InsaneJournal

Hermione's Breasts - R/Hr - NC-17
Title: Hermione's Breasts
Author: shocfix
Pairing: Ron/Hermione
Words: 3650
Rating: NC-17

Written for the wonderful leelastarsky, who chose me at The Quidditch Pitch's Slave Auction Demelza House Fundraiser.

The wonderful belovedranger and magicofisis have looked at the breasts for me….


Hermione's Breasts
****
Ron's POV

I reckon I have always been a bloke of simple tastes.

When I was a kid, all I needed was chocolate and Quidditch and for Fred and George to leave me alone; at school, I was happy with my friends and Quidditch and as much food as I could eat.

And, when I grew up a bit, when I finally got over the money and possessions stuff – all I really wanted, all it would take to make me happy, was for Harry and Hermione to be OK.

Which makes me sound like more of a sap than I actually am, but there was every chance of them dying a graphic and hideous death, wasn't there?

Amazingly, we all survived the War, and tried to settle down to real life.

And, much as I love Harry, I eventually admitted that I was utterly enslaved by Hermione.

A bloke of simple tastes.

Not that I'm calling Hermione simple, not in any sense of the word.

She's brilliant; she's complicated.

She's had far too much influence on me, because now I've looked up 'simple' in her dictionary, and yes, sometimes she is simple - she is 'not embellished or adorned', she is 'not guileful or deceitful'.

But she is fantastic.

I'm the one who is simple – probably in more senses than one.

But, what I mean is, while chocolate still helps at the end of a crap day, I am still a bloke of simple tastes, and all of my favourite things can be found on Hermione's body.

><((('>

The thing that made that transition simple for me happened in fifth year. I was in the common room, eating a Chocolate Frog, when Hermione leant forward to dig something out of her bag and her shirt gapped open and I saw the top swell of her breasts.

Yes, I had realised that she was a girl; yes, I had realised that she must have breasts.

Deep down, somewhere.

Under layers of clothing.

I'm not saying I wouldn't be a breast man anyway, but that first link to the chocolate can't have hurt.

For months, every taste of chocolate made me think of her breasts; what they would look like, if I unbuttoned her shirt; what they would feel like, if I cupped them in my hands.

She took the piss out of me, when I sat with a dazed look on my face, eating a dozen Frogs in a sitting, but I could hardly tell her it was her fault.

><((('>

The Hogwarts robes cover up most of a girl's body, anyway, and are partly to blame for my late realisation, 'Hermione being female'-wise.

So the next part of her that I obsessed over were her ankles.

Pathetic, maybe, but sometimes, if I was very subtle, and very lucky, I would catch a glimpse of them.

Other girls held their robes up high, when they were climbing the stairs, and you could spot something from the landing, below – don't get me started on what Seamus would talk about in the dorms, on a day he'd followed Lavender up the ladder to Divination.

But Hermione's ankles were elusive; coming down the stairs, in front of her, sometimes worked, or sitting back and watching her reaching for a book on a high shelf.

I'd get an earful about being sexist, and she could manage, thank you very much, if I offered to reach it for her, anyway – no matter that I'd have done the same for Harry or Seamus.

But I saw their ankles all the time, in the dorm, and they weren't worth bothering about.

After the Department of Mysteries thing, when Hermione and I were injured heroically and pathetically, respectively, we were alone in the Hospital Wing together.

At night I watched her sleeping, her eyelashes fluttering on her cheeks, her lips parted, her breasts rising and falling.

By day, Hermione wore pyjamas.

With no socks or slippers.

And she sat on her bed, with those beautiful ankles crossed in front of her.

While she bent my ear about Harry, and how he must be feeling, and how we had to be there for him.

And while I wanted to suck on her ankle bone.

Heaven.

They were something I had to work for, those beautiful ankles, and I couldn't just trigger the memory of them by eating chocolate.

><((('>

By the end of the summer after fifth year, I knew how enslaved I was, and I wanted to lick the patch of skin inside her elbow.

She'd sit at our table, at the Burrow, talking to Harry.

Her bare arms just blatantly out in the open, for anyone to see.

T-shirts are fantastic, especially ones that are a bit too tight and a bit too short, because her mum hadn't taken her shopping for Muggle clothes in nearly a year.

I kept a close eye on my brothers, but if they wanted to suck on her skin, they made a good job of hiding it.

Of course, by the end of that summer, I had also made such a prat of myself over Fleur, that I'd be surprised if I ever got any closer to Hermione's elbows.

Which wasn't fair.

I didn't ask Bill to bring Veelas home.

><((('>

I don't want to talk about sixth year; yes, there were breasts, at very close quarters, but they weren't Hermione's – they were larger and squishier, and the nipples were entirely the wrong colour.

Not that I knew this at the time.

I don't want to talk about it.

><((('>

When the three of us got to the Burrow, for Bill's wedding, we were immediately roped in with getting things set up, and I was grumbling about the amount of furniture I had to shift, and I was teasing Harry about not being able to use magic to do it for another couple of days, when there were voices in the hall.

Hermione was coming downstairs and I nearly died.

I'd looked up when I heard footsteps and there were those beautiful ankles, with leather straps round them.

I was either the luckiest or the unluckiest bastard in the world; I couldn't quite decide.

OK, they were just flat sandals, but there were leather straps and bare ankles.

Then, she came further down the stairs.

She had shapely calves, she had knees, she had thighs.

Hermione.

Had thighs.

My jaw dropped.

She was wearing a pair of shorts, cut down from a pair of jeans I recognised, because there was an ink stain on the ticket pocket and two belt loops were frayed.

Not that I'd spent enough time staring at Hermione's…. ticket pocket regions, to memorise all her clothes.

Who knew there was so much more than ankles in the world.

Harry used a finger under my chin to close my mouth, and bit his lip to stop laughing.

I spent a very confused few weeks that summer.

It would have been bad enough to have been trapped in a world of thighs and strappy summer tops and bare shoulders and Harry taking the piss out of me until he couldn't breathe.

But we actually managed to get together.

Me and Hermione.

Well, Hermione managed it.

I was too scared.

And, while you'd think she'd ask a bloke to be with her using colour coded diagrams to prove they were compatible, she actually pounced on me while I was lying on the couch one day, sinking her teeth into my neck and babbling about wasting too much time.

And, oh, I wished we'd done it earlier.

Yeah, because we'd wasted too much time, and certain death was just round the corner; yeah, because it had always been her, really, hadn't it, and I am an utter dickhead; but also because I would have been less freaked out, if we'd got together at school and I'd only had to put my hands on her robes, when I held her.

There was too much skin available, that summer, and I was terrified I'd get a slap in the face.

And completely gobsmacked when I didn't!

She'd slip her arms round my neck, and kiss me, and I would turn my head and suck on that beautiful patch of skin, just inside her elbow.

She'd sit next to me, under a tree, and drape her legs across my lap, and I could stroke her knees, I could circle those beautiful ankles with my fingers.

And she would smile up at me and sigh and her breasts would strain against her t-shirt and I don't know what I'd done to deserve a lap full of all my favourite, special things.

><((('>

We never let things go too far, because we knew we had some serious shit to deal with, following Harry.

So, we set off, the three of us.

Questing.

And I knew I was in love with her, and I had even told her, and we snatched soft kisses sometimes, but that year was dark and scary and dangerous, and it wasn't until the next summer, when the War was over, and Harry was recovering in hospital, and Hermione and I were alone together rather a lot, that I finally took stock of things.

Of my favourite things.

Hermione's breasts; Hermione's ankles; Hermione's elbows; Hermione's legs.

It happened while we were kissing.

All of my favourite things were sitting astride my lap and my arms were round them and my hands travelled down her back and settled somewhere that I had hardly dared think of.

Hermione's arse.

Filling my hands.

We both moaned and she stopped kissing me and leant back to look me in the face.

I was so scared I had spoiled things, and I tried to apologize, sure I was in trouble, but she narrowed her eyes and ground down into my hands and I squeezed her arse and she exploded.

Not with anger.

With hands and nails and ripping off my shirt and lips and teeth and biting and sucking and I had never been harder in my life.

And then, somehow, her shirt was gone, too, and I had to reluctantly abandon her fantastic arse, because there they were.

Hermione's bare breasts.

The most beautiful sight I had ever seen.

They were high and firm, and the nipples were a delicate pink.

I gawped at them like an idiot.

And then I reached up and finally cupped them in my hands and she gasped and bit her lip and I ran my thumbs across her nipples and she arched her back and I leant down and suckled on her.

I laughed with delight and she wanted to know what was funny.

I didn't dare tell her I was surprised that her breasts didn't taste of chocolate.

Or that her nipples were far prettier than Lavender's.

I told her I loved her.

><((('>

After that, I lived in a haze of arms and thighs and ankles I was allowed to caress, of breasts I was allowed to play with, so the next significant occasion was our wedding day.

Or, rather, our wedding night.

It was the summer I was twenty, and Harry had stood by my side, reminding me to breathe as Hermione walked across the garden and stopped in front of me.

I reckon I looked pretty good, in dark blue robes, but she was a vision.

All of my favourite things were demurely covered up, but the look in her eyes reminded me that they were just out of sight, and I stumbled through my vows like an idiot.

I smiled and nodded as people congratulated me; I ate cake and drank champagne; I even danced.

Apparently.

I don't really remember anything but watching Hermione all day, aching to take her away from all the idiots she was smiling at.

Finally, Harry took pity on me, and called for one last toast, before sending us on our way.

We waved and hugged and blushed at the twins' jokes and Flooed to the Three Broomsticks, where Harry had booked us the best room, as a wedding present, and Ginny had kept this a secret from the twins – also as a wedding present.

Hermione had turned to look at me, with shining eyes, and I had never felt so lucky in my life.

She kissed me lightly, on the lips, and spun around. "Unbutton me?" she said, peeping over her shoulder as I blanched at the task ahead of me.

There were roughly a thousand, tiny, silk covered buttons, and I had to release them from a thousand, tiny, silk loops.

But, oh, the reward awaiting me!

I started at the top, kissing every inch of skin I uncovered; the last buttons were hidden in the folds of her skirt, and I was kneeling to kiss the dimple above her arse, when Hermione took her arms out of the demure sleeves, and let the dress pool about her beautiful ankles.

This left me at the perfect height to admire her beautiful ankles, in high-heeled shoes, her wonderful legs, in creamy stockings, her incredible thighs, caged by lacy suspenders and her luscious arse, covered in tiny knickers.

I was too aroused to lay a finger on her, and she turned round again and cleared her throat.

I looked up from the triangle of lace that I suddenly needed to rip apart with my teeth, and Hermione was looking nervous, crossing her arms across pink tinged breasts.

"Too much?" she whispered.

I shook my head, dumbly.

"I told Ginny I couldn't pull off something like this," she murmured.

Ignoring my baby sister's involvement, I took a deep breath. "Don't you dare pull off a single thing," I croaked, getting unsteadily to my feet and sweeping her up in my arms.

She laughed and her face lit up and she put her arms around my neck, and kissed me. "You like it?" she whispered.

I laid her down, gently, on the huge bed, and spoilt it by throwing myself on top of her.

"I love it," I said. "I love you. We are never leaving this room." I propped myself up on an elbow and ran my free hand down her body, stopping to cup her perfect breast, and to run my thumb over her hipbone, before settling on her thigh, fingers tucked under her suspender while my thumb hovered over her lace covered… um, area, will have to do.

"This is a very expensive room," she said, seeming to hold her breath as I stroked her.

"Harry can afford it," I shrugged. "It's the least he can do."

She giggled. "What happened to the whole 'not taking his money' thing?" she smiled, parting her thighs as my thumb dipped between them.

"I'll let anyone pay for me to be able to sleep with you," I said, lowering my head to lap at her nipple, while my thumb slid beneath the lace.

"That sounds ever so slightly dodgy, Ron," she murmured, entwining her fingers in my hair and moving against my hand.

I laughed around her nipple and she arched into my mouth and spread her legs and I finally moved my hand, touching her belly before slipping my fingers under the lace and through her curls and along her folds and into her body.

Hermione made beautiful noises as I touched her, and I raised my head, abandoning her fabulous breasts so I could watch her face.

Hermione, being Hermione, couldn't help reaching for my hand and correcting my wrist movement, and I met her eyes and beamed as I caught the right rhythm and her eyes widened and her face flushed and her breasts heaved and her breath hitched and caught in her throat and she whispered my name as she came under my fingers.

"Wow," she whispered, as I bent to kiss her.

"Wow," I echoed, against her lips. "I like being married."

Her laughter died in her throat as I brought my wet fingers to her breast and circled her nipple. "Ron," she breathed.

I met her eyes and sucked my fingers clean.

"You can't," she whispered, awestruck.

I smirked. "I can do anything I like, wife."

She raised an eyebrow.

"I will do anything you like," I promised, bending to take her nipple in my mouth.

><((('>

So, I had as much access to Hermione's breasts as I could possibly want; I sucked on her ankle bones, I licked my way up between her gorgeous legs, until I reached her…. nope, I still didn't have a word for it.

I'm sure Hermione did; clinical words that didn't include the smell, the taste, the feel of her around my cock.

We were disgustingly happy, together, and I worked on the Cannons' coaching staff, and she was half-way to being Unspeakable, when her breasts next bowled me over.

We'd been married for three years, and I knew my way around her body better than I knew my way around the Burrow.

Until, one night, I was suckling on her beautiful nipples and she flinched.

"Did I hurt you, love?" I whispered, lifting my face from her chest.

Hermione frowned. "I don't know," she said. "My breasts are very tender."

I counted in my head. "Time of the month?" I hazarded.

"No," she said. "That's on the…." She trailed off. "I'm late!" she gasped.

"No way!" I whispered, staring at her flat belly.

She shrugged. "There's a Charm," she said slowly. "I'll ask Ginny to do it in the morning."

I bristled. "Why does Ginny need the Charm?" I asked. She and Harry were still on-again-off-again.

Hermione tutted. "Possibly because she is a trainee Healer," she offered.

"Oh," I muttered.

"Oh," she echoed, rolling her eyes.

And Ginny's Charm glowed white the next morning, and my Hermione was pregnant.

I tried my best to be super supportive and super sensitive and super tender, over the next few months, but it was very hard to stop staring at her breasts.

See, they had originally grown inside her school robes, in the dark, like mushrooms.

Don't tell her I said that.

But, as the pregnancy progressed, and Hermione's tummy exploded to downright scary proportions, and everyone wanted to touch her bump, I was stunned to watch her breasts almost visibly expanding.

She was very patient with me, and, as my reward for being mainly a good boy, I was allowed to massage a cream into them, that was supposed to stop her getting stretchmarks.

What a fantastic job.

But I was a good boy, really, and, when baby Paul was born, I honestly only had eyes for him and his beautiful, exhausted, sweaty mother.

I watched her breastfeeding without a pang of jealousy, merely boggling at how rock hard her breasts grew if Paul was a little late waking up one morning, and prodding them happily, while she stood by the cradle, dripping slightly, and waiting for him to stir.

I'd spent much of his first couple of months at home, it being the off season, and if I had to go to work, I Apparated swiftly home each evening, to take care of them.

To fetch water and more water for poor Hermione, trapped in her rocking chair by a marathon nursing session; to fetch books and more books as she sat and rocked with him, once he had fallen asleep at her breast.

He was already fast asleep, one evening, and Hermione had him in one arm, a large book in the other, and a whole box of chocolate frog wrappers by her side.

"Ahem?" I said, picking up the box and sorting through the wrappers, on a fruitless search for a frog.

"I was hungry," she admitted, chin held high. "And everything else was too much fuss to prepare; so I grazed on frogs all day."

"That's my girl," I said, carefully taking Paul from her and lowering him into his cradle.

She laughed. "Actually," she said, with a wicked glint in her eye, "I want to be your girl, again, come to bed."

Now, we had hardly managed any alone time, with a new baby in the house, and I had thought of her breasts as being off limits, but she undid her shirt and curled up in bed with me.

And her breasts were sumptuous, and I stroked them gently, and could see milk droplets forming on her nipples.

"Bugger," I muttered. "I can't."

"Yes, you can," she whispered. "I want you to."

"I can't take the milk out of my son's mouth," I protested.

"How many times have I told you?" she asked, in stern Hermione mode. "Milk is produced on demand; he has nursed like crazy through this growth spurt, to boost my supply, and if you nurse, too, then there will only be more milk for him."

"They are fantastic," I said, gazing at her breasts, and, with a sigh, I lowered my head and suckled on her.

I'm sure I barely had any effect on her supply; she has explained to me how a baby feeds, and I had obviously lost the knack, but I lay in her arms and I nuzzled and licked her amazing breasts.

And I drank from her.

And I thought I was going insane.

She tasted, faintly, of chocolate.

I'd associated Hermione's breasts with the taste of chocolate for nearly ten years, but I had never actually tasted it before.

I looked up at her, puzzled, to see her watching me with a dangerous smile. "I ate nothing but chocolate today," she whispered. "Can you taste it?"

I blinked up at her, awestruck. "I can," I gasped. "Your breasts and chocolate, my two favourite things."

I am a man of simple tastes.

Who has everything he could possibly want.

><((('>

Hermione's POV

From the first moment I became aware of sexual feelings, all I knew was that Ron had beautiful, long fingers, and an absolutely filthy mouth.

And that I wanted to see them put to better use.

><((('>