Spreading the Petals of the LotusAuthor: ldymusycCharacters/Pairings:
Padma Patil/Terry BootRating:
Love potionsOther Warnings:
Date rape, stalking/obsessionWord Count:
Tonight, she'll understand. She'll understand that she should be with you, and all you need is a few drops from that vial slipped into her glass to show her.
She's always been pretty, from the first day she sat down beside you at the Ravenclaw table, with her eyes wide with excitement and a crooked smile flashing. She introduced herself and you nodded as if you hadn't been staring at the stool and Sorting Hat just moments before, your hands clasped together beneath the table as you tried to will her into your house. "Terry," you said. She smiled at you and it felt like you'd been in the sun too long, your skin prickling and hot. You both watched her sister be Sorted into Gryffindor, and Padma looked so sad for a moment. You squeezed her hand and whispered to her. "Don't worry," you said. "I'll be friends with you."
In your fourth year, at the Yule Ball, you couldn't take your eyes from her as she stood beside Weasley, who looked sullen and dyspeptic. If you'd been standing beside her, the lights and glimmer of the ball would not have been as bright as your smile. Padma was so pretty that night, with her hair like black silk and her turquoise dress robes. She looked sleek and graceful, an elegant jewel. You cursed yourself again for not asking her to be your date, for thinking that every boy in your year had already asked her. You watched her the entire night, silently cheering when she left Weasley behind, silently fuming when she danced with the Beauxbatons boys. She should have been with you.
For years, you've watched her, always thinking this could be the day. This time, she'd look up from her books and reach over the table to touch your hand. This time, she'd smile across the room, directly at you. This time, she'd stand too close for it to be an accident, she'd lay her fingers on your arm and look at you through those long, dark lashes. This time, you'd tell her what you felt, what you believed. She'd see how perfect it was, how perfect it could be, if she was with you.
She was a pretty girl, with that long, swinging braid and those dark eyes. Now, she's a beautiful woman in brilliant blue at her sister's engagement party. You admire the curve of her waist exposed below her choli, the sweep of her back beneath the flowing sari and the loose waterfall of her dark hair. You want to touch the sari's embroidered designs and metallic threads, gold and silver and copper shimmering as she moves. You listen to the chiming of the thin bangles around her wrists when she lifts her champagne flute to her mouth. You stare, god help you but you stare, at the shape of her lips and the delicate point of her tongue as she licks a droplet of champagne off her skin.
You shiver, your hand slipping into the pocket of your robes to feel for the tiny vial you'd tucked away before leaving your flat. She smiles and flutters her fingers at you in greeting and your heart pounds against your ribs. It's the proof you needed, the sign that you'd made the right choice. Tonight, she'll understand. She'll understand that she should be with you, and all you need is a few drops from that vial slipped into her glass to show her.
You cross the room, pausing to congratulate Parvati, who is beaming and laughing, her red sari slipping from her shoulders. You stop a waiter and take two glasses from his tray. The golden shimmer of the champagne clouds for a few seconds when you add the potion, but you swirl the glasses and the bubbles turn the liquid translucent again.
At Padma's side, you smile and incline your head to her. "Looked a little dry," you say, offering her a glass.
Padma smiles and her fingers brush yours as she takes it from you. "I shouldn't," she says, glancing into the delicate flute. "I've had three already, and I need to be clear-headed in the morning."
Your heart sinks, but you touch her elbow and give her a grin. "It's a party," you tell her. "How often is your sister going to get engaged? Celebrate!"
After a moment that feels like a century to you, Padma laughs. "Oh, you're right. It's a party. One more can't hurt." She lifts the glass and drains it. You watch the movement of her slender throat, verifying she's swallowing every drop. You follow suit and reclaim her glass to deposit it on the table with yours. This time, her fingers linger against yours. You're sure of it.
"Care to dance?" you ask, forcing yourself to look at the party guests instead of staring into Padma's eyes. Casual, you tell yourself. Calm. You have her now, no need to push. When Padma shrugs and nods, you have to stop yourself from dancing in place. Gesturing with one hand to the narrow dance floor at the rear of the room, you lay the other on the small of her back to guide her through the crowd. The fabric of her sari is soft against your palm, the material so light you can feel the heat of her skin through it. You can feel your own skin heating in response and you have to take a deep breath before stepping onto the dance floor.
Padma is elegant, light on her feet, swaying like the slim branches of a willow tree in the breeze. You enfold her small hand in yours, stifling a gasp as she curls her fingers and her nails scrape against the back of your hand. Padma glances up at you, her dark eyes widening, and you shake your head with a dismissive smile. "Nothing," you say. "Just didn't realize you were such a good dancer."
Padma laughs, the sound chiming in tune with the bangles around her wrists. "This is easy. Should see me doing some traditional Indian dances. Have to really watch your hands. Gestures can have a whole range of meanings."
You arch your brows in curiosity, inviting her to continue. Padma purses her lips, her cheeks turning slightly darker. "Well, they're called mudras. And depending on the way you hold your fingers, you can say all different sorts of things. Like this," and she lifts her hand from your shoulder to hold her palm up, fingers spread, "can represent a lotus blossom, or a fruit, or a woman's breasts."
You take a deep breath as she settles her hand on your shoulder again. To anyone else, she would have only been giving an explanation of the meaning, but to you, it's a sign. She could have picked any of a dozen or more gestures, but she picked one that represented openness, softness, beauty, femininity. It was meant just for you, something she wanted you to know. You hold her just a little closer as you dance, breathe just a little faster.
The song ends and Padma draws you to the edge of the dance floor, fanning her face with one hand. "Warm," she says with a tinkling laugh. "I think that last glass of champagne went straight to my head. I need to get some air."
You're sure that she squeezes your arm when she speaks and you smile at her, pleased. Of course. Perfect and right. There are too many people here, too many distractions, and now you don't have to think of an excuse to get her away from the party. She's thought of it herself. She must want you alone as much as you want her. "A little warm myself," you say, crooking your arm to offer her an escort. "How about we step outside for a few?"
Padma giggles and sets her hand in the bend of your elbow. "You're full of great ideas tonight, Terry." She smiles up at you.
Clamping your teeth together to hold back a shout of victory, you lead her out of the house and into an expansive garden. Padma tugs you off to the left, around the side of the house. Past a row of hedges that muffle the sound and dim the lights of the party, you find a swinging bench beneath a wrought iron gazebo. The vines twisting around the chains and draping over the seat let you know that this isn't often visited and you'll be left alone with Padma. She'd chosen this, you realize, heart pounding. She wants this. Every step, every moment is confirming that you'd done the right thing. A little boost to your courage, a little boost to her desire. It's perfect.
You shift the vines out of the way and settle into the bench, one arm stretched across the back. Padma sits beside you, her sari fluttering in the light breeze. Her floating skirts drift across your legs and her thigh brushes yours. "I love it out here," she says in a dreamy voice as she lifts the mass of her hair to let it dangle behind the bench, over your arm. "So peaceful. You feel like there's no one but you and the stars. I used to fall asleep here." You watch from the corner of your eye as her lids droop and her lashes almost brush her cheeks. She tips her head back against your arm, her face tilted towards you. "I could fall asleep now. All of a sudden, I'm just so tired."
"You just rest, then," you tell her, curling your arm to rub her shoulder gently. "I'll keep an eye on you."
She hums softly and nestles in closer. "You're a good friend, Terry." Her hand falls on your thigh, nails plucking at the inseam of your trousers. You can feel each scrape through the material, every tiny twitch, and you can't help but imagine how it would feel to have her fingers moving over more than your leg. Up your chest and across your stomach, over your hips and down the length of your cock.
Tonight, you won't have to imagine. Padma is so beautiful, the moonlight spreading across her skin. The embroidery of her sari shimmers as the gentle breeze blows, each gold and silver petal seeming to move. You think of how it would feel to stretch over her in a field of those flowers. The soft petals would move against her bared skin, caress her slender shoulders, brush her narrow waist. Your fingers move against her arm in the shape of the mudra she'd shown you during your dance. Flowers and breasts.
Padma makes a quiet noise and moves closer to you. Her head tips back and her lips part, and you cannot hold back any longer. You bend to kiss her, to press your lips against hers. Soft, soft at first. Gentle and careful, don't frighten her.
But she isn't frightened. Of course she isn't. A little champagne, a little potion, and she can finally respond to you properly. This is how it's always been meant, you and her, together in the moonlight, her lips moving against yours and her hand tightening on your leg. She pulls back, murmuring, her brows knotted, and you press your hand to her cheek. "Shh," you whisper to her, smoothing your thumb over her mouth. "Shh. It's all right. This is all right, Padma. Feels good, doesn't it? Don't you like me? I like you."
"Like you," she echoes. Her eyelids flutter like doves and she looks up at you. Her gaze is hazy and clouded and you know desire is already spreading through her. She wants this, yes. She wants you. All you needed was a few drops to show her that she should be with you.
"It's all right," you tell her again, your hand sliding down her arm to slip beneath the edge of her sari. You find the neckline of her choli and drag your fingers along it, along the curve of her breast. You can feel the heat of her skin, feel the way she moves, and when she takes a shaking breath, her breast pushes into your hand. You kiss her again. Her lips part and you hum against her mouth, pleased by how easy this is, how much she's responding to you.
You push the folds of her sari up to her shoulders and find the center of her choli. There's a hook and eye arrangement that takes you a moment to figure out, then you flick it open. You smooth your fingers over her breasts, over dark nipples and soft curves. She's so beautiful, so relaxed and pliant in your arms. She's perfect. This is perfect.
You draw your wand and put a spell on the bench to keep it from swinging, then you guide Padma back. You fold her sari under her head to cushion it from the bench. "So pretty," you tell her as you kiss a path down her throat and over her breasts. "You're so pretty, Padma. You always have been. I've always known you would be." You find one of her nipples and suck on it gently, your blood pounding at the quiet sound she makes. Her fingers rest on your head, pushing at it, and you smile around her nipple. Lower, yes. Much lower.
You unwrap her skirt and let the fabric puddle around her. You can barely breathe at the sight of her, languid and spread for you. She's grace and divine beauty and she's yours. She's all yours.
You open your robes and stroke your cock. You're hard and solid as stone, and Padma is as beautiful as the temple carvings you've seen in photos of India. Erotic and tempting, a goddess of arousal. You caress her waist and push her thighs apart. Her eyes open as you part the soft folds of her cunt, spreading the petals of her body.
"No," she mutters when you push the head of your cock into her. "Hurts." You smile at her and shush her whimper with the palm of your hand. She is tight, but that pleases you. She hasn't whored around like so many women. She's shared herself with few men, and now she'll never have to share again. She's yours. She's waited for you, for this. She's waited to be with you.
"Shh," you tell her again as you push further into her. "Shh, Padma. You like me. You want to do this with me, don't you? It won't hurt for long."
"No," she murmurs again, her lips moving against your hand. Her head tilts to the side, her eyes drift closed, and she shivers before falling still. "No hurt."
You smile and kiss her again. Moving slow, you withdraw from her and push in deep. She takes your thrust with a quiet groan, and you suck on the curve of her shoulder. Padma, so beautiful, her long hair dangling off the bench and her breasts soft against your chest.
At last, at long last, she is yours. She is finally able to surrender to what you have known all along. This is right. Her slim body is arching under you, her graceful hands circle your wrists. Each thrust brings a soft moan from her, the sound as beautiful as song. She tosses her head, shaking in pleasure. "Yes," you whisper to her. You raise up to wriggle a finger into her folds, to rub at the pearl of her clit. Padma grunts, her hips bucking, and tears of joy slip from her tightly closed eyes. You smile. All you needed was a few drops of potion, and now you have what you'd always wanted. She is, finally, with you.