idea_of_sarcasm (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
idea_of_sarcasm) wrote2006-08-29 03:50 pm
idea_of_sarcasm) wrote2006-08-29 03:50 pm
Entry tags:
A Fair Exchange *Adult*
Title: A Fair Exchange
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
idea_of_sarcasm
Pairing: Hermione/Blaise
Rating: NC-17. Adult.
Warnings: Sex, language
Summary: How do you summarize porn with minimal plot?
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. You think JK Rowling would let her characters do these things?
Author Notes: Done as a request forgranger2malfoy ; some of the criteria were fulfilled a little vaguely.
*x-posted like nobody’s business
************************************************
Hermione stood by the edge of the Trevi fountain, wishing for not the first time that she had chosen to meet her contact somewhere slightly less public. Not that she had been given a choice; it had been made fairly clear to her that they would meet here or she would lose out on the opportunity of a lifetime. And, more than likely, her job.
She had been a dealer of wizarding antiquities for a long time now, forgoing a lucrative job in the ministry and the excitement of a career as an auror to take the position almost straight out of school. It provided her with the opportunity to indulge her love of culture and history without dedicating her life to academia. She spent her life uncovering the rarest artifacts, and then selling them to the highest bidder for a tidy profit. Her endeavours were backed by the goblins of Gringott’s for a hefty commission, an arrangement they continually kept threatening to renege on but were too fond of the money she brought it.
She had been in Rome for a few weeks after being contacted by a wizard she had worked with before that a friend of his had uncovered something worth seeing when he had purchased some land outside of Rome to build a house. It wasn’t normally the way she worked things, but the man she knew had sworn these items were the real deal and his friend had ran a spell on them to confirm their age, suggesting their authenticity. And even then she wouldn’t have been lured but for the mention of an old painting.
Italian witchcraft and wizardry had always been of interest to her since she had begun to research magical societies besides those familiar to her in Britain. She supposed her initial interest had been because of their matriarchal roots. But the more she had read, the greater the differences were. While they acknowledged the talent of Merlin, their magic pre-dated him by centuries. While nowadays the magical community was as modern and oddly scientific as those around the world, they had their basis in a more mythical and ritualistic culture.
That interest was what had brought her to Rome. In 1609 a muggle named Francisco Guazza had published many woodcuts of what he observed to be witchcraft, even if the most famous ones had been rather stereotypical of the hateful views of witches at the time, and a rather lot of bullshit. While most of his work was distained by the magical community, rumour had it that he had made a relatively accurate painting of a witch producing a patronus.
Her friend had known at the mere mention of a four hundred year old painting fitting that description would have her salivating, and that’s why he had called her.
And that was why she was here, without any information but assurances she was getting the real deal from an intermediate for a man she’d never met.
“Granger,” she heard her last name drawled lazily by a man to her left. “Fancy meeting you here.”
She had been expecting full anonymity in the crowd at the very least; some assurance that when the man she would be meeting would be (hopefully) bringing a priceless item, nobody would know what she was here for. And she certainly hadn’t been expecting to hear her name, as she was to be identifiable to the man only by the red scarf around her neck. The cloak and dagger bit had annoyed her, but he had been insistent when he had owled her. It was therefore a great surprise when she whipped her head around to see Blaise Zabini smirking at her as he leaned against the wall of the fountain.
“Blaise!” she was shocked by the sight of him enough to use his first name, having referred to him by naught but his surname since third year.
He seemed amused at her surprise, “You seem so shocked to see me.”
He said that like seeing him in Italy was an everyday occurrence. Truth be told, she hadn’t even seen Blaise since after sixth year when she took off Horcrux hunting with Harry and Ron. She had never even really known what had happened to him after the last battle. She knew from the names standing trial that he had never been officially declared a death eater, but she knew every name that had fought for their side and he had not been one of them. Although she had never pondered it, it seemed an odd occurrence as Voldemort had never been one to tolerate neutrality.
“Go away Zabini,” she replied, reverting back to her former manner of address and turned her head away. It wasn’t as if they had been on the best of terms even while fellow students. “I have a meeting.”
“I know,” he replied, pushing away from the fountain and coming to stand beside her. And then he grinned in a purely sensuous way, reminding her again of the very inappropriate schoolgirl crush she used to nurse for the decidedly prejudiced and pure-blooded Slytherin. “It’s with me.”
“What are you talking about?” she snapped, fiddling with the red scarf that was beginning to feel a little like it was choking her.
He made a large production of glancing furtively about before leaning close to her ear before whispering, “Does an ancient painting of Italian witchcraft sound familiar?”
She jumped back in indignation. Hand on her hips, she asked him incredulously. “You? You’re my mystery contact? And all this bullshit was necessary why exactly?” In annoyance she began to untie the red scarf from around her neck, a useless fashion accessory that she had been wearing for identification purposes only.
“Something about the idea of you and scarves . . . . . .” his tone was mild, but even without a blatant invitation she could hear the erotic meaning.
It didn’t matter if he was trying to scare her off, go on a power trip, or literally try to seduce her - she couldn’t just run off when he had something she wanted. Something she really really really wanted. “Wait, was this all some sort of hoax?” she asked suspiciously. “Did you honestly find the painting, or is this some elaborate ruse?”
He raised his eyebrows, “You certainly think highly of yourself, don’t you? It’s not as if I’ve been harbouring some tendre for you since our school years, desperate for some excuse to get you here to see me.” He paused for a moment, smirking at her embarrassed blush before continuing, “That being said, ask me what my price is for letting you have the painting.”
She launched into business mode, pulling a piece of parchment out of her bag. “Of course any further discussion will be based on the confirmation of authenticity, but on behalf of Gringott’s I have the power to make you a very wealthy man.”
He waved her assurance aside as if it meant nothing. “I’m a Zabini, Granger. I already am a very wealthy man. An extremely wealthy man if you want to know the truth. No, ask me what my price is for letting go of the painting.”
“What is your price?” she asked the question warily, not trusting him for a moment.
Blaise pretended to ponder the question for a moment, leaving her to contemplate exactly how she was going to be able to meet his demands, before speaking. “You.”
“Pardon?” she sputtered, folding her arms across her chest. “That’s a little vague.” Well, it was vague, but she was pretty damn sure she knew exactly what he was talking about.
“How’s this for specific?” he asked with a grin before leaning closer again. “I want you, for one night, to do exactly as I please with. Including, but not limited to, the following conditions. I want to have you in my bed, tied with that pretty red scarf you have around your neck. I want to taste you, feel you, and preferably be sucked off by you. I want to feel you squeezing me with your cunt, and I want to make you scream so loud my neighbours begin to wonder. And then I want to bend you over the desk in my private office and do it all over again.”
It didn’t say anything complimentary about her that she was panting by the time he was done, and her knickers were soaked. “Sounds a little too Indecent Proposal for me,” she quipped, remembering the movie, sure he could not be serious. He was likely just toying with her, trying to get her all hot and bothered, or outraged, before he named his real price.
“Oh, I promise you it will be completely indecent,” he smiled a feral grin, but his tone was dead serious. The words were like something out of a bad porno movie (not that she had ever actually admit to seeing one), but she couldn’t bring herself to care.
“And all that about not ‘harbouring some tendre’ for me?” she raised her eyebrows.
“The truth,” Blaise replied honestly, if not a little mischievously, “But when I contacted my friend Gordon to tell him what I had found, and he told me all about this annoying dealer named Granger, I managed to recall my fantasy of fucking you senseless that inspired many a wank during Hogwarts. Something about your uptight little attitude, combined with the schoolgirl outfit, always did it for me.”
She was far from a virgin, and far from a prude, but her response was limited to a monosyllabic, “Guh.” at his blunt words.
Oh Merlin was he good looking - the type of man that she and Ginny would class as absolutely fuckworthy. He was also erotic as all get out, and even during his school days had cultivated a reputation for satisfying the witches he was with. But she was sure there was some reason she should be objecting to his suggestions. Some reason she should slap him across the face. And she would do that any second now. Really.
“I’m not a prostitute,” she managed to squeak out, embarrassed her voice didn’t hold the firm tone she was going for.
“I never thought you were,” he agreed amiably. “And don’t think of the painting as payment. Think about the fact that you want to shag me, even if your only benefit is a mind-numbing orgasm.”
“Full of yourself, aren’t you?” she commented wryly, even if she supposed he had the right to be. She was getting aroused just from hearing him speak. Seeing him without his shirt alone would probably send her right over the edge.
“So Granger, we have a deal?” he asked smoothly, letting his fingers entangle slightly with the belt on her pants.
“Sure,” she said the word as if she didn’t care. As if he wasn’t making make her want to have her way with him in the middle of the public square. And she could tell he was surprised at her reply. Not that she had given in, his ego wouldn’t allow for anything but that eventuality, but that she had given in so soon. He had obviously thought it would require a little more effort on his part. But she was far from the uptight (and admittedly a little frigid) girl she had once been.
Besides, mind-numbing sex. With Blaise. And she got the artifact. There really didn’t seem to be a downside to this deal for her.
“I suppose what’s one night?” she kept her shrug casual, wanting to needle him a little. “Even a night with you would be worth it just to get my hands on that painting.”
She could heard him chuckle, and knew she was in over her head trying to play games with him. “Oh Hermione, you’re a good actress.” He smiled wickedly before leaning over and practically devouring her mouth with his. And she forgot about the painting. Forgot about the crowds. And forgot about everything but his lips and his tongue, and his hands that had slipped down to cup her arse. And then he pulled away, leaving her panting and frustrated. “But not that good.” He gave a self-satisfied smile that made her want to kick him in the shin.
Hermione considered the fact there were probably conversations they should have before this went any further, such as maybe wondering if he had shagged the whole of the Italian population yet and if he’d picked up anything communicable. Or maybe wonder why a Slytherin who used to be obsessed with pure-blooded heritage was sporting a full blown hard-on for a mudblood. Or a million other tiny inconsequential things that one liked to know before hopping into bed with someone else. Intellectually she knew all this, but somehow at this point she just didn’t care.
“I assume you have a place we can go to?” she asked, thinking of her dingy little hotel room. She hadn’t chosen the nicest place considering she had only been expecting to be in Rome the one night.
“I live here Granger,” he pointed out. “I’ve got a little place rented while I’m renovating. Private and everything.”
And then his arm was around her waist, and his other hand sliding down the front of her jeans, and when they appeared in front of a rather plain looking little building in the middle of the city she was grateful he managed not to splinch them during the side-along apparition. They were never tested on apparating while fondling a member of the opposite sex.
She managed not to sigh her frustration when he pulled away so he could remove his wand from his pocket and unlock the door. “Nice place,” was all she commented when he mockingly held the door for her and grandly gestured for her to go first.
“So what are you doing in Italy?” she asked, eyeing his place and it’s surprisingly clean interior as she wandered into the living room. “I’ve actually seen your mum back in Britain a few times. She and husband number ten, Gordon Parkinson, bought an amulet I found in Argentina that used to belong to Merlin. Apparently Pansy’s dad is quite the collector.”
“Does it matter?” he asked, not cruelly but making it clear it was an avenue he didn’t really want to explore.
“No, I guess not,” she admitted, because truly it didn’t matter why he had escaped to a different country, or even specifically Italy. Whether it was for something as simple as a job offer, or something more sinister related to the war, it didn’t change the here and now, which for them was all that mattered.
And then he was kissing her, his tongue thrusting so deeply she could barely breath around it. He backed her hard against the wall, thrusting his hips so there was no space between them. And she couldn’t do much more than let him be the one to kiss her; she didn’t have the strength to return it properly. He braced his hand on the wall, grinding his hips against her and making her arch back towards him desperately craving whatever contact she could get.
“Hmm,” he muttered, fingering the hem of her linen skirt as he pulled back slightly. “Not quite the Hogwart’s uniform, but prudish enough that I think it will fulfill the fantasy. But I do wish we had access to the tie.”
“You’re a wizard,” she pointed out breathlessly, “We’ll improvise.”
He backed away from the wall slowly, but keeping her cradled between his legs. “That’s what I like about you Granger, always practical.” And then he turned her in his arms so his front cradled her back. He leaned down and bit her neck gently, even as he ground against her from behind, his erection rubbing between her butt cheeks. “I bet you even know a good restraining spell. I never bothered to learn one, scarves are so much more elegant, but I think that’s one practicality I should know.”
And he slowly walked her forwards, his hands grasped tightly on her hips, keeping her pressed against him as they moved, and she swore she could feel every last inch of him. He moved her into the couch, releasing her so she fell forward over the back edge in a rather embarrassing position. But when she moved to stand up, he pressed his hand in the small of her back, keeping her in position.
“Blaise?” she hated how she made his name like a question, even as she squirmed against his hand. “Shouldn’t we, uh, move this into the bedroom?”
“Later,” he promised, and she could feel him slowly drawing up her skirt. “Arch your hips,” he ordered roughly, and she mindlessly lifted them so he could pull up the skirt so it bunched around her waist, pulling off her knickers roughly and sliding them down her legs to toss them on the floor.
“What are you doing?” even she could hear that her voice was slightly panicked.
“Preparing to fuck you senseless,” he explained in a tone that one usually used when discussing the weather.
“Oh,” she replied, wishing she had some witty, or at least sensible response to that. She had never had sex this way. She wasn’t really aware you could have sex this way. And maybe that was truly an indication of how boring her sex life had been until now.
She could hear the sound of him unzipping his pants and she tried to arch around and look because really, who wanted to miss the sight of that, even if she was missing the opportunity to caress him in her hands. But she only caught the briefest glance of his cock before he noticed her trying to turn.
“Don’t move,” she almost jumped off the couch when he slapped her on the ass. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough that she could feel the sting spread across her skin. And she hated that she liked it, arching back unconsciously for more of his touch.
But then he was between her legs, pulling them wider apart so he could stand between them. And she knew it was blatantly obvious she wasn’t quite sure what she was doing, because he began to instruct her in that casual tone that seemed so out of place with what they were about to do. “Slide forward a little,” he ordered, pushing her forward over the couch a little more so that her hips arched up higher, leaving her wide open to his gaze.
He sunk to his knees and placed his hands between her thighs, parting her folds with his fingers before kissing the core of her. “Are you wet for me?” he asked roughly, speaking against her skin, even as his lips glistened with evidence to the affirmative.
“Merlin, yes,” she swore, grasping onto the fabric of the couch as she slid forward a little further. It felt so wrong to be in this position, so dirty. She was completely open to him, completely subject to his actions. She couldn’t do anything more than what he wanted to give her. Of course she supposed that was why he had chosen this position rather than one where they would be on more equal footing.
She almost screamed as he licked slowly between her legs as he got to his feet. Because it was doing nothing but teasing her, not allowing her to come. And he continued, only rubbing against her with the tip of his erection, allowing her nothing more than the slightest friction. She tried to push back against him, wanting him inside her, wanting to relieve the unbearable tension, but he held her hips with his hands, not allowing her to move.
“Please,” she knew she was begging, and she just didn’t care. And she wanted to weep in relief when she heard him grab his wand and mutter a protection charm.
And then he was lifting her hips as he slid inside her, hardly the most comfortable position otherwise, but she didn’t care because the feeling of him was distracting her to all else. She felt so full, almost to the point of breaking, but yet somehow perfect. And she moved her hips what she could, trying to allow him a deeper angle.
She swore she ripped the fabric of the couch with her nails when he drew out and then slammed into her again, repeating the process over and over. And she was able to hold her hips at the right angle herself when he let go with one hand to reach between them and play with her clit, trying to give her the release she was begging for.
When her climax came it was almost a surprise, sneaking up on her just when she thought it would never end, that it would all be too much. And it was his name she screamed, not even caring that they had forgotten to cast a silencing charm and his neighbours would think her a slag. And the prat didn’t even care that she was having the most intense orgasm of her life, just kept pounding away as he found his own release, able to control his response to nothing more than a low moan.
“That was nice,” she told him in an oddly polite voice when she came back to her senses; a massive understatement.
He didn’t reply as he drew slowly out of her, and she could hear the slick sound even as she felt the friction on her sensitive skin. “Oh Hermione,” he leaned forward and pressed an open mouth kiss to her right shoulder blade even as he fondled the scarf that still hung awkwardly from her neck, “The nicest part is, we’ve only just begun.”
******************************************************************
“You sure you don’t want some pumpkin juice? Coffee?” he asked the question as they stood in his kitchen. Blaise looked rather deliciously rumpled after a night of sex and very little sleep, and she was struggling to remember the proper spell to get the wrinkles out of her skirt.
“No thanks,” she replied with a smile, finally deciding it didn’t matter. She would just change when she got back to the hotel. “I’m actually due back home for an obligatory dinner with my parents this evening, and I have a million things to do before then.” She cast a quick glance at the clock, knowing at the very least that she had to check out of her hotel in half an hour.
Hermione grabbed the painting, discreetly charmed to look like some mundane landscape. She had practically salivated when he showed it to her the previous night, her enthusiasm arousing Blaise even more than it amused him. “I’ll wire the galleons into your account tonight,” she promised. She had insisted on a monetary payment, not wanting to explain the circumstances through which he gave her the painting.
He shrugged, not caring about the money. He really was set for life on a substantial trust fund, which grew with every one of his mother’s former husbands. “Whenever.” He paused for a moment, staring at her as if taking her measure. “I must say, you’re taking this all rather in stride. We’ve been dressed for about an hour now, and not once in the past 12 hours have you even casually suggested that I owl you, or that you make a return trip. Every girl I’ve slept with has usually at least made one attempt for a second date.”
“I’m a modern woman,” Hermione replied in what Ron called her ‘prissy voice. “And I hate to break it to you Blaise, but we didn’t even have a first date. We had sex. Wonderful sex, a lot of sex, but just sex. I learned a long time ago not to confuse that with anything else.” And he’d made it clear he wasn’t available for anything more than a night of fun.
“I think I got my money’s worth,” he replied, glancing significantly at the painting.
“If you want to piss me off, intimating that I whored myself for a painting would be a good start,” she told him. She knew it was nothing more than an attempt to get a rise out of her. She herself thought she would feel cheaper in the morning for the experience, but she had enjoyed her night with him so much the painting had become secondary in the transaction. And besides, he was receiving monetary compensation.
“Listen, I had a great time,” she told him honestly, leaning over to give him a quick kiss on the lips. “But I’ve got to get going.”
She could tell he was a little miffed she wasn’t begging to be his girlfriend, but he kissed her goodbye, allowing himself a final grope of her arse before she left, the door closing firmly behind her. Making sure there were no muggles about, she then closed her eyes to apparate, landing herself back in front of the Trevi fountain, and short walk from her hotel.
She turned to go, but paused, remembering a story she had heard an old man tell his granddaughter the previous day while they admired the fountain. She had cast an interpreter spell on herself, wanting to understand the words of those around her, and she had assumed at the time her contact would be Italian. The old man had told the little girl that legend had it that if one threw a coin over their shoulder into the fountain, they were guaranteed a return visit to the city. She had scoffed a little at the superstition, but had watched in amusement as the little girl had carefully stood with her back to the fountain, tossing the coin.
She felt some spare Muggle change she had put in her pocket the day before after purchasing a coffee at a little café. She drew out a penny, and turned it over in her hand, looking it over for a moment. Feeling a little foolish she turned her back to the fountain and tossed it over her shoulder into the water, thinking of Blaise the whole time.
Just in case.
******* The end *******
she wanted: An assignment (work or school), a fountain, Blaise showing (here: telling) her how to do something, a clock, and an act of gentlemaness.
Author:
idea_of_sarcasmPairing: Hermione/Blaise
Rating: NC-17. Adult.
Warnings: Sex, language
Summary: How do you summarize porn with minimal plot?
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine. You think JK Rowling would let her characters do these things?
Author Notes: Done as a request for
granger2malfoy ; some of the criteria were fulfilled a little vaguely.*x-posted like nobody’s business
************************************************
Hermione stood by the edge of the Trevi fountain, wishing for not the first time that she had chosen to meet her contact somewhere slightly less public. Not that she had been given a choice; it had been made fairly clear to her that they would meet here or she would lose out on the opportunity of a lifetime. And, more than likely, her job.
She had been a dealer of wizarding antiquities for a long time now, forgoing a lucrative job in the ministry and the excitement of a career as an auror to take the position almost straight out of school. It provided her with the opportunity to indulge her love of culture and history without dedicating her life to academia. She spent her life uncovering the rarest artifacts, and then selling them to the highest bidder for a tidy profit. Her endeavours were backed by the goblins of Gringott’s for a hefty commission, an arrangement they continually kept threatening to renege on but were too fond of the money she brought it.
She had been in Rome for a few weeks after being contacted by a wizard she had worked with before that a friend of his had uncovered something worth seeing when he had purchased some land outside of Rome to build a house. It wasn’t normally the way she worked things, but the man she knew had sworn these items were the real deal and his friend had ran a spell on them to confirm their age, suggesting their authenticity. And even then she wouldn’t have been lured but for the mention of an old painting.
Italian witchcraft and wizardry had always been of interest to her since she had begun to research magical societies besides those familiar to her in Britain. She supposed her initial interest had been because of their matriarchal roots. But the more she had read, the greater the differences were. While they acknowledged the talent of Merlin, their magic pre-dated him by centuries. While nowadays the magical community was as modern and oddly scientific as those around the world, they had their basis in a more mythical and ritualistic culture.
That interest was what had brought her to Rome. In 1609 a muggle named Francisco Guazza had published many woodcuts of what he observed to be witchcraft, even if the most famous ones had been rather stereotypical of the hateful views of witches at the time, and a rather lot of bullshit. While most of his work was distained by the magical community, rumour had it that he had made a relatively accurate painting of a witch producing a patronus.
Her friend had known at the mere mention of a four hundred year old painting fitting that description would have her salivating, and that’s why he had called her.
And that was why she was here, without any information but assurances she was getting the real deal from an intermediate for a man she’d never met.
“Granger,” she heard her last name drawled lazily by a man to her left. “Fancy meeting you here.”
She had been expecting full anonymity in the crowd at the very least; some assurance that when the man she would be meeting would be (hopefully) bringing a priceless item, nobody would know what she was here for. And she certainly hadn’t been expecting to hear her name, as she was to be identifiable to the man only by the red scarf around her neck. The cloak and dagger bit had annoyed her, but he had been insistent when he had owled her. It was therefore a great surprise when she whipped her head around to see Blaise Zabini smirking at her as he leaned against the wall of the fountain.
“Blaise!” she was shocked by the sight of him enough to use his first name, having referred to him by naught but his surname since third year.
He seemed amused at her surprise, “You seem so shocked to see me.”
He said that like seeing him in Italy was an everyday occurrence. Truth be told, she hadn’t even seen Blaise since after sixth year when she took off Horcrux hunting with Harry and Ron. She had never even really known what had happened to him after the last battle. She knew from the names standing trial that he had never been officially declared a death eater, but she knew every name that had fought for their side and he had not been one of them. Although she had never pondered it, it seemed an odd occurrence as Voldemort had never been one to tolerate neutrality.
“Go away Zabini,” she replied, reverting back to her former manner of address and turned her head away. It wasn’t as if they had been on the best of terms even while fellow students. “I have a meeting.”
“I know,” he replied, pushing away from the fountain and coming to stand beside her. And then he grinned in a purely sensuous way, reminding her again of the very inappropriate schoolgirl crush she used to nurse for the decidedly prejudiced and pure-blooded Slytherin. “It’s with me.”
“What are you talking about?” she snapped, fiddling with the red scarf that was beginning to feel a little like it was choking her.
He made a large production of glancing furtively about before leaning close to her ear before whispering, “Does an ancient painting of Italian witchcraft sound familiar?”
She jumped back in indignation. Hand on her hips, she asked him incredulously. “You? You’re my mystery contact? And all this bullshit was necessary why exactly?” In annoyance she began to untie the red scarf from around her neck, a useless fashion accessory that she had been wearing for identification purposes only.
“Something about the idea of you and scarves . . . . . .” his tone was mild, but even without a blatant invitation she could hear the erotic meaning.
It didn’t matter if he was trying to scare her off, go on a power trip, or literally try to seduce her - she couldn’t just run off when he had something she wanted. Something she really really really wanted. “Wait, was this all some sort of hoax?” she asked suspiciously. “Did you honestly find the painting, or is this some elaborate ruse?”
He raised his eyebrows, “You certainly think highly of yourself, don’t you? It’s not as if I’ve been harbouring some tendre for you since our school years, desperate for some excuse to get you here to see me.” He paused for a moment, smirking at her embarrassed blush before continuing, “That being said, ask me what my price is for letting you have the painting.”
She launched into business mode, pulling a piece of parchment out of her bag. “Of course any further discussion will be based on the confirmation of authenticity, but on behalf of Gringott’s I have the power to make you a very wealthy man.”
He waved her assurance aside as if it meant nothing. “I’m a Zabini, Granger. I already am a very wealthy man. An extremely wealthy man if you want to know the truth. No, ask me what my price is for letting go of the painting.”
“What is your price?” she asked the question warily, not trusting him for a moment.
Blaise pretended to ponder the question for a moment, leaving her to contemplate exactly how she was going to be able to meet his demands, before speaking. “You.”
“Pardon?” she sputtered, folding her arms across her chest. “That’s a little vague.” Well, it was vague, but she was pretty damn sure she knew exactly what he was talking about.
“How’s this for specific?” he asked with a grin before leaning closer again. “I want you, for one night, to do exactly as I please with. Including, but not limited to, the following conditions. I want to have you in my bed, tied with that pretty red scarf you have around your neck. I want to taste you, feel you, and preferably be sucked off by you. I want to feel you squeezing me with your cunt, and I want to make you scream so loud my neighbours begin to wonder. And then I want to bend you over the desk in my private office and do it all over again.”
It didn’t say anything complimentary about her that she was panting by the time he was done, and her knickers were soaked. “Sounds a little too Indecent Proposal for me,” she quipped, remembering the movie, sure he could not be serious. He was likely just toying with her, trying to get her all hot and bothered, or outraged, before he named his real price.
“Oh, I promise you it will be completely indecent,” he smiled a feral grin, but his tone was dead serious. The words were like something out of a bad porno movie (not that she had ever actually admit to seeing one), but she couldn’t bring herself to care.
“And all that about not ‘harbouring some tendre’ for me?” she raised her eyebrows.
“The truth,” Blaise replied honestly, if not a little mischievously, “But when I contacted my friend Gordon to tell him what I had found, and he told me all about this annoying dealer named Granger, I managed to recall my fantasy of fucking you senseless that inspired many a wank during Hogwarts. Something about your uptight little attitude, combined with the schoolgirl outfit, always did it for me.”
She was far from a virgin, and far from a prude, but her response was limited to a monosyllabic, “Guh.” at his blunt words.
Oh Merlin was he good looking - the type of man that she and Ginny would class as absolutely fuckworthy. He was also erotic as all get out, and even during his school days had cultivated a reputation for satisfying the witches he was with. But she was sure there was some reason she should be objecting to his suggestions. Some reason she should slap him across the face. And she would do that any second now. Really.
“I’m not a prostitute,” she managed to squeak out, embarrassed her voice didn’t hold the firm tone she was going for.
“I never thought you were,” he agreed amiably. “And don’t think of the painting as payment. Think about the fact that you want to shag me, even if your only benefit is a mind-numbing orgasm.”
“Full of yourself, aren’t you?” she commented wryly, even if she supposed he had the right to be. She was getting aroused just from hearing him speak. Seeing him without his shirt alone would probably send her right over the edge.
“So Granger, we have a deal?” he asked smoothly, letting his fingers entangle slightly with the belt on her pants.
“Sure,” she said the word as if she didn’t care. As if he wasn’t making make her want to have her way with him in the middle of the public square. And she could tell he was surprised at her reply. Not that she had given in, his ego wouldn’t allow for anything but that eventuality, but that she had given in so soon. He had obviously thought it would require a little more effort on his part. But she was far from the uptight (and admittedly a little frigid) girl she had once been.
Besides, mind-numbing sex. With Blaise. And she got the artifact. There really didn’t seem to be a downside to this deal for her.
“I suppose what’s one night?” she kept her shrug casual, wanting to needle him a little. “Even a night with you would be worth it just to get my hands on that painting.”
She could heard him chuckle, and knew she was in over her head trying to play games with him. “Oh Hermione, you’re a good actress.” He smiled wickedly before leaning over and practically devouring her mouth with his. And she forgot about the painting. Forgot about the crowds. And forgot about everything but his lips and his tongue, and his hands that had slipped down to cup her arse. And then he pulled away, leaving her panting and frustrated. “But not that good.” He gave a self-satisfied smile that made her want to kick him in the shin.
Hermione considered the fact there were probably conversations they should have before this went any further, such as maybe wondering if he had shagged the whole of the Italian population yet and if he’d picked up anything communicable. Or maybe wonder why a Slytherin who used to be obsessed with pure-blooded heritage was sporting a full blown hard-on for a mudblood. Or a million other tiny inconsequential things that one liked to know before hopping into bed with someone else. Intellectually she knew all this, but somehow at this point she just didn’t care.
“I assume you have a place we can go to?” she asked, thinking of her dingy little hotel room. She hadn’t chosen the nicest place considering she had only been expecting to be in Rome the one night.
“I live here Granger,” he pointed out. “I’ve got a little place rented while I’m renovating. Private and everything.”
And then his arm was around her waist, and his other hand sliding down the front of her jeans, and when they appeared in front of a rather plain looking little building in the middle of the city she was grateful he managed not to splinch them during the side-along apparition. They were never tested on apparating while fondling a member of the opposite sex.
She managed not to sigh her frustration when he pulled away so he could remove his wand from his pocket and unlock the door. “Nice place,” was all she commented when he mockingly held the door for her and grandly gestured for her to go first.
“So what are you doing in Italy?” she asked, eyeing his place and it’s surprisingly clean interior as she wandered into the living room. “I’ve actually seen your mum back in Britain a few times. She and husband number ten, Gordon Parkinson, bought an amulet I found in Argentina that used to belong to Merlin. Apparently Pansy’s dad is quite the collector.”
“Does it matter?” he asked, not cruelly but making it clear it was an avenue he didn’t really want to explore.
“No, I guess not,” she admitted, because truly it didn’t matter why he had escaped to a different country, or even specifically Italy. Whether it was for something as simple as a job offer, or something more sinister related to the war, it didn’t change the here and now, which for them was all that mattered.
And then he was kissing her, his tongue thrusting so deeply she could barely breath around it. He backed her hard against the wall, thrusting his hips so there was no space between them. And she couldn’t do much more than let him be the one to kiss her; she didn’t have the strength to return it properly. He braced his hand on the wall, grinding his hips against her and making her arch back towards him desperately craving whatever contact she could get.
“Hmm,” he muttered, fingering the hem of her linen skirt as he pulled back slightly. “Not quite the Hogwart’s uniform, but prudish enough that I think it will fulfill the fantasy. But I do wish we had access to the tie.”
“You’re a wizard,” she pointed out breathlessly, “We’ll improvise.”
He backed away from the wall slowly, but keeping her cradled between his legs. “That’s what I like about you Granger, always practical.” And then he turned her in his arms so his front cradled her back. He leaned down and bit her neck gently, even as he ground against her from behind, his erection rubbing between her butt cheeks. “I bet you even know a good restraining spell. I never bothered to learn one, scarves are so much more elegant, but I think that’s one practicality I should know.”
And he slowly walked her forwards, his hands grasped tightly on her hips, keeping her pressed against him as they moved, and she swore she could feel every last inch of him. He moved her into the couch, releasing her so she fell forward over the back edge in a rather embarrassing position. But when she moved to stand up, he pressed his hand in the small of her back, keeping her in position.
“Blaise?” she hated how she made his name like a question, even as she squirmed against his hand. “Shouldn’t we, uh, move this into the bedroom?”
“Later,” he promised, and she could feel him slowly drawing up her skirt. “Arch your hips,” he ordered roughly, and she mindlessly lifted them so he could pull up the skirt so it bunched around her waist, pulling off her knickers roughly and sliding them down her legs to toss them on the floor.
“What are you doing?” even she could hear that her voice was slightly panicked.
“Preparing to fuck you senseless,” he explained in a tone that one usually used when discussing the weather.
“Oh,” she replied, wishing she had some witty, or at least sensible response to that. She had never had sex this way. She wasn’t really aware you could have sex this way. And maybe that was truly an indication of how boring her sex life had been until now.
She could hear the sound of him unzipping his pants and she tried to arch around and look because really, who wanted to miss the sight of that, even if she was missing the opportunity to caress him in her hands. But she only caught the briefest glance of his cock before he noticed her trying to turn.
“Don’t move,” she almost jumped off the couch when he slapped her on the ass. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough that she could feel the sting spread across her skin. And she hated that she liked it, arching back unconsciously for more of his touch.
But then he was between her legs, pulling them wider apart so he could stand between them. And she knew it was blatantly obvious she wasn’t quite sure what she was doing, because he began to instruct her in that casual tone that seemed so out of place with what they were about to do. “Slide forward a little,” he ordered, pushing her forward over the couch a little more so that her hips arched up higher, leaving her wide open to his gaze.
He sunk to his knees and placed his hands between her thighs, parting her folds with his fingers before kissing the core of her. “Are you wet for me?” he asked roughly, speaking against her skin, even as his lips glistened with evidence to the affirmative.
“Merlin, yes,” she swore, grasping onto the fabric of the couch as she slid forward a little further. It felt so wrong to be in this position, so dirty. She was completely open to him, completely subject to his actions. She couldn’t do anything more than what he wanted to give her. Of course she supposed that was why he had chosen this position rather than one where they would be on more equal footing.
She almost screamed as he licked slowly between her legs as he got to his feet. Because it was doing nothing but teasing her, not allowing her to come. And he continued, only rubbing against her with the tip of his erection, allowing her nothing more than the slightest friction. She tried to push back against him, wanting him inside her, wanting to relieve the unbearable tension, but he held her hips with his hands, not allowing her to move.
“Please,” she knew she was begging, and she just didn’t care. And she wanted to weep in relief when she heard him grab his wand and mutter a protection charm.
And then he was lifting her hips as he slid inside her, hardly the most comfortable position otherwise, but she didn’t care because the feeling of him was distracting her to all else. She felt so full, almost to the point of breaking, but yet somehow perfect. And she moved her hips what she could, trying to allow him a deeper angle.
She swore she ripped the fabric of the couch with her nails when he drew out and then slammed into her again, repeating the process over and over. And she was able to hold her hips at the right angle herself when he let go with one hand to reach between them and play with her clit, trying to give her the release she was begging for.
When her climax came it was almost a surprise, sneaking up on her just when she thought it would never end, that it would all be too much. And it was his name she screamed, not even caring that they had forgotten to cast a silencing charm and his neighbours would think her a slag. And the prat didn’t even care that she was having the most intense orgasm of her life, just kept pounding away as he found his own release, able to control his response to nothing more than a low moan.
“That was nice,” she told him in an oddly polite voice when she came back to her senses; a massive understatement.
He didn’t reply as he drew slowly out of her, and she could hear the slick sound even as she felt the friction on her sensitive skin. “Oh Hermione,” he leaned forward and pressed an open mouth kiss to her right shoulder blade even as he fondled the scarf that still hung awkwardly from her neck, “The nicest part is, we’ve only just begun.”
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“You sure you don’t want some pumpkin juice? Coffee?” he asked the question as they stood in his kitchen. Blaise looked rather deliciously rumpled after a night of sex and very little sleep, and she was struggling to remember the proper spell to get the wrinkles out of her skirt.
“No thanks,” she replied with a smile, finally deciding it didn’t matter. She would just change when she got back to the hotel. “I’m actually due back home for an obligatory dinner with my parents this evening, and I have a million things to do before then.” She cast a quick glance at the clock, knowing at the very least that she had to check out of her hotel in half an hour.
Hermione grabbed the painting, discreetly charmed to look like some mundane landscape. She had practically salivated when he showed it to her the previous night, her enthusiasm arousing Blaise even more than it amused him. “I’ll wire the galleons into your account tonight,” she promised. She had insisted on a monetary payment, not wanting to explain the circumstances through which he gave her the painting.
He shrugged, not caring about the money. He really was set for life on a substantial trust fund, which grew with every one of his mother’s former husbands. “Whenever.” He paused for a moment, staring at her as if taking her measure. “I must say, you’re taking this all rather in stride. We’ve been dressed for about an hour now, and not once in the past 12 hours have you even casually suggested that I owl you, or that you make a return trip. Every girl I’ve slept with has usually at least made one attempt for a second date.”
“I’m a modern woman,” Hermione replied in what Ron called her ‘prissy voice. “And I hate to break it to you Blaise, but we didn’t even have a first date. We had sex. Wonderful sex, a lot of sex, but just sex. I learned a long time ago not to confuse that with anything else.” And he’d made it clear he wasn’t available for anything more than a night of fun.
“I think I got my money’s worth,” he replied, glancing significantly at the painting.
“If you want to piss me off, intimating that I whored myself for a painting would be a good start,” she told him. She knew it was nothing more than an attempt to get a rise out of her. She herself thought she would feel cheaper in the morning for the experience, but she had enjoyed her night with him so much the painting had become secondary in the transaction. And besides, he was receiving monetary compensation.
“Listen, I had a great time,” she told him honestly, leaning over to give him a quick kiss on the lips. “But I’ve got to get going.”
She could tell he was a little miffed she wasn’t begging to be his girlfriend, but he kissed her goodbye, allowing himself a final grope of her arse before she left, the door closing firmly behind her. Making sure there were no muggles about, she then closed her eyes to apparate, landing herself back in front of the Trevi fountain, and short walk from her hotel.
She turned to go, but paused, remembering a story she had heard an old man tell his granddaughter the previous day while they admired the fountain. She had cast an interpreter spell on herself, wanting to understand the words of those around her, and she had assumed at the time her contact would be Italian. The old man had told the little girl that legend had it that if one threw a coin over their shoulder into the fountain, they were guaranteed a return visit to the city. She had scoffed a little at the superstition, but had watched in amusement as the little girl had carefully stood with her back to the fountain, tossing the coin.
She felt some spare Muggle change she had put in her pocket the day before after purchasing a coffee at a little café. She drew out a penny, and turned it over in her hand, looking it over for a moment. Feeling a little foolish she turned her back to the fountain and tossed it over her shoulder into the water, thinking of Blaise the whole time.
Just in case.
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And God Almighty was this one hot fic. *pants uncontrollably* Not to mention my favourite position ever.
She couldn’t do anything more than what he wanted to give her. Of course she supposed that was why he had chosen this position rather than one where they would be on more equal footing.
fjdkfjakdjfas OH YESSS.
And the little things, like the fact that he held the door for her as he motioned her in to her "doom." And Hermione wondering if he'd done half of Italy (heehee!). Lovely fic, and 100% pure Blaise Zabini. :D
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And thank you for the compliment on how *hot* it was (even though I bow down to you as the queen of the turning-to-mush Blaise/Hermione stories). And, let's just say I have a certain affinity for that position as well.
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(Anonymous) 2006-08-30 12:37 am (UTC)(link)I think the 'Guh' sums it up pretty accurately. That was f*in hot. I need a cigarette, or a really cold shower, or my husband to get home from work early.
Re: Too lazy to log in
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Just what I needed when I'm feeling hormonal. Blaise, sexy as hell and taking exactly what he wants unaffraid of the consequences. I'm kind of dribbling right now, so this responce is short less I destroy my keyboard.
Bloody gorgeous.
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Well, that certainly seems applicable to my current state after reading this. The smut was lovely, but you really got me with your characterizations of the both of them. Very well done (not that you need any more praise).
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(and note: your icon is a little hypnotic, lol)
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And, no, I hadn't actually written a sequel. Let me correct that - I had started writing one....and it's currently sitting half finished on my hard drive. Waiting for inspiration to strike. At least I hope it's still there after the comp crash, lol.
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