Written for Hermione Smut 2012. Original prompt: He finds her one night, alone, broken and desperate... she becomes his (rare DE pairing) Marcus/Hermione, Affair fics.
Thanks to my lovely beta, Nathaniel Cardeu, and also to Mistress Malfoy for as usual pandering to my insecurities while I was writing this.
This may have come out a little differently than the prompt was intended :O
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable character, settings etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended, and no financial gain is resulting from this work.
The dark silhouette stood out against the gentle yellow light of the lamp, scruffy curls creating a soft halo around her head, left hand carelessly slung across the arm of the couch, a bottle clutched in delicate fingers. His wand hand dropped to his side, a nasty curse dying on his lips as he recognised the unmistakable presence of Hermione Granger.
She took a swig from the bottle and made a motion with her free hand for him to move forward. He closed the door softly and dropped the satchel he was carrying, striding quickly across the small room to take a seat opposite her.
He gulped, trying not to show any emotion. "Why?"
She shrugged and took another sip, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as a little of the alcohol snuck between her lips.
"Is it..." He scratched at the side of his head and grimaced. "Was it him?"
"Yeah. I suspected after the incident on Savile Row."
Hermione rolled her head on her neck and rested it back against the back of he couch, staring blankly at the ceiling for a few moments before sighing and turning her face back to him, eyes dull and vaguely unfocussed.
"How much have you had?"
"Dunno. Got the bottle out of your cupboard."
He reached down and took the firewhisky from her hand, taking a swig from the half empty bottle and setting it on the table. "Remind me again why he couldn't be briefed on this, before he turned?"
She closed her eyes and groaned. "Just because he's my hus-"
"Don't. He has the same clearance level as you, don't try and bring the conflict of interest thing into this."
"The Ministry profiler didn't think he was at risk of... that kind of extreme jealousy."
He leaned forward, fingers clutching the arms of his chair tightly. "He has a history of judgement lapses, how in Merlin's name can a medical professional overlook something like that?" She ignored him, instead reaching blindly for the bottle, which he snatched away. "No more."
She snarled at him and swung her arm in a quick grabbing motion. He barely managed to pull the bottle away from her, and berated himself for not being more wary, more careful of her skills despite her addled state. "Before this fucking assignment... before you dropped into my lap I was happy." She dropped back against the cushions. "Ron loved me, I loved him. We were going to start a family, I was going to drop out of the intelligence game and be a proper wife."
He snorted and rolled his eyes. "Proper wife? What the fuck is a proper wife?"
"Fuckered if I know." She chuckled ironically and stared back at the ceiling. "Marcus?"
"Sorry about what? That Weasley figured out what the real reason beind our affair is, and now I'm probably gonna die?"
He shrugged and drank deeply, the alcohol catching in his throat. He coughed. "I knew what I was getting into." He eased up from the chair and moved towards the kitchen. "I came to you, remember?"
A wisp of breath lingered across his ear a moment later and he jumped, turning around quickly and pinning her against the kitchen counter.
"It was stupid of the department to assume they wouldn't try to use him for intel." Her voice was husky from the booze and his eyes lingered for a moment on her lips. The corner of her mouth turned up and she ran her tongue across her bottom lip. "Remember when-"
"Yeah." Images of a dark alley flashed through his mind. A memory of the rush of the chase, an observer following, listening, watching as they acted out a despicable pantomime. Disgust washed over him and he moved to push away from her, hands fighting hers as she tried to stop him, to comfort him and remind him of their mission.
"It wasn't real. It was you doing your job, convincing them you had found a Mudblood plaything to have some fun with. You did good, Marcus."
He ran a hand through his hair and took a step back, hitting the bench on the opposite side of the small galley. "That night haunts me. What I did to you..."
"You kissed me, big deal."
"But the rest..."
"Was acting. Doing your job."
"I saw the bruises."
"I've had worse from hand to hand practice."
"Why are you still here, Hermione?" His tone was sharp, biting and cold, a reflex he had developed early on in life. She stepped forward and placed a warm palm against his cheek, running her thumb over an eyebrow almost tenderly.
"I came to warn you." She let out a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment. "Three years, Marcus. Three years of secret meetings and dead drops and operation planning... do you really think I could just leave you for the vultures?"
He ignored her question. "What about you. You're exposed now; surely you're just as dead as me?"
"They're placing me under Fidelius until... well, until the rest of you are rounded up." He nodded, smiling wryly.
"That's not going to stop you from fighting, is it?"
She shook her head, chuckling softly. "Of course not."
"You what?" She reached behind him and grabbed the bottle of firewhiskey from the counter, tugging out the cork with her teeth and tucking it under a finger as she took a swig.
"I don't want to die."
She drank again and grimaced. "You run fast enough, you might not have to."
He gave her a dubious look and gave her a wry smile. "Sometimes it's so obvious you were raised by Muggles."
She pressed her fists to her eyes, liquor still clutched in one hand, and drew a raggedy breath. "I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry." A sob escaped her and the bottle slipped from her fingers. He caught it reflexively and placed it back on the bench, leaning back, biting his lip and clutching at the edges of the cold formica.
They stood there for many minutes, silent apart from her stifled sobs and the occasional car driving past the street level flat. Eventually she calmed, eyes on the floor, the occasional gasp causing her body to jolt and shudder. "I-"
He cut her off with his lips, lifting her head and kissing her in one smooth motion. She didn't respond, still and cold beneath his hands. As he moved to pull away, she grabbed at one muscled forearm, tugging him closer again, lips still pressed against his unmoving. She wrapped her arms around him, clutching tightly at anything she could, finally opening her mouth against his as she buried one hand in his thick mop of dark brown hair.
He didn't need any more encouragement, the longing he had felt for her after years of their handler and asset relationship bubbling to the surface. He picked her up, depositing her carelessly on the worktop, toaster and kettle shoved roughly aside, and tore at her grey shirt, the fabric ripping easily in his strong hands.
This was nothing like the kiss they had shared all those months ago. That kiss had been a cover, a surprisingly pleasing tangle of lips to convince their spies that he had a pet. This kiss was desperation and desire and the need to feel close to someone before stepping into the unknown; disappearing into the ether that was as yet undecided, whether it be death or a life half lived, chased by those who had dogged their existence from such a young age.
Marcus had never been one to love. He was a playboy, a man who got by on a brutish charm before he had grown into his looks in his mid twenties. He saw what he wanted and took it, both men and women happy to fall into his bed, the dangerous glint in his eye and calculating smirk holding an irresistible appeal.
Hermione didn't buy into the norm, she never had. She was just as dangerous as he, if not more so, the same traits that attracted people to him reflected in her in many ways. She wasn't one to charm, however. Her appeal shone through beneath layers of heavy utilitarian clothing which he clawed at now, fingers working on her thermal tank top, aching to touch her bare skin. Skin he had seen glimpses of so many times, teasing him with her nearness, with the possibility that she might become more than just his Ministry assigned handler.
They had had many close calls over the years, moments of lingering glances and goodbyes that should have been easy lasting much longer A kiss on the cheek here, a gentle caress there; all tentative, unsure and at the same time sure that they could never move forward, hands snatching away quickly as if burned. Lips diverting at the last minute before they brushed against earlobes or necks or other spots that may cause a lapse in judgement.
Judgement was long out the window now. His jacket and shirt were gone, his chest bare, excepting the sparse hairs scattered down the centre of his sternum. Her hands clutched at his pecs, pinching a nipple sharply as she gasped into his mouth, tongue lingering momentarily against his before she pulled away and unsnapped her bra, tossing it vaguely towards the living area, and pulled him back towards her roughly, fingers tangled in his hair, twisting and pulling and... fuck.
"Merlin, yes." He hadn't realised he'd gasped the expletive into her mouth.
Her reply was punctuated by a sharp bite on his lower lip, tugging it away and letting it snap back before she pulled him back to her, her crotch grinding hard into his. "Take off your trousers."
Her eyes were burning, alert despite the alcohol, her breath hot and sweet against his cheek. He hesitated, and she shoved him backwards, sliding off the bench and unzipping his trousers quickly, shoving them to the ground along with his underwear. She moved to crouch down, but he stopped her, instead pushing her back against the cupboards and tugging at her jeans, eventually managing to pull them off, along with her knickers and heavy boots.
On his knees, he pressed his forehead to her belly, clutching at her buttocks and thighs. Gasping for breath, the cool kitchen air hitting his naked body bringing his temperature down from a boil to a simmer, he stood slowly and lifted her back onto the bench. She tried to wrap her legs around his hips but he slapped them away, instead pushing two fingers into her as he suckled on a taught pink nipple.
She gasped and whimpered, rolling her hips as her body shuddered a little. He grinned against her breast and pulled his fingers out of her, sliding the hand up over her hip and grabbing her around the waist, sliding her closer to the edge as he trailed his lips up her chest and neck, eventually coming to rest against her earlobe.
"I really should be making a start on this running thing you were talking about." She sucked in a sharp breath and pulled away, face a mask of resignation, but eyes pools of sadness and despair. He placed his palms on either side of her face and ran his tongue over his bottom lip, biting it gently. He stroked the soft skin beneath her eyes with his thumbs and smiled softly, a small tingle of hope building in his chest. "Come with me?"
"Two of us with targets on our backs? Not a great plan." Her voice was ragged and hoarse.
"How long do I have?"
"I came as soon as we found out. They're probably searching for you now."
"Probably Dovenya and Bole. They're good, but not that good." His lips found hers again and he pressed his body tightly against hers. She squirmed against him and grabbed his cock, jerking her hand up and down the best she could as he clutched his arms around her back, and he gasped, lips still against hers as he spoke again. "Why has it taken so long for us to do this?"
She sucked his upper lip into her mouth, gently sliding her bottom teeth along the inside of it as she pulled away to answer. "I'm not-"
"My handler any more. Yeah, I figured." He pulled his lower half away from her for a moment, grabbing himself to get the right angle, and thrust into her roughly. She whimpered and twitched, a leg jerking up so that the knee rested against his ribs.
"No... well yeah, that... but I'm not married any more." He stilled, hips pressed into hers almost painfully, mouth open against her neck. "The Ministry offered me annulment, due to treason. I took it." She pulled his mouth back to hers, kissing him until they were both breathless, their bodies grinding against one another without thought.
He thrust into her erratically for a few moments, unsure of the proper way to react, the absurdity of the situation finally sinking in. Eventually he found his voice, albeit broken and gravelly. "You're not going to hide out in a house until all this is all over are you?"
She chuckled and he felt her insides flutter around him gently. "Fuck, no. That could take years." She whimpered and bit her lip, eyes closing tightly and eyebrows knitting together in concentration. "Oh, shit."
They were silent for a few moments, her lips pressed together tightly as she twitched in pleasure, his gasping into her ear as he followed closely behind. They didn't move afterwards, instead staying wrapped in one another's arms, her fingers trailing up and down his back, his massaging her neck with one hand and thigh with the other.
"Go in the wind with me. If we're both going to die, we may as well do it together."
She kissed him softly on the cheek and pushed him away, hopping down off the bench and leaning over, rifling through the pile of clothes for her wand. After a quick cleansing charm, she tugged on her jeans and bra. He heard her hesitate, could feel her eyes on his bent figure, back arched as he leaned on the kitchen counter.
"Two of us together will be more conspicuous, you know this."
He turned his head towards her, voice level once again and eyes focussed steadily on hers. "Two of us together are more dangerous. You know that."
She tossed him his slacks and belt, and he caught them easily, not moving to pull them on until he heard her response. Her face was impassive as she pulled on the remaining layers of clothing, eventually walking purposefully back to the living area to where her heavy leather jacket lay against the back of one of the armchairs.
Not bothering to look back, she walked to the door as she put on the jacket, out of the flat and down the hallway before he could find his voice again. Sagging against the counter, he ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily, breath catching in his throat.
He glanced at the kitchen window longingly, and everything stopped for a moment. On the fogged up glass, a message was printed in neat, precise handwriting. He grinned widely, hope springing forth in his chest.
That alleyway. Twenty minutes. Run.