Title: The Antonym Effect, or, What Happens in the Dressing Room Stays in the Dressing Room
Author: la_dissonance
Characters: Pansy/Hermione, background Hermione/Ron
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Strap on sex, infidelity, a rather strong case of andromimiccowhatsits
Themes/kinks chosen: Andromimetophilia, sex shows
Word Count: ~3400
Summary: In which Pansy is a drag king, and Hermione goes about spicing up Ron's and her relationship in rather the wrong way.
Author's notes: Written for April 2009 at daily_deviant on insanejournal. Love that place real hard. Giant smooches & hugs to eeyore9990 for the uber quick beta and calming me down when I started to freak out. Oh, deadlines. 3


"I told you it was a good idea to make reservations ahead of time," Hermione told Ron as they wove their way between the tiny tables and chairs crowding the club floor.

"These had better be some damn good dancing girls," Ron grumbled.

"They're supposedly the best." Hermione slid into a seat at the last unoccupied table and beckoned impatiently for Ron to join her. "Besides, you get to pick where we go next month. You'll probably pick a Cannons match."

"I was not going to pick Quidditch. Was that even an option?"

"No, not under any normal definition of 'trying new things,' it isn't. I'll have a pint of bitter, please," she added, addressing the waiter who appeared next to her shoulder.

"Same," Ron said, distractedly.

The lights went down soon after, and Hermione leaned forward in her seat.

"Excited much?" Ron whispered.

She leaned back a bit. "We just haven't been out together in so long."

He reached out and rubbed a few understanding circles on her back. "I know, baby, that's why we're here now."

Hermione fought not to flinch. He only did that because Bill had told him girls liked that sort of stuff, and she told herself for the millionth time that it was the thought that counted. She hushed him though; the first line of girls had skipped out on stage and frankly, they were gorgeous. And talented. Hermione watched, riveted, as they went through the first few numbers. The Muggle guidebook hadn't been lying when it sang this show's praises.

Turning to Ron, she saw that he wore a similar look of rapt enjoyment. "'Weird place for a date,' indeed," she quipped. He hushed her and she felt a thrill of vindication.

All went well until the second-to-last act. Something special! the announcer beamed. What you've all been waiting for! Watch as our very own Prometheus shows Iris and Mocha how to experience hitherto unknown carnal delights!

"Just how burlesque of a show is this?" Ron muttered under his breath. "'Carnal delights'?"

"Hang on," Hermione whispered, fumbling for her program in her purse. "Well, it's right here in the program, dear. 'As a prelude to the dazzling finale, Prometheus shows Iris and Mocha hitherto unknown..."

The performers walked out on stage, and Hermione dropped the program. Iris and Mocha were pretty, lithe young things, all tarted up and virtually indistinguishable from the show girls who had gone before, but Prometheus... he took Hermione's breath away.

Ron nudged her. "Are they all in—"

"Drag, yeah. Shh."

On stage, the man—fine, woman in drag, but it was damn near impossible to think of the performer that way—was twirling his cane and directing the girls in a strip tease.

"I can't watch," Ron gasped, as it became clear they weren't going to stop at the frilly lingerie.

"Me neither," Hermione agreed, because it was true. The nudity—oh, look, and now they were touching—didn't hold her interest for more than a second; she couldn't tear her eyes away from their pimp. Even as the clothes dropped, exposing nubile male bodies, his clothes stayed on, his secrets unrevealed. Hermione was held in thrall by his swagger, the twirling cane, the impeccably tailored suit, the ghost of a bulge at chest and groin...

"That's not a real man, you know," Ron whispered, catching her staring.

"I know," she whispered back. For that was just the point. A real man wouldn't have had layers, and secrets, and hidden depths like that. She suddenly and ferociously wanted to explore all of them. She wanted to know everything, find out every secret and make it known, only to her...

Hermione was on the phone making her reservation for one almost before Ron had walked out of the door for his overnight training trip the next weekend. She simply had to go back; there was no real thought involved in the process.

The first half of the show passed in a blur. The second half passed with Hermione on the edge of her seat, nervously checking the program every other minute—what if the act had been a one-time thing? What if her obsession had been? What if she didn't feel it again?

She needn't have worried. From the second the male impersonator strutted out of the wings to the minute he exited, leading the debauched 'virgins' by the hand, she was captivated. A million questions swirled in her mind, and a need burned between her legs. She barely made it through the ensemble dance act of the grand finale; she needed to get out, just get somewhere private where she could take care of herself—or not so private, she didn't much care at the moment. She was wetter than she'd ever been.

As soon as the curtain dropped, she was out of her seat, feet carrying her backstage without pausing to consult her brain.

She came to a halt in front of a closed door marked P. Parkinson in gold letters, and the one brain cell that wasn't consumed with lust put the pieces together with a satisfying click. Aha, I thought/i he... she... looked familiar.../i Which was fantastic, but a thousand mysteries still remained, and Hermione had no idea what she was doing here. She let her forehead fall against the door with a soft thunk. The wood was cool against her skin; maybe she'd just stay here for a couple of minutes until she could collect herself enough to decide what to do next...

The door opened suddenly, and Hermione caught herself before she stumbled.

"Hello?"

Oh fuck, it was him. Fuck fuck fuck.

"Hi," she offered, voice shaking.

"Can I help you?" Pansy raised one eyebrow and regarded Hermione skeptically.

Hermione swallowed. "Er, no. I just... wanted to say how much I enjoyed the show. You were fantastic."

"Why thank you. How kind of you to come back and say so."

It looked like Hermione had interrupted Pansy just as she was beginning to change—her tailcoat was unbuttoned and her bow tie askew, but other than that her costume was still fully in place. Hermione let her eyes fall from her dark hair, slicked back with a debonair wave in front, to the pleats of the perfectly-pressed shirt and the satiny cummerbund that clung to her waist. Hermione blushed and cleared her throat when she realized she was staring.

"Pansy, I— Sorry, should I say Prometheus? Or—"

Pansy laughed. "No one calls me Prometheus offstage, Granger, even when I am wearing the cock. Pansy's fine."

Hermione's eyes fell immediately to the sizable bulge in the woman's trousers, and she blushed harder as she dragged them back up to Pansy's face.

"You're letting in drafts," Pansy said, grabbing Hermione by the wrist and pulling her inside. She shut the door behind her, closing Hermione in a warmly lit dressing room that seemed much, much too small for the two of them.

There were mirrors everywhere in the tiny room, and Hermione caught herself staring again. It was amazing, really, how complete the illusion was, even at such close quarters, even though Hermione knew Pansy was a woman. If she'd passed her in the street she'd have taken Pansy for a man every time.

Pansy leaned against the counter opposite Hermione, upsetting some cosmetic bottles, and let her stare.

"Why are you really here, Granger?"

Hermione swallowed. "Can I ask you something?"

"Go for it."

"Is it all right if I kiss you?" Which wasn't what Hermione'd thought she was going to say, but she was improvising here.

"Why, of course. I don't think I'm the one you should be asking that, though," Pansy purred. But her eyes danced behind their heavy lids and her head tipped in an invitation.

Hermione ignored the jibe; there would be time to think of all that later, when her brain wasn't filled with Pansy's mouth, her stance, the set of her jaw. Hermione crossed the space between her and the other woman in barely two steps, nearly holding her breath in anticipation. This quickly became a problem; she darted out her tongue to lick the corner of Pansy's mouth, slid her lips across the other woman's, and had barely had the chance to apply pressure before she had to break for air.

"Merlin, Granger, don't be a tease if you're going to kiss like that." Pansy knotted her fingers in Hermione's hair and pulled her back into the kiss almost before Hermione had drawn a full breath.

Pansy's kisses were quick and sharp and urgent, the perfect counterpoint to Hermione's languid explorations, and Hermione was driven backwards under the onslaught of questing lips and hands until her thighs hit the ledge of the counter behind her. She groaned as Pansy kept pushing, not stopping till Hermione was half-perched on the high counter, back pressed against the mirror and Pansy crowding into the v of her legs.

"Wonder what your little ginger would say if he saw you now," Pansy said into Hermione's ear, voice low and sultry. "Don't you?"

It took Hermione's lust-clouded mind a second to catch up. "As a matter of fact, no. And if you're not stupid you won't talk about him right now, all right?"

"Ooo, a threat." Pansy's grin was positively evil.

"Shut up, you," Hermione growled and pulled at the woman, trying to get more of that pressure.

Pansy obliged, fitting herself tighter into Hermione's open legs and kissing her lavishly on the mouth.

"God." Hermione kissed her back and let her hands fall to the swell of her arse, holding Pansy in place as she ground against her. There was a firmness there, not rock hard but promising all the same, and Hermione couldn't seem to get enough of that feeling. The thin linen of her nice trousers suddenly felt like an impenetrable wall, and she just wanted—she didn't know what she wanted. Something to do with the spot she'd already soaked through her trousers just by rubbing against whatever it was Pansy had under there, and that surprisingly full arse, and the tantalizing firm curve that hinted of breasts tight against her own bosom. Her last neuron had clearly shorted out, unable to handle such an overload of stimuli at once, and gave her not a single suggestion of what to do next.

Pansy's brain appeared to have no such difficulty; her hands were a flurry of motion, stroking up and down Hermione's sides and creeping under her shirt and into the cups of her bra, while her mouth never slowed in its inexorable torture of Hermione's neck and shoulders.

Hermione's hands, for their part, remained firmly planted on Pansy's arse, resistant to all her distracted efforts to find somewhere else to put them. If only Pansy would let up for a second, give her a chance to collect herself—but she really didn't want Pansy to let up, which was the problem.

Soon, apparently eager to move on to new territory, Pansy left off Hermione's neck and coaxed her arms up, sliding her shirt and bra up and off over her head. Hermione couldn't suppress the groan that escaped when the hot mouth closed over her bared nipple, and Pansy hummed into the puckered flesh, maybe a chuckle.

Once they were thus freed from their anchor on Pansy's arse, Hermione let the her hands drop to wander over Pansy's back and shoulders, helping her shrug off the tailcoat and going to work on the buttons of her shirt.

The rest of their clothes fairly melted off after that. Hermione was unable to tell whether the hunger for skin that suddenly overtook them was hers or Pansy's or both of theirs, shared somehow. Maybe it was Pansy's, because Hermione's hunger was deeper, more complicated and not quite like anything she'd felt before. She wanted to see what was under Pansy's clothes, feel her, and it wasn't like any of the other times she'd done this because she really, honestly did not know what she'd find. Ideas, of course, she had ideas, but that was nothing like knowing.

She felt like she was robbing Pansy of her borrowed masculinity with every item she stripped off; it would seem almost like something she shouldn't be doing except for the way Pansy made little satisfied grunts and rushed to help Hermione when she wasn't moving fast enough.

Her hands paused when Pansy was down to nothing more than her pants and undershirt, hovering uncertainly over the material covering her chest.

"For fuck's sake, don't stop now."

"I don't know what you want me to do here," Hermione moaned, frustration and want all rolled up into one.

"I believe nudity is the general goal here, Granger," Pansy drawled. "Unless I've vastly mistaken your intentions."

Hermione made an impatient noise in the back of her throat. "Fine, I won't ask next time. I'll just bungle it up, if that's what you prefer."

"You're not going to bungle anything up, unless you keep talking."

Oh, that should have been offensive—a part of Hermione's mind registered that under any other circumstances, she'd have been livid—but under these circumstances, it was no more than her free ticket to do anything she wanted.

The undershirt was thick and tight, and Pansy's arms got trapped beside her head for a while as Hermione tried to wrestle her out of it, until she found the row of clasps on the side, and suddenly there were tits, sweaty and hot and soft against her own. Hermione made to slide off the counter, with more than half a mind to find a better angle to enjoy Pansy's breasts, but the woman stopped her before she could move.

"Going somewhere? Aren't you forgetting something?"

Hermione shook her head, knowing instantly what Pansy was talking about—she hadn't been able to keep her mind off that bulge in Pansy's trousers all night, and now that there was only the thin silk of Pansy's pants outlining the last vestiges of her assumed manhood, Hermione found it impossible to ignore.

She tugged at the waistband with trepidation—it didn't matter how Pansy crooned and urged her on; she was ruining the illusion (if that's what it had been) once and for all and there'd be no going back.

Or maybe that wasn't it at all; the mere thought of uncovering that final bold dichotomy, the artificial over the natural, both, in the same place, was enough to make Hermione's fingers shake as she pulled down the pants.

There were straps criss-crossing Pansy's hips, an unexpectedly Muggle contraption, and between her legs, in the center of the harness, a half-hard cock. It was purple, crafted with perfect anatomical accuracy aside from the color.

"You like it?" Pansy murmured in her ear, and guided Hermione's hand to squeeze the length.

Hermione gasped; it was such an unexpectedly intimate gesture, only heightened when Pansy's hand tightened over her own and she moaned, low, and pushed against Hermione's hand. Instinctively, Hermione tugged and swirled her thumb over the head, and Pansy bucked into her grasp.

"Slow down for a second, Granger. This one's only made for looks and it won't be any good at all for what you've got in mind."

Pansy went across the small room to rummage for something in the duffel bag occupying the only chair, and Hermione followed her, brushing her fingers against her thighs and nearly-naked arse as she bent over. Pansy made little sounds of appreciation and waggled her arse at Hermione, chuckling.

"How's that for size?" she asked, turning around.

"Oh," was all Hermione could say, mostly an exhalation.

The purple cock was gone; what jutted now from the center of the harness was thick and long and up for just about anything Hermione could have had in mind. She reached out to touch it, her fingers sneaking down the length to circle the base and brush against the strands of dark hair that curled near the edges, tantalizingly close to that hint of flushed labia where the straps parted.

Pansy groaned, pushing against Hermione's hand and backing Hermione into the counter she had just vacated.

"Can't wait anymore... don't know how you do this to me," she mumbled, one hand between Hermione's thighs and the other digging into her arse. Fingers traced paths like liquid fire up and down her cleft, and Hermione barely had time to catch herself before her knees went out.

"Fuck, Pansy."

Pansy made a guttural sound, past words by now, and pushed Hermione's legs open, the hand on her knee slick with her own juices.

Hermione looked down between them, where they were so close to joining, and then up into Pansy's face, her intent, here-but-not-quite-here expression. "No, like this," and Hermione slipped out of Pansy's grip and turned to face the wall of mirrors, arching her back and nudging against Pansy's hips.

"I like how you think." Pansy's nipples were hard points followed by soft warmth as she leaned over Hermione's back and whispered next to her ear.

Hermione met her eyes in the mirror and arched harder. "Come on, come on," she urged, a meaningless string of words to just get Pansy inside her, because she was fucking aching for it by this point, and if nothing happened soon...

An equally meaningless babble was spilling from Pansy's lips, and her hand was between Hermione's legs again, cupping her mound and then pushing in one finger, two.

"Come on," Hermione gasped, and reached back to tangle her hand with Pansy's, trying to find the head of the strap-on among the jumble of sticky limbs.

"Can't wait, can you, Granger?" But Pansy was near the breaking point, and Hermione could hear it.

Her questing fingers finally made contact with the phallus, and she guided it to her entrance and pushed back until Pansy thrust forward. After that it was all fast, no pretense of teasing, just the slap of flesh and the spike of pleasure in Hermione's groin every time Pansy rocked within her, and the little grunts of effort they both made. Pansy's fingers dug half-moon bruises into Hermione's sides that would have to be spelled away later, and Hermione's crept to the base of the cock and past it, into the unmentioned heat so slick it positively dripped down Pansy's legs.

"Fuck," Pansy exclaimed as Hermione maneuvered so every thrust would trap her fingers tight between the harness and places sensitized by confinement.

An uncountable time passed, full of staring glassily into mirrors and thrusting and pushing and delving into forbidden places, hands that roamed and hair that fell out of its carefully arranged place, sweat collecting in hollows of back and shoulders. Pansy started to come first, stilling inside Hermione as her reflection threw its head back and grimaced. Hermione braced herself on the counter and rode Pansy rough and fast, thrusting back so hard that Pansy collapsed over Hermione's back, arms clutching around her waist, her high cries nearly shouts.

Hermione redoubled her pace—she was so close—and Pansy cupped her breasts and pinched both her nipples, and Hermione's orgasm washed over her. Her knees did give out this time, and they toppled onto the floor. Hermione's elbow hit the thin carpet with a painful crack, but she stayed where she'd fallen for a minute, breathing heavily and feeling Pansy do the same thing where she was half-draped over her.

Presently, Hermione spotted her trousers lying in a crumpled heap near her hand. They were the ones she'd put on that morning, when Ron was still banging cupboards open and closed in the kitchen and she was contemplating what leftovers to send with him for a snack. Reaching out for them, she crawled out from under Pansy and slipped them on, then started looking for her shirt and bra.

"Going so soon?" Pansy asked from the floor, looking perfectly happy to stay there and not at all embarrassed to be seen like that.

Hermione nodded.

Pansy sighed, and played with a lock of hair that had come down from its strict coiffure. "Well, do stop by sometime, why don't you."

Hermione slipped her shirt on and smiled with her teeth, an answer to Pansy's insouciant grin. "I think I'll go back home and angst about my fiancé for a bit now. But thanks, anyway."

"Suit yourself." Pansy shrugged, and smiled as if she knew things Hermione didn't.

Oh, as if. Hermione rolled her eyes; she hadn't even left the room and she already knew she wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. Pansy had been interesting once, granted, with layers and depth and mystery and all that, but it was gone. One solved mystery was the same as another.

Wasn't it?