NEW FIC: "Cranberry Vodka", R/Hr, NC-17 Part 2/2
Title: Cranberry Vodka (Part Two of Two)
Pairing: Ron/Hermione
Rating: NC-17. Very much so.
Warnings: Erm… teenage humour, alcohol consumption, bar brawling, and lots more jolly good fun most definitely including sex against an alley wall. Oh, and if you don’t like the idea of a woman ’getting pleased’, you won’t like this. And boo on you, frankly.
Word Count: 5072
Feedback: Is my Mr Tibbles, baby.
Summary: ‘"Ron," Sometimes, she once said, she liked to just say his name. "Ron."
"Hermione," he breathed into her neck, half to make her tickle and half to make her moan like that. She just smelt so good, and her skin always tasted so good; so he did, licking out at the curve of her collarbone. Fresh and clean and musky, but more dirty tonight, more salty and he loved it.’
A/N: bennmorland requested R/Hr with the general idea of a muggle date - but I’m afraid I was rather liberal with it. It’s more of a dirty, sexy post-war release fic, with dressing up and going to a bar as my version of a date. Heh. Apologies for the lateness (ill Figgy is incapable of writing porn!). This story beat me ‘round the head and refused to be anything like a normal-lengthed ficlet.
Dedications: For dear silly yet lovely bennmorland, and thanks to the unfailingly cool agentcabanas for the incisive beta - you saved this fic from being eaten alive by commas! Also, I’d like to thank my beautiful friend josephalus for some initial suggestions, and to offer the hand of reconciliation. It’s been a stressful few weeks for both of us, hasn’t it?
Back to Part One.
*
Hermione, Ron reflected for the billionth time ten minutes later as his senses blurred together, was indeed a clever girl. This was something else; the burst of flavour, the shock at the back of his throat, the momentary dizziness languidly pulling itself into a slow, delicious drugging of his mind. And the way her eyes glittered at him in the sultry light, or how she sometimes leaned in and kissed him or he kissed her, laughing and tasting it on each other's lips.
Hermione tasted of cherry, then of lime, then of some disgusting mix between ginger and lemon but Ron kissed her anyway and stroked his tongue all around her mouth, washing it away with vodka and cranberry. Hermione hummed and pulled back, smacking her lips. "Mmmm, that's better." And tipped a crimson shot glass down her neck.
Trying and failing to get the dopey smile off his face, he blindly reached for another shot, but to his dismay came back empty handed. “Crap, they’re all gone,” Hmm. He must’ve had more than he thought. No, there was a definite light-headedness to him and he could feel it in his limbs and hooded eyes. But this was just right - not too far gone, just on the right side of drunk.
Hermione surveyed the cluster of shiny glasses proudly. “Wow, I don’t feel as drunk as I thought I would after all that!” Oh course you don’t, Ron thought, seen as I made sure you got a third of what I had. It was true that she could never be called a lightweight, but she got a little too competitive sometimes and it was for her, and her hangover’s, own benefit.
Suddenly made aware in a different way of how much he’d drunk, he clambered off his stool, kissed her forehead and excused himself, eyeing the little sign with the stupid little stick man on it.
Aaah, the simple bliss of relieving one’s bladder. A quick check in the mirror - huh, Hermione was off her rocker with the eyeliner business, even if it suited the place and didn’t look half bad - and he was out again, the darkly-lit mass of bodies taking awhile for his eyes to adjust to after the overpowering glare of the sparkling bathroom. It was later now and the floor was getting filled with undulating bodies and flashes of skin and the swishing of hair. He weaved himself through carefully and sidestepped a few women with a startling glare of hunger in their eyes, chortling to himself yet still rather eager to get back to his Hermione.
Once he’d squeezed himself through the crowd, however, a completely unwelcome sight greeted him. Hermione was still at the bar, yet her whole posture had changed. She was tense, defensive, in the set of her shoulders and the line of her mouth - and was half-pushing away a man leaning lecherously over her and looking way too much like McLaggen for his liking.
Three long strides and he was at her side, swinging back his fist and punching the bastard square in the nose. He went flying, blood spurting from his conk to spatter on the floor, taking down a few others with him. Ron stepped forward quickly, ready, absolutely furious.
He glared down at the man, at least five years older than him and tall, but he was taller, and he doubted that this jerk knew how to fight like he did, even without his wand. Through his haze of fury, he dimly recognised his stance becoming threatening, cocking his fist and leaning forward, ready to pounce.
The guy quickly scrambled up and spat curses, but after a tense moment where he and Ron stared each other out and an eager crowd waited with baited breath for a possible fight, a flicker of fear flitted across his dull eyes and he seemed to think better of it. Grumbling something indistinguishable to the rabble that seemed to be his mates, he backed away and left, rabble in tow with a final bang of the bar door shut.
Ron breathed out heavily through his nose: partly of disappointment; partly of the burn of adrenaline still coursing through his veins. It all came rushing back so easily, the kind of duelling he was half proud, half ashamed he was capable of and experienced at. During the long search for the remaining Horcruxes and before the ultimate destruction of Voldemort (yes, he could easily say it now) Harry, Hermione and himself had run into many Death Eaters and other equally disgusting sycophants along the way. It had been Harry’s idea that they would all work on utilising whatever talents they had to the best of their abilities, the best for surprise attacks. So while Harry sent patronuses charging around to great effect, and Hermione could concentrate on many stunning, shield and petrificus spells at once - Ron had worked on coping under, and even throwing off, the Cruciatus, and sometimes mixing duelling with hand-to-hand combat. It was amazing how few saw that coming, or could adjust to it in time, and Ron didn’t like to admit how satisfying it sometimes was to hear the break of a jaw behind that white sneering mask.
He jumped when he felt Hermione’s hand rest soothingly on his arm; he hadn’t realised he’d been shaking. The music and laughs and shouts around him came whooshing back, and he slumped back into a bar stool, staring at Hermione’s knowing smile. Those soft brown eyes told him it was alright, that she was proud and grateful, without having to shout awkward personal comments over the crowd’s din. Her hand trailed down his arm and slipped into his; he gripped it. Yes, it was alright and she understood it probably more than he did, but he was bent on having fun tonight; save the hours talking and cuddling for later, the morning perhaps.
The soft, feminine yet undoubtedly powerful hand still in his own tugged and he was pulled to stand. Her other hand reached up to rub behind his ear, she knew how much he loved that. Their breath mixed and her lips brushed is as she leant into him on tiptoe, never taking her eyes away from his. Her makeup was a bit smudged now, but Ron thought it was even better like this. His heart hammered as she whispered into him, “Come on.”
And he was being lead away, towards to exit and out, the sway of her backside and the swish of her skirt completely mesmerising. And she kept going, past the busy crowds of people into a calm glinting street filled with cafes and the occasional customer, but Ron let her, rather bemused and horny and enjoying the cool night air. How she did this, change his mood so effectively, she was the most brilliant thing ever and he opened her mouth to tell her so.
Just as he opened his mouth, however, she brought them to a sudden stop, turning round and facing him under a old-fashioned orange streetlight. Then she brought his hand up to her mouth and pressed soft, wet kisses to his palm almost reverently. He didn’t know how she did this, always did this; found some obscure part of his body to tease and torture that he never would of thought of as being sensual. She dragged her lips down his lifeline, then down to the inside of his wrist, as if she were trying to take his pulse with her mouth.
Ron just stood there, gaping, an inexplicable feeling of tenderness overcame him as he stared at her eyelashes shadowing her cheek, even as he grew harder in his trousers. He was open and vulnerable to her, in a different and far better way than when he had to face down three Death Eaters at a time on the battlefields.
“Ah!" A spark of pain shot through the pleasure. Hermione was grinning that wicked grin at him, fangs sunk into his skin. “You little vampire,” he grinned, suddenly remembering the thrill of her teeth in his shoulder to muffle her cries. His knees went weak. “Hermione, where can we -”
Ron’s eyes were fixed on the flexing of her throat as she turned her head. “Um, oh - yes -” She was panting a little, her chest heaving with it, so Ron suddenly found himself being pulled dumbly into a secluded side alley, the dim streetlight highlighting the curls of Hermione’s hair in an oddly stunning way. Snapping back to himself, he wondered what they were doing here. Good place for Apparition, he supposed, though the tent in his trousers would rather to Floo. But -
“Here,” Hermione whispered heatedly up at him, leaning back against the brick wall. “Here, Ron, fuck me here.” Her wide, catlike smile glinted at him through the darkness as she pulled him to her with his belt loops.
Ron’s brain went blank in blissful shock, his veins filling with fire. Here, she wanted him - to - oh hell yes, and she must want it a lot, seen as her secret weapon to get him to do practically anything was to murmur filthy words like that.
“Oh God,” She was pressed flush against him, everywhere, and he couldn’t stop tracing the curve of her hips with his hands.
"Ron," Sometimes, she once said, she liked to just say his name. "Ron."
"Hermione," he breathed into her neck, half to make her tickle and half to make her moan like that. She just smelt so good, and her skin always tasted so good; so he did, licking out at the curve of her collarbone. Fresh and clean and musky, but more dirty tonight, more salty and he loved it.
So he didn’t stop, went down the length of her neckline, feeling and hearing her breath catch as he kissed the exposed and terribly soft skin before burrowing his nose into her cleavage.
More, more of that, more of her, more taste - he kicked her legs apart, stopping to kiss her again with everything he had, revelling in her whimpering into his mouth and clutching his shoulders.
Pulling back and giving her a slow smile, he sank to his knees, feeling the damp stone through his jeans. Her thighs quivered and stomach fluttered as he pushed her silly skirt up with his hands, staring at her knickers. It was too dark to make out their colour, but they were so small that it hardly mattered anyway, not when they were so easily torn and left to float down to the muddy cobbled ground. He pulled one of her legs up to hook round his shoulder and her fingers quickly gripped his head and hair to stop herself from falling.
“Ron - wha - ohGod,“ Whatever she was going to say dissolved into moans as Ron indulged in one of his favourite hobbies and grinned as her thighs clamped around his head.
Relaxing his tongue, he licked at her contentedly. This was a trick passed down the Weasleys; Bill had instructed this to each of his brothers and not a single complaint yet. The most intimate way to write on a woman, yet Hermione was always too far gone to realise what he was doing. Sometimes he traced their names, dirty words, or even words of love when he was feeling sappy. Tonight he was impatient, intoxicated and his concentration was shot, so he had no idea what he was spelling, only aware of vague patterns, consumed by the scent and taste and feel of Hermione all around him. And sound, oh the sound - that made him break out in a delicious sweat down his back, that made him dig his fingers into her arse where he was partly holding her up, that made him unable to stop his hips rocking into thin air, the rub of his jeans against his cock satisfying and frustrating all at once.
But her whimpers were turning into cries now and the grip on his hair was getting less and gentle, but she knew how much he liked that anyway. She was about to come, right here in this dark alleyway just because of his mouth - but her fingers twisted an she gasped, “No, no, not yet - in me, in me, Ron - please - “
Oh Holy fuck, did she knew what her voice did to him? One last chaste kiss - “Ron!” - and he fumbled to undo his belt, unzip his fly, push his trousers down with his pants and rise up to stand. The cool night air hitting his exposed arse and legs, his trousers and boxers tangled somewhere mid-thigh, helped distract him from his burning arousal for a second while he lifted her fully off the ground, gripping her soft round arse in his hands. She squealed, but quickly wrapped her legs around him, her arms flying up to his shoulders. Their eyes locked for a second that stretched out between them in the dimly-lit alleyway. Her eyes were so dark, dark with arousal, and he’d wager so were his. All that could be heard was their ragged breathing, misting in the heated space between them.
He thrust in.
“Ah!” He groaned into her shoulder, mouth agape and eyes closed against the perfect, perfect warm wet tightness clenching around his cock. “Oh, fuck.” He slid out again slowly, almost completely, then sank back in, nerves on end, a delicious heat uncurling all down his body right down to his curling toes. So good, so unbelievably bloody good.
Fingers were gripping his neck, pulling at the hair on his nape, scratching - Hermione’s sobbing, pleading moans filled his ears, and her breasts were crushed fantastically against his chest as she arched her back, trying to fuck herself on him. Ron straightened up, having to see her, how he made her look.
Mouth open and wet, flush blooming on her cheeks, hair so sexy in its spill over the unworthy bricks, haloing her gorgeous face. He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop his hips from flexing and pushing, and proceeded to fuck her up the wall.
Lost in the immediacy, the thrill of thrusting into her, he vaguely wondered amid gasping and feeling her nails raking down his back that they were outside. Utterly fucking amazing though they were, the cries of “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Hermione was making might attract an audience if they weren’t careful and the thought of someone else even glimpsing her in her glory like this made him growl with rage.
So Ron pushed a thumb into Hermione's mouth to stop her from making too much noise. She bit it and gasped around it, full lips sucking and opening in moans still. He dimly heard a clatter on the cobbles and then Hermione’s bare heels were digging into his exposed arse, forcing him to go deeper and harder. So close, so close, Ron regrettably pulled his thumb away from Hermione’s fucking gorgeous mouth and gripped her waist, hitching her up higher and thrusting in at a different angle.
He felt her tighten, saw her pupils dilate and heard the scream before it came, so he pushed in as deep as he could and plunged his tongue into her mouth, muffling their cries as his spine melted and light burst behind his closed eyelids and he came, came with her coming around him, feeling so unbelievably fucking good he had to struggle not to pass out.
An untold moment later, Ron pulled back slightly to lean his forehead against hers, panting and feeling her hot breath fanning across his mouth in return. Aftershocks kept flitting through him and his knees wanted to join the puddles on the ground, but he stayed standing, still holding Hermione up in his arms. Their breathing was steadying now, and their grips had gentled almost to an embrace, but their gazes no less intense. Ron was suddenly struck with it.
“Everything, you are. Everything to me,” he whispered.
“Yes.” She understood, the way she was looking at him was just for him.
“Me, mine. You have to be mine,” not to control, but he always wanted her to look at him like that and Ron knew he would never stop wanting, or loving.
“Always. All ways,” she sighed.
Pairing: Ron/Hermione
Rating: NC-17. Very much so.
Warnings: Erm… teenage humour, alcohol consumption, bar brawling, and lots more jolly good fun most definitely including sex against an alley wall. Oh, and if you don’t like the idea of a woman ’getting pleased’, you won’t like this. And boo on you, frankly.
Word Count: 5072
Feedback: Is my Mr Tibbles, baby.
Summary: ‘"Ron," Sometimes, she once said, she liked to just say his name. "Ron."
"Hermione," he breathed into her neck, half to make her tickle and half to make her moan like that. She just smelt so good, and her skin always tasted so good; so he did, licking out at the curve of her collarbone. Fresh and clean and musky, but more dirty tonight, more salty and he loved it.’
A/N: bennmorland requested R/Hr with the general idea of a muggle date - but I’m afraid I was rather liberal with it. It’s more of a dirty, sexy post-war release fic, with dressing up and going to a bar as my version of a date. Heh. Apologies for the lateness (ill Figgy is incapable of writing porn!). This story beat me ‘round the head and refused to be anything like a normal-lengthed ficlet.
Dedications: For dear silly yet lovely bennmorland, and thanks to the unfailingly cool agentcabanas for the incisive beta - you saved this fic from being eaten alive by commas! Also, I’d like to thank my beautiful friend josephalus for some initial suggestions, and to offer the hand of reconciliation. It’s been a stressful few weeks for both of us, hasn’t it?
Back to Part One.
*
Hermione, Ron reflected for the billionth time ten minutes later as his senses blurred together, was indeed a clever girl. This was something else; the burst of flavour, the shock at the back of his throat, the momentary dizziness languidly pulling itself into a slow, delicious drugging of his mind. And the way her eyes glittered at him in the sultry light, or how she sometimes leaned in and kissed him or he kissed her, laughing and tasting it on each other's lips.
Hermione tasted of cherry, then of lime, then of some disgusting mix between ginger and lemon but Ron kissed her anyway and stroked his tongue all around her mouth, washing it away with vodka and cranberry. Hermione hummed and pulled back, smacking her lips. "Mmmm, that's better." And tipped a crimson shot glass down her neck.
Trying and failing to get the dopey smile off his face, he blindly reached for another shot, but to his dismay came back empty handed. “Crap, they’re all gone,” Hmm. He must’ve had more than he thought. No, there was a definite light-headedness to him and he could feel it in his limbs and hooded eyes. But this was just right - not too far gone, just on the right side of drunk.
Hermione surveyed the cluster of shiny glasses proudly. “Wow, I don’t feel as drunk as I thought I would after all that!” Oh course you don’t, Ron thought, seen as I made sure you got a third of what I had. It was true that she could never be called a lightweight, but she got a little too competitive sometimes and it was for her, and her hangover’s, own benefit.
Suddenly made aware in a different way of how much he’d drunk, he clambered off his stool, kissed her forehead and excused himself, eyeing the little sign with the stupid little stick man on it.
Aaah, the simple bliss of relieving one’s bladder. A quick check in the mirror - huh, Hermione was off her rocker with the eyeliner business, even if it suited the place and didn’t look half bad - and he was out again, the darkly-lit mass of bodies taking awhile for his eyes to adjust to after the overpowering glare of the sparkling bathroom. It was later now and the floor was getting filled with undulating bodies and flashes of skin and the swishing of hair. He weaved himself through carefully and sidestepped a few women with a startling glare of hunger in their eyes, chortling to himself yet still rather eager to get back to his Hermione.
Once he’d squeezed himself through the crowd, however, a completely unwelcome sight greeted him. Hermione was still at the bar, yet her whole posture had changed. She was tense, defensive, in the set of her shoulders and the line of her mouth - and was half-pushing away a man leaning lecherously over her and looking way too much like McLaggen for his liking.
Three long strides and he was at her side, swinging back his fist and punching the bastard square in the nose. He went flying, blood spurting from his conk to spatter on the floor, taking down a few others with him. Ron stepped forward quickly, ready, absolutely furious.
He glared down at the man, at least five years older than him and tall, but he was taller, and he doubted that this jerk knew how to fight like he did, even without his wand. Through his haze of fury, he dimly recognised his stance becoming threatening, cocking his fist and leaning forward, ready to pounce.
The guy quickly scrambled up and spat curses, but after a tense moment where he and Ron stared each other out and an eager crowd waited with baited breath for a possible fight, a flicker of fear flitted across his dull eyes and he seemed to think better of it. Grumbling something indistinguishable to the rabble that seemed to be his mates, he backed away and left, rabble in tow with a final bang of the bar door shut.
Ron breathed out heavily through his nose: partly of disappointment; partly of the burn of adrenaline still coursing through his veins. It all came rushing back so easily, the kind of duelling he was half proud, half ashamed he was capable of and experienced at. During the long search for the remaining Horcruxes and before the ultimate destruction of Voldemort (yes, he could easily say it now) Harry, Hermione and himself had run into many Death Eaters and other equally disgusting sycophants along the way. It had been Harry’s idea that they would all work on utilising whatever talents they had to the best of their abilities, the best for surprise attacks. So while Harry sent patronuses charging around to great effect, and Hermione could concentrate on many stunning, shield and petrificus spells at once - Ron had worked on coping under, and even throwing off, the Cruciatus, and sometimes mixing duelling with hand-to-hand combat. It was amazing how few saw that coming, or could adjust to it in time, and Ron didn’t like to admit how satisfying it sometimes was to hear the break of a jaw behind that white sneering mask.
He jumped when he felt Hermione’s hand rest soothingly on his arm; he hadn’t realised he’d been shaking. The music and laughs and shouts around him came whooshing back, and he slumped back into a bar stool, staring at Hermione’s knowing smile. Those soft brown eyes told him it was alright, that she was proud and grateful, without having to shout awkward personal comments over the crowd’s din. Her hand trailed down his arm and slipped into his; he gripped it. Yes, it was alright and she understood it probably more than he did, but he was bent on having fun tonight; save the hours talking and cuddling for later, the morning perhaps.
The soft, feminine yet undoubtedly powerful hand still in his own tugged and he was pulled to stand. Her other hand reached up to rub behind his ear, she knew how much he loved that. Their breath mixed and her lips brushed is as she leant into him on tiptoe, never taking her eyes away from his. Her makeup was a bit smudged now, but Ron thought it was even better like this. His heart hammered as she whispered into him, “Come on.”
And he was being lead away, towards to exit and out, the sway of her backside and the swish of her skirt completely mesmerising. And she kept going, past the busy crowds of people into a calm glinting street filled with cafes and the occasional customer, but Ron let her, rather bemused and horny and enjoying the cool night air. How she did this, change his mood so effectively, she was the most brilliant thing ever and he opened her mouth to tell her so.
Just as he opened his mouth, however, she brought them to a sudden stop, turning round and facing him under a old-fashioned orange streetlight. Then she brought his hand up to her mouth and pressed soft, wet kisses to his palm almost reverently. He didn’t know how she did this, always did this; found some obscure part of his body to tease and torture that he never would of thought of as being sensual. She dragged her lips down his lifeline, then down to the inside of his wrist, as if she were trying to take his pulse with her mouth.
Ron just stood there, gaping, an inexplicable feeling of tenderness overcame him as he stared at her eyelashes shadowing her cheek, even as he grew harder in his trousers. He was open and vulnerable to her, in a different and far better way than when he had to face down three Death Eaters at a time on the battlefields.
“Ah!" A spark of pain shot through the pleasure. Hermione was grinning that wicked grin at him, fangs sunk into his skin. “You little vampire,” he grinned, suddenly remembering the thrill of her teeth in his shoulder to muffle her cries. His knees went weak. “Hermione, where can we -”
Ron’s eyes were fixed on the flexing of her throat as she turned her head. “Um, oh - yes -” She was panting a little, her chest heaving with it, so Ron suddenly found himself being pulled dumbly into a secluded side alley, the dim streetlight highlighting the curls of Hermione’s hair in an oddly stunning way. Snapping back to himself, he wondered what they were doing here. Good place for Apparition, he supposed, though the tent in his trousers would rather to Floo. But -
“Here,” Hermione whispered heatedly up at him, leaning back against the brick wall. “Here, Ron, fuck me here.” Her wide, catlike smile glinted at him through the darkness as she pulled him to her with his belt loops.
Ron’s brain went blank in blissful shock, his veins filling with fire. Here, she wanted him - to - oh hell yes, and she must want it a lot, seen as her secret weapon to get him to do practically anything was to murmur filthy words like that.
“Oh God,” She was pressed flush against him, everywhere, and he couldn’t stop tracing the curve of her hips with his hands.
"Ron," Sometimes, she once said, she liked to just say his name. "Ron."
"Hermione," he breathed into her neck, half to make her tickle and half to make her moan like that. She just smelt so good, and her skin always tasted so good; so he did, licking out at the curve of her collarbone. Fresh and clean and musky, but more dirty tonight, more salty and he loved it.
So he didn’t stop, went down the length of her neckline, feeling and hearing her breath catch as he kissed the exposed and terribly soft skin before burrowing his nose into her cleavage.
More, more of that, more of her, more taste - he kicked her legs apart, stopping to kiss her again with everything he had, revelling in her whimpering into his mouth and clutching his shoulders.
Pulling back and giving her a slow smile, he sank to his knees, feeling the damp stone through his jeans. Her thighs quivered and stomach fluttered as he pushed her silly skirt up with his hands, staring at her knickers. It was too dark to make out their colour, but they were so small that it hardly mattered anyway, not when they were so easily torn and left to float down to the muddy cobbled ground. He pulled one of her legs up to hook round his shoulder and her fingers quickly gripped his head and hair to stop herself from falling.
“Ron - wha - ohGod,“ Whatever she was going to say dissolved into moans as Ron indulged in one of his favourite hobbies and grinned as her thighs clamped around his head.
Relaxing his tongue, he licked at her contentedly. This was a trick passed down the Weasleys; Bill had instructed this to each of his brothers and not a single complaint yet. The most intimate way to write on a woman, yet Hermione was always too far gone to realise what he was doing. Sometimes he traced their names, dirty words, or even words of love when he was feeling sappy. Tonight he was impatient, intoxicated and his concentration was shot, so he had no idea what he was spelling, only aware of vague patterns, consumed by the scent and taste and feel of Hermione all around him. And sound, oh the sound - that made him break out in a delicious sweat down his back, that made him dig his fingers into her arse where he was partly holding her up, that made him unable to stop his hips rocking into thin air, the rub of his jeans against his cock satisfying and frustrating all at once.
But her whimpers were turning into cries now and the grip on his hair was getting less and gentle, but she knew how much he liked that anyway. She was about to come, right here in this dark alleyway just because of his mouth - but her fingers twisted an she gasped, “No, no, not yet - in me, in me, Ron - please - “
Oh Holy fuck, did she knew what her voice did to him? One last chaste kiss - “Ron!” - and he fumbled to undo his belt, unzip his fly, push his trousers down with his pants and rise up to stand. The cool night air hitting his exposed arse and legs, his trousers and boxers tangled somewhere mid-thigh, helped distract him from his burning arousal for a second while he lifted her fully off the ground, gripping her soft round arse in his hands. She squealed, but quickly wrapped her legs around him, her arms flying up to his shoulders. Their eyes locked for a second that stretched out between them in the dimly-lit alleyway. Her eyes were so dark, dark with arousal, and he’d wager so were his. All that could be heard was their ragged breathing, misting in the heated space between them.
He thrust in.
“Ah!” He groaned into her shoulder, mouth agape and eyes closed against the perfect, perfect warm wet tightness clenching around his cock. “Oh, fuck.” He slid out again slowly, almost completely, then sank back in, nerves on end, a delicious heat uncurling all down his body right down to his curling toes. So good, so unbelievably bloody good.
Fingers were gripping his neck, pulling at the hair on his nape, scratching - Hermione’s sobbing, pleading moans filled his ears, and her breasts were crushed fantastically against his chest as she arched her back, trying to fuck herself on him. Ron straightened up, having to see her, how he made her look.
Mouth open and wet, flush blooming on her cheeks, hair so sexy in its spill over the unworthy bricks, haloing her gorgeous face. He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop his hips from flexing and pushing, and proceeded to fuck her up the wall.
Lost in the immediacy, the thrill of thrusting into her, he vaguely wondered amid gasping and feeling her nails raking down his back that they were outside. Utterly fucking amazing though they were, the cries of “Oh! Oh! Oh!” Hermione was making might attract an audience if they weren’t careful and the thought of someone else even glimpsing her in her glory like this made him growl with rage.
So Ron pushed a thumb into Hermione's mouth to stop her from making too much noise. She bit it and gasped around it, full lips sucking and opening in moans still. He dimly heard a clatter on the cobbles and then Hermione’s bare heels were digging into his exposed arse, forcing him to go deeper and harder. So close, so close, Ron regrettably pulled his thumb away from Hermione’s fucking gorgeous mouth and gripped her waist, hitching her up higher and thrusting in at a different angle.
He felt her tighten, saw her pupils dilate and heard the scream before it came, so he pushed in as deep as he could and plunged his tongue into her mouth, muffling their cries as his spine melted and light burst behind his closed eyelids and he came, came with her coming around him, feeling so unbelievably fucking good he had to struggle not to pass out.
An untold moment later, Ron pulled back slightly to lean his forehead against hers, panting and feeling her hot breath fanning across his mouth in return. Aftershocks kept flitting through him and his knees wanted to join the puddles on the ground, but he stayed standing, still holding Hermione up in his arms. Their breathing was steadying now, and their grips had gentled almost to an embrace, but their gazes no less intense. Ron was suddenly struck with it.
“Everything, you are. Everything to me,” he whispered.
“Yes.” She understood, the way she was looking at him was just for him.
“Me, mine. You have to be mine,” not to control, but he always wanted her to look at him like that and Ron knew he would never stop wanting, or loving.
“Always. All ways,” she sighed.