um.. omgiwrotehet shuddup.
Someone Like You
By dramaphile
Pairing: Draco/Hermione, Harry/Draco (implied), Hermione/Pansy (implied), Harry/Pansy
Rated: Smut, pure and simple
Disclaimer: If I was JKR or had her permission, do really think I would be writing smut on the internet and not publishing books?
Summary: She needs this so badly, to pretend he is someone he is not and she is not drowning in pieces of her heart.
A/N:Special thanks to alittlewhisper for the kickass beta job, cmere1 for the look-over and to the rest of my girls for their encouragement and slaying of the wibbly pile of me whilst writing this monster. X-posted to hp_bitextual and... er... where does one post het things, anyway?
Someone Like You
They leave in a shower of rice and lavender bubbles and charmed paper cranes that flit about their heads as they climb onto Harry’s broom. Pansy is radiant, drowning in a sea of white tulle and flowers and satin, hair pinned into elegant curls beneath her veil. She wraps her arms around his chest and presses a small kiss to Harry’s neck as he kicks off and they fly away, disappearing into the clouds as the wedding guests wave at them happily.
Hermione feels the false smile fall from her mouth, cheeks aching from the effort, and she heads to the bridal room to start cleaning up the aftermath of the wedding and to scoop up the remains of her heart. She is adamant not to lose composure in front of everyone. Not here, not like this. There will be time for mourning, she thinks, but even now her lips tremble and the back of her throat aches. She slams the door shut behind her and sinks down against it, ripping the flowers from her hair.
“Fuck,” she sobs, throwing pins and baby’s breath onto the floor as she takes down her carefully pinned hair, letting her curls fall freely.
“You too, Granger?” a smooth voice drawls from across the room.
She starts at the sound, recognizing the voice immediately. She had expected to be alone. She never would have made such a spectacle of herself in the presence of someone else.
“What do you want, Malfoy?” She looks up at him, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her fist. His tuxedo shirt is unbuttoned at the top and a black bowtie hangs untied around his neck. The jacket is nowhere to be seen. She has rarely seen him less than impeccably dressed, and never like this, lounging on the window seat, holding a half-empty bottle of champagne in one hand while raking through his long blond hair with the other.
“Friend of the bride?” he asks, and there’s no need for him to clarify, because he knows, probably better than anyone else does. He’d caught them once, Hermione pressed up against a closet wall, gasping, Pansy‘s small hand shoved into Hermione’s knickers. She’d come right then, eyes wide, as Pansy bit into her neck and flicked against her clit and Draco slammed the door shut, a look of vague horror on his face. Pansy had tracked him down after, begging, pleading for him to keep his mouth shut and he promised to do so, if only because Pansy was his best friend and he knew better than to place himself at the receiving end of one of her hexes.
“I kept holding out hope, but they looked so goddamn happy together.” She buries her face in her hands, breath hitching, and Draco moves over to her, sliding down to sit beside her and place a tentative hand on her shoulder.
“Well, misery loves company, and I’ve half a bottle of this swill left.” Malfoy thrusts the bottle of champagne into her hands and she takes a swig and sets the bottle on her knee, watching the bubbles rise to the surface. She looks at him now, really looks, and she recognizes the furrow between his eyebrows and the downward turn of his mouth and the utter despair in his eyes.
“Do you love her too?” She is, for a moment, absurdly jealous that someone else might think he loves Pansy as much as she does, but he shakes his head and she breathes again.
“Pansy? Oh God, no. She’s like my sister!”
Hermione stares, wondering how she could have been so blind. Draco doesn’t love Pansy, he loves-
“I had no idea,” she says, putting a hand on his knee, and he turns away, taking another mouthful of champagne from the bottle.
“Yes well, it’s all done with now, isn’t it?” There is a tone of defeat in his voice that makes something in Hermione break a little, because she knows that feeling all too well.
She takes a long drink from the bottle, wishing they had something harder than fizzy wine, and then takes another. She hopes it will be enough to drive the ache from her chest, but a little voice in the back of her mind tells her that there’s not nearly enough alcohol left in the bottle to even get her tipsy.
Malfoy is pretty for a man, much prettier than she’s ever noticed, and his lips look soft when they are not curled into a smirk or a cold sneer. She reaches over to brush a lock of hair from his eyes, suddenly craving the comfort of human touch, but he grabs her wrist.
“Don’t,” he says simply, but she does not draw her hand away. Instead, she slides it down to entwine her fingers with his, nearly jealous of how delicate and soft his hands are.
“You can imagine I’m him,” she says, closing her eyes, and she leans in, pressing her lips against his. He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t push her away, just lets her kiss him, allows her to wind her hands in his soft hair and if she imagines hard enough, she’s not kissing Malfoy, but kissing her.
Her tongue nudges between his lips and he opens his mouth under hers, tongues tangling together, and she needs this so badly, to pretend he is someone he is not and she is not drowning in pieces of her heart. She unbuttons his shirt with unsure hands and arches her neck as he leans down and presses his face into her shoulder, teeth nipping at her skin. If she closes her eyes, she can almost believe she is somewhere else, with the one she wants, but she is grounded as her hands slip down his chest to the waistband of his trousers and she encounters the stiff evidence of his masculinity. She pulls her hand away, suddenly wondering what she’s doing, but he is pulling her to her feet and pressing her against the wall, and kissing her hard and this is exactly what she needs. She needs to lose herself, right here, or she might not ever find herself again.
He hikes up the skirts of her fluffy dress and then lifts one of her legs over his hip, settling his erection between her thighs and grinding against her just there. She hisses, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and onto the floor and then digging her manicured nails into his back.
She doesn’t even know how or when she got so wet, but she’s aching, needing so badly to be touched and teased and filled. Malfoy needs it too, she can see it in his eyes and feel it in his desperate kisses, so she uses her leg to press him closer and thrusts up against him, feeling the heat of his hardness through the damp fabric of her knickers.
They are both gasping now, Hermione pressing her open mouth to Malfoy’s neck as they rock together, the tulle of her dress pressed between their chests, and Hermione licks Malfoy’s jaw, his light stubble rough against her tongue, before nipping at his earlobe.
“Fuck me,” she murmurs in his ear, and he looks at her with wild eyes, as if he’s finally coming to his senses until she grinds against him again and he moans openly.
“Where?” he asks as he looks around for a suitable surface, but Hermione has already turned around and placed his hands on the zip of her dress.
“Here,” she says, stepping out of the mountain of tulle, and then tugs down her knickers. Malfoy hesitates for just a moment, eyes following her feminine curves and then lets his trousers and underpants fall. She does not look down, but instead turns towards the wall, bracing herself on her palms. She hasn’t done this since she was eighteen, not with a man, but the feel of his soft hands on her hips and the hard press of his cock against her buttocks is so familiar. Like riding a bicycle, she muses, and presses her arse back against him, curving her back.
“Close your eyes,” she says, and then reaches back to guide him into her and oh, it’s so different than the hard press of Pansy’s fingers and she’s so full of him that she can’t help but thrust back against him, leaning forward against the wall and closing her eyes. She can’t help but remember the day Pansy had her on all fours, tongue on her clit and a dildo buried deep inside her, fucking her relentlessly until she sobbed her release, broken shudders of pleasure wracking her body, and then held her tenderly after, stroking her hair and telling her how beautiful she was. Hermione bites her lip and squeezes her inner muscles around Malfoy’s cock, a rush of adrenaline coursing through her as he groans and thrusts faster, trailing his hand over her hip. He traces a burning path down her stomach to tangle his fingers in her curls, fingers pressing against her clit, bringing her ever closer to attaining release.
His thrusts grow more erratic, faster, deeper, harder, and she moans and tries to keep up, finally settling for just bracing herself and letting him pound into her, fingers working her clit, not quite hitting the right rhythm to bring her off.
She moans in frustration and he cries out, suddenly, “Fuck, Ha-”and his cock pulses within her, wet heat spreading inside her body.
Hermione pushes away his fingers and uses her own hand, desperate for some kind of release, grinding against his softening cock, and nearly screams in frustration as he pulls away from her, then turns her around.
“Close your eyes and imagine I’m her,” he says softly, and then sinks to his knees, pulling one of her legs over his shoulder and ohgod, his tongue flicks out against her and her head falls back against the wall. She buries her hands in soft hair, imagining jet black strands between her fingers instead of white-blonde, and she can’t help but moan as his tongue works her, lapping at her soaked cunt, and god, licking up his semen from her and fuck, she never thought that could be so hot. He slides two fingers into her, thrusting slowly, curving and pressing just right, and she gasps sharply as he seals his lips around her clit and sucks then she is gone, hands tightening in his hair, clenching around his fingers and she bites her bottom lip because she doesn’t trust herself not to cry out Pansy’s name, or maybe even his, at this height of ecstasy.
Her breath hitches as he slowly licks her, bringing her down. Hermione’s knees buckle, but Malfoy steadies her, helping her move slowly to the floor on shaking legs.
“Tha-” she starts, breathlessly, and Malfoy presses a finger to her lips, hushing her.
“Don’t say it,” he says softly, and sits down beside her, the side of his bare thigh pressed against hers, and she closes her mouth. He rummages through his pockets and his hands emerge with a packet of fags and a lighter, placing one between his lips; Hermione’s cunt shudders with an aftershock, remembering where that mouth has just been.
Malfoy holds the packet out, offering her one, but she shakes her head, pushing damp, curly hair out of her face.
“Those are deadly, you know,” Hermione says half-heartedly, and he lights the cigarette, watching as smoke curls from the tip.
“True,” he says thoughtfully, between drags, “but so is wishing for something you can never have.”
By dramaphile
Pairing: Draco/Hermione, Harry/Draco (implied), Hermione/Pansy (implied), Harry/Pansy
Rated: Smut, pure and simple
Disclaimer: If I was JKR or had her permission, do really think I would be writing smut on the internet and not publishing books?
Summary: She needs this so badly, to pretend he is someone he is not and she is not drowning in pieces of her heart.
A/N:Special thanks to alittlewhisper for the kickass beta job, cmere1 for the look-over and to the rest of my girls for their encouragement and slaying of the wibbly pile of me whilst writing this monster. X-posted to hp_bitextual and... er... where does one post het things, anyway?
Someone Like You
They leave in a shower of rice and lavender bubbles and charmed paper cranes that flit about their heads as they climb onto Harry’s broom. Pansy is radiant, drowning in a sea of white tulle and flowers and satin, hair pinned into elegant curls beneath her veil. She wraps her arms around his chest and presses a small kiss to Harry’s neck as he kicks off and they fly away, disappearing into the clouds as the wedding guests wave at them happily.
Hermione feels the false smile fall from her mouth, cheeks aching from the effort, and she heads to the bridal room to start cleaning up the aftermath of the wedding and to scoop up the remains of her heart. She is adamant not to lose composure in front of everyone. Not here, not like this. There will be time for mourning, she thinks, but even now her lips tremble and the back of her throat aches. She slams the door shut behind her and sinks down against it, ripping the flowers from her hair.
“Fuck,” she sobs, throwing pins and baby’s breath onto the floor as she takes down her carefully pinned hair, letting her curls fall freely.
“You too, Granger?” a smooth voice drawls from across the room.
She starts at the sound, recognizing the voice immediately. She had expected to be alone. She never would have made such a spectacle of herself in the presence of someone else.
“What do you want, Malfoy?” She looks up at him, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her fist. His tuxedo shirt is unbuttoned at the top and a black bowtie hangs untied around his neck. The jacket is nowhere to be seen. She has rarely seen him less than impeccably dressed, and never like this, lounging on the window seat, holding a half-empty bottle of champagne in one hand while raking through his long blond hair with the other.
“Friend of the bride?” he asks, and there’s no need for him to clarify, because he knows, probably better than anyone else does. He’d caught them once, Hermione pressed up against a closet wall, gasping, Pansy‘s small hand shoved into Hermione’s knickers. She’d come right then, eyes wide, as Pansy bit into her neck and flicked against her clit and Draco slammed the door shut, a look of vague horror on his face. Pansy had tracked him down after, begging, pleading for him to keep his mouth shut and he promised to do so, if only because Pansy was his best friend and he knew better than to place himself at the receiving end of one of her hexes.
“I kept holding out hope, but they looked so goddamn happy together.” She buries her face in her hands, breath hitching, and Draco moves over to her, sliding down to sit beside her and place a tentative hand on her shoulder.
“Well, misery loves company, and I’ve half a bottle of this swill left.” Malfoy thrusts the bottle of champagne into her hands and she takes a swig and sets the bottle on her knee, watching the bubbles rise to the surface. She looks at him now, really looks, and she recognizes the furrow between his eyebrows and the downward turn of his mouth and the utter despair in his eyes.
“Do you love her too?” She is, for a moment, absurdly jealous that someone else might think he loves Pansy as much as she does, but he shakes his head and she breathes again.
“Pansy? Oh God, no. She’s like my sister!”
Hermione stares, wondering how she could have been so blind. Draco doesn’t love Pansy, he loves-
“I had no idea,” she says, putting a hand on his knee, and he turns away, taking another mouthful of champagne from the bottle.
“Yes well, it’s all done with now, isn’t it?” There is a tone of defeat in his voice that makes something in Hermione break a little, because she knows that feeling all too well.
She takes a long drink from the bottle, wishing they had something harder than fizzy wine, and then takes another. She hopes it will be enough to drive the ache from her chest, but a little voice in the back of her mind tells her that there’s not nearly enough alcohol left in the bottle to even get her tipsy.
Malfoy is pretty for a man, much prettier than she’s ever noticed, and his lips look soft when they are not curled into a smirk or a cold sneer. She reaches over to brush a lock of hair from his eyes, suddenly craving the comfort of human touch, but he grabs her wrist.
“Don’t,” he says simply, but she does not draw her hand away. Instead, she slides it down to entwine her fingers with his, nearly jealous of how delicate and soft his hands are.
“You can imagine I’m him,” she says, closing her eyes, and she leans in, pressing her lips against his. He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t push her away, just lets her kiss him, allows her to wind her hands in his soft hair and if she imagines hard enough, she’s not kissing Malfoy, but kissing her.
Her tongue nudges between his lips and he opens his mouth under hers, tongues tangling together, and she needs this so badly, to pretend he is someone he is not and she is not drowning in pieces of her heart. She unbuttons his shirt with unsure hands and arches her neck as he leans down and presses his face into her shoulder, teeth nipping at her skin. If she closes her eyes, she can almost believe she is somewhere else, with the one she wants, but she is grounded as her hands slip down his chest to the waistband of his trousers and she encounters the stiff evidence of his masculinity. She pulls her hand away, suddenly wondering what she’s doing, but he is pulling her to her feet and pressing her against the wall, and kissing her hard and this is exactly what she needs. She needs to lose herself, right here, or she might not ever find herself again.
He hikes up the skirts of her fluffy dress and then lifts one of her legs over his hip, settling his erection between her thighs and grinding against her just there. She hisses, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and onto the floor and then digging her manicured nails into his back.
She doesn’t even know how or when she got so wet, but she’s aching, needing so badly to be touched and teased and filled. Malfoy needs it too, she can see it in his eyes and feel it in his desperate kisses, so she uses her leg to press him closer and thrusts up against him, feeling the heat of his hardness through the damp fabric of her knickers.
They are both gasping now, Hermione pressing her open mouth to Malfoy’s neck as they rock together, the tulle of her dress pressed between their chests, and Hermione licks Malfoy’s jaw, his light stubble rough against her tongue, before nipping at his earlobe.
“Fuck me,” she murmurs in his ear, and he looks at her with wild eyes, as if he’s finally coming to his senses until she grinds against him again and he moans openly.
“Where?” he asks as he looks around for a suitable surface, but Hermione has already turned around and placed his hands on the zip of her dress.
“Here,” she says, stepping out of the mountain of tulle, and then tugs down her knickers. Malfoy hesitates for just a moment, eyes following her feminine curves and then lets his trousers and underpants fall. She does not look down, but instead turns towards the wall, bracing herself on her palms. She hasn’t done this since she was eighteen, not with a man, but the feel of his soft hands on her hips and the hard press of his cock against her buttocks is so familiar. Like riding a bicycle, she muses, and presses her arse back against him, curving her back.
“Close your eyes,” she says, and then reaches back to guide him into her and oh, it’s so different than the hard press of Pansy’s fingers and she’s so full of him that she can’t help but thrust back against him, leaning forward against the wall and closing her eyes. She can’t help but remember the day Pansy had her on all fours, tongue on her clit and a dildo buried deep inside her, fucking her relentlessly until she sobbed her release, broken shudders of pleasure wracking her body, and then held her tenderly after, stroking her hair and telling her how beautiful she was. Hermione bites her lip and squeezes her inner muscles around Malfoy’s cock, a rush of adrenaline coursing through her as he groans and thrusts faster, trailing his hand over her hip. He traces a burning path down her stomach to tangle his fingers in her curls, fingers pressing against her clit, bringing her ever closer to attaining release.
His thrusts grow more erratic, faster, deeper, harder, and she moans and tries to keep up, finally settling for just bracing herself and letting him pound into her, fingers working her clit, not quite hitting the right rhythm to bring her off.
She moans in frustration and he cries out, suddenly, “Fuck, Ha-”and his cock pulses within her, wet heat spreading inside her body.
Hermione pushes away his fingers and uses her own hand, desperate for some kind of release, grinding against his softening cock, and nearly screams in frustration as he pulls away from her, then turns her around.
“Close your eyes and imagine I’m her,” he says softly, and then sinks to his knees, pulling one of her legs over his shoulder and ohgod, his tongue flicks out against her and her head falls back against the wall. She buries her hands in soft hair, imagining jet black strands between her fingers instead of white-blonde, and she can’t help but moan as his tongue works her, lapping at her soaked cunt, and god, licking up his semen from her and fuck, she never thought that could be so hot. He slides two fingers into her, thrusting slowly, curving and pressing just right, and she gasps sharply as he seals his lips around her clit and sucks then she is gone, hands tightening in his hair, clenching around his fingers and she bites her bottom lip because she doesn’t trust herself not to cry out Pansy’s name, or maybe even his, at this height of ecstasy.
Her breath hitches as he slowly licks her, bringing her down. Hermione’s knees buckle, but Malfoy steadies her, helping her move slowly to the floor on shaking legs.
“Tha-” she starts, breathlessly, and Malfoy presses a finger to her lips, hushing her.
“Don’t say it,” he says softly, and sits down beside her, the side of his bare thigh pressed against hers, and she closes her mouth. He rummages through his pockets and his hands emerge with a packet of fags and a lighter, placing one between his lips; Hermione’s cunt shudders with an aftershock, remembering where that mouth has just been.
Malfoy holds the packet out, offering her one, but she shakes her head, pushing damp, curly hair out of her face.
“Those are deadly, you know,” Hermione says half-heartedly, and he lights the cigarette, watching as smoke curls from the tip.
“True,” he says thoughtfully, between drags, “but so is wishing for something you can never have.”