FIC: Other Ways to Celebrate the Last Match of the Season, Hermione/Charlie, NC-17 liek whoa
Title: Other Ways to Celebrate the Last Match of the Season
Rating: NC-17 liek whoa
Pairing: Charlie/Hermione
Word Count: ~ 3200
Summary: Charlie finds Hermione in the Gryffindor locker room and uses the situation to his full advantage
Warnings: blink-and-you-miss-it knifeplay
A/N: Written for luvscharlie for the 2008 hermione_smut. Thank you to my beauteous beta thescarletwoman for putting up with my whining and for fixing 'er up right good for me!
The roar of the crowd outside muffles her shout as her shoulder blades slam against the bank of lockers. Hermione doesn't have time to cry or struggle. His lips are on hers, his tongue in her mouth before she can register the smoked cedar smell of him, or the flash of a tattooed creature dashing around his left biceps. She notices hair like fire and eyes that burn even brighter, and then her arms are around his neck, pulling him closer.
He commands the kiss, though, pinning her against the ancient wooden lockers with the length of his stocky body, his hands creating new tangles in her confusion of hair. The tip of his tongue strokes her palate in a touch so light, so intimate, it floods her senses with ticklish, soaring pleasure. She opens herself to him with a breathy moan, her nails scratching the nape of his neck as she demands more.
They break away at the same time, sucking in oxygen in unison without breaking heated eye contact. "Miss Granger," he drawls, drawing the words out slowly. His hand, meandering along the side of her neck and downward, between her breasts, mirrors the tone.
"Charlie Weasley," she returns, not leaning into the touch. "What do you think you're doing in the Quidditch locker rooms?"
"I could ask you the same. Shouldn't you be watching the match?" He plays with the light white cotton of her school blouse, toying with the button holding the shirt closed across her cleavage. She swats his hand away.
"It's Gryffindor versus Slytherin, which means everyone in the school is out there," she counters. "It leaves this the perfect place to read during the game and still be able to say I was there."
He seems to think this over. "You mean no one will come in here until the Snitch is caught?"
"Yes, that's what I thought. On the other hand, it's possible someone unexpected could come in at any moment and find us here."
They stare at each other a second longer. Then buttons fly across the room, describing the same trajectories as the Quaffle and Bludgers outside, and her blouse hits the floor. He looks her over admiringly, her skin flushed with surprise and arousal, her breasts naked.
"Didn't think you had a bra on," he murmurs, and without any further warning he ducks forward and sucks her right nipple into his mouth. She gasps, weaving her fingers through his short hair. He swirls his tongue over the aureola, bites her nipple once-- harder than she'd have expected-- and then kisses her again, bending her backwards in an erotic mockery of a 1940s chaste embrace.
"I've been waiting for this," he says, his voice as rough as his touch. "Saw you in that plaid skirt and I haven't been able to think of anything else." He tweaks her other nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger as he peppers her with kisses, bites, licks-- her throat, her jaw, her cheeks. Her lips. Her lips tingle every time they come into contact with him, drugging her and making her dizzy for more.
"I haven't been able to stop thinking about you either," she confides, breathless with abandon.
"What have you been thinking?"
She blushes at that, even as his bold touches trail over her breastbone. He traces the soft crescent curves of her breasts and she says, "Well, I've wanted to see you naked, haven't I? I can't imagine what Ron would think if he found us."
"Would you very much mind not mentioning my baby brother just now?" Charlie implores. "It's just weird."
"You'd best find a way to otherwise occupy me, then," she suggests, and before she can say another word, he flicks his wand and her entire world inverts.
"Charlie!" Gravity has won out over her black and white plaid skirt, letting it dangle around her shoulders and leaving her plain white knickers exposed. He'd used Levicorpus on her, the bastard-- she should never have mentioned it over breakfast at the Burrow. Charlie is entirely too insidious to be trusted with such spells.
"Mmm?" he asks innocently. Or not so innocently, as she feels the tip of his wand caress her inner thigh. It tingles.
"Which spell is that?" she asks of the tingling sensation, academic curiosity battling with the fog of arousal that threatens to overwhelm her senses.
His only response is an increase in the vibration, and this time she can't hold back a whimper. He draws his wand-tip ever so lightly over the thin cotton of her knickers before transferring his attention to her other thigh. She wriggles, not sure if she's trying to get away from the maddening sensation, or if she's trying to get more of it. He gives in to her unspoken desperation and places his wand with expert precision against her clit. The vibrations increase exponentially and she shrieks.
Laughing, he moves it back and forth just a little, adding friction to the tingling. Her entire body is alight with paralyzing pleasure, her eyelids almost closed, hands clenching at the fabric of her skirt. It's just shy of too much and she's fighting to hold back another scream when all at once it stops. Her blood is rushing to her head, a background roar to the thundering of her heart and the shouts of the crowd.
"You infuriating creature," she mutters, gasping to catch her breath. She glares up at him from her vulnerable, upside-down position, watching him dig through his pockets with the surety that she always associates with him. After a moment, he withdraws a pocketknife. She gulps.
"What do you think you're doing?"
He flips the blade open, and it gleams dully in the half-life of the locker rooms. Only the gleam is dull, however-- the blade looks unmercifully sharp. She holds perfectly still, watching. Waiting. Her erratic pulse betrays her arousal. Her steady breath promises her trust in him.
He ghosts the unsharpened side of the blade over her thigh, following the same path his wand did previously. The knife is sturdy, its handle molded to Charlie's palm, and she can imagine all of the practical, functional things he's done with it on the job. The delicious juxtaposition thrills her as he flicks his wrist and slices through the elastic at her waist. Meticulously, he severs the cotton, and again she feels the dull side against her skin, cold and almost-threatening. Just before it disappears between her legs, he veers to the right and snaps through the elastic at her right thigh and just as quickly her left. The scrap of fabric falls away, and he pockets his knife.
"What are you going to--" she can't finish the sentence. The touch of his tongue between her legs pre-empts all further thought. Charlie is a man of few words, but oh, he knows how to use his tongue. He flicks her clit once, twice, and then beings to explore with lips and fingers too.
"Not fair," she gasps, her back arching in mid-air under his ministrations. She is dizzy from being upside down, and from his evil, evil teasing. He knows just how to bring her to the edge without pushing her over. Even now, he spreads her open with his fingers, and she feels herself alternately caressed by his tongue and his breath, cooling her moist skin and then heating it again. He is studiously avoiding her clit, investigating other erogenous spots instead. And he's too good at what he does, so that when he slides one finger into her, it glides effortlessly inside, coated with her own arousal. She squeezes around him, moaning.
"At least," she says, trying to assemble a coherent thought, "let me return the favour." She can imagine his wicked grin as she reaches for his belt, fumbling because she is upside and because she can barely see straight from the blinding pleasure of his mouth on her. She opens his fly and his cock springs out to greet her, achingly hard and begging for her touch.
She doesn't hesitate, running her tongue along its shaft. He expels a harsh breath.
"That is a different sensation," he murmurs, working his finger in and out of her. She kisses the tip of his cock, and then sucks just the head in, her lips against its ridge while her tongue grazes his slit. She feels the shudder pulsate through him, and he retaliates immediately, covering her clit with his mouth and sucking just as she does. His cock falls from her mouth as a wordless groan of pleasure escapes her. The intensity, good God....
But Hermione is nothing if not determined, and she will not be shown up in this. She can tell that he's keeping his wits about him, from the steady movement of his hands, driving her perfectly mad. She takes a breath, squares her jaw, and even as he thrusts two fingers inside her she swallows him down once more. This time she takes as much of him into her mouth as she can. At this angle, surprisingly conducive to this act, she can take a lot of him. She feels him restraining himself, trying not to push further. Instead, he slides a third finger inside her and teases his tongue across her clit once more. She cries out in ecstasy, though it is muffled by his cock. She wraps her arms around him, resting her hands on his arse-- still covered in dragon-hide trousers. Steadily, she pulls him toward her, bobbing her head up and down, her cheeks hollow from the suction.
She is rewarded by a deep, uninhibited groan, almost a rumble, almost a purr. She cocoons him with her mouth, her tongue cradling and caressing the underside of his cock.
"Hermione," he gasps against her skin, and she nearly screams as his teeth rake over her clit. She contracts around his fingers. She is sweating from the effort and from the arousal-- she imagines he is too. He tastes salty and forbidden and utterly undeniable. He does it again, teeth against her, but this time he crooks a finger and hits a spot inside her, just there, and she is lost in a torrent of feeling, of heightened sensation and bright, uncontrollable pleasure. Joy. Too many feelings twined around each other and she isn't sure when he withdrew from her mouth, only that her cry is no longer silenced by flesh.
Abruptly she is righted and she almost falls on the floor. Thank goodness his strong arms are around her, catching her and supporting her because her legs, denied blood and shaky from orgasm, won't.
"Oh, Charlie," she gasps, swaying in his embrace, and he claims her mouth again. Tastes mingle, he on her lips and she on his, joining, becoming a communal flavour of arousal and desire and the need for more. She blinks her eyes open and sees even as they kiss that he is watching her, that his pupils are dilated and his gaze heated. He is close but he is denying himself, she can tell, for their mutual benefit.
"Where did you come up with that?" she asks, fighting not to sound breathy. Almost unconsciously she is playing with his shirt, trying to divest it. She wants muscle beneath her fingers. She wants to see more than a flash of his tattoos.
"Creativity runs in the family," Charlie responds, raising his arms to let her pull his tunic off. She wobbles a little and he, half naked now, guides her to the hard wooden bench running the length of the changing room, between the banks of wooden lockers.
She pulls him down next to her so that they are both straddling the bench, both naked from the waist up with their remaining clothing hanging off them, dishevelled and chaotic. The otter tattoo, rendered in simple black ink, prances around his left arm, every so often stopping to regard her quizzically. The ourobouros, tail in its mouth, runs around his bellybutton. This one doesn't actually move but its scales are so sinuous, so brightly, keenly rendered, that it gives the appearance of motion anyway.
"You look..." he begins, eyes running over her plaid skirt, her knee-high red socks, her black patent leather school shoes. Her swollen lips. The pink and purple blossoms of abused skin along neck and collarbone and breasts, almost bruised where he bit or sucked.
"Yes?"
"Like sin," he decides. "Like lust embodied."
Trying not to stare at his cock, at the way it twitches invitingly, she says, "Your fault. Entirely."
"Do you want me inside you?"
The question catches her off-guard. "Yes," she says instantly. "God, yes. Fingers aren't enough to satisfy."
"You seemed somewhat satisfied," he teases. "But perhaps... Accio practice chest."
Ducking out of the way as a heavy wooden box hurtles past her head, she frowns at him. She doesn't know what he's doing and she's filled with a mixture of apprehension and desire. "What are you up to now?"
"Close your eyes," he says, flipping open the latch.
"I will not."
"Stubborn. Very well." He removes from the chest a small, gleaming object. After a moment, tiny golden wings unfold and the ball starts to whirr, trying to escape Charlie's grip.
"You want to play fetch?" she asks, and he shakes his head wordlessly. He leans forward. After a moment, she feels the left wingtip of the Golden Snitch flick her inner thigh.
"Oh," she says. Just "Oh." The sensation is subtle and exquisite, so much finer and faster than a clumsy Muggle vibrator. She spreads her legs further, inviting him to do more. After a moment, the right wing touches her other thigh, the body clasped in Charlie's fingers. He moves it fastidiously back and forth, and her head lolls backward. It's a light, lazy arousal that seeps through her, pleasant and constant until--
"Oh God!"
He chuckles wickedly and she writhes with pleasure. He's pressed the Snitch against her clit without warning, the bevelled, chilly gold contrasting with the minute, relentless vibrations of the madly beating wings. It's indescribable, so much after so light a touch. He holds it firm against her, adding more pressure rhythmically. Her body is wracked with spasms, her muscles tensing and releasing without her say so. She feels a wave ripple through her, her spine undulating, her mouth open on a cry of pleasure, his half-formed name.
Just-- just-- as her second climax is about to overtake her, the Snitch is gone. She is almost blind with arousal and she whimpers violently, wanting more. Needing more.
"Get on your knees," he urges, and manages to furrow her brow at him in consternation.
"Wh-?"
"On the bench, on your knees," he says, getting up himself.
Eyes narrowed as the pleasure begins to ebb away, she rearranges herself so that she is kneeling on the bench, facing one row of lockers. He moves behind her and dances his fingertips along her bare arms.
"Beast," she mutters, and she can imagine his smile in response. He runs his hands down her back and over the swell of her arse, and she feels herself being spread open. She tries to adjust, to widen her legs.
"Keep them closed," he murmurs. Before she can chide him for being so demanding, she feels the blunt head of his cock against her. He wraps one arm around her to steady her, and then he thrusts. He slides into her welcoming heat and she nearly falls off the bench, it overwhelms her so.
"Oh God, Charlie," she murmurs. He pushes forward still further and she leans back, taking him in, feeling him flush against her. He is heated and damp with sweat, and she twists her head around to steal a half-kiss. Stroking her arms again, he encircles her delicate wrists in his large, callused hands.
"What are you--?"
"Lean forward."
She shivers. Creative indeed. Putting her trust in him to hold her up, she lets herself fall forward, her arms behind her, anchoring her to him. And he begins to move.
Hermione wasn't aware before that she was capable of such noises, such small, insistent, mewling sounds. She is balanced precariously, her legs tight together making her that much tighter for him, making her feel the slide of skin in skin so much more urgently. She is completely in his hands as he uses his hold on her as a fulcrum, slamming into her over and over, hitting places inside her that she's never felt this way before. Hermione is in control of so much of her life, and Charlie knows instinctively how to make her give that control up, to give herself over to him just for these few perfect, passionate moments.
His pace quickens. She is at his mercy, a groan escaping her each time he buries himself inside her. She is already so wet, so sensitive, from his ministrations, and each thrust sends fire looping through her veins. She squeezes him inside, wanting to give back as much as he is giving her. The sound of his breath, of his groans matching hers, sends her higher. She is teetering, so close, and then he propels himself into her hard, his teeth against her throat and screams. Her climax rips through her as he spills himself inside her, both of them rigid with erotic tension. He pulls her back, letting go of her wrists to wrap his arms around her. She is gasping, elated, elevated.
"I can't believe that," she manages at last, and she feels him laughing behind her.
"Letting go now," he warns, and she nods, sitting down on the bench. He crumples unceremoniously onto the cold, tiled floor. She lets herself roll off the bench and fall on top of him. He pulls her close, her head on his shoulder and their legs intertwining.
Outside, the crowd goes wild.
"Oh dear," she says as the distinctive "SLYTHERIN HAS THE SNITCH!" echoes into the locker room.
"Bollocks. I had money on Gryffindor," Charlie says.
She smacks him. "Also, we should probably get off the floor and put our clothes on before anyone finds us in here."
"Damn, I was rather planning on round two in the shower." He lifts his head enough to kiss her temple. "It's a shame we can't just Apparate back to our chambers."
"Honestly, Charlie," she chides. "How many times do I have to tell you that--"
"There is no Apparition on school grounds," Charlie singsongs, kissing her again before she can tell him to stop imitating her. They sit up and begin to search for discarded clothing.
"You know, we should just cover you up in a robe," he points out, and quickly transfigures her ruined shirt into a flowing black robe. "If the students see you in that schoolgirl outfit--"
"I'll be sacked?" she asks.
"They'll be as turned on as I was, you naughty thing." He leers at her as she pulls the robe over her head. He retrieves his own shirt and quickly buttons himself up.
"Come on, Professor Weasley," shy says, scooping up her ruined blouse. "Lucky for us, we have a shower in our own loo upstairs."
"As you wish, Professor Granger-Weasley," he laughs, catching her in his arms for one last kiss. They both imperiously ignore the curious looks from the Gryffindor team as they make their way out of the locker room.
Fin
Rating: NC-17 liek whoa
Pairing: Charlie/Hermione
Word Count: ~ 3200
Summary: Charlie finds Hermione in the Gryffindor locker room and uses the situation to his full advantage
Warnings: blink-and-you-miss-it knifeplay
A/N: Written for luvscharlie for the 2008 hermione_smut. Thank you to my beauteous beta thescarletwoman for putting up with my whining and for fixing 'er up right good for me!
The roar of the crowd outside muffles her shout as her shoulder blades slam against the bank of lockers. Hermione doesn't have time to cry or struggle. His lips are on hers, his tongue in her mouth before she can register the smoked cedar smell of him, or the flash of a tattooed creature dashing around his left biceps. She notices hair like fire and eyes that burn even brighter, and then her arms are around his neck, pulling him closer.
He commands the kiss, though, pinning her against the ancient wooden lockers with the length of his stocky body, his hands creating new tangles in her confusion of hair. The tip of his tongue strokes her palate in a touch so light, so intimate, it floods her senses with ticklish, soaring pleasure. She opens herself to him with a breathy moan, her nails scratching the nape of his neck as she demands more.
They break away at the same time, sucking in oxygen in unison without breaking heated eye contact. "Miss Granger," he drawls, drawing the words out slowly. His hand, meandering along the side of her neck and downward, between her breasts, mirrors the tone.
"Charlie Weasley," she returns, not leaning into the touch. "What do you think you're doing in the Quidditch locker rooms?"
"I could ask you the same. Shouldn't you be watching the match?" He plays with the light white cotton of her school blouse, toying with the button holding the shirt closed across her cleavage. She swats his hand away.
"It's Gryffindor versus Slytherin, which means everyone in the school is out there," she counters. "It leaves this the perfect place to read during the game and still be able to say I was there."
He seems to think this over. "You mean no one will come in here until the Snitch is caught?"
"Yes, that's what I thought. On the other hand, it's possible someone unexpected could come in at any moment and find us here."
They stare at each other a second longer. Then buttons fly across the room, describing the same trajectories as the Quaffle and Bludgers outside, and her blouse hits the floor. He looks her over admiringly, her skin flushed with surprise and arousal, her breasts naked.
"Didn't think you had a bra on," he murmurs, and without any further warning he ducks forward and sucks her right nipple into his mouth. She gasps, weaving her fingers through his short hair. He swirls his tongue over the aureola, bites her nipple once-- harder than she'd have expected-- and then kisses her again, bending her backwards in an erotic mockery of a 1940s chaste embrace.
"I've been waiting for this," he says, his voice as rough as his touch. "Saw you in that plaid skirt and I haven't been able to think of anything else." He tweaks her other nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger as he peppers her with kisses, bites, licks-- her throat, her jaw, her cheeks. Her lips. Her lips tingle every time they come into contact with him, drugging her and making her dizzy for more.
"I haven't been able to stop thinking about you either," she confides, breathless with abandon.
"What have you been thinking?"
She blushes at that, even as his bold touches trail over her breastbone. He traces the soft crescent curves of her breasts and she says, "Well, I've wanted to see you naked, haven't I? I can't imagine what Ron would think if he found us."
"Would you very much mind not mentioning my baby brother just now?" Charlie implores. "It's just weird."
"You'd best find a way to otherwise occupy me, then," she suggests, and before she can say another word, he flicks his wand and her entire world inverts.
"Charlie!" Gravity has won out over her black and white plaid skirt, letting it dangle around her shoulders and leaving her plain white knickers exposed. He'd used Levicorpus on her, the bastard-- she should never have mentioned it over breakfast at the Burrow. Charlie is entirely too insidious to be trusted with such spells.
"Mmm?" he asks innocently. Or not so innocently, as she feels the tip of his wand caress her inner thigh. It tingles.
"Which spell is that?" she asks of the tingling sensation, academic curiosity battling with the fog of arousal that threatens to overwhelm her senses.
His only response is an increase in the vibration, and this time she can't hold back a whimper. He draws his wand-tip ever so lightly over the thin cotton of her knickers before transferring his attention to her other thigh. She wriggles, not sure if she's trying to get away from the maddening sensation, or if she's trying to get more of it. He gives in to her unspoken desperation and places his wand with expert precision against her clit. The vibrations increase exponentially and she shrieks.
Laughing, he moves it back and forth just a little, adding friction to the tingling. Her entire body is alight with paralyzing pleasure, her eyelids almost closed, hands clenching at the fabric of her skirt. It's just shy of too much and she's fighting to hold back another scream when all at once it stops. Her blood is rushing to her head, a background roar to the thundering of her heart and the shouts of the crowd.
"You infuriating creature," she mutters, gasping to catch her breath. She glares up at him from her vulnerable, upside-down position, watching him dig through his pockets with the surety that she always associates with him. After a moment, he withdraws a pocketknife. She gulps.
"What do you think you're doing?"
He flips the blade open, and it gleams dully in the half-life of the locker rooms. Only the gleam is dull, however-- the blade looks unmercifully sharp. She holds perfectly still, watching. Waiting. Her erratic pulse betrays her arousal. Her steady breath promises her trust in him.
He ghosts the unsharpened side of the blade over her thigh, following the same path his wand did previously. The knife is sturdy, its handle molded to Charlie's palm, and she can imagine all of the practical, functional things he's done with it on the job. The delicious juxtaposition thrills her as he flicks his wrist and slices through the elastic at her waist. Meticulously, he severs the cotton, and again she feels the dull side against her skin, cold and almost-threatening. Just before it disappears between her legs, he veers to the right and snaps through the elastic at her right thigh and just as quickly her left. The scrap of fabric falls away, and he pockets his knife.
"What are you going to--" she can't finish the sentence. The touch of his tongue between her legs pre-empts all further thought. Charlie is a man of few words, but oh, he knows how to use his tongue. He flicks her clit once, twice, and then beings to explore with lips and fingers too.
"Not fair," she gasps, her back arching in mid-air under his ministrations. She is dizzy from being upside down, and from his evil, evil teasing. He knows just how to bring her to the edge without pushing her over. Even now, he spreads her open with his fingers, and she feels herself alternately caressed by his tongue and his breath, cooling her moist skin and then heating it again. He is studiously avoiding her clit, investigating other erogenous spots instead. And he's too good at what he does, so that when he slides one finger into her, it glides effortlessly inside, coated with her own arousal. She squeezes around him, moaning.
"At least," she says, trying to assemble a coherent thought, "let me return the favour." She can imagine his wicked grin as she reaches for his belt, fumbling because she is upside and because she can barely see straight from the blinding pleasure of his mouth on her. She opens his fly and his cock springs out to greet her, achingly hard and begging for her touch.
She doesn't hesitate, running her tongue along its shaft. He expels a harsh breath.
"That is a different sensation," he murmurs, working his finger in and out of her. She kisses the tip of his cock, and then sucks just the head in, her lips against its ridge while her tongue grazes his slit. She feels the shudder pulsate through him, and he retaliates immediately, covering her clit with his mouth and sucking just as she does. His cock falls from her mouth as a wordless groan of pleasure escapes her. The intensity, good God....
But Hermione is nothing if not determined, and she will not be shown up in this. She can tell that he's keeping his wits about him, from the steady movement of his hands, driving her perfectly mad. She takes a breath, squares her jaw, and even as he thrusts two fingers inside her she swallows him down once more. This time she takes as much of him into her mouth as she can. At this angle, surprisingly conducive to this act, she can take a lot of him. She feels him restraining himself, trying not to push further. Instead, he slides a third finger inside her and teases his tongue across her clit once more. She cries out in ecstasy, though it is muffled by his cock. She wraps her arms around him, resting her hands on his arse-- still covered in dragon-hide trousers. Steadily, she pulls him toward her, bobbing her head up and down, her cheeks hollow from the suction.
She is rewarded by a deep, uninhibited groan, almost a rumble, almost a purr. She cocoons him with her mouth, her tongue cradling and caressing the underside of his cock.
"Hermione," he gasps against her skin, and she nearly screams as his teeth rake over her clit. She contracts around his fingers. She is sweating from the effort and from the arousal-- she imagines he is too. He tastes salty and forbidden and utterly undeniable. He does it again, teeth against her, but this time he crooks a finger and hits a spot inside her, just there, and she is lost in a torrent of feeling, of heightened sensation and bright, uncontrollable pleasure. Joy. Too many feelings twined around each other and she isn't sure when he withdrew from her mouth, only that her cry is no longer silenced by flesh.
Abruptly she is righted and she almost falls on the floor. Thank goodness his strong arms are around her, catching her and supporting her because her legs, denied blood and shaky from orgasm, won't.
"Oh, Charlie," she gasps, swaying in his embrace, and he claims her mouth again. Tastes mingle, he on her lips and she on his, joining, becoming a communal flavour of arousal and desire and the need for more. She blinks her eyes open and sees even as they kiss that he is watching her, that his pupils are dilated and his gaze heated. He is close but he is denying himself, she can tell, for their mutual benefit.
"Where did you come up with that?" she asks, fighting not to sound breathy. Almost unconsciously she is playing with his shirt, trying to divest it. She wants muscle beneath her fingers. She wants to see more than a flash of his tattoos.
"Creativity runs in the family," Charlie responds, raising his arms to let her pull his tunic off. She wobbles a little and he, half naked now, guides her to the hard wooden bench running the length of the changing room, between the banks of wooden lockers.
She pulls him down next to her so that they are both straddling the bench, both naked from the waist up with their remaining clothing hanging off them, dishevelled and chaotic. The otter tattoo, rendered in simple black ink, prances around his left arm, every so often stopping to regard her quizzically. The ourobouros, tail in its mouth, runs around his bellybutton. This one doesn't actually move but its scales are so sinuous, so brightly, keenly rendered, that it gives the appearance of motion anyway.
"You look..." he begins, eyes running over her plaid skirt, her knee-high red socks, her black patent leather school shoes. Her swollen lips. The pink and purple blossoms of abused skin along neck and collarbone and breasts, almost bruised where he bit or sucked.
"Yes?"
"Like sin," he decides. "Like lust embodied."
Trying not to stare at his cock, at the way it twitches invitingly, she says, "Your fault. Entirely."
"Do you want me inside you?"
The question catches her off-guard. "Yes," she says instantly. "God, yes. Fingers aren't enough to satisfy."
"You seemed somewhat satisfied," he teases. "But perhaps... Accio practice chest."
Ducking out of the way as a heavy wooden box hurtles past her head, she frowns at him. She doesn't know what he's doing and she's filled with a mixture of apprehension and desire. "What are you up to now?"
"Close your eyes," he says, flipping open the latch.
"I will not."
"Stubborn. Very well." He removes from the chest a small, gleaming object. After a moment, tiny golden wings unfold and the ball starts to whirr, trying to escape Charlie's grip.
"You want to play fetch?" she asks, and he shakes his head wordlessly. He leans forward. After a moment, she feels the left wingtip of the Golden Snitch flick her inner thigh.
"Oh," she says. Just "Oh." The sensation is subtle and exquisite, so much finer and faster than a clumsy Muggle vibrator. She spreads her legs further, inviting him to do more. After a moment, the right wing touches her other thigh, the body clasped in Charlie's fingers. He moves it fastidiously back and forth, and her head lolls backward. It's a light, lazy arousal that seeps through her, pleasant and constant until--
"Oh God!"
He chuckles wickedly and she writhes with pleasure. He's pressed the Snitch against her clit without warning, the bevelled, chilly gold contrasting with the minute, relentless vibrations of the madly beating wings. It's indescribable, so much after so light a touch. He holds it firm against her, adding more pressure rhythmically. Her body is wracked with spasms, her muscles tensing and releasing without her say so. She feels a wave ripple through her, her spine undulating, her mouth open on a cry of pleasure, his half-formed name.
Just-- just-- as her second climax is about to overtake her, the Snitch is gone. She is almost blind with arousal and she whimpers violently, wanting more. Needing more.
"Get on your knees," he urges, and manages to furrow her brow at him in consternation.
"Wh-?"
"On the bench, on your knees," he says, getting up himself.
Eyes narrowed as the pleasure begins to ebb away, she rearranges herself so that she is kneeling on the bench, facing one row of lockers. He moves behind her and dances his fingertips along her bare arms.
"Beast," she mutters, and she can imagine his smile in response. He runs his hands down her back and over the swell of her arse, and she feels herself being spread open. She tries to adjust, to widen her legs.
"Keep them closed," he murmurs. Before she can chide him for being so demanding, she feels the blunt head of his cock against her. He wraps one arm around her to steady her, and then he thrusts. He slides into her welcoming heat and she nearly falls off the bench, it overwhelms her so.
"Oh God, Charlie," she murmurs. He pushes forward still further and she leans back, taking him in, feeling him flush against her. He is heated and damp with sweat, and she twists her head around to steal a half-kiss. Stroking her arms again, he encircles her delicate wrists in his large, callused hands.
"What are you--?"
"Lean forward."
She shivers. Creative indeed. Putting her trust in him to hold her up, she lets herself fall forward, her arms behind her, anchoring her to him. And he begins to move.
Hermione wasn't aware before that she was capable of such noises, such small, insistent, mewling sounds. She is balanced precariously, her legs tight together making her that much tighter for him, making her feel the slide of skin in skin so much more urgently. She is completely in his hands as he uses his hold on her as a fulcrum, slamming into her over and over, hitting places inside her that she's never felt this way before. Hermione is in control of so much of her life, and Charlie knows instinctively how to make her give that control up, to give herself over to him just for these few perfect, passionate moments.
His pace quickens. She is at his mercy, a groan escaping her each time he buries himself inside her. She is already so wet, so sensitive, from his ministrations, and each thrust sends fire looping through her veins. She squeezes him inside, wanting to give back as much as he is giving her. The sound of his breath, of his groans matching hers, sends her higher. She is teetering, so close, and then he propels himself into her hard, his teeth against her throat and screams. Her climax rips through her as he spills himself inside her, both of them rigid with erotic tension. He pulls her back, letting go of her wrists to wrap his arms around her. She is gasping, elated, elevated.
"I can't believe that," she manages at last, and she feels him laughing behind her.
"Letting go now," he warns, and she nods, sitting down on the bench. He crumples unceremoniously onto the cold, tiled floor. She lets herself roll off the bench and fall on top of him. He pulls her close, her head on his shoulder and their legs intertwining.
Outside, the crowd goes wild.
"Oh dear," she says as the distinctive "SLYTHERIN HAS THE SNITCH!" echoes into the locker room.
"Bollocks. I had money on Gryffindor," Charlie says.
She smacks him. "Also, we should probably get off the floor and put our clothes on before anyone finds us in here."
"Damn, I was rather planning on round two in the shower." He lifts his head enough to kiss her temple. "It's a shame we can't just Apparate back to our chambers."
"Honestly, Charlie," she chides. "How many times do I have to tell you that--"
"There is no Apparition on school grounds," Charlie singsongs, kissing her again before she can tell him to stop imitating her. They sit up and begin to search for discarded clothing.
"You know, we should just cover you up in a robe," he points out, and quickly transfigures her ruined shirt into a flowing black robe. "If the students see you in that schoolgirl outfit--"
"I'll be sacked?" she asks.
"They'll be as turned on as I was, you naughty thing." He leers at her as she pulls the robe over her head. He retrieves his own shirt and quickly buttons himself up.
"Come on, Professor Weasley," shy says, scooping up her ruined blouse. "Lucky for us, we have a shower in our own loo upstairs."
"As you wish, Professor Granger-Weasley," he laughs, catching her in his arms for one last kiss. They both imperiously ignore the curious looks from the Gryffindor team as they make their way out of the locker room.
Fin