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mickume
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alt_potterverse

Dataset card Data Studio Files
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Tonight her mouth is tart with the champagne we've drunk. Just one sip, then another; just enough to settle crisply on our tongues. She licks it from my lips.
"Lover," she sighs, "are you going to tease me all night?"
No, I'm not. I take her hand and pull her into the gardens, where the evening dew is already beginning to settle on the grass.
It's not all obscenities, filth and pornographic daydreams, though it sometimes is. Yes, I want to slide my tongue around the pearl of her nipple, but that's not why I bring her here. We are friends, truly, above all else. We whisper between kisses about nothing, about this and that. None of it is particularly importan...
"He tells me he wants a baby soon," she tells me resentfully, stroking my cheek. "Will you still love me when I'm fat?"
"You'll be glorious," I say. "I'll feed you cakes and brush your hair."
She laughs. She is the only person on this earth who finds me funny, which makes me bury my lips in the hollow of her throat, catching the sound.
"I'll rub your feet," I say, inhaling the smell of her. Floral and sweet, with the hint of smoke that means she probably sat on her balcony and smoked today, barefoot. She likes to do it; considers it meditation of a sort, though her husband chides her for it. He dislikes the habit, finding it common, even crass. For h...
"I'll run your baths," I add, because the image of her drenched in oils, rose petals floating beside her bare skin while she smokes in secret, is too tempting to resist.
"Will you?" she murmurs idly. She toys with my hair, working her fingers through it.
"Your confinement with me will be exquisite," I say. "The height of luxury."
"Mm." She smiles at me, pulling me closer. "Come here, lover."
Enough chatting, then. I steal a hand up her leg, smoothing my palm over her thigh, and brush the material of her garter. "Speaking of luxury," I say, noting it.
"Well, why not spend the money, if I have it?" she says listlessly, irreverent as always with her wealth.
I lean forward, brushing the tips of my fingers over the bone of her clavicle, watching her inhale sharply. "Did you wear it for me?"
"You," she says, "are the only one who would appreciate it."
I think it's probably a soft pink, or a pale green, or a butter yellow. She loves her pastels. They match her taste for delicacy, or her imitation of it. Really, she is not very delicate. When we fight, as we sometimes do, she screams, she swears, she breaks things. I'm the one that goes cold, icy and cruel, but we nev...
I pass my tongue over her lower lip when I kiss her, lazily. My consumption of her kiss is gluttonous; I am savoring her slowly. She, on the other hand, nips at me. "We haven't much time," she says. "I told him I'd be gone an hour, no more than two."
I don't begrudge her the urgency of limitation. We've had all night before. We've woken in each other's arms at dawn before, and we will again. Someday, I will probably be found dead in her arms; such scandal.
But tonight, expediency is key. I push her hard against the tree, brazenly drawing her skirts up to her hips so she shivers from the breeze. Ah, I was wrong; the lingerie is not pastel. The lace is a deep red, like spilled wine. I wish I had some now, if only to let it dribble down the contours of her stomach.
"How festive," I say, running a finger over the lace.
She smiles thinly. "Not too garish, I hope?"
"Not at all," I say, and tug her bodice down, running my tongue over her breasts. She shivers again; it's cold outside, and I have nearly all of her exposed. I'm sure she'd rather be in my bed, warmed by the fire, but I want her here, somewhere new, adding to the files of my imaginings. In my bed she's only someone els...
My tongue scrapes over her nipple and I bite, I lick, I suck. She squirms, tugging my hair. Below the fabric of her gown is a piercing in her navel, which I run my fingers over lightly, sweetly, fondly. Her husband detests it, or so she told me, laughing while I stroked it, greeting it like an old friend. It's a remnan...
Later I will curl my tongue around it, just to watch the diamonds glint.
"You'll tear the dress," she says.
"I know," I tell her, and slide my fingers below her knickers. She is warm and soft, like velvet; smooth and sleek, like silk. The finery of her is undeniable. I'd pin her to my walls like art.
"Did you think of me earlier?" I ask, curious.
"Yes," she says without hesitation. There are no secrets between us.
"And did you come?"
"Twice," she says.
"Only twice?" How disappointing of me.
"Well, I was in a hurry."
Everything is a hurry today, it seems. I'm a bit vexed by it, as I always am. I wish we could slow down, take our time.
"He was in the next room," she clarifies.
"What made you so urgent?"
"I had a thought." Her lips twist, half-smiling. "A memory."
"You had me all tied up," she says. "Like the night we—"
"Ah yes, that night."
"I think of that night often."
Almost incessantly. How anyone could resist tying this woman to their bed is a mystery. I resent that I ever let her loose. The image of her fills my mind anew (there had been no lingerie that night; she came to me bare, borne from the green-lit tongues of my fireplace like Venus incandescent) and I toy with her knicke...
"You'll have to cry out for me," I say, pretending to lament giving orders. As if I could ever bemoan the intoxication of hearing her beg. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist."
"And if someone hears?" she asks primly.
But we both know, firstly, that they won't, and that more importantly, the chance of someone hearing has never stopped her before.
I taste her through the lace, first. She enjoys the malice of anticipation. Once, when we were still at school, I touched her like this in secret only to promptly walk away, leaving her to smother the savagery of her wanting for hours. I remember seeing her legs pressed together from where I sat elsewhere in the room, ...
She struggles to stay upright when I begin to run my tongue along the affluence of her thighs, sweetly at first. Her legs shake almost immediately, and were I not on my knees, I'd struggle to remain aloft myself. She is so tempting, so sinfully rich. I could gorge myself on only her for days and hardly notice I was sta...
Her fingers grasp the strands of my hair like reins, tugging them hard. "Lover," she gasps, trembling in earnest. "I think this time I'll die."
I try not to boast, but in fairness to me, I've been told I have a clever tongue.
"Louder," I say.
She has her eyes shut so tightly she may soon rupture, so I rise to my feet, catching her gasp of dismay in my mouth and forcing her arms above her head. I know precisely the way she is aching from my absence. I know the way she throbs for me, undone.
She arches her back, prodding me with her hips, and I ignore it.
"Can he make you come like I can?" I ask her.
"No," she says.
"Does he taste like me?"
"When he fucks you—"
"I think of you," she whispers, and as a reward, I kiss her neck. "You," she says, and I bite down, lightly. "You, you, you," she murmurs mindlessly. She must have whispered it to herself earlier today, smoking with one hand while she mimicked my touch with the other.
She sobs a little when my fingers find her again. She takes my palm and presses it hard against her, clutching me with the agony of insatiation. Poor thing, so starved without me.
"Good," I say. "That's what I thought."
When I return her to her husband, he sees nothing amiss. Her chignon has been repolished, her beauty charms replenished, her dress repaired. He doesn't know the way I made her come with her back in the evening dew, the fabric only recently dried. He doesn't know the obscenities that fell from her lips, the grass that s...
"Did you enjoy yourself?" he asks her.
"Immensely," she replies, and gives me the look that means she will think of me again, probably in the bath. Maybe she'll even wait until her husband's asleep before touching herself right next to him, exhaling my name, the word lover, in penitent silence. "Bye, then," she tells me.
Her husband and I exchange niceties in her absence. I lick the taste of his wife's arousal from my lips, complimenting him on his decor. "A lovely tapestry," I remark.
He's a rich man who purchased her outright; I, having nothing of my own, would have never had a chance. She knew it when she first kissed me, as did I.
"Oh yes, it's new," he says vacantly, disinterested.
Someday I'll kill him. Maybe next time. She'll make a lovely widow; she is irresistible in the solemnity of black, and when she cries, or cries out, her eyes have a tendency to sparkle. If I put myself to task, her ravishment could look enough like grief.
"See you," her husband tells me. Upstairs, I think perhaps she's already undressed and in the bath, our indiscretions freshly played behind her eyes. She really only pretends at patience; I know her true nature.
"See you," I reply, and turn to leave. Someday I will tire of the pretense.
That day is not today.
"How did she find the new garden?" asks my husband, leaning in to kiss my cheek when he arrives home hours later.
"Satisfying," I say. I pause for a moment, considering what other mutinies I might attempt. We certainly have the money. "We should do the bedroom next," I suggest. "Don't you think?"
"Whatever you want," he tells me, and wanders off.
I find a quill. Daphne, darling, I write, What do you think about the master suite? I thought you might assist me in the bath.
A laugh until I make her come, and then it becomes a secret.
Her response finds me late. The page is damp with splashes of rose oil and salacity.
My dearest Pansy, I'm happy to help. You know how I adore your taste.
Pairing: Harmony (Harry x Hermione)
Universe: ambiguous even to me
Rating: M for sex
It occurs to him while it's happening that he doesn't want anyone to find out about this, ever. This is an unexpected feeling, because he isn't really secretive by nature? Usually he'd find a way to tell someone, only one of the people he'd want to tell this to is already here and the other one is... not going to want ...
So yeah. Nobody can ever find out about this.
Which isn't to say he's not enjoying himself at the moment. He's pretty sure he didn't start it? It's foggy because she was so cross with Ron earlier that she was shaking with either rage or... no, just rage, so anyway, comforting her was essentially a full-bodied activity. He was hugging her and sure, it occurred to h...
She kissed me first pops into his head as a defense, but that's childish, isn't it? That wouldn't stand up in court, and certainly not once he'd kissed her back. The judge would say okay Mr Potter, so what did you do after your best friend's girlfriend/your other best friend kissed you? and he'd have to confess that he...
(this is his mind screaming)
and he'd kept going until he slid her knickers away, and she was
(this is his blood rushing)
and he'd thought bloody christ, did I do this? And before he could say anything like Hermione, just answer me one question, did I make you this wet or is this possibly somehow unrelated?, she'd moaned a little and the effect of it had thrilled up his spine, ridding him of whatever paltry thought process remained.
At the moment he's sliding his fingers in and out of her and okay, he doesn't actually know if he's ready to escalate this, nor does he understand what impulse he had to even arrive here. Which isn't to say he hasn't done things—he's obviously kissed girls before, and fit ones, too—but this, with Hermione, is new, and ...
"Keep going," she tells him, her eyes glassy and unfocused, and his mind becomes somehow even less useful, because now she's wrenching on the roots of his hair. He picks up speed a bit and her hand moves faster and faster and he wants to see what she's doing so he shifts her in his lap to lift up part of her skirt, and...
"Oh my god," she exhales, breathing hard.
She looks at him and he looks back at her and his fingers are still, you know, inside her.
"Er," he says, because he's a fucking idiot. "So... what now?"
"Um." She looks at him studiously, concentrating, and then she starts to... move. She moves her hips in a circle with his fingers still inside her, and when she does it she brushes the head of his cock. He inhales sharply and she bucks her hips again, harder this time, and he's not actually doing anything with his fing...
The sensation leaves him in waves and he releases her, arms falling limp at his sides.
"We should probably never tell anyone about this," she says, biting her lip.
He nods with his eyes closed and she slides away from his lap, adjusting her skirt.
"For what it's worth, I feel much better," she adds.
He can't tell if she's joking. He squints at her, and he seriously has no idea.
"Well, okay then," she says, and rises to her feet. "Bye."
She really has no intention to do it again. She locks it inside her mind because she knows this is stupid, because he's so well-liked and she's so... her that it would obviously never work. She's watched him break up with plenty of girls before and she has no intention of being one of them, and anyway, it's not that sh...
Unfortunately he's only getting more attractive and it's inconvenient. Downright rude.