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I – I wasn’t expecting…” Her voice trailed off, unsure how much to reveal. She’d never felt as good as he’d made her feel just then, and she wanted to continue. His genuine concern had relieved all her fears though, and she just shrugged as she smiled at him.
He nodded knowingly. “I know what you need,” he said in reply. “Remember your safeword,” he added darkly as he pushed himself back down her body.
Hermione’s eyes nearly rolled back in her head when he scooped her entire pelvis up as he kneeled up between her legs. He buried his tongue in her channel, pushing as far as he could go, using his nose to press against her clit. Her calves, draped over his upper back, twitched and her heels kicked back into his ribs.
If it caused him any pain, he didn’t indicate it. On the contrary, he began feasting on her cunt like it was his last meal on Earth.
Perhaps it was.
That thought, combined with the flick Thorfinn’s tongue gave her engorged clit, caused her to moan, low and long. He responded by wrapping his lips around the sensitized bundle of nerves and sucking.
Her orgasm slammed into her without warning, without buildup. He continued sucking, and she whined, both loving and hating the continued stimulation. She was pulsing, clenching, aching, but it wasn’t enough; she needed more.
As if knowing exactly what she’d been feeling, Thorfinn released her swollen clit from his lips. He licked a hot stripe up her entire cunt before using his hold on her hips to flip her bodily so that her arse was on display from being forced into a kneel and her chest was pressed into the mattress.
“This is your last chance to back out, Firefly,” he said roughly. Hermione moaned, unable to find her voice. A sharp slap to one arsecheek made her gasp, and her eyes flew open to look behind her. “Use your words, Granger,” he replied to her silent demand.
“No,” she gasped out, resting her head on her arms. “I want to continue. Please…” She choked, cutting herself off, when Thorfinn lined himself up at her entrance and began pushing in.
His cock was utter perfection, heating her up from the inside as the sheer perfection of the moment threatened to truly overwhelm her. Her throat let out a guttural moan when he finally bottomed out inside her. Thorfinn’s own hum of satisfaction traveled all the way from his chest to her pussy, causing her to clench around his erection.
His large hands wrapped around her waist, holding her still as he pulled out and eased back in. He did this two, three, four times before he suddenly slammed into her hard. Hermione pulled in a ragged breath, clenching her fingers in the bedspread beneath her. “Yes,” she whispered, drawing out the sibilant sound at the end.
Hermione could’ve cried at the relief she felt. It was as if Thorfinn knew exactly what she needed before she did herself. Just as that notion’s potential seriousness floated vaguely through her emptying brain, he slowed his pace and slid his hands up her back, over her shoulders, and down to her upper arms. He grasped firmly just above her elbows and tugged.
Allowing him to draw her arms back, Hermione held her breath as Thorfinn arranged her arms so that her hands locked together just above her arse. He drew his fingers up and down her arms, tracing his calluses roughly over her sensitive skin, drawing goosebumps in his wake.
When his hold tightened on her forearms, Hermione braced herself as best she could with her shoulders. Thorfinn drew back and slammed into her, causing her to cry out in complete ecstasy.
It was better than anything she’d ever experienced before; none of her previous lovers had ever forced an audible gasp from her lips before during sex.
She’d never felt so primal, so feral, and she revelled in the return to base instinct — to carnal fucking and pulling and biting and she wasn't even sure she wanted to be human anymore by the ways their desperation warped them.
She'd never been able to pry her mind from her body before, never been able to succumb to simple feeling and not have to wonder or think or second-guess herself.
Thorfinn stole her mind with every thrust that slammed against her like an ocean storm against the rocks. Her hands, intertwined together and held behind her back, clung to each other for dear life and she found herself nearly praying.
"Harder," she groaned pleadingly, a deep guttural sound, and she could hear his head fall back, his rhythm punishing and severe.
"Fuck, witch," he grunted through gritted teeth, "you're so much more than I expected."
Her chest tightened at his words, but she had no time to think of responding before he repositioned and crashed into her even harder, digging deeper, and the sounds she made weren't human, nor were they intentional.
The air forced its way through her lungs, burning, and she clamped her feet and ankles around his legs even tighter, desperately clinging to him despite his hands holding her arms in place behind her.
Pulling himself from her suddenly, she cried out in confusion, but she didn't have to wait long.
In an instant, he'd pulled her upright, her feet wobbling as she struggled to steady herself and do away with the vertigo. He didn't speak as he scooped her up a moment later and walked her into the en-suite bathroom she hadn’t noticed earlier.
It was all white, so clean and polished she couldn't imagine she was in a man's washroom and not Narcissa Black's. Her eyes focused on a tall shower, with windows instead of curtains.
She raised an eyebrow at him.
"You sure do like windows."
He smirked. "Watching is a rather entertaining pastime, wouldn't you agree?"
He took a step back into the shower as she regained the reliable use of her legs, his hand twisting the dial and water pouring out over him like rain pouring down from the heavens. Hermione's eyes widened, appraising the large naked man under the water's spray as it mingled with his sweat and whatever fluids she'd lost along the way.
Steam wafted from his broad shoulders and her lips parted.
"I think I can see what you mean," she said, and he raised his gaze to her, a deep growl of approval slipping from his teeth. "I could watch this all night long."
"I can think of far better ways to spend it," he answered her, holding out his hand.
Hermione took a deep breath and accepted his outstretched invitation. She stepped into the hot water and gasped as it burned, as it soothed her overworked muscles. She tilted her head back, her chin raising, and let the warm water envelop her entirely. The press of another’s skin against her back, the weight of him wrapped around her shoulders, was a comforting feeling that felt too intrusive for what they'd been looking for.
She wasn't looking for comfort, Hermione reminded herself, tears suddenly pricking at the back of her eyes. She had no need of someone to hold her or tell her she'd be okay.
She needed for someone to give her what she'd never been given before. She craved for someone to force her to forget that tomorrow was the end, or that it was a beginning.
Behind her, Thorfinn stilled as he pressed himself against her back, wrapping his arms around her and letting their faces be rained on.
"It doesn't have to be the end," he said.
"Are you listening to my thoughts now?" she asked warily, and he shook his head against hers.
"I'm no Legilimens," he answered plainly. "Tell me what you need from me."
Hermione leaned back against him, and in that moment she felt distinctly that she didn't need to exist as herself. She didn't need to be real, to be thinking, to be human.
"I need you to make me forget," she whispered. "I need you to be everything."
His knuckles grazed her arm, bringing that skin alone to life.
Rowle didn't need to speak. He didn't need to reassure her, and he didn't need to argue.
Hermione pursed her lips as she waited for a response, but it didn't come. Instead, he pulled the hair from her back and let it fall over her chest as his mouth found her shoulders, her neck, his tongue so warm she could have melted.
Latching onto a sensitive part of her neck, he kissed it tenderly and slowly worked his hands lower until he was guiding her forward by her hips toward the walls. Hermione swayed for a moment as his fingers found their place between her thighs, this time from behind her, and she squirmed around him until his thumb's pad found her clit.
She breathed in sharply at the sensation that somehow multiplied under the raining shower. Dropping to his knees, Thorfinn looped his arm around her hips and replaced his thumb with his other hand, rubbing her rhythmically and slowly pushing his other fingers up and into her, humming in praise against her waist, his mouth still kissing and suckling and worshipping.
If she were one for music, this would be a symphony.
He worked steadily, building the tension in her and Hermione could hardly keep her breath inside of her. He was both delicate and rough as he swirled with one hand and pistoned with the other, overwhelming her senses with pleasure and sensation and when she felt an orgasm beckoning, her hands desperately found a home against the glass windows. Her toes curled and raised to give Rowle better angles, better anything, better everything .
She felt herself clenching before the wave hit, and Hermione gasped, rocking against his hands frantically until it crashed against her, knocking the wind from her lungs.
Her fingers against the glass left smudged prints in the steam as it rose around them, and her heartbeat pounded in her chest as her body recovered from the intensity Thorfinn had been able to pull out of her once again. She wasn't even sure if she could breathe anymore, and Rowle took the moment of stillness to rise from the tiled floor and wrap an arm over her chest.
Her head lolled back for a long moment as she regained the use of her senses. His strong shoulders held her easily, his fingers gently tracing over her skin as she came back to herself.
From where they stood, Hermione could see straight into a mirror hanging over a sink. She wasn't sure if Rowle had been watching it, seeing them from an entirely other angle, but she shivered as his large frame stood behind her, his arm along her collarbone forcing her to become more alert and aware.
Eyes darting to her body beneath his hands, Hermione briefly sucked in a breath as she remembered her scars and how they wove around her torso like lightning. She should be embarrassed, perhaps. She should be self-conscious; heaven knows she'd struggled to hide them with other partners in the past, but Rowle had twice the scars that she did, and he was beautiful.
Gods, he was gorgeous.
Thorfinn's inner forearm grazed the sensitive skin of her throat, and Hermione found herself back in her body instantly.
"Tell me what you want," he growled, his voice anchoring her back to his hands against her hips, her fingers pressed against the glass, his blond hair tickling the nape of her neck.
Hermione knew.
Raising her hand to his, she gently tightened his grip.
“Make me forget, ” she said again, and Thorfinn smirked behind her.
“As you wish, Firefly.”
The gasp she let out echoed around the tiled room as the large man behind her slid fully into her once more in one smooth motion. He grunted when he hit the end of her channel, and she was so sensitive she nearly couldn’t stand it.
It felt so good . Better than good, really. It was the most amazing sex she’d ever had, barring none. The small, vindictive part of her was ferally glad that she was spending her last night as a free woman with a man who was both dangerous and impossibly sexy, someone she knew her friends would have never approved of, someone she herself would have never picked.
Whatever prompting needed to happen for her to choose him, she hoped this counted as her own version of flipping the bird, of screaming in hysterical rebellion.
It didn’t matter anymore, though. As Thorfinn wrapped his hands around her waist in a bruising grip, as she braced herself against the tiled wall with the window at their backs, as he pounded her into ecstasy, the only thing that mattered was feeling good.
Hermione could feel the tips of his fingers wrapping around her hip bones, digging in, his nails short enough to avoid breaking skin but just long enough to make her moan in pained pleasure — to force her to stay in her body, to stay frozen in this moment.
The water poured over them continuously as Thorfinn slid in and out of her. His cock, stiff and punishing, pushed and pulled a rhythm in her that took her breath away. It opened her, swaying inside her like powerful riptides through the algae, and she momentarily lost herself in the movements alone, in the feeling and the water and the hands. She could feel the head of his erection grind against her g-spot on every pull back, and her arse cheeks made a satisfying, wet, slapping noise every time he slammed forward again.
Hermione whined pitifully when Thorfinn suddenly pulled out of her, ripping her from her tides. Before she could question what he was doing, the large man had spun her around and grabbed her waist from her front.
Hoisting her up, Hermione automatically wrapped her legs around his waist as he crouched just a bit to give her leverage. His hands splayed against her lower back, touching the top of her arse to help her balance as he slowly slid into her again.
Thorfinn looked down into her eyes once he was fully seated. Gulping, she frowned slightly at the indecipherable look in his eyes, but it was gone again a moment later. She chose to ignore it as she laced her fingers together behind his neck.
Hermione’s eyes closed involuntarily as Thorfinn pulled out and slid back in slowly, so slowly. Her head tilted back, and as the water cascaded over the back of her head, her curls became heavier and tangled over Thorfinn’s arms. Neither cared, though, not when they felt so fucking good.
It wasn’t long before Hermione began to feel the coil inside her tightening once more. She held her breath in anticipation, in focus, and found herself needing to remind herself to breathe evenly, to—
A small whine started low in her throat when Thorfinn changed his grip to begin slamming into her, hard. She clutched him with her legs, tried to avoid clawing him, and moaned all at once.
“Are you gonna come for me again?” she heard in her ear. Hermione nodded, unable to open her eyes or answer properly, and let out a strangled noise when his flat palm smacked her arse cheek again. “Words,” he reminded her darkly.
“Nnngh, yes,” she ground out, her voice gravelly as she squeezed her arms around his neck and chased the blissful feeling he was providing.
“Mm, such a good girl,” he replied before kissing her shoulder. “Such a dirty, naughty, good girl for me.” He gently bit at her skin with each adjective, moving up to her neck.
Shifting his hold again, he pressed her against the magically warmed tile wall behind her with one hand under her arse. His other hand moved down to where they were joined, and he pressed his thumb against her clit. Gasping, Hermione’s eyes flew open to stare at nothing as he rubbed a circle around her sensitive nerves.
“I’m — ohh, I’m so-o… Hnngh, I’m coming—“ Her voice cut off as the breath completely left her. Her orgasm washed over her in hot waves, clenching her limbs around the Viking man like he was her life raft in the ocean.
Caught up in her own bliss, Hermione nearly missed the guttural growl her partner let out. She felt it more than she heard it, reverberating against her chest where he pressed into her as her womb heated from his release.
“Fuck, Granger, you feel so good,” he muttured into her throat as his hips stuttered and slowed.
She smiled at him sleepily when he finally met her eyes, and his own gaze softened. “You okay?” he asked quietly, sliding his hands down her waist, her hips, her legs, to gently unhook her ankles. Hermione wasn’t fully confident in her ability to stand yet, so she left her arms around his neck in case her legs collapsed as she murmured her affirmation that all was well.
Straightening, Thorfinn looped his own arms around Hermione’s lower back, staring down at her softly, silently. She wasn’t sure if she exactly recognized the look in his eyes. In him she saw more emotions than she could ever name in herself, and she raised a hand to his chest.
They stood in silence together as the water drained from the tiled floor. Without speaking, he dried her with a wave of his hand. Hermione felt she ought to be more impressed by his display of wandless magic, but she was just too tired.
The months of stress over the upcoming law had taken their toll, and tonight had been so incredibly freeing, but even freedom takes its toll. Her mind was mush after the intensity letting go could allow her, and she found herself gulping deeply at the renewed hope she had to put back into a neat box.
Hermione didn’t protest when Thorfinn pulled the covers back on his bed. Having just been fucked into it recently, she knew from experience that it was blissfully comfy, the mattress seemingly charmed for it, and her heart yearned for ocean to find itself again within her. He set her down in the middle, waved a hand to dim the lights to nearly nonexistent, and climbed in after her.
No words were spoken as they laid on their sides, simply staring at the projection of moonlight through the window behind them. At least, it’s what his face pointed toward. She didn’t dare move her chin, flick her eyes, anything . The night had been beautiful, but it had been all-consuming. It had devoured her in its entirety and time hadn’t existed, but now she could see that it time had, in fact, passed.
So she didn’t move.
She didn’t dare.
Eventually, Thorfinn disturbed the stillness to pull her closer, arranging himself so that he could hold her, and she let him.
The morning’s rise did not wake them.
Neither could sleep despite their weary bodies yearning for it. They were too tense and too hard, melting into each other in exhaustion and locking that way, simply passing the while as though they were frozen in time and moment until the pecking on the window behind them grew too loud to ignore any longer.
Thorfinn reluctantly stood first, prying himself from Hermione and pulling the notes from the owls’ legs. He glanced at the names on each before passing one of the envelopes to Hermione. Her brow furled as she took it, the paper under her fingers feeling too delicate for the words they’d contain.
“Are you ready?” she asked hesitantly, and he shook his head. “I can go first if you want—”
“—No.” he interrupted. “I can do it.”
He ripped the envelope open roughly and pulled the folded paper from inside and held it in front of him, still folded.
“At the same time then,” Hermione offered, already sliding a finger into the letter and pulling her sheet out.
“One,” he said.
“Two,” she nodded at him.
Three.
They unfolded their letters.
Miss Hermione J. Granger, she read, her breath caught in her throat.
“Oh…” he said, and her eyes flicked up to his, his own gaze locked halfway down his page. Thorfinn’s adam's apple bobbed as he gulped, and Hermione’s fixated on the crease of his brow, of the tension in his jaw, before returning her eyes to her own letter.
Hermione licked her lips and she let her eyes skim the useless words that didn’t contain the name of her partner. Finally, one name stood out, the ink blotching on the e.
“Oh,” she echoed.