NEW FIC: "Prelude To Sex", R/Hr, Rated R
Title: Prelude To Sex
Pairing: Ron/Hermione
Rating: Hard R
Warnings: Mutual masturbation, first time (in a sense)
Word count: 2069
Feedback: Is my Mr Tibbles, baby.
Summary: “What he would look like, hovering above her. How his back would arch if she gave him pleasure. What his hands would look like on her darker skin, curving around her hip. ”
A/N: Cutekeeper requested “Smut. Most definitely smut. I want mutual masturbation. Need I even mention which couple? I will squee at your feet if you make this before or after the Bill/Fleur wedding, but any scenario goes.” This came to me like lightening, seriously. I wrote it in an hour, my fingers were flying across the keyboard. Then I had to stop and play nice with the relatives… So. Effing. Frustrating.
Dedications: HUGE thanks to my hugely awesome buddy and beta josephalus. cutekeeper, obviously - this is for you. Hope that your good times keep getting better, sweetheart. I cast upon you a plague of raining Ruperts! :D
*
Hermione had never been to a wedding before. Well, she didn’t count the wedding of some cousin that had looked like a beige meringue and screeched at her seven-year-old self just for grammar-checking the invitations. Therefore it was quite understandable that her impressions of weddings was to brag, be tense and not to impose the couple’s personality on the surroundings in the slightest.
That was before she had stepped out into the plot of land at the back of the Burrow, the dewy grass squishing beneath her open-toed sandals, to the enchanted celebration of light and music and colour.
Hermione gasped, the hand holding up the skirt of her dress robe flying up to cover her mouth instead. A gigantic willow tree had been charmed up from the ground and dappled the sun’s glare onto a huge gathering of multi-coloured witches and wizards, veela and goblins, fairies and butterflies. Musicians were up on a small stage, playing a variation of the muggle violin that Hermione had read of, and it weaved through the talk and laughter like lover’s hands through hair. She had never heard anything so joyful, yet achingly romantic.
“Hermione?” She started and looked up to see Ron, tall and heartbreakingly handsome in dark blue dress robes, his hand stretched out in invitation, eyes warm and deep to match his voice. “Want to come dance with me?”
Hermione took it back. This was what she had always wished she would see; her heart now felt as if it took up her entire body. Books and cleverness were clearly overrated, she decided, as she slipped her hand into his.
People smiled and saluted their drinks to them as they approached the group; Hermione didn’t know half of them, but plenty were a variation of redhead. Butterflies fluttered all around them, some settled in her gathered up hair, dangling from the curls. One quivered just below her throat, just above the crimson plunge of her neckline, and she felt Ron’s heavy gaze. Pride arched her back more for her, and she surprised herself by pressing into Ron as they weaved through the crowd.
At last finding a clear space, Hermione turned to Ron and looked up at him, waiting for him to do the male duty of leading. She was struck even more than usual by how much taller he was than her, though she was not short herself, and how she had to tip back her head, her overflowing bun tickling her nape, to look at him in the eyes. He just stood there, staring, for such a long time that Hermione wondered if she should help; after all, she had never once seen or heard of him dancing. But then Ron cleared his throat quietly and raised their still-joined hands, gripping her waist with the other. Letting out a gasp of pleasure at the contact, Hermione slid her hand across his broadening shoulder, his body heat radiating through the soft material, and they began to rock together.
The innuendo didn’t escape Hermione. Her body ached with everything about it, and she had wished for it for so long that she couldn’t believe it was actually happening. The subtle ways their relationship had been changing had been moved to overdrive since the flick was switched to ‘obvious’ at Dumbledore’s funeral. Since then, staying with Harry at his pathetic Aunt and Uncle’s and helping him prepare for their journey together, the simple acts of comfort had been constantly present between the two of them. That didn’t mean that they had actually kissed or confessed anything yet, oh no, but the charge between the two of them now had left Hermione nearly mad with anticipation. Yes. It was inevitable now, this past year had given her that confidence, and every moment she spent with him, looked at him, engaged in these would-be-casual touches, were moments that she had fought tooth and nail to keep retain her dignity and to not completely ravage him where he stood.
He danced like a natural. It was not professional or arrogant, no fancy moves were present or odd quicksteps that Viktor had prided himself in. In fact, Hermione wouldn’t be too surprised if Ron had never danced before. Which was a crime, because the way Ron moved, the possession he carried of himself, made Hermione think of dancing as a prelude to sex.
She pressed her hot cheek against his chest and tried not to whimper as his long fingers caressed the small of her back, images assaulted her mind.
Some were memories. A cheeky grin flashing across a chessboard. Damp red hair curling at his nape. Ron panting and laughing after being tickled to death by his brothers. His long white fingers stroking the spine of Monster Book of Monsters. Long legs dangling off the arm of a chair. The line of his back through his shirt as he stretched. The curve of his delicious arse has he lent over a desk. And his eyes, his blue eyes when he looked at her, as if he were trying to will her clothes away.
Some were here own invention, imagination. What he would look like, hovering above her. How his back would arch if she gave him pleasure. What the scars on his arms would look like further up his sleeve. How far that trail of red hair on his naval would go. What expressions he would make, what he would be moved to say. What his hands would look like on her darker skin, curving around her hip. What her hands would look like on his, and lower. Whether his long body would get tangled up in the sheets as his stroked himself; whether he whispered her name as he did it.
All were treasured, frequent images and fantasies that spurred her on as she touched herself at night, all were beautiful and unbearable all at once, all made her chest heave against him as she slowly danced with him. She was tired of waiting, tired of wondering. She needed to know.
She stared at their clasped hands, realising she had come to a decision. Slipping her palm from his and pushing her fingers through his instead, she lightly threaded them back and forth. So tense, she was so tense and fluid at once under the arousal her body was under, and for all she had marvelled at the surroundings before, now all she felt and saw was him, his body curved around hers, their fingers mimicking what they so obviously wanted to do to one another.
The hand on her back suddenly moved up, smoothing flat up her back, making sure to mould to every curve. He must have felt her shudder. His hand travelled up, up to her neck and cupped her jaw, tickled her ear, turned her face gently upwards to face him. Hermione’s knees went weak; it was written as plane as the freckles on his nose what was going on his head. Never, even in the past few weeks, had he been so clear of his affection for her, and he didn’t need fumbling words to do it with. Her entire body sang for him like she had been wanting to for so long, she had been waiting for so long, she -
She needed to be somewhere private.
With him.
Right now.
She wasn’t one for voyeurism, after all - though perhaps, if someone was watching close enough, they would have seen enough of that already. So, lowering her eyes before just in case he snogged her in front of his entire family, she cupped his strong jaw like he had cupped hers, brought it down to her mouth, and whispered:
“Ron. Let’s go to your bedroom.”
She felt, rather than heard, a long low growl come from the depth of him. Oh god. But before she lost control of herself, like only he could inspire her to, he nodded into her neck, straightened up, and with one last sweeping look down her face and down her body that left her nearly whimpering, he turned and cut a path through the crowd towards to Burrow.
Hermione held his hand and followed, watching his back, willing him to run. No one would miss them, now. The actual wedding had been performed in a little alcove earlier, Harry would undoubtedly be busy with Ginny one last time, and of all the days she would have felt so wanted and wanton she never thought it would have been at a place full of Veela relations.
Ron flashed a mischievous smile over his shoulder, and Hermione felt light headed. She grinned stupidly and took the ripe opportunity to stare at his lovely backside. Finally they made into the empty Burrow, warm and cosily lit, and Ron stopped at the foot of the stairs and gestured forwards with his free hand.
“Ladies first.”
Hiding her smile, she slipped her hand from his regretfully and hiked up her skirt to walk up the narrow winding staircase. She wasn’t daft at where he was looking, but revelled in it, swaying her hips a bit more than usual, feeling rather damn sexy. After a bit, though, her desire and impatience got the better of her, and she began to hurry, climbing the stairs three at a time, Ron’s breathing hot and erratic against her neck.
A quick glimpse of ‘Ronald’s Room’ and the door crashed open, and before Hermione knew it Ron had whirled her around by the waist and brought his lips down onto hers.
Hermione couldn’t help herself, she moaned and flung her arms around his neck. His mouth was soft and hot, and soon so was his tongue. Thunder clapped in her head - Ron, this was Ron kissing her, and it was deep and passionate and so all-consuming, and the most fantastic thing Hermione had ever felt in her entire life.
He pulled apart, gasping, swung her into his arms. “Oh - I love you Hermione, I love you -”
“Oh god, me too - I love you, Ron -”
Though it seemed impossible, but their second kiss was even better, after he flung her onto his childhood bed and crash landed on top of her, kissing the life out of her. She brought her arms up around his shoulders, feeling the muscles their, tears slipping from her eyes. She was - this was - oh she didn’t care this was so fucking fantastic, and she gave herself completely, kissing him back with all the life she had.
They both recognised each others urgency, didn’t need words to ask, though he did ask in a low voice before he slipped off her underwear (their other clothes having been already flung haphazardly across the tiny room), and they were naked, and he told her she was beautiful with all the wonder in the world present in his voice, but god so was he, pale, smooth freckled skin above her, then lying tangled up next to her as they touched and teased and caressed each other. With his hand just above her naval, however, he said in a low, husky voice:
“Let me see…”
Biting back a whimper at the look on his face, she nodded in understanding and slipped her own hand beneath her thighs, spreading her legs and teaching him in the best possible way to touch a woman.
Soon she understood why he let a loud moan at the sight once his beautiful hand reached down to stroke his prick, long like the rest of him, and Hermione lunged forwards and swallowed his gasps with her mouth.
Together at last that garish orange bed became their own world, every part of them was tangled, touching, living for the other. Soon the hands that were touching themselves swapped to caress the other, and then no amount of kissing and grasping and sucking could drown out the noises they made.
“Hermione - I, I’m -”
Hermione whimpered in admission and then she found out that Ron did cry out her name when he came, and Ron did arch his back and do all the other things she had dreamt of since she first dreamt of men, and -
And then she knew what it was like come in the arms of the man she loved, gasping into his perfect freckled shoulder, shuddering and sighing and coming down from the wonderful high together.
reallycorking has done some SPECTACULAR art to accompany this.
Pairing: Ron/Hermione
Rating: Hard R
Warnings: Mutual masturbation, first time (in a sense)
Word count: 2069
Feedback: Is my Mr Tibbles, baby.
Summary: “What he would look like, hovering above her. How his back would arch if she gave him pleasure. What his hands would look like on her darker skin, curving around her hip. ”
A/N: Cutekeeper requested “Smut. Most definitely smut. I want mutual masturbation. Need I even mention which couple? I will squee at your feet if you make this before or after the Bill/Fleur wedding, but any scenario goes.” This came to me like lightening, seriously. I wrote it in an hour, my fingers were flying across the keyboard. Then I had to stop and play nice with the relatives… So. Effing. Frustrating.
Dedications: HUGE thanks to my hugely awesome buddy and beta josephalus. cutekeeper, obviously - this is for you. Hope that your good times keep getting better, sweetheart. I cast upon you a plague of raining Ruperts! :D
*
Hermione had never been to a wedding before. Well, she didn’t count the wedding of some cousin that had looked like a beige meringue and screeched at her seven-year-old self just for grammar-checking the invitations. Therefore it was quite understandable that her impressions of weddings was to brag, be tense and not to impose the couple’s personality on the surroundings in the slightest.
That was before she had stepped out into the plot of land at the back of the Burrow, the dewy grass squishing beneath her open-toed sandals, to the enchanted celebration of light and music and colour.
Hermione gasped, the hand holding up the skirt of her dress robe flying up to cover her mouth instead. A gigantic willow tree had been charmed up from the ground and dappled the sun’s glare onto a huge gathering of multi-coloured witches and wizards, veela and goblins, fairies and butterflies. Musicians were up on a small stage, playing a variation of the muggle violin that Hermione had read of, and it weaved through the talk and laughter like lover’s hands through hair. She had never heard anything so joyful, yet achingly romantic.
“Hermione?” She started and looked up to see Ron, tall and heartbreakingly handsome in dark blue dress robes, his hand stretched out in invitation, eyes warm and deep to match his voice. “Want to come dance with me?”
Hermione took it back. This was what she had always wished she would see; her heart now felt as if it took up her entire body. Books and cleverness were clearly overrated, she decided, as she slipped her hand into his.
People smiled and saluted their drinks to them as they approached the group; Hermione didn’t know half of them, but plenty were a variation of redhead. Butterflies fluttered all around them, some settled in her gathered up hair, dangling from the curls. One quivered just below her throat, just above the crimson plunge of her neckline, and she felt Ron’s heavy gaze. Pride arched her back more for her, and she surprised herself by pressing into Ron as they weaved through the crowd.
At last finding a clear space, Hermione turned to Ron and looked up at him, waiting for him to do the male duty of leading. She was struck even more than usual by how much taller he was than her, though she was not short herself, and how she had to tip back her head, her overflowing bun tickling her nape, to look at him in the eyes. He just stood there, staring, for such a long time that Hermione wondered if she should help; after all, she had never once seen or heard of him dancing. But then Ron cleared his throat quietly and raised their still-joined hands, gripping her waist with the other. Letting out a gasp of pleasure at the contact, Hermione slid her hand across his broadening shoulder, his body heat radiating through the soft material, and they began to rock together.
The innuendo didn’t escape Hermione. Her body ached with everything about it, and she had wished for it for so long that she couldn’t believe it was actually happening. The subtle ways their relationship had been changing had been moved to overdrive since the flick was switched to ‘obvious’ at Dumbledore’s funeral. Since then, staying with Harry at his pathetic Aunt and Uncle’s and helping him prepare for their journey together, the simple acts of comfort had been constantly present between the two of them. That didn’t mean that they had actually kissed or confessed anything yet, oh no, but the charge between the two of them now had left Hermione nearly mad with anticipation. Yes. It was inevitable now, this past year had given her that confidence, and every moment she spent with him, looked at him, engaged in these would-be-casual touches, were moments that she had fought tooth and nail to keep retain her dignity and to not completely ravage him where he stood.
He danced like a natural. It was not professional or arrogant, no fancy moves were present or odd quicksteps that Viktor had prided himself in. In fact, Hermione wouldn’t be too surprised if Ron had never danced before. Which was a crime, because the way Ron moved, the possession he carried of himself, made Hermione think of dancing as a prelude to sex.
She pressed her hot cheek against his chest and tried not to whimper as his long fingers caressed the small of her back, images assaulted her mind.
Some were memories. A cheeky grin flashing across a chessboard. Damp red hair curling at his nape. Ron panting and laughing after being tickled to death by his brothers. His long white fingers stroking the spine of Monster Book of Monsters. Long legs dangling off the arm of a chair. The line of his back through his shirt as he stretched. The curve of his delicious arse has he lent over a desk. And his eyes, his blue eyes when he looked at her, as if he were trying to will her clothes away.
Some were here own invention, imagination. What he would look like, hovering above her. How his back would arch if she gave him pleasure. What the scars on his arms would look like further up his sleeve. How far that trail of red hair on his naval would go. What expressions he would make, what he would be moved to say. What his hands would look like on her darker skin, curving around her hip. What her hands would look like on his, and lower. Whether his long body would get tangled up in the sheets as his stroked himself; whether he whispered her name as he did it.
All were treasured, frequent images and fantasies that spurred her on as she touched herself at night, all were beautiful and unbearable all at once, all made her chest heave against him as she slowly danced with him. She was tired of waiting, tired of wondering. She needed to know.
She stared at their clasped hands, realising she had come to a decision. Slipping her palm from his and pushing her fingers through his instead, she lightly threaded them back and forth. So tense, she was so tense and fluid at once under the arousal her body was under, and for all she had marvelled at the surroundings before, now all she felt and saw was him, his body curved around hers, their fingers mimicking what they so obviously wanted to do to one another.
The hand on her back suddenly moved up, smoothing flat up her back, making sure to mould to every curve. He must have felt her shudder. His hand travelled up, up to her neck and cupped her jaw, tickled her ear, turned her face gently upwards to face him. Hermione’s knees went weak; it was written as plane as the freckles on his nose what was going on his head. Never, even in the past few weeks, had he been so clear of his affection for her, and he didn’t need fumbling words to do it with. Her entire body sang for him like she had been wanting to for so long, she had been waiting for so long, she -
She needed to be somewhere private.
With him.
Right now.
She wasn’t one for voyeurism, after all - though perhaps, if someone was watching close enough, they would have seen enough of that already. So, lowering her eyes before just in case he snogged her in front of his entire family, she cupped his strong jaw like he had cupped hers, brought it down to her mouth, and whispered:
“Ron. Let’s go to your bedroom.”
She felt, rather than heard, a long low growl come from the depth of him. Oh god. But before she lost control of herself, like only he could inspire her to, he nodded into her neck, straightened up, and with one last sweeping look down her face and down her body that left her nearly whimpering, he turned and cut a path through the crowd towards to Burrow.
Hermione held his hand and followed, watching his back, willing him to run. No one would miss them, now. The actual wedding had been performed in a little alcove earlier, Harry would undoubtedly be busy with Ginny one last time, and of all the days she would have felt so wanted and wanton she never thought it would have been at a place full of Veela relations.
Ron flashed a mischievous smile over his shoulder, and Hermione felt light headed. She grinned stupidly and took the ripe opportunity to stare at his lovely backside. Finally they made into the empty Burrow, warm and cosily lit, and Ron stopped at the foot of the stairs and gestured forwards with his free hand.
“Ladies first.”
Hiding her smile, she slipped her hand from his regretfully and hiked up her skirt to walk up the narrow winding staircase. She wasn’t daft at where he was looking, but revelled in it, swaying her hips a bit more than usual, feeling rather damn sexy. After a bit, though, her desire and impatience got the better of her, and she began to hurry, climbing the stairs three at a time, Ron’s breathing hot and erratic against her neck.
A quick glimpse of ‘Ronald’s Room’ and the door crashed open, and before Hermione knew it Ron had whirled her around by the waist and brought his lips down onto hers.
Hermione couldn’t help herself, she moaned and flung her arms around his neck. His mouth was soft and hot, and soon so was his tongue. Thunder clapped in her head - Ron, this was Ron kissing her, and it was deep and passionate and so all-consuming, and the most fantastic thing Hermione had ever felt in her entire life.
He pulled apart, gasping, swung her into his arms. “Oh - I love you Hermione, I love you -”
“Oh god, me too - I love you, Ron -”
Though it seemed impossible, but their second kiss was even better, after he flung her onto his childhood bed and crash landed on top of her, kissing the life out of her. She brought her arms up around his shoulders, feeling the muscles their, tears slipping from her eyes. She was - this was - oh she didn’t care this was so fucking fantastic, and she gave herself completely, kissing him back with all the life she had.
They both recognised each others urgency, didn’t need words to ask, though he did ask in a low voice before he slipped off her underwear (their other clothes having been already flung haphazardly across the tiny room), and they were naked, and he told her she was beautiful with all the wonder in the world present in his voice, but god so was he, pale, smooth freckled skin above her, then lying tangled up next to her as they touched and teased and caressed each other. With his hand just above her naval, however, he said in a low, husky voice:
“Let me see…”
Biting back a whimper at the look on his face, she nodded in understanding and slipped her own hand beneath her thighs, spreading her legs and teaching him in the best possible way to touch a woman.
Soon she understood why he let a loud moan at the sight once his beautiful hand reached down to stroke his prick, long like the rest of him, and Hermione lunged forwards and swallowed his gasps with her mouth.
Together at last that garish orange bed became their own world, every part of them was tangled, touching, living for the other. Soon the hands that were touching themselves swapped to caress the other, and then no amount of kissing and grasping and sucking could drown out the noises they made.
“Hermione - I, I’m -”
Hermione whimpered in admission and then she found out that Ron did cry out her name when he came, and Ron did arch his back and do all the other things she had dreamt of since she first dreamt of men, and -
And then she knew what it was like come in the arms of the man she loved, gasping into his perfect freckled shoulder, shuddering and sighing and coming down from the wonderful high together.
reallycorking has done some SPECTACULAR art to accompany this.