Behind The Shelves, Hermione/Ginny, NC-17.
Title: Behind the Shelves
Rating: Definitely NC-17.
Summary: Pure smut.
Disclaimer: We all know who came up with the characters! I just wish it had been me.
They always tell Harry and Ron that they are going to the library to study, and of course, the boys believe them. What else could Hermione spend her time on, anyway? Especially with the NEWTS only eight months away. So Harry and Ron just nod, eyes never leaving their chess game, Hermione’s coloured (and squeaking) organizers buried at the bottom of their trunks.
Sometimes Hermione wants to tell them that they really should join them, that they’ll thank her for it afterwards, but every time she opens her mouth, lips curled in a smirk, Ginny blushes and tugs at her sleeve, dragging her away.
They do go to the library. And since Hermione is the only person Madam Pince remotely trusts and likes, they are allowed to go study in the Restricted Section, “away from the noise and the bustle of the other students” (even though most of the noise is made by Pince shooing off imaginary conversations). There’s a single table there, at the back of the long rows of dusty (and often grumbling) books.
Books, parchments and quills are laboriously laid on the table, perfectly arranged; school bags are tucked between the feet of the chairs and those of the table. Hermione is idly looking at the rows of old, mysterious books, fingertips gliding from spine to spine, when suddenly her skirt is lifted up and fingers are deftly slipping into her panties, going straight for the kill. Her moan is loud and opened as she arches under the touch, her arse pressing against Ginny’s middle and her breasts against the leather covers. Her fingers curl around the edge of a book’s spine, and it flips over and falls to the floor, yellow pages staring reprovingly up Hermione’s skirt before the book flutters shut with an indignant ‘thump’. She’s been wet all day just thinking about that precise moment and Ginny’s fingers don’t meet the slightest resistance upon entering her. Her other hand pushes Hermione’s hair away and soon her lips are paying their respects to Hermione’s shoulder, teeth gently biting the flesh, tongue darting out, hoping to taste salt, as if Hermione had been swimming in the sea all day. Instead of salt, Ginny’s taste buds are greeted with the non-taste of clean skin, but she licks it anyway, savouring the shivers she can feel going through Hermione’s body.
Ginny’s free hand creeps around to cup Hermione’s breast, fingertips teasing the nipple through the layers of cotton, and when she glances up, mouth still fastened around Hermione’s shoulder, she’s greeted with the sight of Hermione’s pearly teeth closing around her full bottom lip, her cheek pressed against the books as if against a favourite pillow. Before she knows what’s happening Hermione finds herself flipped around as Ginny claims that mouth, those teeth, that tongue, body pressing demandingly against Hermione’s, hands suddenly awkward as they desperately try to touch everything at once.
Ginny is always the one to lead and Hermione gladly submits, the spines of books digging in her back, dust catching in her hair (they thought that after the fifth time, no dust would be left, but it seems to be part of the Hogwarts’ library, as unmovable as the furniture it rests on), fingers tightly gripping the shelves, leaving small dark marks in the brown wood. Having sex in the library, in her world, gives her a rush that nothing else can. The rare times they manage to crawl into each other’s beds, it’s tender and loving and very good, but in the library Hermione feels like she isn’t herself anymore; she feels wild and sensual and naughty, and even though at first it’s been more than disconcerting, quite frightening in fact, she loves it.
Just as she loves standing there, knees buckling as Ginny all but rips her clothes off her body, smiling sheepishly as a button falls to the floor with a soft ‘plink’, trying to trap the flaps of Hermione’s shirt behind her back, unzipping her skirt and watching it fall to the floor with undisguised satisfaction. For her birthday, Ginny has offered her several pairs of high white socks, and just like stockings, it makes Hermione feel more naked than if she was wearing no socks at all. Ginny’s tongue glides along their rim over and over, while the fingers of both her hands creep up and up, thumbs massaging the oh-so-tender flesh of Hermione’s inner thighs, eager to have a second feel of the warmth within.
Hermione’s hand buries itself in Ginny’s fiery hair and Ginny looks up, then presses a kiss against Hermione’s belly-button, eyes gleaming with cockiness and seduction, tongue darting out to lick the soft bud of flesh. Her name is but a pleading whisper in Hermione’s mouth, brown eyes wide and unguarded. Ginny’s smile turns tender and almost innocent, despite the fact that her fingers are curling around the edge of Hermione’s panties, softly pushing them down her legs.
Her lips migrate downwards and Hermione’s body sags towards the ground, arms tensing against the shelves to stop its descent and keep it hovering in mid-air, legs curling up and parting without shame. Ginny’s hands slide from Hermione’s knees down to what she’s so willingly exposing, thumbs ending where they’ve longed to be, just for a second, before the hands slide back up, two fingertips coated with what, for now, looks like transparent nail polish. Hermione gasps and closes her eyes, parting her legs even wider, hips rising up in a silent shout. Then there are lips and tongue and fingers and Ginny’s silky hair against her thighs and her stomach and Hermione almost blacks out, forgetting everything about exams and wizards and books, forgetting everything about Ginny even, because right at this instant Hermione isn’t a brain anymore, she’s just a body, and her only wish, her only thought, is that such pleasure never ends. It does end though, always sooner than she’d have wanted it, and her brain slowly jumbles back into work, doing what it can with the few words scattered on its floor; ‘desire’ and ‘want’, ‘deeper’, ‘warmth’, ‘inside’, ‘merciless’, ‘harder’, ‘more’, ‘please’, ‘crawl’, and in a far corner, ‘love’.
Hermione is always submissive, until Ginny looks up at her with shiny eyes and glistening lips and chin, and only then does Hermione claim her, pushing her back on the floor, nimbly undoing buttons, zippers and laces, shedding clothes until Ginny is naked from the root of her hair to the tip of her toes, her hands, arms, shoulders, buttocks and the soles of her feet pressed against the dark dusty wooden floor as her body arches and opens, shamelessly begging for a touch.
Standing up again, contemplating her work, Hermione pulls her skirt and panties back on, only leaving her shirt opened. If somebody was to enter the Restricted Section, she would be able to cover herself, but Ginny is spread out on the floor like a sacrifice, gloriously naked and trembling both from desire and fear that someone should come.
Hermione knows how to tease. She excels in never-ending caresses, in ethereal pleasure; she can stop time more surely than the most advanced wizard; her fingertips know every path along Ginny’s body, every curve; they can draw out stabbing pleasure from any stretch of skin. Hermione knows how to make Ginny burst into tears with sheer unsatisfied want, how to make her beg and thrash and she likes nothing more than watch Ginny finally rebelling and bringing herself to orgasm just as violently as when it’s Hermione’s body her fingers are attacking.
But right then, her need to possess Ginny is stronger than her need to tease and her mouth lashes onto her right away, tongue and fingers seeking out the warmth hidden within, hands blindly sliding up to close around Ginny’s breasts, kneading and pinching, then sliding around to Ginny’s arse, raising her hips up, pressing her more firmly against her greedy mouth. But before it’s too late she wrenches her mouth away, muffling Ginny’s frustrated moan with her sea-scented hand. Ginny is as relaxed as a rag-doll and it’s almost no trouble turning her around. Ginny has never been to a Muggle museum, has never seen Auguste Rodin’s Danaïde, and yet it’s always the position she adopts. Her legs are bent under her as she lies half on her side, forehead pressed against the floor, her curled arms framing her face, and her hair is flowing over them like cooling lava.
Hermione watches, kneeling back on the soles of her feet, and the aching intensifies further; right then she wants to meld into Ginny so forcefully that she thinks she will probably turn mad if she doesn’t achieve it, one way or another. She has been to the Rodin museum the previous summer, during her parents’ second trip to France, and she’s stood in front of the small marble sculpture for hours, fingers pressed against its cold glass prison, cheeks ablaze and breathing erratic, wondering how Harry had managed to make that window disappear without a wand, long ago in the zoo, hands tingling from the overwhelming urge to touch and pet and worship. But she’s never told Ginny, because she knows that if she does Ginny will try to take the pose, and, ironically enough, fail.
Ginny moans, a sound so close to the purring of a cat that Hermione is reminded for a disturbing second of Crookshanks. Her eyes snap up to Ginny’s profile, her closed eyelid, her doll-like freckled nose, her lips, red and swollen and nibbled by hungry teeth. Her eyes climb over Ginny’s shoulder, to the nape of her neck, down her spine and the crack of her arse. That sculpture is hers and as soon as she remembers it she’s all hands and lips, sprinkling Ginny’s body with kisses and tickling it with whispered words of love, till Ginny’s sitting in Hermione’s lap, arms wound around her neck, eyes closed under the passion of their kiss.
Hermione is no longer hungry and her fingers are gentle when she brings Ginny over the edge, mouth still closed on hers, drinking her moans away. Her other hand is petting Ginny’s breast, but once Ginny’s orgasm has subsided it slides around to the small of her back, rubbing soothing circles on the heated skin. She can’t seem to stop murmuring “I love you”, but it doesn’t matter because Ginny is echoing it just as frantically, arms wound tight around Hermione’s back as if she was afraid she might vanish from under her.
With Ginny’s breathing still fanning against her neck, Hermione finally reaches up and fumbles blindly on the table until her fingers meet the rough touch of a parchment, and brings it down to her eyes. The list of what they have to work on that night is just as long as it always is, and not for the first time Hermione smiles and sighs and wishes they could wait till their work was done to give in and play.
And later on, when they are finally back in the Common Room, and Harry and Ron are still there, sprawled into the couch reading Quidditch books, she thinks, not for the first time, that the boys really should give the library a try.
Crossposted to femslash_fics, girlslash, hg_slash, and hp_girlslash.