InsaneJournal

Fic: In An Idiom (Harry Potter, Hermione/Ginny, NC-17)
Title: In An Idiom
Words: 2062
Pairing: Hermione/Ginny
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Some light bondage. But very light.
Notes: Written for pornish_pixies's May Fantasy Fest, for faerie__girl, who requested "Hermione/Ginny, bondage, oral, begging, lots of buildup and description. Don't care who's dom/sub."

In An Idiom

Ginny Weasley, youngest child of seven, only girl, grew up hearing plenty of motherly advice. Don't rush it. All things come to those who wait. Patience is a virtue.

She's pretty sure that her mother would be horrified if she knew what Ginny was doing with those lessons, because right now Ginny Weasley is sitting on one of the squashy chintz couches in the Gryffindor common room, buried in a blanket and Hermione's copy of Hogwarts, A History, and Hermione's cool, delicate fingers are sliding over her nipples, and it's all she can do not to scream.

She doesn't have much of a choice, because she's surrounded by everyone else – Harry and Ron rowing over Transfiguration homework, Lavender and Parvati taking turns reading each other's auras for Divination class, Neville squinting, scribbling, and scratching out line by line of his Charms essay. Ordinarily she or Hermione would offer to read over his essay, but Hermione's busy tickling the soft skin of her stomach, and Ginny's busy clenching her jaw so that she keeps the tension and arousal firmly inside her. Hermione's leaning over the back of the couch, an innocent, absorbed expression on her face as she pretends to be fascinated by the details of the First Convention of Romanian Warlocks that convened at Hogwarts in 1283, but her hands are busy playing with the knitted hem of Ginny's jumper, tickling her ribs and moving up to cup Ginny's breasts.

Ginny's terribly surprised that no one's figured it out yet – that Hermione has read Hogwarts, A History so many times that she doesn't need to read over Ginny's shoulder, or that Ginny has never had any interest in the history of Hogwarts. But no, the boys are clueless, Dean and Seamus checking their Herbology answers together, Ron and Harry hollering some more. Ginny bites her lip, hard, as Hermione's finger glides over her nipple, and it hardens under the brush of her fingertip. She's grateful for the blanket, draped like a tent over her body, so that no one can see the rounded little points of her nipples under her shirt. Hermione pinches lightly, barely squeezing the little bud between her thumb and forefinger, and the center of Ginny's body clenches and twists and aches, and she wants nothing more than Hermione's mouth, her tongue and teeth, the slick wetness of her lips on her breasts.

She squeezes her eyes shut in frustration – it's maddening that everyone else is still up, working industriously on their homework. Since when does Harry care whether he has the same answer as Ron? All she wants is for everyone to leave so that she can gasp and sigh and scream under Hermione's touch and kisses and licks, so that they can get rid of the stupid book and the blanket and fuck, hard, now. But no, when she opens her eyes, only a minute has passed and the fires are still blazing and Hermione is still moving slowly, so slowly, with tiny little strokes of the pad of her thumb at Ginny's breasts, making small concentric circles around her nipple, first the left, then the right. Ginny takes in a shaky breath that she hopes no one else heard and fights the urge to scream. She wishes suddenly that Hermione had stuck with Divination, that she could read Ginny's aura right now, which, Ginny's sure, is deep and red and hot, the way Ginny feels right now.

She wiggles a little, trying to find the right position to apply some glorious pressure to her clit, which is slick from her own fluids as she shifts on the couch. She's beginning to think that if Hermione won't do it for her, she'll have to do it herself. Hermione's hands stop on her chest, and then she tweaks Ginny's nipple harder this time, so that Ginny's brown eyes go round. She understands the warning pinch and stops, impatient, anxious, and terribly frustrated.

And it's horribly unfair that Hermione's hands are moving from her breasts to her tummy and then to the outside of her jeans, cupping the spots that would be hot and soaked and musky under her fingers. It's all Ginny can do not to jerk her hips upward, grinding her clit through her trousers into Hermione's hands. She'd better not, or it'll be obvious to everyone else – Jack Sloper and Andrew Kirke having a battle with their model brooms, Harry and Ron still debating whether McGonagall means Shifting Spells or Switching Spells in question seventeen. Oh, but finally, Lavender and Parvati are heading to bed – Hermione is thumbing her clit through her jeans – and Neville scribbles something at the bottom of his scroll and sets down his quill triumphantly – Hermione's pushing her jumper down, cupping her breasts through the thick, hand-knit fabric, and Ginny tries very hard not to think about her mother right now – Euan Abercrombie tucks his copy of The Quibbler under his arm and heads up the stairs, yawning. She wants them all to bloody leave, now, because she's not sure how much longer she can keep her sighs and whimpers to herself.

It seems to take an eternity – an eternity in which Hermione tickles the sensitive skin at the sides of her neck with her fingers, and unbuttons her jeans and presses her fingers against the wet fabric of Ginny's panties and makes tiny circles around Ginny's clit, which is maddeningly stifled through a layer of cotton – for the common room to clear out, and by the time it does the fires are burning low and green and the flames in the wall sconces are throwing red shadows across Ginny's flushed cheeks. She throws off the blanket; Hogwarts, A History lands on the floor and Hermione makes a noise like she wants to protest, but Ginny kisses her, kneeling up on the couch and grabbing the front of Hermione's blouse to pull her closer. Hermione's hands are eager and warm, stripping off Ginny's jumper and jeans, and she's kissing Ginny's lips and neck and shoulder; her fingers are still at Ginny's chest. "Please, Hermione," Ginny gasps out, hauling Hermione over the couch in a very undignified manner, her chest and breasts jerking upward in an equally undignified way, as she tries unsuccessfully to guide Hermione's mouth down to her nipples. "Please," she hisses, feeling like her stomach might explode from anticipation, wondering how long she's going to have to wait for the wetness of her Hermione's lips and tongue against the equal wetness between her legs.

Hermione's sitting over her, smiling a little too serenely, and Ginny has no doubt it's all part of her master plan, the one that involves turning Ginny into a little puddle on the couch before she does anything. "Please?" Ginny repeats, sitting up against the carved wooden arm of the couch, reaching to unbutton the small shell-coloured buttons of Hermione's blouse. One hand comes up to brush hers away, and she lies back against a pillow, frustrated, as Hermione grins above her. Ginny not-so-subtly wriggles her hips, nearly unseating Hermione, her mouth a parted O of building desire and her tongue running along her dry lips, nervously. "Hermione, come on," she mutters, glaring, reaching for her blouse again, but Hermione just grins and whispers something that sends a spell like silver cord from her wand, binding Ginny's hands over her head to the arm of the couch and pulling the skin of her stomach and chest taut.

And then Hermione's hands and fingers and mouth are finally on her breasts, licking and sucking, her tongue tickling the pebbled skin of Ginny's nipple, drawing the other nipple between her teeth and then back again and again. Her hand is between Ginny's legs, too slow and diluted because of the layers of fabric between them, and Ginny can't do anything except arch and cry out and brace her feet against the other end of the couch as Hermione teases her nipple between her lips. Ginny imagines what it will be like when Hermione does the same thing to her clit, and the thought simultaneously makes her twitch and sigh as Hermione finally, finally starts to slide her jeans and knickers down her hips. "Oh God," she says as the first rush of air hits her, feeling terribly cool against all the places where she's slick like oil. It makes her shiver, and her nipples harden from the quiver and from the way Hermione's playing with them lazily, rolling and pinching one between her fingers as she kisses her way down Ginny's body.

Hermione's tongue is making its way, slow and sure, in a straight line from the outside of Ginny's ribcage down to her hip, circling the soft rise of the bone, then moving to the place where Ginny's leg joins her body. She makes a soft noise, like a growl mixed with a smile, and Ginny closes her eyes, waiting and waiting for Hermione to journey down and in, toward her clit and her cunt and the salty places of her labia. Instead Hermione starts licking slowly, first along the line of her thigh, then briefly across the hood of her clit when she moves to the other side. Her tongue briefly grazes the little bud of flesh lurking there, and then moves away, quickly, too quickly and Ginny lets out an irritated groan.

Hermione's looking down at her with smiling eyes, and Ginny would smack her if her hands weren't tied above her head. It dawns on her that Hermione must like this part, watching the expressions on Ginny's face and taking her bloody sweet time to finally plunge her tongue inside Ginny, to take her clit between her teeth and listen to Ginny's noises of frustration and relief. If she really wants to play Hermione's game, she supposes she should hold out, relax the furrows above her eyebrows and the tension of her lips, but she can't. "Hermione, please, please," she gasps, turning and twisting her body so that some part of her skin, any part, can brush against Hermione's. "God, please."

She closes her eyes as Hermione's lips find her body again, and then finally, she's there, licking Ginny first with slow strokes that would seem shy and tentative if Ginny didn't know better. Hermione's tongue skitters along the fold of Ginny's labia, swirls all too briefly at the place where they meet in an inverted V. Ginny can tell that the little folds of skin are soaking wet, and moreso because now Hermione's licking harder, teasing out the salty place where the labia folds in on itself, coaxing her clit, quickly and firmly, from its hood. The little bud of skin is like a small pebble under Hermione's tongue, and Ginny gasps as Hermione sucks it between her lips, brushing her tongue over it the same way she did Ginny's nipple a moment ago.

When she shifts a little so that her hips are tilted more upward, she can feel the wet spot on the couch beneath her, and Ginny tries not to blush as her eyes flutter open and closed and she points her toes against the arm of the couch. She's close when Hermione begins to flick her clit in a light, rhythmic pattern, back and forth with a stiff tongue, and she's close when she tenses the muscles in her legs and tries to imagine the edge of her orgasm, like a bright dazzling cliff. Hermione's going slow, much too slow, and she's be closer if only she sped up … "Hermione, come on," she manages to choke out, her words coming out mixed with air, and then finally, finally she's over the edge, spilling a rush of wetness onto Hermione's tongue and lips and chin, quivering and shaking with the relief of long-delayed release.

Ginny blinks as Hermione crawls up her body, wiping her mouth with the heel and edge of her hand. Her kiss is warm and salty, with a sharp, tangy edge to it, and Ginny shivers, the chill making her nipples hard under Hermione's hands again. Her stomach executes a slow, surprised roll when Hermione's hand starts to travel down to her clit. "What are you doing?"

Hermione smiles against her mouth, and this time Ginny can tell that her smile is genuine, not the smug, teasing grin she wore just a minute ago. "Practice makes perfect."

fin.