Title: the taste of leather and musk
Author: tryslora
Characters/Pairings: Hermione/Lavender, background Harry/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: boot/shoe fetish, cunnilingus
Other Warnings: dominant Lavender, submissive Hermione, orgasm denial
Word Count: 2,608 words
Summary/Description: It’s rare that Hermione chooses her own clothes now—even this set of robes was chosen by Lavender months ago, as soon as the event was planned. But occasionally she selects something on her own as a surprise for Lavender, and these shoes were purchased and hidden away, so she could tease Lavender until the time came to reveal her particular choice.
Author's Notes: I think I have found my favorite go-to femmeslash pairing. Besides, who can resist Lavender and shoes? (certainly not Hermione). Many thanks to Eidheann as always for keeping me on track.


“Hermione!”

Harry catches her elbow, and she teeters on her heels, fingers lightly pressed against the opposite wall as she pastes on a sweet smile to try to hide just how off-balance she is. He leans into her, tightening the grip on her elbow, and she is grateful for his solidity and his understanding.

“Hello, Harry. I didn’t expect to see you here.” She manages not to tilt over as she leans to press a kiss to his cheek. “You hate these things.”

“I’ve been trotted out per usual, to kiss babies and make speeches.” Harry’s smile is wry. “You’d think that ten years after it was all over and done with, they’d be past this, but no. They still use me unmercifully and as long as it brings in donations, I can’t exactly argue the point.”

Hermione can’t argue it at all, not when she wants this fundraiser to do well and raise enough galleons to build the small school that has been designed for wizarding children in Britain between the ages of five and eleven. “It’s important, Harry. Imagine how much easier it will be to avoid problems when the children are all raised together. The most difficult part will eventually be the Muggle and Wizarding integration for Muggleborn children, but if we can manage it when they’re Hogwarts age, we can certainly manage it younger.”

“I’m not arguing the import of the point.” Harry carefully removes his hand, holding it near her while she wobbles. “Only the need for a gathering requiring this level of dress. Draco insisted on buying me new dress robes—said the ones I wore to the Ministry holiday party were already out of date and wouldn’t do.”

“Because they wouldn’t.” Draco is there at Harry’s side, his hand on Harry’s hip as he nods politely to Hermione. “Have you grown, Granger, or have you finally discovered that most dastardly of feminine articles of torture.”

“Lavender likes them.” Hermione flushes, because truly, there is absolutely no other reason she’d leave the house like this, wobbling along on heels so high that her toes feel pointed like a ballerina. She can walk—barely—and she’ll spend most of her time standing carefully, swaying lightly as she tries to stay under control.

Draco’s gaze sweeps over her. “I can see why.” At Hermione’s reproachful glare, he smirks. “I’m taken, not dead, Granger, and I will always appreciate a beautiful form that is carried well. Whether you are graceful or not, you are meant for high end dresses and heels. Enjoy your evening, and if you happen to disappear early, I shan’t be the one to tell anyone where you’ve gone.”

“I wouldn’t.” A flush warms her cheeks and Hermione is thankful for the dark skin that hides the blush. “I have to give a speech later. Welcome everyone and thank them for their kind donations.”

“Don’t trip on the stage,” Harry encourages her, and Hermione doesn’t bother to resist sticking out her tongue at him, reclaiming something of their childhood in that moment before Draco pulls him away.

“I shan’t,” she says quietly, although she’s really quite worried that when it comes down to it, she will.

She makes her way slowly through the crowd, pausing to take a small bacon-wrapped scallop from a server, then to try a bit of skewered chicken dipped in spicy pumpkin sauce. By the time she finds the young woman carrying a tray of champagne, she’s torn between being desperate for a drink and terrified that if she reaches for a glass, she might fall into the tray and send it all across the floor.

She steadies at the feel of a body behind her, warmth pressed along the lines of her back, a hand against her belly and another on her hip. A slow smile starts as she leans into her. “Hello, Lavender.”

“Hello there, love.” Lips brush against the shell of her ear with a whisper of breath and a hint of teeth. Hermione shivers, feels her knickers go damp from just that fleeting touch, and Lavender laughs as if she knows exactly what Hermione is feeling.

“I can smell you, you know,” Lavender whispers. “And I love it.”

“You’re incorrigible.” Hermione gently captures Lavender’s hands in hers, works herself free from her hold. She wavers as she turns, and Lavender catches her, bringing her close so she can kiss her lightly on the lips. “And I’m working!”

“Hello to you, too.” Lavender’s hair is pulled back into a twist at the nape of her neck, strands loose to frame her face in long curls and soften the effect of her outfit. Her dress robes are a grey so dark it might as well be black, with just a shimmer of silver thread entwined along the edges, and a hint of blood red woven through the rest. When Lavender joins Hermione on stage, the robes will be vividly striking, a bold counterpart to the soft blue that Hermione wears.

“How long until your speech?”

Hermione casts a glance at the stage where Harry and Draco are idly chatting with Minerva McGonagall and Rufus Scrimgeour. “I’ve got maybe twenty minutes or so.” A glance at her watch and she nods, confirming. “Yes, perhaps thirty, if they decide to give those who might be late a bit longer to mingle.”

“Good.” Lavender slides her hand along the line of Hermione’s back, settling at the base of her spine, fingers warm and spread. “Come with me. I know you’d like a moment to take your shoes off for a rest, and if you’re a good girl, I might just let you do that.”

This is exactly what she’d said she wouldn’t do. She glances at the stage again, and Draco gives her a knowing look, raises his eyebrows and mouths the word go.

It’s Lavender. How is Hermione supposed to say no?

“Come on, baby.” Lavender has her by the hand, tugging Hermione through a crowd that parts easily when Lavender moves. She’s had that effect on people ever since the war, as if they can all sense that in any situation, Lavender is a force to be reckoned with. An alpha.

It’s something Hermione knows in her gut and in her heart, and something that makes her knees weak with anticipation. When she stumbles, Lavender moves closer, holding her up as they walk together to the edge of the room, slipping out into a darkened hall.

Lavender waves at security, says cheerily, “Just a bit of pre-speech jitters,” and maneuvers Hermione into a small meeting room along the hall.

The door clicks closed, but Lavender doesn’t lock it, and Hermione knows better than to get her own wand out. Instead she takes her wand and drops it on a table where Lavender can see it, a silent acknowledgement that in this moment, Lavender is completely in charge.

“Good girl,” Lavender whispers. “Now, show me your shoes.”

Hermione draws the hem of her robes up slowly, until her toes peek out. Her shoes have a platform under the ball of her foot, adding about an inch to their already unnatural height. Straps wrap around her feet, then up her ankles, entwined around her skin to hold her in place as she teeters on heels that have her high on tip-toes. Her nails are painted a bold blue, darker than the shade of her robes, and the shoes themselves are silver to match the trim on her robes, bright against her dark skin. “Do they suit?” she asks softly, wondering what Lavender will think of her choice.

It’s rare that Hermione chooses her own clothes now—even this set of robes was chosen by Lavender months ago, as soon as the event was planned. But occasionally she selects something on her own as a surprise for Lavender, and these shoes were purchased and hidden away, so she could tease Lavender until the time came to reveal her particular choice.

She turns her toe slightly, bending at the knee to show her calf, the way the heel is so slender and tiny that it feels as if she is walking on a wand. Lavender drops to her knees, cradles her foot gently, hands sliding up over her calf.

“They are perfect,” Lavender murmurs, and she presses a kiss to the inside of Hermione’s knee.

“Do I get a reward?” Hermione’s voice is tight, thick with need as her body responds to that one touch with a fresh rush of warmth and arousal. She wants to rub herself, to quickly roll her fingers over her clit until she comes hard and fast, just to get off. Lavender’s laugh is a small huff of breath against the inside of her thigh, then kisses peppered along the skin.

“Perhaps,” Lavender says, pushing her robes higher until Hermione has to grip them hard and raise them up and out of the way. “I haven’t decided if you’ve been a good enough girl yet.”

Hermione whimpers, hips pressing forward against a questing finger drawn over the silk that hides her mound. “What would you like me to do?” she whispers.

Lavender slips her finger under the lace edge of Hermione’s silk knickers, draws a long line along her slick lips before she presses inside, just enough to tease but nowhere near enough to satisfy. When she pulls back, she offers the wet finger to Hermione, painting fluid along Hermione’s tongue.

“On your knees, baby,” Lavender orders, and Hermione goes, heedless of the wrinkling of her robes.

Lavender moves closer and opens the lower two buttons of her robes, lengthening the slit that already went almost to her crotch. She holds the robes wide, showing Hermione the pitch black boots that cradle her legs from toe to thigh, as well as the pale curls that wait for her, exposed without any sign of knickers.

“Nothing.” Lavender answers the question Hermione doesn’t ask. “My robes, and my boots, and that is all, baby girl. You know what to do.”

Hermione bends forward, presses a kiss to Lavender’s toe. The taste of leather is familiar under her tongue, ripened by the sweat from Lavender’s body, and a hint of her perfume. She nuzzles the boot, slides her chin against the leather before she looks up from under her lashes.

“Good girl,” Lavender murmurs, and Hermione sighs at the praise, her hands on Lavender’s calves to balance herself.

She nuzzles her way up the boots, lavishing attention on them as Lavender threads her fingers through Hermione’s thick curls. When she reaches the top cuff, she stops, licking along the edge, teasing at the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, hidden by leather.

“Sit,” Lavender murmurs, and Hermione does, straddling one of Lavender’s feet. She presses in close to her calf, her robes spread around her as her bottom settles against the boot. When she rocks forward, her mound presses against the front of Lavender’s ankle, and Hermione whines softly.

The fingers in her hair tighten. “No,” Lavender whispers. “Not yet. Not until, and not unless I tell you that you may come.”

Hermione wraps her hands around the leather encasing Lavender’s leg, holding herself in place as she leans up, licks slowly up the inside of her thigh. Lavender tastes like perfume and musk, droplets of fluid trailing down her leg as if she’s been aroused all along.

There are no knickers to block her way, and Hermione is free to trail up into Lavender’s pale curls, separating them with her tongue to dip between, seeking out the small nub. She rolls over her clit, then strokes along her lips, taking her time to tease her, stroking her gently.

Lavender makes a pleased sound, fingers tight as she presses Hermione forward, rotating her hips to grind against Hermione’s tongue. Hermione whines, fucking as deep into Lavender as she can with her tongue, rolled and hard before she pulls out to tease all around her lips, licking back to the perineum, then forward again to her clitoris. She luxuriates in the taste, in the slick fluids that coat her lips, her cheeks, her chin. She tastes every whimper and whine as Lavender rotates her hips, helping Hermione fuck her with her tongue.

“Such a good baby girl,” Lavender whispers. “Oh fuck yes, right there, don’t stop.”

Hermione’s hands drift up, clinging to her bum with one hand, her other moving between Lavender’s legs to curve two fingers inside of her, sliding in and twisting, pushing hard as Lavender pushes back.

She rocks her own hips in time with Lavender, feeling the orgasm draw close for both of them. She can’t let go, can’t find her peak, but she pushes Lavender to that moment, feels when she goes rigid and breaks apart with a low cry, soft and wet and warm on Hermione’s face.

“Please.”

It’s a hoarse whisper, all Hermione can manage to say. Her body aches, lips puffy and sensitive inside her soaked knickers. She moves just a little, the pressure of the boot under her sending little shocks through her before Lavender drags her back, pulls at her hair, lifts her up to standing weakly and wavering on shaky legs.

Lavender cradles her face, gently wipes away the stickiness with one corner of her robes. “Not yet,” she says softly, before she quickly fixes Hermione’s hair back to perfect. “You have somewhere you need to be, and I need you to have all your senses about you to do it. After that… after… I will reward you for being the best baby girl.”

It aches so much she almost hurts. Hermione stands there, thighs pressed tight together, wanting to rub them, just a little, just enough to send her flying over the edge.

But Lavender said no.

She drags in a deep breath, slumps forward into Lavender’s arms, loving the way they curl around her, gentle and affectionate. “I hate these shoes,” Hermione whispers, and it startles a laugh from Lavender, deep and echoing, vibrating where Hermione has her head pressed to her shoulder.

“I love your legs in those shoes,” Lavender tells her, kissing her forehead. “I love your feet in those shoes. I love you in those shoes, and if you wear them until we leave, I will take them off of you as soon as we get home, and you will have all the rewards, baby girl. Is that what you want?”

“I just want to come,” Hermione whines, and Lavender swats her bum lightly.

“Later, love. I promise. Now go be absolutely brilliant.” Lavender frames her face, kisses her slowly, and Hermione is sure that Lavender must be able to taste herself on Hermione’s lips. “I think you can finish welcoming everyone in five minutes, shake hands for another ten, then perhaps claim headache and we’ll make our exit.”

Hermione steps back, takes a moment to find her balance on the ridiculous heels. In the same time, she slips back into her public persona, her back straight, her smile set and her confidence worn like a shield. She turns, laughing when she wobbles and catches herself.

She glances back over her shoulder, seeing the way Lavender meets her gaze, then glances at her bum.

“Fifteen minutes,” Hermione says with a grin. “Be ready, because we will be leaving then. If you can wait that long.”

When she walks away, she manages to put a proper wiggle in her walk, her bum swaying with every step of the heels, and she hears Lavender’s soft whine while she watches her go.

It’s going to be so good when they finally get home.