meretricious1's Journal

Had a strange dream last night. I want to see where it takes me.
OK, this is a WIP. Don't know anyone I'd ask to beta - I lead a very sheltered life. Comments, should they magically appear, will probably lead to improvements.

(no title yet)

She'd always been known to do at twice the amount of research anyone else would ever bother with. She'd take twice the amount of care to get her work right, worry twice as much as anyone else that what she'd done wasn't quite, quite perfect.

She'd also, sometimes, eat twice as much chocolate as anyone else could possibly do, and feel twice as guilty for it afterwards.

Hermione Granger was a good little student, and wanted perfection in everything. Her research had led her to realize that whatever she and Ron had been doing in those stolen minutes in the Room of Requirement, it wasn't perfect, not by any means perfect. She'd be wet and trembling, her heart racing with lust, and he'd pull out, flick the sweat from his forehead with a quick movement, and give a satisfied sigh as he sank down next to her, kissing her shoulder.

Parvati's skin was perfect, smooth, soft and altogether lovely to touch. She liked it very much when Hermione touched her, and sometimes, when Parvati touched her back, in return for the strange scales of desire and fulfillment Hermione made her sing with her fingers and tongue, Hermione had her moments of perfection, all muscles tightening, breath stopping, eyes squeezing shut as she came. But Parvati was careful about her looks, and sex with her, while aesthetically pleasing, and sometimes astonishingly good, was too gently, too slow, too mindful of long nails and made-up eyes and not getting the back of her hair tangled.

There were teachers around, but she knew they were not what she wanted. They were old, or just plain weird, and she didn't think people who chose to spend most of their lives cooped up with hundreds of children would know enough to give her what she thought she wanted.

Strangers? She didn't think she'd have the courage (or social skills, she grudgingly acknowledged to her self) to pick up a perfect stranger - and even if she did, how was she to know they would be good enough?

Hermione Granger wanted perfection, and spent a lot of time thinking about how to get it. (She also listened a great deal behind semi-closed doors, but she wasn't quite ready to admit that.)

She wanted someone old enough to have experience, someone she wasn't in love with, someone who'd be fun and attentive and not in any way solemn or serious.

She did her research well, and that Friday afternoon, just before the start of her seventh term, she walked into their shop, after carefully concocting a plausible, uncheckable cover story.

They swallowed her bait, and after selling her some silly trinket to give to someone they didn't know, took her out for a late lunch at the pub around the corner.

They were sitting on either side of her, on an old, worn sofa facing the unlit fireplace, when she started making her move - slowly, as if by chance, she started laughing just a little too long at their jokes, arching her back, as if in pleasure, throwing them both quick, sideways glances and wriggling where she sat, leaning back a little, so they'd have to sit a little sideways to keep facing her.

They liked telling jokes, she knew that, and was the most appreciative audience they'd ever had. She threw her head back laughing, clutching one knee on either side of her, exposing her throat.

Her hands stayed on their knees, and when she felt them tensing up, simultaneously, she knew.

They look at each other above her head (when had they grown so tall?), and when she moved her hands from their knee-caps to their thighs she was almost certain that they would.

Current Mood: nostalgic

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