New Story: Intemperance 1/2
Title: Intemperance (Part One)
Author: madoldmrsfigg
Summary: “Then don’t you think, a small voice inside Hermione’s head piped up, that Ron would want that side of you, too?”
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: Very much appreciated. Either comment or at weasleyisourking @ hotmail.com
Notes: Written for lysrouge in the Second Ron Fic A Thon. She requested: Ron/Hermione. 1. D/s relationship or a foray into light BDSM with Hermione as the Domme. 2. Crossdressing would be lovely. (Both requests don't have to be filled.) No character death. Hope you like it, Lily! And thanks to snoopypez for promoting Ron love, and to my darling Joey and V for the beta and encouragement.
“Thank God it’s Friday,” Hermione muttered, trudging up the girls’ dormitory stairs, her ridiculously heavy satchel harsh on her shoulder muscles. She managed to make it up after only having to quell a few squawking fifth years and point a third year on the verge of tears to Madam Pince’s diluted Bubotuber stash, but all the same, the thud of her Head Girl room door closing shut was very welcome to Hermione’s ears.
The satchel came off immediately, and the spill of books were ignored as Hermione gratefully collapsed onto her four-poster, kicked off her shoes, and stretched. The crack of her back echoed around the room and the corner mirror gasped, “Oh, that sounds awful, dear!” but Hermione found it rather satisfying. She’d needed that all day.
Seventh year certainly was very trying. What with Head Girl duties, D.A. meetings, all on top the N.E.W.T. lessons themselves, Hermione had certainly learned to appreciate a little relaxation time. Whenever she started to become a little crazed with the workload a certain redhead delighted in reminding her of a certain slip-up she may have made involving an evil ferret, a worthless subject, and a time-altering device. All in a very unfair husky voice and delivered downright sneakily into her rather sensitive neck.
Said redhead was currently busy flying around on the Quidditch pitch, most probably barking out orders and encouragement to his fellow team members. Though it was a shame he was presently unable to help relieve her tension by - well, other kinds of stretching than what she was doing now - it was certainly satisfying to think of Ron, Harry, Ginny and all the rest of them working themselves into exhaustion while a work fiend like herself had the night off. Yes, Hermione thought smugly, arching her back again and revelling in the pleasurable pull of her muscles, Hermione Granger had no homework. None. A night off to do… exactly what she wanted.
Of course, she’d had to work all week like one of those poor house elves in those wretchedly brainwashed conditions to get this moment of free time, but it was well worth the late nights, early mornings, crammed lunch and dinner hours, in her opinion. Others thought her mad. Well, actually, they thought she was doing what she always did, especially as they had their Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests in a mere six months, but Hermione Granger was well prepared. Her revision timetable had her scheduled in slots of every other day, which she would be increasing, of course, once they got into the New Year. But for now, she had it all planned out.
It was a bit of ritual, actually.
Completely secret ritual, of course. Hermione was good at keeping secrets, and she was also good at keeping a tight rein on herself, and to do that she needed this certain… habit.
Her stomach squirmed excitedly as she swung her legs off her plush double bed (oh, the privileges of the Head Girl status), pushed herself to her feet, and began to undress. Firstly, she shrugged off her heavy black robe, while toeing her socks off. Her fingers soon found her tie and slipped the knot undone. By the time her shirt hit the floor the mirror let out a squeak of understanding, tinted itself rose, and hissed at the lights, which hurried to comply by dimming to a more flattering dusk. Hermione smiled at their thoughtfulness, but she wasn’t about to inspect herself. Oh, no.
There was a snap of a clasp and her skirt pooled around her feet, closely followed by her undergarments. Her shoulders seemed to roll of their own accord, in pleasure at being released from the confinement of those dratted bra straps. She stepped aside as the wash basket scuttled across the room, swallowing her dirty clothes as it went, then settled back into its corner, now bulging with its load.
Hermione padded over to her grand wardrobe, reached up - then paused, and cast a locking charm on her door. The younger girls rarely visited her up here, especially on a Friday night, and you’d think they’d have the decency to knock first - but you couldn’t be too careful. She then reached up to the top of the wardrobe, felt around - and sure enough, she pulled down some soft fabric.
It was invisible, of course. This was her secret indulgence, after all. She lifted the charm and suddenly had an armful of what had once been screaming orange, now faded gentle and more pleasing to the eye, and underneath some even softer black cloth. She quickly pulled on the materials, and the mirror seemed to turn a deeper rose, as if it were blushing. As if it hadn’t ever seen this before - but then again, Hermione still blushed when she did this, too.
She now stood in a large, baggy Chudley Cannons t-shirt and boxers. She didn’t do this for the texture (although it was delightfully soft) but for the smell. The wonderful, wonderful smell of chocolate frogs and chessboards, of outdoors and grass, of home cooking and earth, underlying all of it was a unique brand of a powerful wizard’s magic and the faint smell of sweat. Wearing it made her body hum, it was all around her, she could gorge on it, it engulfed her, surrounded her - but most of all, it was hers. She possessed it.
This way, she possessed Ron.
God, she loved it. And if anyone thought about it, it wasn’t that surprising, Hermione had a controlling nature. She attempted to distract herself from thinking on it too deeply by crossing her room, curling up on her chintz armchair and burying her nose into a book, but to no avail. Her eyes didn’t drink in a word, her face was aflame, and her head felt like it was going to burst. If anyone offered her a Pensieve right now, as tempting as it would be, she’d never risk it - the track record for those things was ridiculous, especially where Harry was involved. Oh, to think if Harry found out, how embarrased she’d feel or, if - if Ron did. If Ron found out she’d stolen his clothes, his underwear and squirreled it away in secret and -
Well, she’d simply die of embarrassment, that’s all.
Calm down, Hermione told herself, relax. Ron doesn’t suspect a thing, no one does. Thank Merlin he doesn’t have a clue about his washing rotation.
She’d often wondered to herself if was worth it. The risk of possible shame, humiliation - of losing the one person Hermione had wanted for so long. But then she breathed in, the smell making her shiver and her free hand clench into the material. The truth was, better to indulge herself this way, for the alternative…
Hermione had indeed always been a controlling girl. She could admit now (to herself, mind) that in some way she could see why Ron and Harry found her so irritating at the start of their first year. And she had tried hard to ease up a little - but honestly, those boys needed grounding sometimes. Especially Harry, oh the high horse he could get on at times, he definitely needed to hear the voice of reason, and she was happy to be it. Like an older sister, or a mother, something that she’d always had Mrs. Weasley’s support with.
Hermione wasn’t really bossy she was more - she was just - oh, all right, she might be a little. She just liked to help, to mentor, why not use her intelligence to help others than herself? And she knew that her classmates appreciate her badgering underneath the sighs and groans; well, they definitely did when it came to revision time, which they all seem to think was only about two months before the exams, but that really wasn’t the point.
But when it came to Ron… he’s always been a different matter. Looking back, she could trace it to their very first meeting. Not that she thought of him in that way back then - or if she did, she wasn’t aware of it - but she always seemed to notice everything he did, which made her five times more angry if it was not up to scratch or five times more thrilled if it was, or if he surprised her, which he has been noted to. It hit her far earlier than she was ready for, how she felt for him, in third year. Another thing that dratted Scabbers did, and oh, did she resent her intelligence then. When everything was falling apart, when Ron was so upset about his rat that her cat did not eat, though it looked like it, and she was too proud -
Is this the same, then, Hermione thought suddenly, is pride getting in the way? Hermione banished the thought as soon as it came.
And in third year, when he’d extended the hand of friendship and loyalty and care, she and the world as she’d known it completely crumpled. Hermione smiled at the memory, at the oblivious fourteen-year-old Ron.
But she’d had to wait three more years, three more years of berating, confusion, hope and insecurity, until she’d got him. Got Ron. And sooner than she’d planned, but more tender and special than she’d ever hoped for, she’d given him everything and he gave himself in return. Even with a war waging over their heads and themselves in the middle of it, Hermione had never been happier.
So why risk ruining it all because of some silly desire? She loved their relationship, she loved being with him, - she just needed to keep her tight rein on herself and stop being so greedy.
For as Hermione was changing from a girl to a young woman, she’d noticed her normal wish to boss and control was being directed into some rather… unexpected areas. She and Ron had always been different to other couples, she was proud to say, as their relationship was rooted in a powerful friendship. Other couples of Hogwarts couldn’t say that they would risk death to protect the other, that they had faced their worst fears together, that they had fought side by side against swarms of Death Eaters and Dark Creatures, and would do it all again in a heartbeat. Those twittering pairs that dated in that god awful Puddifoot place didn’t have a silent acknowledgement that they would soon be right beside Harry when he plunged into completing the prophecy with Voldemort, and that they would both willingly do whatever it took into helping him, and that really meant anything. They never spoke of it, though sometimes they made love feverishly, in a fierce passion that told each other that if they could, they’d make the other stay behind for fear of losing them. But each knew that it would be useless to ask.
Nor, Hermione knew, that any other girl was as lucky as she. The laughter that he brought out of her and others in such dark times amazed her. She curled a thick lock of hair around her finger and smiled at as she remembered the many times Ron had touched it, caressed it, burrowed his face in it. He’d complimented it a few times too, though Hermione treasured the gestures more.
She heard herself let out a blissful sigh. She never thought, though she did dream, of being with someone like Ron Weasley. Especially the fact that it was her - bookish, too outspoken her own good, not exactly one of the many girly and pretty types that flitted around Hogwarts. Girls that Hermione spotted eying her boyfriend with rather a lot of appreciation, though she was sure that Ron never noticed.
Hermione tossed her book aside, abandoning all pretence, and burrowed her face into his t-shirt with relish. She wondered how sweaty he would be, right now on the Quidditch field, but how exhilarated. She snorted as she remembered the first time she’d seen Ron play with skill and confidence, in their sixth year, and how turned on she had gotten. She’d managed to pass off her flushed race for decent excitement when she’d congratulated him on their sweeping victory afterwards, but she’d almost died of embarrassment when Katie Bell had given her an all-too-knowing wink. Now, she often found it hard to stop her mind from wandering when he played Quidditch, as she recognised his intense focus from their bedroom activities. And chess games, for that matter. And when he researched, and in class… well. The point was made.
The thing that was so attractive about Ron was that he really had no idea about his own appeal. He was becoming a confident man, yes, but Hermione couldn’t really get angry with those ogling girls (though recently she’d come to be suspicious that it wasn’t only the fairer sex that did the ogling) for recognising it. It made her laugh, watching him being so completely clueless, and it made her immensely satisfied to walk down corridors with him hand in hand. It made her want to stand up and shout out to the Great Hall, “Yes, look at this man! Right here - next to me, isn’t he ridiculously sexy? Guess what, he’s all mine!”
However. That was the problem. Recently, Hermione had realised how far this possessive streak went. She had these fantasies of grabbing him, pushing him down, tying him so he would be entirely in her control, of touching, tasting his gorgeous lanky body to her all her hearts desire. Of biting him and reminding them both to whom he belongs to, marking him, consuming him, possessing him totally for one glorious night.
Hermione suddenly became aware of her own thunderous heartbeat in her ears, that sweat was breaking out all over her, and that she was sinking her nails into her own thighs, and lessens the pressure a little. The desire was so overwhelming. So intense. Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, she has almost given in - but the fear of his rejection, his disgust would prevent it. That and her little secret hobby of donning his clothing, like now, and possessing his smell, instead.
It wasn’t like they didn’t have a good sex life. Wonderful, in fact, and Hermione very much enjoyed his dominant side, too, and feeling like she was the one who’s being claimed. Having such an intimate way with Ron, being allowed to after wanting for so long, being wanted, being desired by the bo-man that had been by her side through everything, was more than she ever dreamed of. She could not ruin what she had, they have, with this selfish, unfeminine desire to take, to claim him - no. She was so lucky already, he was so accepting and wonderful, and made her feel so wanted -
Then don’t you think, a small voice inside Hermione’s head piped up, that Ron would want that side of you, too?
Just then a low mutter came from right outside Hermione’s door, followed by the click of a lock and the turn of a door handle. Her head snapped up. Before Hermione could think, breathe or blink those ominous noises were followed by her door being flung open, and oh Lord all that was Holy, the apparently Amazing Levitating Ronald toppled into her room and hastily slammed the door shut behind him.
The few seconds that Ron took in turning around seemed to stretch horrifyingly for Hermione. Her body became rigid and probably wouldn’t even have managed to run for cover even if it were an option out of pure shock. A sickening wave of dread and complete and utter mortification swamped her. But the second when Ron did turn to focus on her, pushing his hair out of his eyes and apparently very pleased with himself, well that second was… immeasurably worse.
His eyes literally bugged as he took in, yes, his stolen underwear, and yes, his used t-shirt on what appeared to be his formerly very proper girlfriend looking, she could only imagine, for all the world like Hogwarts’ resident pervert.
His lips parted and Hermione flinched at the little hiss of air that escaped. Completely stunned, Hermione did what she always did in a crisis. She turned to logic. To practicality.
“R-Ronald, what are you doing here? How di-did you get…?” Of course, the shaking spoilt her clipped tones. Even as she asked, she had already figured it out before he piped up, in a completely flabbergasted voice. Hermione couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Er… Levitation Charm. Up the stairs, y’know…” Hermione mentally cursed his stroke of brilliance. Why, why now? Probably all had something to do with that fraud Trelawney, Hermione knew it.
“Yes but why on earth aren’t you at Quidditch practice? You can’t slack off now, Ron, you mustn’t get complacent!” She willed her voice to lower a couple of octaves. And her hands to stop shaking.
She heard him make a little disbelieving noise, and looked up. Oh. Right, that was embarrassing. She hadn’t taken in his appearance before what with the shock but - oh, my my.
He’d apparently abandoned the Quidditch robes and gloves, but didn’t seem to have changed out of his scarlet shirt and black slacks, though they were a little darker than usual in an obvious indication that he’d been caught in the rain. That explained the early return from practice - oh why hadn’t she thought to open her curtains? - and the reason the material clung a little more than usual to the long, lean lines of his body. It would also explain why his hair hung in damp tendrils around his face, and why it had turned the most fascinating darker shade of red. Oh, no. She was completely lost. Once more, he’d obviously just got back - he hasn’t showered, he hasn’t showered! - her mind rejoiced and she felt her insides crash together. She needed to get a grip on herself, and quickly.
Steeling herself for the disgust (oh God, please not) she was bound to see on Ron’s face, she looked up to find - she blinked. Unless she was very much mistaken, that was not unlike the look he wore when -
She glanced down at his crotch, which those damp, clinging trousers outlined quite clearly that he was not horrified. He wasn’t, he didn’t, he… oh, yes. Thank heavens.
Her legs opened a little of their own accord. She saw him swallow.
“You… Hermione, you… like wearing m-that do you?” He rasped, stumbling forwards a little.
Blushing to the roots of her hair, nevertheless she managed to nod.
“And you - you,” Ron stumbled forward more, and dropped to his knees in front of her, his eyes raking all over her body. “You do this a - a lot?”
Her knees spread a little more of their own volition at the sight of him so close, kneeling in front of her. She made a sound of assent in her throat, low to her ears.
“Blimey,” Ron flushed along his cheekbones, and, predictably, on the tips of his ears. Yet he was still looking at her with wide, amazed eyes, still sporting a delightful bulge in his trousers, and Hermione found him adorable. And rather irresistible.
Click here for part two.
Author: madoldmrsfigg
Summary: “Then don’t you think, a small voice inside Hermione’s head piped up, that Ron would want that side of you, too?”
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: Very much appreciated. Either comment or at weasleyisourking @ hotmail.com
Notes: Written for lysrouge in the Second Ron Fic A Thon. She requested: Ron/Hermione. 1. D/s relationship or a foray into light BDSM with Hermione as the Domme. 2. Crossdressing would be lovely. (Both requests don't have to be filled.) No character death. Hope you like it, Lily! And thanks to snoopypez for promoting Ron love, and to my darling Joey and V for the beta and encouragement.
“Thank God it’s Friday,” Hermione muttered, trudging up the girls’ dormitory stairs, her ridiculously heavy satchel harsh on her shoulder muscles. She managed to make it up after only having to quell a few squawking fifth years and point a third year on the verge of tears to Madam Pince’s diluted Bubotuber stash, but all the same, the thud of her Head Girl room door closing shut was very welcome to Hermione’s ears.
The satchel came off immediately, and the spill of books were ignored as Hermione gratefully collapsed onto her four-poster, kicked off her shoes, and stretched. The crack of her back echoed around the room and the corner mirror gasped, “Oh, that sounds awful, dear!” but Hermione found it rather satisfying. She’d needed that all day.
Seventh year certainly was very trying. What with Head Girl duties, D.A. meetings, all on top the N.E.W.T. lessons themselves, Hermione had certainly learned to appreciate a little relaxation time. Whenever she started to become a little crazed with the workload a certain redhead delighted in reminding her of a certain slip-up she may have made involving an evil ferret, a worthless subject, and a time-altering device. All in a very unfair husky voice and delivered downright sneakily into her rather sensitive neck.
Said redhead was currently busy flying around on the Quidditch pitch, most probably barking out orders and encouragement to his fellow team members. Though it was a shame he was presently unable to help relieve her tension by - well, other kinds of stretching than what she was doing now - it was certainly satisfying to think of Ron, Harry, Ginny and all the rest of them working themselves into exhaustion while a work fiend like herself had the night off. Yes, Hermione thought smugly, arching her back again and revelling in the pleasurable pull of her muscles, Hermione Granger had no homework. None. A night off to do… exactly what she wanted.
Of course, she’d had to work all week like one of those poor house elves in those wretchedly brainwashed conditions to get this moment of free time, but it was well worth the late nights, early mornings, crammed lunch and dinner hours, in her opinion. Others thought her mad. Well, actually, they thought she was doing what she always did, especially as they had their Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests in a mere six months, but Hermione Granger was well prepared. Her revision timetable had her scheduled in slots of every other day, which she would be increasing, of course, once they got into the New Year. But for now, she had it all planned out.
It was a bit of ritual, actually.
Completely secret ritual, of course. Hermione was good at keeping secrets, and she was also good at keeping a tight rein on herself, and to do that she needed this certain… habit.
Her stomach squirmed excitedly as she swung her legs off her plush double bed (oh, the privileges of the Head Girl status), pushed herself to her feet, and began to undress. Firstly, she shrugged off her heavy black robe, while toeing her socks off. Her fingers soon found her tie and slipped the knot undone. By the time her shirt hit the floor the mirror let out a squeak of understanding, tinted itself rose, and hissed at the lights, which hurried to comply by dimming to a more flattering dusk. Hermione smiled at their thoughtfulness, but she wasn’t about to inspect herself. Oh, no.
There was a snap of a clasp and her skirt pooled around her feet, closely followed by her undergarments. Her shoulders seemed to roll of their own accord, in pleasure at being released from the confinement of those dratted bra straps. She stepped aside as the wash basket scuttled across the room, swallowing her dirty clothes as it went, then settled back into its corner, now bulging with its load.
Hermione padded over to her grand wardrobe, reached up - then paused, and cast a locking charm on her door. The younger girls rarely visited her up here, especially on a Friday night, and you’d think they’d have the decency to knock first - but you couldn’t be too careful. She then reached up to the top of the wardrobe, felt around - and sure enough, she pulled down some soft fabric.
It was invisible, of course. This was her secret indulgence, after all. She lifted the charm and suddenly had an armful of what had once been screaming orange, now faded gentle and more pleasing to the eye, and underneath some even softer black cloth. She quickly pulled on the materials, and the mirror seemed to turn a deeper rose, as if it were blushing. As if it hadn’t ever seen this before - but then again, Hermione still blushed when she did this, too.
She now stood in a large, baggy Chudley Cannons t-shirt and boxers. She didn’t do this for the texture (although it was delightfully soft) but for the smell. The wonderful, wonderful smell of chocolate frogs and chessboards, of outdoors and grass, of home cooking and earth, underlying all of it was a unique brand of a powerful wizard’s magic and the faint smell of sweat. Wearing it made her body hum, it was all around her, she could gorge on it, it engulfed her, surrounded her - but most of all, it was hers. She possessed it.
This way, she possessed Ron.
God, she loved it. And if anyone thought about it, it wasn’t that surprising, Hermione had a controlling nature. She attempted to distract herself from thinking on it too deeply by crossing her room, curling up on her chintz armchair and burying her nose into a book, but to no avail. Her eyes didn’t drink in a word, her face was aflame, and her head felt like it was going to burst. If anyone offered her a Pensieve right now, as tempting as it would be, she’d never risk it - the track record for those things was ridiculous, especially where Harry was involved. Oh, to think if Harry found out, how embarrased she’d feel or, if - if Ron did. If Ron found out she’d stolen his clothes, his underwear and squirreled it away in secret and -
Well, she’d simply die of embarrassment, that’s all.
Calm down, Hermione told herself, relax. Ron doesn’t suspect a thing, no one does. Thank Merlin he doesn’t have a clue about his washing rotation.
She’d often wondered to herself if was worth it. The risk of possible shame, humiliation - of losing the one person Hermione had wanted for so long. But then she breathed in, the smell making her shiver and her free hand clench into the material. The truth was, better to indulge herself this way, for the alternative…
Hermione had indeed always been a controlling girl. She could admit now (to herself, mind) that in some way she could see why Ron and Harry found her so irritating at the start of their first year. And she had tried hard to ease up a little - but honestly, those boys needed grounding sometimes. Especially Harry, oh the high horse he could get on at times, he definitely needed to hear the voice of reason, and she was happy to be it. Like an older sister, or a mother, something that she’d always had Mrs. Weasley’s support with.
Hermione wasn’t really bossy she was more - she was just - oh, all right, she might be a little. She just liked to help, to mentor, why not use her intelligence to help others than herself? And she knew that her classmates appreciate her badgering underneath the sighs and groans; well, they definitely did when it came to revision time, which they all seem to think was only about two months before the exams, but that really wasn’t the point.
But when it came to Ron… he’s always been a different matter. Looking back, she could trace it to their very first meeting. Not that she thought of him in that way back then - or if she did, she wasn’t aware of it - but she always seemed to notice everything he did, which made her five times more angry if it was not up to scratch or five times more thrilled if it was, or if he surprised her, which he has been noted to. It hit her far earlier than she was ready for, how she felt for him, in third year. Another thing that dratted Scabbers did, and oh, did she resent her intelligence then. When everything was falling apart, when Ron was so upset about his rat that her cat did not eat, though it looked like it, and she was too proud -
Is this the same, then, Hermione thought suddenly, is pride getting in the way? Hermione banished the thought as soon as it came.
And in third year, when he’d extended the hand of friendship and loyalty and care, she and the world as she’d known it completely crumpled. Hermione smiled at the memory, at the oblivious fourteen-year-old Ron.
But she’d had to wait three more years, three more years of berating, confusion, hope and insecurity, until she’d got him. Got Ron. And sooner than she’d planned, but more tender and special than she’d ever hoped for, she’d given him everything and he gave himself in return. Even with a war waging over their heads and themselves in the middle of it, Hermione had never been happier.
So why risk ruining it all because of some silly desire? She loved their relationship, she loved being with him, - she just needed to keep her tight rein on herself and stop being so greedy.
For as Hermione was changing from a girl to a young woman, she’d noticed her normal wish to boss and control was being directed into some rather… unexpected areas. She and Ron had always been different to other couples, she was proud to say, as their relationship was rooted in a powerful friendship. Other couples of Hogwarts couldn’t say that they would risk death to protect the other, that they had faced their worst fears together, that they had fought side by side against swarms of Death Eaters and Dark Creatures, and would do it all again in a heartbeat. Those twittering pairs that dated in that god awful Puddifoot place didn’t have a silent acknowledgement that they would soon be right beside Harry when he plunged into completing the prophecy with Voldemort, and that they would both willingly do whatever it took into helping him, and that really meant anything. They never spoke of it, though sometimes they made love feverishly, in a fierce passion that told each other that if they could, they’d make the other stay behind for fear of losing them. But each knew that it would be useless to ask.
Nor, Hermione knew, that any other girl was as lucky as she. The laughter that he brought out of her and others in such dark times amazed her. She curled a thick lock of hair around her finger and smiled at as she remembered the many times Ron had touched it, caressed it, burrowed his face in it. He’d complimented it a few times too, though Hermione treasured the gestures more.
She heard herself let out a blissful sigh. She never thought, though she did dream, of being with someone like Ron Weasley. Especially the fact that it was her - bookish, too outspoken her own good, not exactly one of the many girly and pretty types that flitted around Hogwarts. Girls that Hermione spotted eying her boyfriend with rather a lot of appreciation, though she was sure that Ron never noticed.
Hermione tossed her book aside, abandoning all pretence, and burrowed her face into his t-shirt with relish. She wondered how sweaty he would be, right now on the Quidditch field, but how exhilarated. She snorted as she remembered the first time she’d seen Ron play with skill and confidence, in their sixth year, and how turned on she had gotten. She’d managed to pass off her flushed race for decent excitement when she’d congratulated him on their sweeping victory afterwards, but she’d almost died of embarrassment when Katie Bell had given her an all-too-knowing wink. Now, she often found it hard to stop her mind from wandering when he played Quidditch, as she recognised his intense focus from their bedroom activities. And chess games, for that matter. And when he researched, and in class… well. The point was made.
The thing that was so attractive about Ron was that he really had no idea about his own appeal. He was becoming a confident man, yes, but Hermione couldn’t really get angry with those ogling girls (though recently she’d come to be suspicious that it wasn’t only the fairer sex that did the ogling) for recognising it. It made her laugh, watching him being so completely clueless, and it made her immensely satisfied to walk down corridors with him hand in hand. It made her want to stand up and shout out to the Great Hall, “Yes, look at this man! Right here - next to me, isn’t he ridiculously sexy? Guess what, he’s all mine!”
However. That was the problem. Recently, Hermione had realised how far this possessive streak went. She had these fantasies of grabbing him, pushing him down, tying him so he would be entirely in her control, of touching, tasting his gorgeous lanky body to her all her hearts desire. Of biting him and reminding them both to whom he belongs to, marking him, consuming him, possessing him totally for one glorious night.
Hermione suddenly became aware of her own thunderous heartbeat in her ears, that sweat was breaking out all over her, and that she was sinking her nails into her own thighs, and lessens the pressure a little. The desire was so overwhelming. So intense. Sometimes, in the heat of the moment, she has almost given in - but the fear of his rejection, his disgust would prevent it. That and her little secret hobby of donning his clothing, like now, and possessing his smell, instead.
It wasn’t like they didn’t have a good sex life. Wonderful, in fact, and Hermione very much enjoyed his dominant side, too, and feeling like she was the one who’s being claimed. Having such an intimate way with Ron, being allowed to after wanting for so long, being wanted, being desired by the bo-man that had been by her side through everything, was more than she ever dreamed of. She could not ruin what she had, they have, with this selfish, unfeminine desire to take, to claim him - no. She was so lucky already, he was so accepting and wonderful, and made her feel so wanted -
Then don’t you think, a small voice inside Hermione’s head piped up, that Ron would want that side of you, too?
Just then a low mutter came from right outside Hermione’s door, followed by the click of a lock and the turn of a door handle. Her head snapped up. Before Hermione could think, breathe or blink those ominous noises were followed by her door being flung open, and oh Lord all that was Holy, the apparently Amazing Levitating Ronald toppled into her room and hastily slammed the door shut behind him.
The few seconds that Ron took in turning around seemed to stretch horrifyingly for Hermione. Her body became rigid and probably wouldn’t even have managed to run for cover even if it were an option out of pure shock. A sickening wave of dread and complete and utter mortification swamped her. But the second when Ron did turn to focus on her, pushing his hair out of his eyes and apparently very pleased with himself, well that second was… immeasurably worse.
His eyes literally bugged as he took in, yes, his stolen underwear, and yes, his used t-shirt on what appeared to be his formerly very proper girlfriend looking, she could only imagine, for all the world like Hogwarts’ resident pervert.
His lips parted and Hermione flinched at the little hiss of air that escaped. Completely stunned, Hermione did what she always did in a crisis. She turned to logic. To practicality.
“R-Ronald, what are you doing here? How di-did you get…?” Of course, the shaking spoilt her clipped tones. Even as she asked, she had already figured it out before he piped up, in a completely flabbergasted voice. Hermione couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Er… Levitation Charm. Up the stairs, y’know…” Hermione mentally cursed his stroke of brilliance. Why, why now? Probably all had something to do with that fraud Trelawney, Hermione knew it.
“Yes but why on earth aren’t you at Quidditch practice? You can’t slack off now, Ron, you mustn’t get complacent!” She willed her voice to lower a couple of octaves. And her hands to stop shaking.
She heard him make a little disbelieving noise, and looked up. Oh. Right, that was embarrassing. She hadn’t taken in his appearance before what with the shock but - oh, my my.
He’d apparently abandoned the Quidditch robes and gloves, but didn’t seem to have changed out of his scarlet shirt and black slacks, though they were a little darker than usual in an obvious indication that he’d been caught in the rain. That explained the early return from practice - oh why hadn’t she thought to open her curtains? - and the reason the material clung a little more than usual to the long, lean lines of his body. It would also explain why his hair hung in damp tendrils around his face, and why it had turned the most fascinating darker shade of red. Oh, no. She was completely lost. Once more, he’d obviously just got back - he hasn’t showered, he hasn’t showered! - her mind rejoiced and she felt her insides crash together. She needed to get a grip on herself, and quickly.
Steeling herself for the disgust (oh God, please not) she was bound to see on Ron’s face, she looked up to find - she blinked. Unless she was very much mistaken, that was not unlike the look he wore when -
She glanced down at his crotch, which those damp, clinging trousers outlined quite clearly that he was not horrified. He wasn’t, he didn’t, he… oh, yes. Thank heavens.
Her legs opened a little of their own accord. She saw him swallow.
“You… Hermione, you… like wearing m-that do you?” He rasped, stumbling forwards a little.
Blushing to the roots of her hair, nevertheless she managed to nod.
“And you - you,” Ron stumbled forward more, and dropped to his knees in front of her, his eyes raking all over her body. “You do this a - a lot?”
Her knees spread a little more of their own volition at the sight of him so close, kneeling in front of her. She made a sound of assent in her throat, low to her ears.
“Blimey,” Ron flushed along his cheekbones, and, predictably, on the tips of his ears. Yet he was still looking at her with wide, amazed eyes, still sporting a delightful bulge in his trousers, and Hermione found him adorable. And rather irresistible.
Click here for part two.