You did a number on me…
And all our pieces fall right into place
Get caught up in the moment
Lipstick on your face
Hermione's type was safe. Predictable. Normal. If she were being completely honest with herself, she had a soft spot for, well, boring men. Men who'd challenged nothing but her patience -- and Merlin, had Ron challenged enough of that.
There was a reason Ron Weasley was no longer in her life.
She was a highly practical, sensible witch in her thirties who practiced law, advocated for house elf rights, and never drank more than two glasses of champagne at any given event. (She rarely drank champagne at all, until recently... it was safe to say Blaise Zabini was a bad influence in more than one way).
Really, it was safest to blame this... whatever this was... on too much champagne.
The bubbles went to her head. That's what it was. Little floaty bubbles in golden liquid were the reason she was barefoot in the grass behind the Orangery at Kew Gardens, her shoes in her hand and Blaise Zabini's hand on the small of her back. Her inhibitions were lowered, and that same inner voice that had said, "Trust me, you can dance!" was not warning her about the risks involved in gardens with men of a certain reputation.
He nudged her toward an opening in the hedges, and the champagne let him. She stepped through to a small alcove, surrounded by towering greenery and completely cut off from the rest of their party. His hand slid from the small of her back to the curve of her arse, and her skin prickled.
Emboldened, she took a step closer to him and tipped her head back to look at him.
"You're beautiful," he murmured. Blaise's head ducked down to kiss her neck, and Hermione hummed softly.
"Don't talk," she whispered in reply.
It was a delicious haze of sensations. Her hand released her hold on her shoes, letting them drop to the ground as she wound her arms around his neck. Blaise lifted his head, finding her lips with his own. His hands slid over her hips, fingertips catching her skirt in their grasp.
It was brazen of her, but alcohol made Hermione forget why she shouldn't let him lay her down in the soft grass. Why she shouldn't let him kiss her swollen lips. Why it was a very bad idea for him to undo the side-zip of her dress and tug the bodice down, and an even worse idea for him to dispose of her flimsy lace bra.
She moaned when he took a pebbled nipple between his lips and kissed her there. Why was this a bad idea? It had been a long time -- over a year -- since she'd felt the hazy pool of desire settle low in her belly. Ages since she'd let a man kiss and touch her breasts, and why had she not found a fling in her celibacy? Blaise's hands, lips, and tongue were playing her body as a master played his instrument, coaxing little whimpers and moans from her lips.
Reaching between them, Hermione's hand found him through his trousers. He was already hard, and her lips curled into a contented smile when she heard him groan under his breath. Her fingertips stroked him, the cloth rough against her hand. So focused on her own task was she that she didn't realize his own hand had moved until she felt his fingertips slip underneath the gusset of her knickers.
Her moan was muffled against his lips as her hips rose to move against his hand. Blaise knew all the right spots to touch her, instinctively moving at a pace that her body needed. In response, her hands moved to his belt, fumbling in her rush to get him out of his trousers so she could touch him.
When his hand pulled away from her body, he chuckled at her soft protest. His hands moved hers away, and he quickly undid his belt and pushed his trousers down his hips. Leaning over Hermione, he pushed her skirt up and knickers down around her knees. Fitting himself snugly between her thighs, he thrust into her with a groan.
It was awkward, with her knickers tangled around her legs and his trousers still halfway down, but they quickly found a fast rhythm. Their bodies moved together, and Blaise pressed himself tightly against her as his lips found her neck again. Hermione knew she'd have a mark on her throat in the morning, but she couldn't bring herself to protest something that felt so good.
Blaise's fingers between her legs were the final push she needed to fall over the edge, and she came with a soft cry. Her body relaxed, her chest heaving as her lover followed her over the edge. With his weight atop her, pressing her into the damp grass, she felt a keenly exposed beneath the cool night sky -- not to mention, the soft sounds coming from the party not one hundred meters away.
Reason told her she'd done something bad.
Champagne didn't care.
I’m yours to keep
And I’m yours to lose
You know I’m not a bad girl, but I
Do bad things with you
[“So It Goes” by Taylor Swift]
I did a number on you…
I never trust a narcissist, but they love me
So I play 'em like a violin
And I make it look oh-so-easy
The sound of her name made Ginny groan. After a six hour match with Wigtown, all she really wanted to do was go home and soak in a nice bubble bath. Maybe read a Priscilla Penwright novel and have a glass of wine. She wanted peace, quiet, and to let her battered body relax.
She did not want to deal with the man lurking in the shadows outside the Holyhead locker room. If she hadn't spent so long after the match signing autographs, the corridor would still be filled with her teammates and their support staff. As it was, she was left alone with Draco bloody Malfoy.
"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" She turned to face him, quirking a red brow in his direction.
"A quidditch enthusiast can't show his appreciation for a well-played bout?" He smirked and pushed off the wall, stepping toward her. "My feelings are hurt."
"You don't have feelings," she shot back, "and you don't even like my team, or Wigtown."
"True," Draco admitted with a little shrug. "Neither of your teams are comparable to Falmouth, but..." his smirk deepened as he let his gaze wander down her body. "None of Falmouth's chasers look quite as fit in their kit, either."
Ginny's cheeks flushed, the rest of her body warming beneath the weight of his gaze. How the bloody bastard could hold such power over her was a mystery. One look from him -- that look -- and her body turned to a puddle of goo.
Still, she shook her head and turned away. A woman had to be strong sometimes, after all. "Not tonight, Malfoy."
"That's what you said last night." She could feel him behind her, moving closer until his hand was at her waist. "And the night before that." A gentle pressure tugged her back against him until her arse was pressed against his lips. Ginny's eyes closed when that hand moved to her stomach, his long fingers spread and holding her in place. "And the night before that."
She exhaled shakily and shook her head. "I mean it this time." Fucking Draco Malfoy... well, it wasn't the worst idea she'd ever had, but it rated fairly high. Harry had been her one and only for so long, after they'd broken up she'd run into the arms of the man most unlike her ex in all of the United Kingdom. Possibly the entire world.
She didn't trust him. Hell, she didn't even like him most of the time. But neither of them could deny that the sex was fantastic.
Draco's lips found her neck. "You always mean it," he breathed against her skin as the hand on her stomach creeped upward to cup a full breast. His thumb strummed against her nipple, teasing it to full hardness through her Holyhead jumper. His other hand moved to rest high on her thigh, just below her hip.
Ginny made a soft noise beneath her breath. "Someone might see," she whispered. As his hand massaged her breast gently, she tipped her head back to rest on his shoulder.
"There's no one here, Weasley." He turned his head to brush his nose along her temple, his voice soft and seductive in her ear. "Just us. Even the janitors have gone."
"That's the idea."
It was a terrible idea, but Malfoy's hands on her body, his lips against her skin, made her forget that inconvenient little truth. When she shifted her head to look up at him, she knew she was lost. "Malfoy..."
His lips found hers in a bruising kiss, and he immediately deepened it when her lips parted to moan. The hands that had moved so softly over her body turned demanding, his grip on her breast tightening as his free hand moved to cup her sex through her quidditch trousers. Ginny keened against his kiss, pressing her hips back against his. She could feel his erection firm against her arse, and she nipped at his lips when he groaned in response.
Draco's hands moved to her trousers, hurriedly undoing them to push trousers and knickers down. She inhaled sharply when cool air blew over her exposed hips and arse. He moved them forward, his body pinning Ginny firmly against the wall while one hand fumbled with his own belt.
"Spread your legs," he rasped, one foot nudging hers apart. "That's a good girl."
"Don't -- oh, fuck," she moaned when his hands found her hips again and bent her over at the waist. With an answering moan of his own, Draco rolled his hips and filled her aching sex. Over and over again, he pressed into her, Ginny answering his thrusts as she pushed her hips back to meet him. Her head dropped down to rest on the wall, the concrete cool beneath her flushed cheek as she let Malfoy fuck her against the wall.
"Louder, Weasley," he murmured, grunting in exertion.
She glanced back at him over her shoulder, her eyes flashing. "Make me, Malfoy."
His answering smirk was smug when the slippery sensation of his fingertips pinching her swollen nub made her climax without warning. Ginny tossed her head back, rolling onto her tiptoes as her body shook with release. In the back of her mind, she wondered if they truly were alone. It was a large stadium, and Holyhead kept at least a hundred people on staff.
But at that moment, she couldn't bring herself to care.
This is how the world works
Now all he thinks about is me
["I Did Something Bad" by Taylor Swift]
But honestly, baby, who’s counting?
X marks the spot where we fell apart
He poisoned the well, I was lyin' to myself
Another glass of Sangiovese shattered against the wall. Red wine stains on the white paint, broken glass scattered all around the floor. More tears, more screaming, more slamming doors. How had it come to this?
Very easily, in fact. They had both known they were a poor match. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and Pansy Parkinson, the Slytherin Bitch. It had really only felt like a matter of time before their odd relationship would implode, leaving them both emotionally spent and alone.
But Pansy had never expected it to hurt quite so much.
She should have known better. She shouldn't have let him in. But she wasn't the first witch to let her loneliness get the better of her, nor would she be the last. There comes a point when a woman in her thirties doesn't care as much about things such like childhood behavior and old family issues. When the desire to be desired outweighs all those things.
Silly, stupid Pansy. How could she have let those slide? They were too different. He was too... too bloody perfect, and despite the little ways she'd changed -- selling Parkinson Manor, changing her hairstyle, working for a living -- she was still, in some ways, that seventeen year old who'd tried to hand him over to the Dark Lord. (To save her own skin, and the lives of her family and friends -- but no one seemed to remember that).
The fight wasn't important. They'd both said hurtful things, words spoken in anger, just like dozens of other fights they'd had over the course of their relationship. But there was a sense of finality to this one, the weight of their words and actions hanging over them like an executioner's sword.
It was The Fight.
And Pansy was alone. Again.
In the past, a hot shower had always helped soothe away the sting from words spoken in anger. This time, the magic had worn off. As Pansy stood beneath the scalding water, her eyes closed and let the tears streaming down her cheek mingle with the shower spray. Damn him to Hell and back for making her cry.
When the shower door opened and closed behind her, her eyes flew open and she whirled around. Instinctively, her hand rose and reached out to smack him across the face.
Harry caught her wrist in his hand and held her firm, repeating the action when she tried to slap him with her other hand. He stepped toward her, pressing her against the tiled shower wall and looked down at her. He looked ridiculous, the heat from the shower causing his glasses to fog over, but she knew he could barely see without them.
When he ducked his head to kiss her, she turned her face away. "No."
"I'm sorry, Pansy," he murmured. His grip on her wrists softened, and one finger traced the soft skin below her hand, teasing small circles there.
Her blue eyes flashed up at him, her jaw set in defiance. "I hate you."
Harry's lips turned downward, and he shook his head softly. "No, you don't."
She jerked against his hold, but his grip tightened. Pansy narrowed her gaze at him, then leaned in and kissed him, hard, before pulling back to glare at him.
"Apologize on your knees."
Wordlessly, Harry released her hands and reached for her hips. He sank to his knees in front of her, nuzzling her stomach as he did so. When he looked up at her, she had to bite back a smile - his glasses were covered with water droplets; there was little chance he could see anything through them. Instead, she reached for his head and tangled her fingers in his unruly black hair.
She didn't need to direct him. Of all there many, many problems, this had never been one of them. Sending one hand to trace up her calf to her thigh, Harry draped her leg over his shoulder and leaned in to part her folds with his other hand. He ghosted his fingertips over her sex, teasing her with his nearness until she growled.
When he leaned in and flicked his tongue over her, she dropped her head back and sighed in pleasure. Harry's fingers held her open as his tongue moved over her most delicate spot, alternating between long, deep strokes and quick flicks. Pansy's hips moved of their own volition against his lips, each new pass drawing a new sound from her lips. Harry teased her higher and higher, pushing her to the edge before backing off and allowing her to come back down. But he didn't give her that final push she craved, even as her grip on his hair tightened and she held him against her body.
One long finger slipped into her inner passage and crooked upward, teasing her body from deep within. That was the final push she needed. Pansy cried his name as her orgasm washed over her. Her breathing was heavy, her legs shaky as his lips and tongue slowed their ministrations against her.
When she opened her eyes, she looked down to find him looking up at her with a small, satisfied smile playing at his lips. "Am I forgiven?"
"No," she replied immediately. Then her lips curled. "Not yet."
I knew it from the first Old Fashioned
We were cursed
We never had a shot, gunshot in the dark
["Getaway Car" by Taylor Swift]
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