Smut? Me?
At the request of sunshyndaisies and wm_law, I wrote some, and posted it on Jen's comments page. She had asked for good writing, in character, with good grammar and spelling, and maturity.
Heh. I think I did okay with the grammar and spelling.
Well, I know most of you on my friends list are either too classy to go look at it, or underage, so of course you won't.
Oh yeah, it's called "The Colour Yellow, or How Ron Was Seduced to the Service of the Dark Lord" and it's an outtake from Fifth Year from Hell.
;)
[Edit:] Since Jen has long since deleted her journal, I've copied and pasted the disgusting smut below.
The Colour Yellow
or
How Ron Weasley was Seduced to the Service of the Dark Lord
* * *
Sunbathing, that’s what she called it. They were sitting on an old blanket next to the pond in the backyard - the pond that Dad still kept clear of weeds and grindylows each summer even though it was too shallow to really swim in. He stretched out his legs, grimacing at their whiteness, and the freckles.
She wasn’t white, or freckled. Her skin was a smooth, incredible brown. She was sitting beside him, on the same blanket. She was wearing blue denim shorts and a yellow bikini top - just two triangles, tied by strings around her back and her neck. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun at the back of her head and she had dark spectacles on - sunglasses, she called them. She leaned back on her hands, her eyes closed, her face turned up to the sun. He could stare at her all he wanted.
He stared. He stared at her shoulders, round and brown and smooth. He stared at the bead of perspiration on her upper lip. He stared at her stomach - it looked flat, but soft. Her navel peeked out of the top of her shorts, and he could hardly tear his eyes from it. Except to look at her thighs… he could see the skin on the inside of her left leg, lighter than the rest of her, and softer-looking than anything he could imagine. Except…
Her breasts. Swallowing a gulp, he glanced quickly at her face again. Her eyes were still closed. He could look. He’d been sneaking peeks at her breasts for years, it felt like. Or at least since third year, when he’d first noticed... Under her school robes and jumpers. Under her tee-shirts, at Diagon Alley, and on the train. In her nightgown and dressing gown, the night his bedcurtains had been slashed by Sirius Black. He had been furious at her then, insanely angry that she hadn’t cared about Scabbers, that she wouldn’t admit her precious cat might have killed his pet, but it hadn’t stopped him from noticing the way she’d looked in her night clothes, how she’d moved under the soft cotton.
And now… he could see everything. Well, not everything, but enough. His eyes moved avidly over the shape and the texture of her skin, memorizing it for the long winter ahead. He’d have this to remember. He adjusted himself. He was rock hard inside his tight swimsuit - old, and faded, and too small for him, like almost everything he owned. If he squinted hard, he could see exactly where her nipples were. He could see the paler skin where she’d been wearing a different swimsuit -
Sod it! Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, BUGGER!
Her eyes were open. She’d caught him, staring at her chest with his mouth hanging open. Drooling, probably. He felt his ears and cheeks on fire and he turned his face straight ahead, watching her out of the corner of his eye. A wave of colour washed over her cheeks, and she bit her lip. Was that… was that a smile flitting across her lips? Was she laughing at him? Did she like it, that he was looking at her? She turned her head away.
“You wouldn’t mind if I took my swimsuit top off, would you?”
The world spun briefly. Mind? She was asking him if he minded? He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“Because everybody else is gone, and I’ve always wanted to get a good tan.”
That made sense. They were the only ones at the Burrow today, so she -
“Ron? Did you hear me?” She was looking at him now, a trace of impatience in her voice. He couldn’t see her eyes behind the dark glasses.”
“Errr, sure. Okay. I don’t mind.” His voice croaked in the middle, but he got it out.
Immediately, her hands went to the string at the back of her neck. He stared, helpless, caught by the beautiful picture she made with her arms raised. He didn’t care if she saw him watching. He was about to achieve his life’s ambition, his most urgent desire for over two years. He was going to see Hermione Granger’s tits.
She undid the string, and the other string at her back, and her breasts swung free. He knew his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn’t help it. His erection, already impossibly hard, got even bigger. His suit was painfully tight. He felt the tip of his penis protruding from his waistband. If she noticed…
But he didn’t care. He looked from her bare breasts to her flushed face, and a wave of feeling took him. He had to… touch her. It was like being under an Imperius Curse. He mind was floating in a pleasant haze, and his hand was reaching for her, reaching for the flesh he’d imagined a thousand times, but never before seen.
“Ron!”
His hand dropped. She sounded annoyed.
“Honestly! We’re friends! You can’t touch me.”
Of course not. What was he thinking? They were best friends, weren’t they? He wasn’t allowed to touch, only to look. He was acting like a prat.
She giggled. He looked quickly at her face, and blushed bright red when he saw where she was looking. She had noticed.
“But I think it would be all right if I touched you,” she said in a whispery voice. “Don’t you?”
He nodded dumbly, not even trusting his voice this time.
With a mischievous look, she got up on her knees. Her breasts moved in the most intoxicating way imaginable. He sat frozen, torn between fear and hope. Then, staring straight into his eyes, she straddled his legs. Slowly, her hand reached out toward the front of his swimsuit. His penis jumped, trying to lurch into her hand. She licked her lips. If she touched him at all, he might just… just…
“Ron!” Light flooded his eyes. Someone had…
No! This wasn’t happening. He was sunbathing, and Hermione was… She was about to… He had to remember!
“RON! Wake UP! You’re going to be late for breakfast, and we have to get to History of Magic.” His bed curtains were shoved all the way open with a loud rattle, and the bright September light poured in. “Get up, mate.” His best friend grinned at him, his green eyes sparkling with early morning good cheer.
All right. This is it. This is bloody IT. You-Know-Who didn’t have to worry any more. It was all settled. Because he, Ronald Weasley, was going to KILL HARRY POTTER!
* * *
Heh. I think I did okay with the grammar and spelling.
Well, I know most of you on my friends list are either too classy to go look at it, or underage, so of course you won't.
Oh yeah, it's called "The Colour Yellow, or How Ron Was Seduced to the Service of the Dark Lord" and it's an outtake from Fifth Year from Hell.
;)
[Edit:] Since Jen has long since deleted her journal, I've copied and pasted the disgusting smut below.
The Colour Yellow
or
How Ron Weasley was Seduced to the Service of the Dark Lord
* * *
Sunbathing, that’s what she called it. They were sitting on an old blanket next to the pond in the backyard - the pond that Dad still kept clear of weeds and grindylows each summer even though it was too shallow to really swim in. He stretched out his legs, grimacing at their whiteness, and the freckles.
She wasn’t white, or freckled. Her skin was a smooth, incredible brown. She was sitting beside him, on the same blanket. She was wearing blue denim shorts and a yellow bikini top - just two triangles, tied by strings around her back and her neck. Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun at the back of her head and she had dark spectacles on - sunglasses, she called them. She leaned back on her hands, her eyes closed, her face turned up to the sun. He could stare at her all he wanted.
He stared. He stared at her shoulders, round and brown and smooth. He stared at the bead of perspiration on her upper lip. He stared at her stomach - it looked flat, but soft. Her navel peeked out of the top of her shorts, and he could hardly tear his eyes from it. Except to look at her thighs… he could see the skin on the inside of her left leg, lighter than the rest of her, and softer-looking than anything he could imagine. Except…
Her breasts. Swallowing a gulp, he glanced quickly at her face again. Her eyes were still closed. He could look. He’d been sneaking peeks at her breasts for years, it felt like. Or at least since third year, when he’d first noticed... Under her school robes and jumpers. Under her tee-shirts, at Diagon Alley, and on the train. In her nightgown and dressing gown, the night his bedcurtains had been slashed by Sirius Black. He had been furious at her then, insanely angry that she hadn’t cared about Scabbers, that she wouldn’t admit her precious cat might have killed his pet, but it hadn’t stopped him from noticing the way she’d looked in her night clothes, how she’d moved under the soft cotton.
And now… he could see everything. Well, not everything, but enough. His eyes moved avidly over the shape and the texture of her skin, memorizing it for the long winter ahead. He’d have this to remember. He adjusted himself. He was rock hard inside his tight swimsuit - old, and faded, and too small for him, like almost everything he owned. If he squinted hard, he could see exactly where her nipples were. He could see the paler skin where she’d been wearing a different swimsuit -
Sod it! Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, BUGGER!
Her eyes were open. She’d caught him, staring at her chest with his mouth hanging open. Drooling, probably. He felt his ears and cheeks on fire and he turned his face straight ahead, watching her out of the corner of his eye. A wave of colour washed over her cheeks, and she bit her lip. Was that… was that a smile flitting across her lips? Was she laughing at him? Did she like it, that he was looking at her? She turned her head away.
“You wouldn’t mind if I took my swimsuit top off, would you?”
The world spun briefly. Mind? She was asking him if he minded? He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
“Because everybody else is gone, and I’ve always wanted to get a good tan.”
That made sense. They were the only ones at the Burrow today, so she -
“Ron? Did you hear me?” She was looking at him now, a trace of impatience in her voice. He couldn’t see her eyes behind the dark glasses.”
“Errr, sure. Okay. I don’t mind.” His voice croaked in the middle, but he got it out.
Immediately, her hands went to the string at the back of her neck. He stared, helpless, caught by the beautiful picture she made with her arms raised. He didn’t care if she saw him watching. He was about to achieve his life’s ambition, his most urgent desire for over two years. He was going to see Hermione Granger’s tits.
She undid the string, and the other string at her back, and her breasts swung free. He knew his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn’t help it. His erection, already impossibly hard, got even bigger. His suit was painfully tight. He felt the tip of his penis protruding from his waistband. If she noticed…
But he didn’t care. He looked from her bare breasts to her flushed face, and a wave of feeling took him. He had to… touch her. It was like being under an Imperius Curse. He mind was floating in a pleasant haze, and his hand was reaching for her, reaching for the flesh he’d imagined a thousand times, but never before seen.
“Ron!”
His hand dropped. She sounded annoyed.
“Honestly! We’re friends! You can’t touch me.”
Of course not. What was he thinking? They were best friends, weren’t they? He wasn’t allowed to touch, only to look. He was acting like a prat.
She giggled. He looked quickly at her face, and blushed bright red when he saw where she was looking. She had noticed.
“But I think it would be all right if I touched you,” she said in a whispery voice. “Don’t you?”
He nodded dumbly, not even trusting his voice this time.
With a mischievous look, she got up on her knees. Her breasts moved in the most intoxicating way imaginable. He sat frozen, torn between fear and hope. Then, staring straight into his eyes, she straddled his legs. Slowly, her hand reached out toward the front of his swimsuit. His penis jumped, trying to lurch into her hand. She licked her lips. If she touched him at all, he might just… just…
“Ron!” Light flooded his eyes. Someone had…
No! This wasn’t happening. He was sunbathing, and Hermione was… She was about to… He had to remember!
“RON! Wake UP! You’re going to be late for breakfast, and we have to get to History of Magic.” His bed curtains were shoved all the way open with a loud rattle, and the bright September light poured in. “Get up, mate.” His best friend grinned at him, his green eyes sparkling with early morning good cheer.
All right. This is it. This is bloody IT. You-Know-Who didn’t have to worry any more. It was all settled. Because he, Ronald Weasley, was going to KILL HARRY POTTER!
* * *