A Matched PairAuthor: woldyCharacters/Pairings:
Hermione/Ron, Hermione/Pansy, Ron/PansyRating:
body writing, silence, pervertibles, cuffs, mirrors, blindfolds, genital enhancement, sounding, & breast enhancementOther Warnings:
Gryffindors glory in holding the moral high ground over her, but Pansy knows that deep-down they are cheats and liars like everyone else.Author's Notes:
My first effort at writing het porn that doesn't center on murders, or a threesome; I hope it works! Many thanks to florahart
The best sex of Hermione's life was not with her husband. That alone wouldn't disturb her emotional equilibrium, but Ron was the first person she slept with, and she'd thought he would be the last. One wasn't supposed to have mind-blowing, toe-curling sex with someone else after the wedding.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hermione pushed aside the briefing document about international Floo protocol that she had been failing to read for the last thirty minutes and glanced up at the clock. It was ridiculous; as a sensible, professional woman she should be able to concentrate. But if she was really all that sensible then this wouldn't be happening.
The first time, in Brussels, could be put down to a mistake. A sixteen-hour EU summit conducted in twenty-seven languages, requiring twenty-seven different translation charms, would reduce anyone's brain to jelly. The dinner ended shortly before midnight, and Hermione had rushed to the women's loo to record their conversations in her notebook: send Labousier files to Belgium in exchange for copies of the Pavlodar report; Floo Norwegians about a joint investigation into North Sea potions smuggling & get buy-in from the Aurors office; add staff to Hungary embassy in light of their recent constitutional amendments...
Hermione's entire body was stiff by the time she finished. She had forced herself upright, swung open the cubicle door, and been confronted by the sight of Pansy Parkinson's face in the wide mirror.
"You look like hell, Granger."
"I really don't know how you got a diplomatic position."
"Slytherin wiles, good language skills, and exceptional bladder control," Parkinson said dryly.
Hermione stared for a moment, her brain almost too tired to process the words, and then Parkinson flashed a smile.
"I'm too knackered to Apparate, but I'm walking back to the hotel if you'd like to join me."
"I'm not sure I-" Hermione began, about to reject the offer, and then realised that she couldn't remember the location of the hotel. "-could find my way otherwise. Thanks."
All Hermione remembers from that walk is bone-deep exhaustion, the blur of rain-slicked streets, and the sound of Parkinson's voice, a smooth drawl comparable to the Radio Four shipping forecast. The next thing Hermione knew they were standing in the hotel lift, Parkinson's hand closed around her wrist, green eyes glittering and light gleaming off her dark hair.
"Nightcap, Granger? Or we could skip straight to the sex."
Hermione hadn't responded, but she hadn't pulled away. Not when Parkinson's fingers smoothed along her collarbone and then drifted down to curl around her breast, nor when Parkinson kissed a line from the hollow of her throat to her earlobe. Parkinson followed Hermione to her room, and Hermione hadn't objected when Parkinson unbuttoned her blouse, eyes feasting on every inch of newly-revealed skin.
She hadn't complained when Parkinson's hand inched along her thigh, rucking up her skirt, and Parkinson pressed her fingers against the crotch of Hermione's knickers. Hermione had let herself be guided to the bed, and she hadn't protested at Parkinson kneeling between her legs and sliding three fingers inside her. Hermione hadn't consciously made a decision at all, but she'd ended up being fucked into the mattress, her fingers tight in Parkinson's hair. It turned out that a life-changing decision could be made in the absence of thought.
A sharp tap-tap-tap at the door startled Hermione back to the present. She got up, opened the door, and a purple inter-departmental memo sailed through and circled the room before landing in her in-tray.
Hermione pushed the door closed and grabbed the memo with a quivering hand. Don't be from Ron, don't be from Ron! she thought, unfolding the nose of the plane, and then read "For the attention of Hermione Granger, Magical Foreign Office" in unfamiliar handwriting and dropped the memo back in her in-tray.
She looked at the clock again and could almost swear that George had tinkered with it, because surely time didn't move this slowly?
It was important to maintain a sense of perspective: she loved Ron and she didn't want a divorce. Ron was a good person, her best friend, and his jokes still made her smile. He fed and dressed the kids every morning before dropping them off at nursery so that Hermione could be in the office before eight o'clock and leave at four o'clock to collect them. At the weekends, Ron taught Rose to ride her toddler broom and read Beedle the Bard aloud at bedtime, complete with all the voices. The sex, when it happened, was fine. Hermione didn't come easily or often from penetration, but she had explained to Ron that sex was still pleasant. She could enjoy the intimacy of sex without the orgasm and, as Hermione had discovered more recently, vice versa.
If this thing with Parkinson had only happened once then Hermione might be able to forgive herself, but it hadn't just been once. The problem, put bluntly, was that Hermione had been fucking Pansy Parkinson once a fortnight for eight months now, and it was fantastic. No matter how she tried to rationalise it, repeating a behaviour this many times wasn't an error; it was a choice.
With Parkinson, Hermione's whole body came to tingling, erotic life in a way she had never dreamed of before and could not replicate with her husband. Hermione had spent lunch hours cuffed to the bed while Parkinson trailed ice cubes over her body, or licked her nipples until she almost screamed. Once she actually had screamed, face down across Parkinson's lap as the hairbrush whacked her burning arse again and Parkinson taunted, "Too much? You can beg me to stop."
"No, don't - don't..."
"What was that, Granger?"
The words had tumbled out in a rush "No, don't stop!"
Parkinson's smirk had been nearly audible as she bent low to Hermione's ear and murmured, "Don't you dare imagine that you're being punished for failing a test, Granger. This is because you're a filthy, filthy pervert. Aren't you?"
Hermione turned to the clock for what felt like the hundredth time this morning, and let out a breath she hadn't been conscious of holding. Finally.
Reflexively, she smoothed down her hair, then reached for a file on the desk and tucked it under her arm. The papers inside were all blank, but carrying a file was part of the façade. Nearly everything in the Magical Foreign Office was classified, from their timetables to the colour of the stationery, so there was less gossip here than in many departments. Even so, the secretaries could spread news faster than the Daily Prophet.
"Lunch meeting," Hermione announced, stepping out of her office and closing the door behind her. "You know how to reach me if something comes up."
Janice, the European division secretary, didn't bat an eyelid as Hermione swept past. She took the lift to the atrium, walked purposefully toward the Floo points, and kept a careful grip on the folder as she spun away. Two Apparitions later she walked into the lobby of the Savoy hotel, where the receptionist directed her to their room. It was all so easy.
"Come in and lie down," Parkinson said when Hermione opened the door.
"What if it was the maid?"
"Perhaps I'd still have told you to come in and lie down," Parkinson replied, turning on her heel. Her eyes travelled lingeringly down Hermione's body as she continued, "I like the idea of you in a maid's uniform."
"I need to be back before two," Hermione said, flustered already. She dropped the file on the coffee table, shrugged off her jacket, and Parkinson smirked.
"You're getting so efficient, Granger. Whatever happened to 'I shouldn't! What if Ron finds out'?"
"What am I supposed to be doing on this bed?"
"Looking pretty," Parkinson said, raising a large quill. "You're my parchment, and the more you squirm the longer my words will be."
A shudder ran through Hermione's body, and she was instantly wet. It wasn't fair that Parkinson could do this to her. Parkinson barely knew her; how could she have such a brutal instinct for what turned Hermione on?
"Oh?" said Hermione, turning away to hide her blush. "Do you know how to spell antidisestablishmentarianism?"
"You'll find out, won't you?" Parkinson drawled. "Strip."
Ron never thought it would happen to him. Cheating on your wife was the kind of thing sleazy blokes did: guys like that slimeball Zacharias Smith, or Zabini, who could coax the claws off a kneazle. Even with the help of Seven Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches Ron had never found it easy to chat up women, and he'd barely tried with anyone except Hermione. He never meant to do this at all.
The first time, he'd been drunk. It was hours into the celebrations over the Duckworth poisoning case, and he remembered the tumbler of Firewhiskey in his hand and the warm glow of knowing that they'd got a conviction, the bastards were going to Azkaban, and all was well in the world.
His partner Greg had swayed off to the loos, leaving the barstool beside him empty for a moment and then Parkinson slid onto it, skirt riding up to the top of her thigh. Her knee bumped his own and Ron looked down to see an indecent amount of leg, and then felt her warm fingers brush his. It took him a moment to realise that she'd stolen his drink.
"Hey, you can't just-"
"You could have stopped me," she said, smirking, "but you didn't."
"So you took that as an invitation?"
She leaned towards him, angling her body so he had a perfect view down her cleavage, and honestly what bloke wouldn't look at that?
"All the best invitations are non-verbal," she said, lowering her voice so that he had to lean closer to hear her. "Don't you agree?"
"I'm married," he'd said, tongue thick in his mouth.
"So? I won't tell her," Parkinson said, and her fingers curled around his arm.
Ron had never been able to resist a woman throwing herself at him; that's how his relationship with Hermione started, and with Lavender before that. That was how he ended up balls deep in Parkinson in the bathroom of the Leaky Cauldron, bending her over the sink as she ordered him to get the hell on with it and fuck her.
It was dirty and wrong, because he loved Hermione and Pansy was exactly the sort of loose woman that his mum had warned him about, and -
"Harder, you ginger prick," she snarled, and Ron slammed her against the counter and thrust into her roughly, his hand spread across her back.
He remembered her stream of filthy insults and then the sensation of her clenching around his cock as her body shuddered and her eyes fluttered closed. He'd paused then, uncertain, until she drawled, "Do I need to draw you a diagram, Weasley? For Merlin's sake, don't stop." She came again before he spilled into her, his hand wrapped in her hair, and their eyes meeting in the cracked mirror over the sink.
Ron looked down at his watch, and then swore under his breath. He was hard already, unable to concentrate on anything except the memory of being inside her. Ten minutes felt like forever.
It wasn't that he disliked sex with Hermione - how could he? Hermione was soft, beautiful, and smarter than anyone he knew. He'd made love to Hermione hoping for a baby, and pressed his hand to her stomach to feel Rose kicking inside. He remembered watching in nervous amazement when she gave birth to their children, and later cradled the grizzling babies to her breast. There was no way he was ever going to stop loving her.
Ron didn't understand how he could love Hermione and still fuck Pansy, greedy and desperate, but he'd been doing it for months. Perhaps that only happened if you had the emotional range of a teaspoon. Or maybe it was a problem for all blokes who married someone perfect, a wife they treasured and couldn't imagine throwing against the wall like a whore and fucking until she could barely walk. He would never, ever treat Hermione like that, but he couldn't stop doing it to Pansy.
Pansy had let him charm her breasts bigger, bursting from her shirt, and then press his cock between them to fuck her boobs and come all over her face. She had smiled, teeth sharp behind the blood-red lips, when he suggested taking an aphrodisiac together. They had fucked all night, his cock bigger than it had ever been before or since, and in the morning he'd lied and told Hermione that he had been on stakeout.
He could suggest almost anything to Pansy, and neither of them had rejected what the other proposed. A month after that first time in the pub he'd let her blindfold him and ride him, knees digging into his sides and her nails scraping down his chest. Two weeks ago he'd nodded, breathing unsteady, as she lined up a steel rod with his cock and pushed it into his slit in tiny increments, his hands fisted in the sheets.
He shouldn't have let this happen, but he'd been doing it for seven months, and every time it was a little bit easier than the last - that must be what people meant about a slippery slope. Nothing was more dangerous and slippery than Pansy, and he couldn't remember wanting anything more.
Ron checked his watch again, and then tried to bite back the grin although he was cheering inside.
"I'm off," he announced, pushing back his chair. "See you tomorrow, lads."
"Hope you get laid tonight, 'cos you've been an arsehole all day," Walcott called out.
"You're just projecting mate," Ron said, feeling his ears grow hot. "You should get some action yourself."
"Get out of here, you bastard," Walcott said, grinning, and Ron raised two fingers behind him as he walked out the door.
The Ministry was almost-empty by seven o'clock, so he didn't have to wait for a lift or the Floo. Less than thirty seconds later Ron was walking into their hotel in Soho, all gleaming white surfaces and painfully modern furniture. He didn't need to ask the room number, because Pansy always booked 69; he liked the dirty familiarity of that.
"You look hot," he said, as the door swung open.
Pansy was sitting on the bed in a tight red skirt, with the top two buttons of her shirt unfastened and a large quill in her hand. "Whereas you appear to have been dragged through a hedge backwards," she said, eyes narrowing.
"Risks of the job," said Ron, pushing the door shut and walking towards her. "Comes from fighting crime."
"You Weasleys have no standards," Pansy scolded, dropping the quill. She reached out to grab the end of his tie, reeled him in until his feet hit the bed, and then tugged hard so that he fell forward onto it. "The sooner I have you naked the better."
"Fine by me," Ron said breathlessly.
"I know how you love my insults, Weasley, so I'm going to write them all over your disgustingly freckled body," she announced, grasping the back of his neck and squeezing. "I think I'll start with blood-traitor."
Pansy Parkinson has always enjoyed a challenge. There's no satisfaction in owning something you haven't fought for, and no fun in sex without a struggle. Marriage and monogamy have never held any appeal for her, but infidelity makes her blood sing.
It was the way she could read the guilt in their eyes while their bodies bucked under her hands, mouth, or cunt. Gryffindors glory in holding the moral high ground over her, but Pansy knows that deep-down they are cheats and liars like everyone else. Who is to say that her sin was worse than theirs? Pansy only tried to betray Potter, whom she'd never cared for; whereas, Weasley and Granger betrayed each other over and over and over again.
Frankly, the sex was better than she'd anticipated. Pansy seduced Granger just to see if she could, but the kinks were an unexpected treat. Who would guess that tidy Ms Granger, do-gooder and exemplary civil servant, got off on being held down and spanked? After that, Pansy assumed Granger was the same with her husband, so it was a shock - a delicious, thrilling shock like fire in her bloodstream - to learn that Weasley was a gentleman in bed and gagging for a decent fuck.
The irony is delicious: Granger doubtless believes her husband wouldn't tolerate her kinks, and Weasley obviously thinks his wife doesn't like sex. When it comes to fucking that couple are speaking different languages, but Pansy has always been a cunning linguist.
Pansy loves sex and adores power, so the situation is almost too good to give up. Almost. She can't resist finding out what happens if Granger and Weasley learn each other's secrets: if there would be tears, rage, and divorce courts; if Weasley would start spanking his wife and she'd let him fuck her magically-enlarged breasts; or if they'd summon Pansy for a threesome. Continuing to fuck them both clandestinely is like reading a book without the final chapter, and Pansy insists on knowing the ending.
She thought this through carefully, planned for it, but the execution still made her body tingle with excitement. It's so simple that even a Muggle could do it: her initials PP inscribed on the base of their spines, out of sight of the wearer but immediately visible to anyone who sees them naked. Only a lover would see the monogram, and only a lover could have left it. How absurdly Gryffindor that they had both let her to write on their bodies and trusted her to erase all the words.
Pansy slides a cigarette out of the pack, lights it with a flick of her hand, and leans back in her chair.
Tonight, she would give almost anything to be a fly on their wall, watching Weasley lie about why he was late and Granger not push him, while knowing that they were matching beneath the robes. Pansy has made her claim on them both, but she's not as vicious as Granger - unlike Marietta's spots, these marks are removable.
She takes another drag on the cigarette, and smiles at the image of Weasley and Granger dancing around one another in that tediously bourgeois little house. Pansy wouldn't bet on the outcome, but she is certain about one thing: it will be clear by morning.
They both know where to find her, and she's waiting.