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Hermione was crying again.
Blaise could hear the muffled sounds of it from halfway down the hallway, slipping under the door and racing along the carpet toward him, preparing him for what he was about to face. It wasn’t an unexpected occurrence these days, what with the anniversary of Draco’s death drawing nearer and nearer.
A year without her husband; her best friend. A year without his.
It had been a sudden death; shocking, like stepping into a river only to find that the earth had been gouged out deeper than expected, icy hands coiling and grabbing, yanking downward without mercy.
Sudden but not unexpected. They all knew the risks that Aurors undertook, a lover's spat just as easily able to devolve into wandplay as a coordinated raid. But knowing did nothing except instantly spike anxiety when the knock came, Robards on the other side.
In the end, all that mattered was that he'd died saving someone, and had succeeded. They'd clung to it like a life buoy.
In those first weeks, Blaise had stepped up alongside the rest of Hermione’s support group. He’d leant what measure of comfort he could and then, when the comfort of Harry, Ron, and Ginny proved most effective, had instead offered his hand in shoring up the scaffolding of her life. He'd organized meal deliveries for Hermione, had managed the press, had sat beside a shell-shocked Narcissa to arrange the funeral services, and then had conveyed the necessary details to a near-comatose Hermione.
He’d been there, on the edges, doing what he did best. Sorting things out. Keeping things running. He was no stranger to a wife losing her husband, though Hermione was miles more displaced than his mother ever had been.
It was a testament to how deep their love had been that even the smallest reminders elicited reactions from her.
A list of items to procure while in town (eye of newt, quills, marmalade) written in Draco’s distinctive hand, found within a kitchen drawer while Hermione had been looking for a pen; a small hand pressed to her mouth, eyes bright.
An old wand holster, slipping free from the belongings Blaise was helping her store and clattering to the wooden floor; a tense jaw, eyes hot with angry tears.
A long-displaced Quidditch glove, recovered from behind the sofa during a spring rearrange; tender eyes and a quivering chin.
And it was a testament to her resilience that in between all those moments of remembrance, and rage, and bittersweet affection that she exhaled and carried on. Folded the note back to the drawer, binned the holster, tucked the glove into a box. It’s what Draco would have wanted, Blaise knew. For Hermione to be happy, and to find a way to get the most from her life. (And, perhaps, to cry herself to sleep in his memory once in a while).
For the last few months, Hermione had seemed steady. She’d been able to talk about Draco without a wobble, all smiles and eye rolls when reminiscing, back to her typical affable personality. Pansy had divulged that Hermione had finally accepted the portrait of Draco that Narcissa had commissioned when he’d been promoted three years prior. Hermione had resisted the portrait at first but evidently the unending recommendations from all the well-meaning Purebloods in her life had finally permeated. A portrait of lost loved ones was a gift of magic, they’d insisted. A source of comfort. A memory that would never fade.
Pansy credited the new artwork for their friend’s recent emotional stability. Blaise had hummed thoughtfully. There certainly was a new lightness to her. Had it come from being able to look or speak, even limitedly, to her husband, preserved forever as he’d been at thirty-two, imbued with the confidence wrought from being freshly pleased with his success? Very likely.
And yet now Blaise was here, walking down the corridor of Hermione and Draco’s home, ready to sort out whatever had sent her off the edge again.
Outside the modest home library, he paused. The all-too familiar sounds of her whimpered sobs pressed against the other side of the door, and Blaise drew in a slow, deep breath, steeling himself. He hated seeing her cry.
With a single knuckle, he rapped twice then curled his hand around the knob.
“Hermione,” he murmured softly as he let himself in. “It’s me. Are you alri—”
It took a moment for his brain to parse what his eyes were seeing in the cozily-lit room. Hermione was indeed a soaked, whimpering mess, but the source of it was not grief. Or perhaps it was, but wrought from her in a rather unconventional manifestation.
She was reclined back on the tufted sofa that faced the door, her breasts spilling out from over the top of her camisole and trousers discarded at her feet, bare legs bent and spread wide to showcase the source of her distress: a desperate cunt that missed its husband’s cock.
For want of something inside, Hermione had sunk two slender fingers deep, her palm cupped tightly enough that even from across the room, Blaise could hear the slick suction of how very wet she was.
As he froze in the doorway, her gaze drifted from the wall to her left to fix, glassy-eyed and dazed, on his.
“Blaise,” she mumbled, and then a second later her knees snapped together, pinning her hand between her thighs as her eyes blew wide. “Blaise. Oh my god.”
On the wall, the portrait of Draco made a coaxing sound, leaning forward in his wingback chair. “Oh darling, don’t hide it away. Legs wide for me.”
Looking and speaking to the portrait indeed. Merlin.
“Blaise,” she repeated, louder, perhaps for the benefit of both men, because at the sound of his name, Blaise finally jerked his gaze away from her body.
“Fuck.” His eyes landed on the replica of his former best friend, the large gilded frame hung in a place of prominence. “Shit. Sorry. I’ll—go. I’ll go.”
“Wait.” Hermione sounded deeply embarrassed but the firm note in her voice kept him where he was. “Wait, just…hang on, let me…”
The sound of fabric rustling informed him that those plump, gorgeous breasts were being tucked away. A damn shame. Blaise firmed his mouth in apology up at Draco, who glowered down at him.
“Merlin’s fucking beard, Zabini. You have rather inopportune timing. She was bloody close.”
Blaise did his best not to picture it. Except—oh fuck—those tearful whimpers. Not brought forth because of sadness, then. Salazar below, he’d never be able to forget how it sounded when Hermione was close to coming.
“To be fair, I was expected,” he returned, eyes on Draco but the comment for both Malfoys.
“You were,” Hermione stammered and then, as if suddenly remembering, breathed, “Oh god, you were. Blaise, I’m so sorry—how embarrassing. You—” This seemed directed to the wall; Draco. “—I told you I had something to do and you completely distracted me!”
Draco’s smile unfurled, the feline curve perfectly depicted in oils. “Mm. You’re so easily distracted though. How could I resist?”
“Should’ve hung you in the spare bedroom,” Hermione tutted, and Blaise chanced a glance at her. She had redressed to pseudo-appropriate levels, her camisole righted but her lap covered only by a cushion, trousers still a puddle of navy on the rug beside her bare feet. “Or the bathroom.”
“Don’t tease, darling,” Draco drawled. “I do so desperately miss seeing you all soaped up. Risk of humidity be damned—hang me above the bath.”
Hermione bit her lip, expression going coy as her eyes tilted up to the wall. “Now there’s an idea. I really ought to have given you the ability to leave your frame; let you into that painting of the seaside in our bedroom.”
Draco’s brow arched. “Pampelonne was a naturist beach. I’d be quite overdressed.”
The slow dampening of her lower lip was pure sex. “Easily resolved.”
There was something rather disconcerting to see her flirting with art but, then again, even rendered in two dimensions, Draco was an unmistakable presence.
Blaise cleared his throat politely and took a step back through the doorway, not wanting to intrude. It garnered the attention of the other two—other solitary—occupant of the room. Hermione sent him an imploring look.
“Please, don’t go," she said. "I really did want to see you tonight, Blaise.”
He nodded reflexively. “Sure—no problem. I’ll just go put the kettle on while you finish up.” Belatedly, he gestured to her trousers when the potential double meaning of his comment occurred to him.
“Blaise.” Draco’s voice had taken on a curious lilt. Blaise looked over, brows raised expectantly. “Stay.”
His brows lowered, then furrowed at the glint in Draco’s eye. It was a glint which had so often heralded terrible schemes. Schemes that ended up with Blaise and Theo hauled into the back of Muggle police cars after nights out, or resulted in Hermione missing two consecutive days of work to ‘recuperate’ from whatever deviance Draco had thought up that time during after work drinks when he'd tossed too many Galleons on the table and practically Disapparating on the spot.
They’d always been an intense pair, Hermione and Draco. Seeing the way Hermione was still breathless, her color high and the sharpness of her wit still not all there, Blaise marveled at the way that intensity had managed to extend through the doors of Death.
“I said I would,” Blaise reminded him, wary of that look. “I’ll just be—”
“No, stay,” Draco interrupted. “Here. After all, you’ve always been invested in making sure Hermione isn’t suffering, haven’t you?”
“Of course,” Blaise said, glancing at Hermione. He could see his own confusion mirrored on her face, though only for a moment, and then her petal mouth parted, eyes flicking to her husband’s portrait with a new sort of understanding.
“Draco,” she said slowly, and the painted git smirked without reservation. He leaned back in his armchair, thighs spreading wide on the cushioned seat, pulling taut the elegant midnight blue trousers he’d been painted in.
“I know you miss it, sweetheart,” he cooed, then emphasized his implication by stroking a palm slowly over the front of his trousers. Blaise averted his gaze, eyes landing on Hermione’s profile. “I know your toys are only passably adequate, or else you wouldn’t be here night after night, making me talk you through those feeble little clenches.”
Hermione was flushed red but the look of understanding had only deepened.
“I do miss it,” she murmured, eyes locked on what Blaise presumed was that pale, stroking hand. Unthinkingly, Blaise followed her gaze. Draco’s hands now rested on either arm of his chair, the pose magisterial. Even behind dark blue, the bulge of his cock was plainly visible.
“Yeah?” Draco’s gaze was unblinking. “You miss feeling full? Miss being fucked by something that’s hot and eager and red-blooded?”
She squirmed. “Yes.”
The look she received for her honesty was pure indulgence. And then silver flicked to Blaise. “What do you say, old chum? Will you take care of my wife for me? Put her out of her suffering?”
It occurred to Blaise then that, in actuality, the only two people in the room were himself and Hermione. Draco wasn’t there, not really. He could be silenced and shrouded, and there would be no recourse he could take. Portraits couldn’t do magic, and as Hermione had already confirmed, he was confined to his frame. By all accounts, Draco had no power over them. Silenceable, shroudable, confined.
And yet it was Blaise who felt immobile.
His eyes slid to Hermione. If anyone was going to put Draco in his place, it would be her. She’d always been so very adept at it. But Hermione was wetting her lips with that same slow glide of her tongue, eyeing Blaise with something that looked very close to hunger.
From any woman, it was a look that summoned his full attention. From Hermione—Salazar.
All the same, he raised a questioning brow at her, not wanting her to feel put on the spot. “Are you suffering, Hermione?”
She pressed her lips together and nodded.
Behind the thin cotton of her camisole, her nipples were clearly visible and so, to test the sincerity of the offer, Blaise let his eyes linger on her breasts, head tilting appraisingly as he took in the heaving swells and the hard points that adorned them. It was glorious to let himself look so openly, all the covert glances through the years having been crumbs in comparison to the meal before him now.
When his gaze met hers again, prepared for the verdict of his blatant ogling, he found her lips had parted, expression deeply hopeful.
“Alright,” he agreed softly, incapable of resisting that look even for things he didn't already desperately want. “You know I’m here for you, for whatever you need.”
She inhaled slowly through her nose. “I do.”
“You know,” Draco interjected, tone measured, “if I wasn’t dead, I’d be quite put out by what I’m sensing here.”
Blaise snorted dryly. “Put out. You mean I’d be the one decorating a wall in memoriam.”
Draco’s smile was all teeth. “Precisely.”
“Need I remind you that you’re the one propositioning me to your wife?” Blaise remarked, brow arching as he strode further into the room. “So any jealousy you’re feeling is entirely your fault.”
“I love her more than my pride,” Draco said at once, then sighed expansively. “And, as you’ve just reminded us, I’m reduced to the power of my words rather than all the other clever things I used to be able to do with my tongue.”
On the sofa, Hermione sighed wistfully. “God, your tongue.”
Pushing to his feet, Draco walked to the edge of his frame, bracing a hand on it like a door jamb, then opened his mouth and slowly unfurled his tongue for her. The little sound she made zipped straight down Blaise’s spine.
“Needy little wife,” Draco purred. “Come on, love. Show me where you’d want it.”
Hermione squirmed, cheeks flushed a deep rose. A fleeting glance toward Blaise, and then she moved the cushion aside and slid her hand down to cover herself with instead. She held Blaises’s eye for a second longer then flicked her attention back to the portrait.
“Right there, darling?” Draco murmured. “Between your legs?”
Hermione bit her lip and nodded, hand moving in a tiny circle to give herself a fleeting rub. Draco inhaled slowly then pushed himself back upright, adjusting himself over his trousers as he reached up to unbutton his collar.
It was then that Blaise noted that the cream-colored cable knit jumper Draco had been wearing had been discarded to the side of the armchair, and there was a rosy warmth to his skin that Blaise didn’t think had been intentionally placed there by the artist’s brush. It piqued his curiosity.
“Can portraits feel overheated?” Blaise pondered aloud. He gestured toward Draco, eyes flicking to the bulge in his trousers meaningfully. “Based on that, I surmise you feel arousal?”
Draco huffed. “Unfortunately, yes. You can’t even begin to comprehend the endless misery of being able to see your wife’s sweet, hot little cunt, knowing how much she needs you, and not being able to do anything about it but have one off the wrist for her.”
“As I’m not married, that’s true,” Blaise said agreeably. “But I can absolutely relate to seeing a woman I wish I could fuck, but knowing I can’t.”
Hermione chirped a little sound, but Blaise kept his attention on the painting for a moment longer. Draco worked his jaw for a moment, eyes narrowing speculatively.
“You’ll do as I say,” he said after a moment, the words both a statement and a question.
Pocketing his hand in a mirroring of Draco’s casual pose, Blaise raised his brows at the declaration then turned his attention to Hermione. She was already looking at him.
“Would you like me to fuck you how Draco would?” Blaise inquired.
She bit her lip, expression warring between hesitation and agreement. Blaise waited her out and after a moment, she nodded.
Anticipation surged in his chest, turning his pulse hot and strong. It had been a long time building, his desire for Hermione. Assembled piecemeal, slowly and insidiously; hiding within his actions until he’d finally seen the basis for his care over her. Being offered the chance to do something about this facet of his feelings for her was not something Blaise intended to take lightly.
He’d seen the hesitation in her eyes, but something whispered to him that the reason for her pause hadn’t been about Blaise touching her but rather the person he was going to emulate. Momentarily forgetful as she might be about the corporeal status of her husband, Hermione was a clever witch. How long would it take for her to realize that what Blaise could provide for her might extend further than just a simple proxy fuck?
There was little doubt in his mind that Draco had fucked her well, but should Blaise be at liberty to fuck her how he wanted, he’d have her shaking with pleasure. The thought tingled deliciously through him, and he let some of it unfurl within his smile.
“Yeah?” he confirmed, voice low. “You want me to follow his instructions, to give you what he can’t anymore?”
“Don’t be smug, Zabini,” Draco warned dryly.
Blaise snorted, amused, not looking away from Hermione’s wide brown eyes.
Between her legs, her hand twitched. His eyes drifted down to watch as her fingers rubbed over her cunt again, the digits still covering herself from view.
What would it take to have her sinking them inside again, or lifting up to circle her clit, giving him a clear view of where she needed something that only he was currently equipped to give her. How long had it been, since she’d felt the touch of another person? Three hundred and sixty five days? Even longer?
“Yes,” she murmured, drawing his gaze back to hers. “I want that.”
He wouldn't make her ask again.
“In that case...” Blaise took a step closer, only two strides separating the tips of his shoes from her widely spread bare feet. “I believe Draco asked to see where you needed some attention.”
It was without hesitation this time that she slid her fingers up to circle tightly over her clit, and Blaise had to draw in a chest-deep inhale at the sight of her wet, slick folds. She was flushed pink, puffy with arousal, glossy from where her fingers had drawn out the wetness from within. Blaise wanted to drop to his knees and press her legs wide so that he could see it all; the way she’d flutter and twitch if he breathed on her, licked at her, sucked on her.
Based on the way he’d already witnessed Draco toying with her, he presumed those fantasies would soon be fulfilled, and so he let his gaze drift over her with patient hunger before carrying up to settle again on her face.
“I thought you were crying, before,” he murmured. “What had you making those breathy little sounds, Hermione?”
A quick check to the wall. Draco waved his hand permissively. Hermione wet her lips then looked back at Blaise.
“Come find out.”
He closed the distance between them until his shins met the barrier of the sofa between her spread calves, holding her eye. Continuing to hold it even as he saw movement in his periphery. When her lips parted on a soft sound of pleasure, he inhaled slowly, nostrils flaring, and looked.
Two fingers. A dainty wrist rolling slowly. Wet, succulent sounds.
And then that whimper—the one he’d heard through the door.
His gaze snapped back to hers, wanting to see her face when she made such a sweet sound. There was an attentiveness to her, watching for his reaction as she slowly drew another soft moan out of herself.
“Taste it.” The words came from beside them. Draco’s voice was still indulgent but Blaise could hear the thin sliver of agony threaded through it.
Hermione’s eyes darted to her husband’s painting, and whatever she saw there had her withdrawing her fingers and sucking them into her mouth. Left bare, her cunt beckoned to him. Blaise wanted to taste, too.
Draco had told him to fuck his wife how he would’ve—surely getting to his knees was expected. Without overthinking it, Blaise sank to the carpet, hands coming up to brace on the edge of the settee either side of Hermione’s spread thighs.
“Let me see,” Draco demanded, and so Blaise extended his tongue long, letting just the tip flick across the swollen rise of her clit so that Draco could watch the first moment they touched.
The surprised, soft moan that escaped Hermione nearly drowned out the low rumble from the painting, both sounds sparking deliciously in Blaise's gut.
Her free hand lifted to rest, at first uncertainly and then firmly, on his head, and Blaise looked up, offering her a slanting grin as he licked a broader stripe across her cunt, saturating his tongue with the mouth-watering taste. Her fingers gripped his short, coarse curls with new ferocity, hips rocking upward as her other hand dropped away from her mouth.
“Oh…Blaise,” she breathed. “Oh my god.”
“Again.” Draco’s voice had a hard edge, whether in reaction to seeing her pleasure or in hearing his wife moaning another man’s name.
It added a layer of satisfaction to the act of dragging his tongue slowly up his friend’s wife’s cunt. Added a layer of delight to the way her responding moan was pitched low and needy. Made it so that when Hermione’s hips twitched upward again, Blaise relished being the one to hold her still.
“She likes it slow, and strong,” Draco instructed after a moment. “But she’s already gotten close tonight so be careful.”
Blaise drew back, licking his lips as he sent a sidelong glance up to the portrait. “Careful of what?”
Draco’s eyes were heavy-lidded, attention fixed on Hermione. As Blaise watched, he dragged a thumb slowly across his bottom lip then inhaled slowly, finally looking away to fix Blaise with a knowing expression.
“Careful not to let her come until she’s got something to squeeze around. I want her coming bloody fucking hard tonight.” A jut of his chin, eyes down the end of his nose. “You can manage that, can’t you, Zabini?”
Blaise snorted, lips curling up into an uncontrollable smirk. “I suppose we’ll see.”
“Blaise,” Hermione whined. “Stop talking.”
He paired his smirk with a bounce of his brows up at his friend, then turned back to Hermione.
“Apologies,” he murmured contritely. “I’ll put my mouth back to better use, hm?”
Whatever quip she might’ve returned with was lost to her next breathy sigh as he swirled his tongue around her clit before giving it an experimental flick. She bit her lip, watching intently as he added a flutter, then a swirl, and then repeated the sequence again, and again, and again.
“God. Are you good at everything?” she moaned, head dropping back against the settee. “That feels amazing.”
To display how good a listener he was, Blaise replied without words.
The first suckle around her clit required he hold her hips down lest she dislodge him, and when he set a pulsing rhythm he had to put a bit of weight behind his grip to keep her still. Her plaintive gasps sank through him, dedicating and rededicating him to the honor of fulfilling any needs she had, though he heeded Draco’s instruction. Hermione deserved to come as hard as she could.
And so he brought her to the edge slowly but strongly, the rungs of pleasure ascended in a controlled, steady climb. Each step closer to the top held for a lingering moment before he encouraged her higher.
By the time her cries had risen in pitch, thighs threatening to close around his head, Blaise was so hard his cock was throbbing within the tight confines of his trousers.
He finally eased back, replacing his mouth with his hand to give her firm, soothing pressure with the flats of his fingertips, swiping the back of his other hand across his slick mouth before dropping it down to give himself a rough squeeze. Circe, he needed to fuck her.
Hermione arched into his touch, pulsing against his hand. Her keening whine made his cock jerk and he couldn’t help but slide a single finger inside her, humming lowly at the pulsing snugness. He’d have to go slowly with her.
He stroked himself once then replaced both hands on the settee cushions, taking in the sight of her spread out for him.
“Merlinfuck,” Draco mumbled, then groaned softly. “Oh darling, look at you.”
“I feel…” Hermione trailed off, squirming, and Blaise looked up. “Blaise, I’m so…”
Blaise held out his hands to her, helping her sit. “Ready for me?”
She barked a laugh, rich with incredulity and yearning. And then she leaned forward, surprising him by closing the distance to press her mouth to his.
He kissed her back on instinct, eyes closing at the luxury of her tongue parting his mouth to slide against his. She made a pleased, needy sound as he deepened the kiss, hands finding her jaw to hold her close, sinking into her curls. It settled a small agitation in his chest, to feel her warm and safe and unbroken in his arms. For a moment, he floated in the peace of a crisis averted.
And then her hands dropped to fumble with the button of his trousers, and reality closed in around him again. Oh fuck. She was about to—oh fuck.
He broke their kiss to look down, watching as she succeeded in opening his fly. Released, his cock strained against the cotton of his briefs, bulging out from the open placket. Her palm was small but confident as she cupped him, breathing a soft sound as he twitched into her hand. He stifled a sound of pleasure and their eyes met.
"Sorry," she whispered, perhaps for the sudden kiss or hasty undressing, though neither warranted apology, "but I just...yes, I'm ready for you, Blaise. And you're…” Her voice trailed off, eyes rising to touch on his before sliding to the wall. “Draco.”
Draco’s low note of understanding rippled down Blaise’s spine, and doubly so when those wide amber eyes found his again as she stroked over his cock, mapping what she could reach.
“You’re so big,” she whispered, sounding somewhat disbelieving.
Blaise breathed a soft laugh. “Oh yeah? Excellent. I always did wonder who’d win between us.”
Draco tsked but otherwise ignored the bait. “Let her ride you. It’s been so long since I’ve had the pleasure of watching her tits bounce.”
Hermione flashed a look at her husband, expression playfully reproachful, then leaned up to press another soft kiss to Blaise’s lips. “That might be best, considering.”
Blaise smiled against her next kiss, flattered and rather smug. “Whatever you want.”
He stood, working his trousers down properly before kicking them aside and tugging his shirt off. Her eyes were glued to him, unabashedly taking in every new bit of revealed skin and muscle, teeth pulling distractedly at her bottom lip in a way that made him want to really give her something to bite her lip over. And he would, soon enough.
With a final motion, his boxer-briefs joined the pile of clothes behind him. He closed his fist around his cock, giving himself a quelling stroke. Hermione’s jaw dropped, and Draco clicked his tongue. She cast a placating look at the portrait.
“You had the most perfect cock, Draco. An everyday-shaggable cock. But this is…” She bit the edge of her lip, refocusing on Blaise’s hand, eyes trailing up and up.
“Salazar,” Draco drawled. “Now I really am glad I’m dead.”
Hermione huffed a little noise of shocked amusement, but Blaise had had enough of waiting. He held out his hands, pulling her up to her feet so that he could rotate them and take her seat. The settee was warm from her body, another luxury.
It seemed Hermione had had enough of waiting, too. She straddled him instantly, scooting forward then rising up on her knees over his lap. Helpfully, he reached between them to hold his cock steady for her, tensing his thighs to prepare for what he knew would be an overwhelmingly tight fit.
It was lucky that she was slippery with arousal to aid the descent but even so, he ceded the pace to her, notching himself at her entrance before supporting her with hands on the sides of her bum. She was eager, sinking down and taking the first few inches inside with a single press before stalling with a moan.
“It’s been so long…” she whimpered, chin tucked down to watch. “And you’re…oh god, the size of you.”
“There’s no rush,” Blaise encouraged softly, stroking his hands soothingly up and down her thighs even as his flexed hard with restraint. “Take it whenever you’re ready.”
"Breathe, darling," Draco murmured.
She did, then rose up, slowly working herself open on his cock.
Blaise focused on his breath, fighting to keep his eyes open as she slowly took all of him. How long had it been for him? Months, at least, or perhaps forever; he’d never felt so wholly surrounded as he did now, in Hermione’s home, in her body, in her gaze.
When she settled down on his lap, they were both panting. A fleeting expression of sorrow knit her brows before her face softened into wonder.
“I’ve only ever been with Draco,” she confessed softly. “Before this, I mean.”
Delight sizzled through him. When Blaise looked over, he found silver eyes already burning into his. There was hunger in them. Beyond hunger; greed.
“Is that true?” Blaise tried to keep his voice level but there was a hunger of his own living in it. He refocused on Hermione. “I’m the second man you’ve ever let inside?”
“Yes.” Hermione exhaled slowly, hips rolling experimentally. Her next blink was lazy, pleasured. “Oh. Oh, I’ve missed this.”
“Mm.” Blaise ran his hands over the curve of her arse, fingers digging in for a soft squeeze that had her rocking against him again. “Want to see if you remember how to do it?”
Her fingers flexed over his shoulders, bearing more of her weight as she lightened her hips enough to glide halfway up his shaft before so, so slowly sinking back down.
Blaise inhaled deeply, letting it rumble in a low sound of pleasure. “Fuck,” he purred. “That’s it.”
“Tell me.” It might have been a demand, had Draco’s voice not had a thread of desperation woven brightly through it. “Tell me how she feels.”
“Forgotten already?” Blaise asked, eyes on Hermione. She bit her lip, slowly rising back up to the tip. When she slid back down, it felt like sinking into a hot bath. Blaise shuddered deliciously. “Christ. How could you possibly have forgotten how this feels?”
“Of course I haven’t forgotten,” Draco grit out. “Now tell me how it feels to fuck my wife.”
Hermione rose and sank again, breath coming in little pants through her parted lips. Blaise watched her move on him, eyes heavy lidded and heated.
“Like silk,” Blaise murmured. “Tight as a fist. Wet as a tongue. Soft and slick and hot.”
The pants increased in fervor, her hips rolling with new urgency. It was getting nearly impossible to not rock upward into the clutch of her; to not carry her from the room and lie her gently on her bed and fuck her not-gently, until she was crying out and quaking for him only.
But there was something about being observed that was making every scant bit of pleasure feel all the more potent. And judging by the way Hermione’s entire body had blossomed to show every fleeting emotion—wide-eyed surprise, open-mouthed pleasure, chest-deep moans—he guessed that he wasn’t alone in his enjoyment of being watched.
It seemed Draco was enjoying himself as well, though in a different manner than they were. The bulge in his trousers was unrelenting but ignored, both hands curled around the arms of his chair as he watched his wife begin a measured bounce. His face was a mask of focused intensity, chest rising and sinking dramatically enough that it was perceptible even from several feet away.
Rather than continue cataloguing the ways he was, perhaps, killing his best friend a second time, Blaise refocused on the vision atop him. Hermione, backlit by the sconces, curls frizzy and wild from having rubbed them on the back of the sofa, body warm and soft over his. Perfection.
“Now,” Blaise began, tone coaxing as he gazed at Hermione. “It's your turn. Tell him how it feels.”
“It’s so good,” she whimpered, seating herself fully to grind against him. “It feels so good.”
“Be specific,” Blaise whispered, hands closing around her hips to deepen the friction of her motions. “He wants specifics.”
She squeaked a soft moan as he flexed his hips upward, angling himself so that her clit rubbed against the taut skin of his pelvis and the short, coarse curls that crowned his cock. Around his shaft, her walls contracted hard.
“It’s—” She faltered, lips parting on a breathy pant. “You’re…I just feel so good. So full. So sensitive and…god.” Her voice broke. “I missed sex.”
Blaise hummed a low sound of understanding and her eyelids fluttered, cunt spasming around him again.
“It certainly feels like you needed it,” he murmured. “Is Draco right? Do I need to be careful not to let you come too soon?”
The muffled moan suggested that, yes, he ought to be. Except that she’d already been edged twice, once accidentally and the other very intentionally, and there was nothing he wanted more than bringing her the ultimate pleasure.
“If I let you come now, you’d make me proud?” he asked coaxingly. “You’d come nice and hard for me?”
“Yes,” she whimpered.
“Hm.” Blaise spread his feet, gaining extra leverage to begin a rolling grind from below, rubbing his cock inside her as her clit ground against him. She clamped down hard with a moan, fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders as he rocked her over him.
“Fuck, she loves that,” remarked Draco. “Look how flushed she is. How hard her nipples are.” He hummed a warm sound. “Does that feel nice, darling?”
“Uh-huh,” Hermione moaned, hips jutting forward in a rough, uncontrolled motion.
“Pinch them for me,” Draco ordered. “I want her mindless.”
Blaise gladly sacrificed a hand to the cause, one staying to steady her hips while the other rose to brush lightly over the pebbled tips visible through her cotton camisole, palm and fingertips caressing both in an endless back and forth. Hermione bit her lip so hard, he worried she might puncture it, spine curving to push her breasts more firmly into his hand. Obligingly, Blaise squeezed each in turn before resuming his endless stroking over her covered nipples. Her walls twitched around him, strongly enough that he swore he could feel each flutter.
Draco swore softly. “You’re a vision, love. Your arse looks so round when you arch like that, makes me want to—” A low, pained groan. A rustle of fabric. “Fuck I want to bite you. Want to feel you around me.”
“Shouldn’t have gotten yourself killed then,” Blaise grit out, a sudden flash of grief-fueled fury slicing through him at the reminder that Hermione had been left alone; that Blaise was (willingly, desperately, delightedly) doing what her husband should have been. “Should’ve stayed right here, keeping her full just how she needs.”
Draco exhaled harshly through his nose. “Fuck you.”
Hermione's lifted a hand from his shoulder to cover the hand on her breasts, fingers curling around his to squeeze. Blaise met her gaze, anger instantly melting away at the warm affection he found in it.
“Mm. You’ll just have to use your hand and pretend," he told Draco, voice measured again.
Draco scoffed. But a moment later, the sound of a zip and subsequent low exhale of relief indicated exactly what Draco had finally given into.
Blaise ignored him. If he wanted to have a wank over his wife getting fucked, that was his prerogative. And frankly, Blaise was impressed he’d held off for so long. Self-control around Hermione had never been a strong suit of Draco’s, and portraits always seemed especially liberated.
His assumption of Draco's actions appeared correct when Hermione’s eyes slid to inspect her husband, and what had already been a tight fit went snug around Blaise's cock. It was only the rush of arousal seeping down around him that kept him able to move, every stroke drawing more and more wetness from her.
“Like watching him?” Blaise massaged her breasts again.
She nodded, whimpering from behind a pinned lip.
“Need it faster, love?” Draco’s voice was dripping with unchecked lust. “Want it harder?”
“Harder,” she whispered, and her eyes drifted back to Blaise’s. “Harder, please. I want to feel you fucking me.”
Well. He could absolutely do that.
“Gladly. But I’m going to reposition us,” he warned her, then banded an arm around her back and twisted, using his body to lie her down on the settee before following her over, one knee wedged into the cushions and the other foot braced on the floor for maximum leverage and power.
In a swift motion, he realigned and pushed back in, hard. Over the top of her camisole, her breasts bounced with the force of his thrust.
She squeaked a high pitched sound of surprised pleasure, knees snapping tight around his hips and arms jumping to wrap around his neck, as if he had thoughts about going anywhere else ever.
“Oh fuck,” she gasped, eyes wide. “Yes, yes, like that. Just like that.”
He gave her another hard thrust, and then a third, watching closely to see if he’d gotten the angle right. On his fourth, the slight adjustment of his hips had her eyes half-rolling. There. He marked it, and held position for the next series of strokes.
“She’s close,” Draco murmured, as if Blaise couldn’t feel it, and then his tone went honeyed. “Does it feel good, darling? Are you getting all hot and tight inside?”
Whether intended or not, Draco’s commentary brought Blaise’s focus to all the places he could feel Hermione’s reactions to him. Hot and tight indeed. Merlin and fucking Morgana, it was unreal. He kept up the pace and power, fighting against the flexing of her inner muscles.
“I’m right there,” she panted. “Oh—! Oh god, it’s going to be a big one."
"Breathe," Draco reminded her firmly, and she took in a shaky inhale. Her eyes half-crossed on the gasped-out exhale.
"I’m—fuck, I’m going to come,” she moaned.
“Good girl,” Draco and Blaise murmured in unison, and Hermione lost it.
Her walls closed down hard, squeezing around Blaise’s cock until he couldn’t move. The tension crawled down his spine, making him sweat with the primal need to make her break so that she’d soften around him again; would let him pump into her until he'd given her everything he had. His fingers found her clit, slipping messily but rubbing broadly enough to ensure it would be enough to power a monumental orgasm.
Another second of excruciating tightness and then Hermione was coming so hard her eyes rolled shut, body quaking as she whined out a high-pitched sound of pure, unrestrained pleasure.
On the wall, art echoed life.
It wasn’t entirely foreign to hear Draco’s groans of relief, not after having grown up in close quarters with him, but to hear it so unrestrained was a new experience. It did a complicated thing to Blaise’s arousal, particularly while he could still feel Hermione pulsing around him, wetter than ever. Knowing he’d somehow just gotten both Malfoys off simultaneously went straight to his head. Inside Hermione’s soft, hot cunt, his cock throbbed hard.
“Tell her thank you,” Draco ordered as he caught his breath. “Say thank you for coming on your cock so beautifully.”
“Thank you,” Blaise murmured. “Fuck, you feel incredible coming on me. You perfect, hot little thing. Fuck, Hermione.”
He couldn’t help the forward flex of his hips and she sucked in a surprised inhale, eyes wide and mouth parted as she watched him move above her.
“Yes,” she whispered, all breath. “Yes, Blaise. Please.”
It took him a moment to compute; Hermione, begging him to come. All of a sudden, his orgasm was tightening through him, muscles tensing and balls aching with the need to release.
“Yeah?” One hand fisted the edge of the cushion in a death grip as the pressure mounted. “You want me to come?”
“Not inside her,” Draco said curtly at the same time Hermione moaned, “Yes. Just like this. Deep.”
Blaise dithered for half a second over who to defer to before remembering who really held the power in the room, alive or not. He held her eye as his orgasm began to crest.
“How deep do you want it, love?” he managed.
Her legs curled around his hips, ankles locking at the small of his back. “Deep as you can.”
Beside them, Draco was making a hissing sound that Blaise was certain accompanied fingers roughly carded through expertly layered titanium white and yellow ochre.
It drove his hips deeper, grinding against her as hard as he could to ensure every last bit of him was inside her, so deep that he was beholden to nothing but the way the sensitive tip of his cock was being swallowed again and again by deep aftershocks.
He groaned as he came, the syllables a pathetic attempt for her name.
“You fucking bastard,” Draco complained, but there was sympathy behind it. No one knew the allure of Hermione’s cunt more than him, after all.
“Hush,” Hermione chided softly, stroking her hands in large sweeps down Blaise’s arms and up across his back. And then to Blaise: “Keep going. Push it all into me.”
He choked on a breathless laugh, but did as she asked, slowly fucking his come into her until his cock ached with sensitivity. Finally, he stilled then pulled back with a grunt, feeling entirely spent and blissfully relaxed.
Hermione stroked a hand between her legs, humming a contented sound.
”Missed feeling that too, hm?” Blaise noted idly, bemused.
Her expression went shy, and so he lowered down to press a heartfelt kiss to her lips. When he drew back, she was all smiles again.
“So,” he asked, sitting back and catching his breath. “What did you want to see me about?”
She hummed a lazy, happy sound. “I can’t remember. Definitely nothing more important than this, though.”
He grinned. “Is that right?”
“Might have been the best idea he’s ever had,” she said in a stage whisper.
“I take some offense at that,” Draco remarked. “Though not much. Watching you like this is…” He kissed his fingers and thumb, then brought them away with a wondrous shake of his head. “Magnifique.”
“He’s right.” Blaise held out a hand to help her sit up, then didn’t let go. “It was an honor.” He brought her hand up and pressed a slow kiss to her knuckles. “A privilege.”
She tsked at his formality but didn’t pull her hand away, eyes warm as they held his.
“Having you in my life has always been an honor and a privilege.” She squeezed his hand. “Thank you for always being there for me, Blaise.”
“Yes,” Draco agreed, tone the most earnest it had been all evening. “Thank you, Blaise. You’re a good friend.”
Blaise wanted to give his friend a nod or acknowledgement, but Hermione was looking up at him with an intensity he couldn’t look away from. Even naked and freshly fucked, the intimacy of her gaze outstripped it all.
“The best,” she whispered.
Blaise’s heart was full.
Two days after the anniversary of Draco’s death, Blaise found himself summoned back to Hermione’s home. Seeing her always filled him with a quiet sense of purpose, but no more than when she led him down the hall to the library.
He slid his hands into his pockets. Playing cool took serious effort but he managed it with a casual lift of his brows as he strolled across the room that now held the memories of one of the best moments of his life, wondering why she’d brought him here rather than the sitting room or kitchen table, their two typical locales for chats.
He drew up short beside the large painting on the wall. It depicted a wooded glade, sunlight streaming in through the branches, flowers daubed with the multicolored liberality of midsummer. It was a gorgeous piece of art, though notably blonde-free.
“Did he get his wish?” he inquired mildly, indicating the new art with a tilt of his head. “Rehung in the bedroom?”
Hermione gave him a soft smile. “He got his wish,” she confirmed. “But no, he’s not in the bedroom. Or above the bath.”
She held out her hand in offering and after a second of hesitation, Blaise stepped forward to take it. Her fingers closed confidently around his, small and warm, and he let her lead him across the library and through the door to Draco’s study.
The room was perfectly preserved, as Blaise knew it was. The spirit of his friend lingered in the dark wood of his desk; in parchment neatly stacked on the blotter; in the bookshelves filled with books on curses, charms, care of creatures, and Quidditch.
It lingered even more actively in the portrait hung on the wall.
“Hello again,” his old friend drawled. He was standing behind his armchair, hands braced on the back, fingers curling around the leather. “Back for more?”
Hermione tsked him with an eye roll, suggesting that the comment had been either privately anticipated or heard countless times before. Given the pleased smirk that curled Draco’s lips, Blaise surmised it was the latter.
“I’m just showing him your latest addition,” Hermione informed him, then paused. “Where is she, anyway?”
Draco lifted a brow, then dropped his gaze down his front. Whatever the addition was, it was hidden behind the high back of the chair.
"Go on," he encouraged. "Don't be shy. Say hello."
A familiar hand shot out from the side of the chair, sending a little backwards wave out to the room. Draco hummed.
“She’d say hello properly, but her mouth’s a bit full,” Draco said with feigned apology, eyes rising to theirs with a flash of wickedness before lowering again. “Isn’t it, darling? Oh, but you’re doing so well. Just a little more, sweetheart, and then I’ll be right where I belong.”
Hermione sighed long-sufferingly, turning toward Blaise. “I had the artist come back to add me to it,” she explained, then dropped her voice below the coaxing of Draco’s in the background. “It didn’t feel right, to have part of him lingering alone forever. Particularly now that I’m not only his anymore.”
She said the last with a hopefulness that speared right through him. Blaise drew in a slow, satisfied inhale, showing her with his eyes how much the implication meant to him.
“It doesn’t bother you?” she checked quickly. “To know that he’s in here, doing lord knows what to a simulacrum of me?”
Blaise cupped her jaw, cradling her in his palm. “Not a bit. He was yours for so long, and I’m happy there’s a part of you that will always be his.” He leaned in to place a soft kiss on her lips, then drew back enough to murmur, “Particularly if that implies the rest of you is ready for someone else.”
She nodded, lips brushing his. “Yes.”
“And that he’ll leave you alone now that he’s got his own little plaything,” Blaise added. She nipped at his bottom lip in punishment for his impertinence and Blaise grinned. “Would that I were so lucky.”
“You ought not to be,” she chided, then nudged him backward out of the room. Blaise closed his hands around her hips, towing her with him as they stepped from the study and back into the library. “But you are.”
“Excellent.” He smiled fondly down at her. “It was exceedingly clever of you to update that portrait.”
“Oh?”
“Mm-hm. Think of the benefits of your decade-long lover being able to instruct your new lover on all the things you like.” He tucked a curl behind her ear, offering her a smirk. “I could watch him fuck you just right, so I know how to do it.”
Pink was warming the rises of her cheeks but her eyes were as all-knowing as ever. “Isn’t that an inspired thought. You really are dedicated to providing me everything I need, aren’t you?”
Blaise collected her in close. “You have no idea.”