traintracks (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
traintracks) wrote2013-11-10 05:32 pm
traintracks) wrote2013-11-10 05:32 pm
samhain_smut fic: "They Searched for Blue", Hermione/Pansy, NC-17
Title: They Searched for Blue
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
traintracks at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
samhain_smut
Prompt # 72 – "Hermione has always been curious what it would be like to be with another woman. At a masked/costumed Halloween ball, she gets the chance to experiment."
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Hermione/Pansy (mentions of past Hermione/Ron, Pansy/Daphne) Rose, McGonagall
Rating: NC-17
Summary I think the prompt covers it!
Word Count: 2,365
Warnings/Content: sexually-somewhat-inadequate!Ron, mention of non-canon major character death (not one of the main pairings), angst
Author's notes: The title taken from Shel Silverstein's poem, "Masks", included at the end. Thank you to my two amazing betas,tamlane and elrhiarhodan!
Originally posted here.
Behind a feathered mask, Pansy Parkinson's eyes could almost pass as kind. Hermione stands close enough to watch her blink, her eyelashes catching on iridescent green tufts of down.
It's a costume party, and they are the only two who opted just to wear masks. Hermione thinks this could be a sign.
"What do you want, Granger?" Pansy says. Maybe it's the alcohol that makes the question more breath, less threat. Maybe it's the candlelight everywhere, the way it bathes her angles in soft, diffuse shadow. She just looks less Slytherin somehow.
Maybe it's the decade between their Hogwarts years and now, or the fact that they've managed to work in the same building a good deal of that time without getting into a duel.
Maybe it's the fact that, as office parties go, the Ministry's Hallowe'en fete this year is feeling rather lackluster. The news of Minerva McGonagall's death came only three weeks prior. Everything still seems subdued, muted, as though the lights can't summon the wattage to go on or the magic in all their wands has dwindled in mourning.
Hermione had wanted to introduce little two year-old Rosie to her former mentor. She'd thought they'd have time. Hermione feels time slipping away like warm sand underfoot.
She isn't sure why Pansy Parkinson is even suffering her presence now – unless it's the over-fortified punch Hermione feels sure Fred's ghost had a hand in doctoring as he's been floating about looking mischievous as ever – but whatever it is, Pansy's dark eyes shine wet and dilated as she stares at Hermione in incomprehension.
"What do you want?" Pansy says again, even softer, maybe even afraid.
"Something else," Hermione says and slips her fingers around Pansy's bare arm.
…
As Hermione leads Pansy between the clusters of party-goers, dodging spilled drinks and unwanted conversation – Ernie MacMillan in a gorilla suit, Padma Patil waddling around in her mermaid costume – she realizes that Pansy is far from a bad choice for this. Empirically, she's attractive. On a purely physical level, she's got curves that are easy to stare at. Her bobbed hair reveals a neck that, if one were inclined, looks bitable.
Then there's the fact that they're both somewhat newly single. Hermione doesn't know the details of Pansy's split from Daphne – they aren't at all friends, of course – but it's the Ministry; to say the walls talk isn't even a metaphor. As for Hermione, she and Ron went their separate ways eight months ago.
The Veil is closed on her past, Hermione feels, more than ever.
She's been wondering if tonight would be a good night for letting it open on something new.
Pansy's arm is cool and trembling in her hand. Hermione winds out of the main room and its laughter and cackling and spooky ridiculousness. She dislikes how Americanized their parties have become – how unmagical, commercial. She longs for a return to something pagan and real. Something's gone that she feels she used to have. Something of her got left behind somewhere between winning a war and losing loved ones. Something in her feels like it's about to be erased.
Pansy doesn't ask, Where are we going? She doesn't say a word. Hermione slips her hand down and links their fingers together. Pansy exhales against the back of her neck, shuddering. Maybe she's felt this coming, too. Maybe she's noticed Hermione's long looks at departmental meetings. Maybe she's sensed the interest, the almost detached way Hermione has considered her.
Perhaps it's the false sense of anonymity they can foster wearing these silly masks.
Or perhaps it's some mirrored interior rage Pansy has held in, too. Maybe she feels the same intensity of discontent, of needing more from her life. Of having given too much.
Hermione drags her into one of the lifts. She almost doesn't bother letting it drop out of view before she pushes Pansy against the wall and pins her wrists there. The excitement of it is nearly unbearable. They start to descend, only a metal grate between them and whoever might be on passing floors. Pansy's breasts rise and fall with her rapid breaths, and Hermione can feel the hard peaks of her tits through the silk, the soft curve of flesh over the flimsy bodice.
Hermione presses in. Their parted lips touch, but they don't kiss. Hermione fits her thigh between Pansy's legs, and Pansy's body ripples with pleasure. Hermione doesn't even know where the lift is taking them, and she doesn't care. They're just moving through space. Hermione rolls her hips, and Pansy undulates against her, shivering. The hint of a moan catches in her throat, and her lips part further against Hermione's.
Hermione resituates and holds both wrists over Pansy's head and then drops her free hand to hike up Pansy's thin dress, fumbling in her hurry. She can't believe she's doing this – that she's turned into a person who would solicit a woman, a former enemy, for wordless sex in a lift while a party goes on floors above them. Hermione's heart thuds like a ritual drum as she slips her fingers between Pansy's bare legs and finds soaked panties and a waiting whimper.
This is what she's been curious about. More than curious. This is the very thing that's haunted her in those minutes before sleep, when she can no longer exert any kind of tight control over her own mind. This is what she's been thinking about with her hand between her own legs. This is something she thinks she's tried not to want for quite some time.
Now that her fingers are stroking this impossibly hot place and making Pansy buck against her hand, Hermione's not sure why she tried so hard to avoid it. Pansy's body; her heat; the soft press of breasts against Hermione's own; the frightened, aroused breath against her cheek – it's all bloody marvelous.
The lift stops at the bottom floor, announcing the level, but Hermione doesn't stop. Instead, she slips her finger under wet lace. Pansy winds her leg around Hermione's hip, opening herself up for it. Neither one of them is stopping. Hermione's cunt clenches down in sudden arousal, and then she pushes her finger deep inside. Pansy groans loudly, throwing her head back, and the lift begins its ascent – back to the party – once more. Pansy's already moving on Hermione's finger, and so Hermione meets her, fucking her, amazed at the slick that leaks down her hand, at the very fact of being here like this – doing this, making another woman writhe.
She would kiss Pansy if she liked her at all. Then she thinks what the hell, and kisses her anyway. Pansy's mouth is whiskey warm, pliant like the rest of her. Her tongue is sweet, her breaths quick. Hermione adds a second finger and tastes the three tight seconds of pleasured shock – until Pansy groans again and starts riding her fingers faster, harder, striving. Ascending, ascending…
Hermione breaks the kiss to watch feather-framed dark eyes go darker and plead with her. They could get caught. In another minute, they'll be back at the party. Hermione adds a third finger. The butt of her hand hits Pansy's clit rhythmically, and then Pansy starts screaming.
Hermione gets out a wandless privacy charm just in time. She's almost too stunned to keep plunging her fingers into Pansy's cunt, but Pansy's moving enough for both of them, grinding and mewling, head thrashing back and forth against the vibrating wall of the lift.
The waves lengthen out, cascading over Pansy's body every few seconds now. Hermione lets go of her wrists, and Pansy's hands land on her shoulders. Hermione moves her fingers experimentally and is rewarded by a sharp intake of breath. She slowly pulls out. Pansy's dress falls back down over her legs. Hermione raises her fingers to her lips, but before she can taste, Pansy grabs her wrist hard. She wraps succulent lips around Hermione's sticky fingers and goes down, licking and sucking them clean of herself.
It's Hermione's turn to gasp.
Pansy's scarlet-stained lips leave her fingertips, and she finally speaks. "You caught me off-guard, Granger," Pansy says, her voice deeper, changed from screaming her orgasm. "That's not going to happen again." She orders the lift to stop at the next floor, just one below the party. Hermione's floor.
Then the lift doors are opening, and Pansy is shoving her out into the hall. Not hard, but insistent. Pansy walks her back until Hermione runs into her own office door.
"Open it," Pansy says.
Hermione demurs to the demand, her whole body aching for this – whatever this is. Pansy backs Hermione into the room, throwing the door shut. She backs her into her own desk and knocks the surface free, the lamp and her pictures of Rosie and Harry and everyone else flying to the floor with an astounding clatter. Pansy's so close and so intent that Hermione has no choice but to mount her own desk, lying back as Pansy lifts her skirt, working it up her hips. Pansy rips her panties down and off, and Hermione never expected to feel so good with someone who so obviously harbors no respect for her things. Maybe for her, either.
Hermione doesn't care about any of it right now. Her naked pussy is throbbing, and Pansy is leaning over her, ripping her blouse open and then yanking her bra down until her breasts are exposed, her nipples ready.
Pansy takes one peak into her mouth, greedily sucking and then flicking at her in turn. Hermione arches into it, her hands scrabbling against the desk for purchase. Pansy lifts her knees, separating them, and Hermione feels the silk of her dress against her aching pussy.
"My God…" Hermione breathes, mouth falling open in ecstasy. Pansy switches tits and laves her until Hermione is ready to come from that alone.
Hermione doesn't want to make comparisons. She really doesn't. But she can't help but be aware that where Ron's mouth was always a bit over-eager to the point of clumsiness (and his ardor and enthusiasm were often enough for her on their own), Pansy is deft. Pansy has finesse. Pansy listens to Hermione's body and somehow instinctively knows that arching means harder and twisting means softer and holding her breath means she might come soon. These are the things she hadn't even known well enough herself, much less to the extent that she could teach Ron.
Pansy's mouth moves over Hermione's body like she's had a bloody map to it all along.
But any and all of those kinds of thoughts go straight out of her head when Pansy releases her damp breasts to the caress of the air and slides down between her thighs instead. Pansy presses her lips into Hermione's musky curls. The feathers of her mask tickle Hermione's inner thighs. Pansy parts the lips with her thumbs and then nestles between, licking slow and hot from her opening to her clit.
Hermione says something that doesn't adhere to any form of English she knows and grabs the edge of the desk over her head. Her knees fall open, and Pansy moans, her mouth full of Hermione's dripping cunt. She licks, slowly first, and over and over again. She works up to harder and faster. She works closer and closer to Hermione's clitoris, and Hermione thrusts uninhibitedly against Pansy's mouth.
Hermione whispers things – filthy things that she's never dared before. And Pansy's eating her out through it, fucking her tongue inside Hermione and then laving tight little licks right under her clit and then over it – until Hermione grabs her by the hair with one hand and rocks, the orgasm overtaking her and making her sound more animal than human.
Pansy presses her tongue to Hermione's jumping clit and hums in what sounds like appreciation. Hermione has never been appreciated by Pansy Parkinson in her life. The thought is ridiculous and stray. The smile that curves Hermione's lips can't be seen. She slips her hand through Pansy's hair, and when Pansy lifts her face, the mask comes off in Hermione's fingers.
Pansy stands and turns away, straightening her dress. She pulls a wand from a garter around her thigh, barely reachable through a high slit, and she mends their garments. Hermione sits up, her body still stubbornly thrumming.
Pansy reaches a hand back. "My mask?" she says.
Hermione wishes she'd show her face. She wonders if Pansy's eyes might not be so cruel as she remembers after all. But she hands the mask back to her anyway and watches Pansy don it again.
"You're a piece of work, Granger," Pansy tells her, but her voice shakes a little in a telling way. "You're the last person I expected to make this party worth coming to."
It's an admission and one Hermione never would have seen coming, even if it is a back-handed compliment at best.
Hermione stays perched on the edge of her desk. She buttons her mended blouse and crosses her legs. The clench of her thighs together produces another hard shockwave. Hermione swallows.
"Was that different enough for you?" Pansy asks then. Hermione hears the innocence in the question, the self-doubt, the hope.
The shattering orgasm and lingering smell of pussy on her fingers makes Hermione feel expansive, magnanimous. So she's honest. "It was bloody unbelievable."
Pansy, only then, turns to her. She's wearing a smirk now, but Hermione can see the blush beneath the mask. "Care to make it annual, then?"
"If you can wait that long," Hermione shoots back. Bantering. She's never considered herself a banterer.
Pansy laughs, conjures herself a cigarette, and lights it. Hermione is glad her 'thank you for not smoking' sign is one of the things Pansy dashed off her desk. She likes how Pansy's slick-shined lips wrap around the filter and lightly suck. She likes the gush of blue smoke from them. Pansy holds it out to her, but Hermione shakes her head no.
Pansy scoffs, "Gryffindor." Then she walks to the door and puts her hand on the knob. "See you around the party," she says over her bare shoulder.
Hermione takes a deep, sooty breath and nods. Then her first female lover walks out of her demolished office and back into the newly different world.
END
Masks
by Shel Silverstein
She had blue skin.
And so did he.
He kept it hid
And so did she.
They searched for blue
Their whole life through,
Then passed right by –
And never knew.
Author:
traintracks at samhain_smutPrompt # 72 – "Hermione has always been curious what it would be like to be with another woman. At a masked/costumed Halloween ball, she gets the chance to experiment."
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Hermione/Pansy (mentions of past Hermione/Ron, Pansy/Daphne) Rose, McGonagall
Rating: NC-17
Summary I think the prompt covers it!
Word Count: 2,365
Warnings/Content: sexually-somewhat-inadequate!Ron, mention of non-canon major character death (not one of the main pairings), angst
Author's notes: The title taken from Shel Silverstein's poem, "Masks", included at the end. Thank you to my two amazing betas,
tamlane and elrhiarhodan!Originally posted here.
Behind a feathered mask, Pansy Parkinson's eyes could almost pass as kind. Hermione stands close enough to watch her blink, her eyelashes catching on iridescent green tufts of down.
It's a costume party, and they are the only two who opted just to wear masks. Hermione thinks this could be a sign.
"What do you want, Granger?" Pansy says. Maybe it's the alcohol that makes the question more breath, less threat. Maybe it's the candlelight everywhere, the way it bathes her angles in soft, diffuse shadow. She just looks less Slytherin somehow.
Maybe it's the decade between their Hogwarts years and now, or the fact that they've managed to work in the same building a good deal of that time without getting into a duel.
Maybe it's the fact that, as office parties go, the Ministry's Hallowe'en fete this year is feeling rather lackluster. The news of Minerva McGonagall's death came only three weeks prior. Everything still seems subdued, muted, as though the lights can't summon the wattage to go on or the magic in all their wands has dwindled in mourning.
Hermione had wanted to introduce little two year-old Rosie to her former mentor. She'd thought they'd have time. Hermione feels time slipping away like warm sand underfoot.
She isn't sure why Pansy Parkinson is even suffering her presence now – unless it's the over-fortified punch Hermione feels sure Fred's ghost had a hand in doctoring as he's been floating about looking mischievous as ever – but whatever it is, Pansy's dark eyes shine wet and dilated as she stares at Hermione in incomprehension.
"What do you want?" Pansy says again, even softer, maybe even afraid.
"Something else," Hermione says and slips her fingers around Pansy's bare arm.
…
As Hermione leads Pansy between the clusters of party-goers, dodging spilled drinks and unwanted conversation – Ernie MacMillan in a gorilla suit, Padma Patil waddling around in her mermaid costume – she realizes that Pansy is far from a bad choice for this. Empirically, she's attractive. On a purely physical level, she's got curves that are easy to stare at. Her bobbed hair reveals a neck that, if one were inclined, looks bitable.
Then there's the fact that they're both somewhat newly single. Hermione doesn't know the details of Pansy's split from Daphne – they aren't at all friends, of course – but it's the Ministry; to say the walls talk isn't even a metaphor. As for Hermione, she and Ron went their separate ways eight months ago.
The Veil is closed on her past, Hermione feels, more than ever.
She's been wondering if tonight would be a good night for letting it open on something new.
Pansy's arm is cool and trembling in her hand. Hermione winds out of the main room and its laughter and cackling and spooky ridiculousness. She dislikes how Americanized their parties have become – how unmagical, commercial. She longs for a return to something pagan and real. Something's gone that she feels she used to have. Something of her got left behind somewhere between winning a war and losing loved ones. Something in her feels like it's about to be erased.
Pansy doesn't ask, Where are we going? She doesn't say a word. Hermione slips her hand down and links their fingers together. Pansy exhales against the back of her neck, shuddering. Maybe she's felt this coming, too. Maybe she's noticed Hermione's long looks at departmental meetings. Maybe she's sensed the interest, the almost detached way Hermione has considered her.
Perhaps it's the false sense of anonymity they can foster wearing these silly masks.
Or perhaps it's some mirrored interior rage Pansy has held in, too. Maybe she feels the same intensity of discontent, of needing more from her life. Of having given too much.
Hermione drags her into one of the lifts. She almost doesn't bother letting it drop out of view before she pushes Pansy against the wall and pins her wrists there. The excitement of it is nearly unbearable. They start to descend, only a metal grate between them and whoever might be on passing floors. Pansy's breasts rise and fall with her rapid breaths, and Hermione can feel the hard peaks of her tits through the silk, the soft curve of flesh over the flimsy bodice.
Hermione presses in. Their parted lips touch, but they don't kiss. Hermione fits her thigh between Pansy's legs, and Pansy's body ripples with pleasure. Hermione doesn't even know where the lift is taking them, and she doesn't care. They're just moving through space. Hermione rolls her hips, and Pansy undulates against her, shivering. The hint of a moan catches in her throat, and her lips part further against Hermione's.
Hermione resituates and holds both wrists over Pansy's head and then drops her free hand to hike up Pansy's thin dress, fumbling in her hurry. She can't believe she's doing this – that she's turned into a person who would solicit a woman, a former enemy, for wordless sex in a lift while a party goes on floors above them. Hermione's heart thuds like a ritual drum as she slips her fingers between Pansy's bare legs and finds soaked panties and a waiting whimper.
This is what she's been curious about. More than curious. This is the very thing that's haunted her in those minutes before sleep, when she can no longer exert any kind of tight control over her own mind. This is what she's been thinking about with her hand between her own legs. This is something she thinks she's tried not to want for quite some time.
Now that her fingers are stroking this impossibly hot place and making Pansy buck against her hand, Hermione's not sure why she tried so hard to avoid it. Pansy's body; her heat; the soft press of breasts against Hermione's own; the frightened, aroused breath against her cheek – it's all bloody marvelous.
The lift stops at the bottom floor, announcing the level, but Hermione doesn't stop. Instead, she slips her finger under wet lace. Pansy winds her leg around Hermione's hip, opening herself up for it. Neither one of them is stopping. Hermione's cunt clenches down in sudden arousal, and then she pushes her finger deep inside. Pansy groans loudly, throwing her head back, and the lift begins its ascent – back to the party – once more. Pansy's already moving on Hermione's finger, and so Hermione meets her, fucking her, amazed at the slick that leaks down her hand, at the very fact of being here like this – doing this, making another woman writhe.
She would kiss Pansy if she liked her at all. Then she thinks what the hell, and kisses her anyway. Pansy's mouth is whiskey warm, pliant like the rest of her. Her tongue is sweet, her breaths quick. Hermione adds a second finger and tastes the three tight seconds of pleasured shock – until Pansy groans again and starts riding her fingers faster, harder, striving. Ascending, ascending…
Hermione breaks the kiss to watch feather-framed dark eyes go darker and plead with her. They could get caught. In another minute, they'll be back at the party. Hermione adds a third finger. The butt of her hand hits Pansy's clit rhythmically, and then Pansy starts screaming.
Hermione gets out a wandless privacy charm just in time. She's almost too stunned to keep plunging her fingers into Pansy's cunt, but Pansy's moving enough for both of them, grinding and mewling, head thrashing back and forth against the vibrating wall of the lift.
The waves lengthen out, cascading over Pansy's body every few seconds now. Hermione lets go of her wrists, and Pansy's hands land on her shoulders. Hermione moves her fingers experimentally and is rewarded by a sharp intake of breath. She slowly pulls out. Pansy's dress falls back down over her legs. Hermione raises her fingers to her lips, but before she can taste, Pansy grabs her wrist hard. She wraps succulent lips around Hermione's sticky fingers and goes down, licking and sucking them clean of herself.
It's Hermione's turn to gasp.
Pansy's scarlet-stained lips leave her fingertips, and she finally speaks. "You caught me off-guard, Granger," Pansy says, her voice deeper, changed from screaming her orgasm. "That's not going to happen again." She orders the lift to stop at the next floor, just one below the party. Hermione's floor.
Then the lift doors are opening, and Pansy is shoving her out into the hall. Not hard, but insistent. Pansy walks her back until Hermione runs into her own office door.
"Open it," Pansy says.
Hermione demurs to the demand, her whole body aching for this – whatever this is. Pansy backs Hermione into the room, throwing the door shut. She backs her into her own desk and knocks the surface free, the lamp and her pictures of Rosie and Harry and everyone else flying to the floor with an astounding clatter. Pansy's so close and so intent that Hermione has no choice but to mount her own desk, lying back as Pansy lifts her skirt, working it up her hips. Pansy rips her panties down and off, and Hermione never expected to feel so good with someone who so obviously harbors no respect for her things. Maybe for her, either.
Hermione doesn't care about any of it right now. Her naked pussy is throbbing, and Pansy is leaning over her, ripping her blouse open and then yanking her bra down until her breasts are exposed, her nipples ready.
Pansy takes one peak into her mouth, greedily sucking and then flicking at her in turn. Hermione arches into it, her hands scrabbling against the desk for purchase. Pansy lifts her knees, separating them, and Hermione feels the silk of her dress against her aching pussy.
"My God…" Hermione breathes, mouth falling open in ecstasy. Pansy switches tits and laves her until Hermione is ready to come from that alone.
Hermione doesn't want to make comparisons. She really doesn't. But she can't help but be aware that where Ron's mouth was always a bit over-eager to the point of clumsiness (and his ardor and enthusiasm were often enough for her on their own), Pansy is deft. Pansy has finesse. Pansy listens to Hermione's body and somehow instinctively knows that arching means harder and twisting means softer and holding her breath means she might come soon. These are the things she hadn't even known well enough herself, much less to the extent that she could teach Ron.
Pansy's mouth moves over Hermione's body like she's had a bloody map to it all along.
But any and all of those kinds of thoughts go straight out of her head when Pansy releases her damp breasts to the caress of the air and slides down between her thighs instead. Pansy presses her lips into Hermione's musky curls. The feathers of her mask tickle Hermione's inner thighs. Pansy parts the lips with her thumbs and then nestles between, licking slow and hot from her opening to her clit.
Hermione says something that doesn't adhere to any form of English she knows and grabs the edge of the desk over her head. Her knees fall open, and Pansy moans, her mouth full of Hermione's dripping cunt. She licks, slowly first, and over and over again. She works up to harder and faster. She works closer and closer to Hermione's clitoris, and Hermione thrusts uninhibitedly against Pansy's mouth.
Hermione whispers things – filthy things that she's never dared before. And Pansy's eating her out through it, fucking her tongue inside Hermione and then laving tight little licks right under her clit and then over it – until Hermione grabs her by the hair with one hand and rocks, the orgasm overtaking her and making her sound more animal than human.
Pansy presses her tongue to Hermione's jumping clit and hums in what sounds like appreciation. Hermione has never been appreciated by Pansy Parkinson in her life. The thought is ridiculous and stray. The smile that curves Hermione's lips can't be seen. She slips her hand through Pansy's hair, and when Pansy lifts her face, the mask comes off in Hermione's fingers.
Pansy stands and turns away, straightening her dress. She pulls a wand from a garter around her thigh, barely reachable through a high slit, and she mends their garments. Hermione sits up, her body still stubbornly thrumming.
Pansy reaches a hand back. "My mask?" she says.
Hermione wishes she'd show her face. She wonders if Pansy's eyes might not be so cruel as she remembers after all. But she hands the mask back to her anyway and watches Pansy don it again.
"You're a piece of work, Granger," Pansy tells her, but her voice shakes a little in a telling way. "You're the last person I expected to make this party worth coming to."
It's an admission and one Hermione never would have seen coming, even if it is a back-handed compliment at best.
Hermione stays perched on the edge of her desk. She buttons her mended blouse and crosses her legs. The clench of her thighs together produces another hard shockwave. Hermione swallows.
"Was that different enough for you?" Pansy asks then. Hermione hears the innocence in the question, the self-doubt, the hope.
The shattering orgasm and lingering smell of pussy on her fingers makes Hermione feel expansive, magnanimous. So she's honest. "It was bloody unbelievable."
Pansy, only then, turns to her. She's wearing a smirk now, but Hermione can see the blush beneath the mask. "Care to make it annual, then?"
"If you can wait that long," Hermione shoots back. Bantering. She's never considered herself a banterer.
Pansy laughs, conjures herself a cigarette, and lights it. Hermione is glad her 'thank you for not smoking' sign is one of the things Pansy dashed off her desk. She likes how Pansy's slick-shined lips wrap around the filter and lightly suck. She likes the gush of blue smoke from them. Pansy holds it out to her, but Hermione shakes her head no.
Pansy scoffs, "Gryffindor." Then she walks to the door and puts her hand on the knob. "See you around the party," she says over her bare shoulder.
Hermione takes a deep, sooty breath and nods. Then her first female lover walks out of her demolished office and back into the newly different world.
END
Masks
by Shel Silverstein
She had blue skin.
And so did he.
He kept it hid
And so did she.
They searched for blue
Their whole life through,
Then passed right by –
And never knew.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Fic: Hermione/Pansy - "They Searched for Blue" by <lj user="traintracks" />