(no subject)
Name: ripples_and_I
Age:18
Reasons you like/adore/love slash?It lets you explore the many many ways all characters can be taken, and lets ypu read the artistic outpourings of others you'd never otherwise read. And the smut, naturally ;)
Which do you prefer the most: female slash or male slash?either.
What's your favourite slash pairing?Harry/draco, also a fan of most others, esp hermione/luna
What's your least favourite slash pairing?Prof Mcgonagal/anybody/
What are your thoughts on incest slash?Its ok, if its doen well, and sorta tastefully (?)
What are your thoughts on chan-slash (very young child having sex with an adult)? Not so good, I'm afraid.
Here is my first ever post here- its Hermione/Luna! Hermione stepped out of the shower. She fought her way over to the mirror through the thick steam, wiped a small area of it clean and inspected her eye. Mrs Weasley had used every healing charm Gilderoy Lockhart knew and several more that Hermione herself had provided on it, but to no avail. The black eye, courtesy of Fred and George's magical telescope, was still sitting there, smug and purple, four hours after it had punched her.
The Weasley’s bathroom, and there was only one, seemed to epitomise the bizarre, rambling nature of the Burrow. There was a long deep bath, with gold feet and taps with plummy voices; a huge shower, large enough to fit three people in, which was painted pillar box red and resembled an outsized phone booth: Mr Weasley had plumbed it in himself one summer, using a muggle manual. This explained the plumbing, which wound its way across the bathroom, looping several times around the ancient looking toilet, whose lid snapped fiercely shut immediately after use, and culminated in a chandelier-like conglomeration just above the largest of the three sinks. There were two towels rails, and an overwhelming amount of hot water, enough for the entire Weasley family and their guests (or so Mrs Weasley liked to boast) but there was no lock. Hermione never worried about the fact that the door didn’t lock: the steam which was forced out through the cracks round the door was an excellent indicator that the bathroom was in use: and even if someone did push the door open, the cloud of steam which hit them obscured everything and everyone in the bathroom from view.
She was standing in front of the mirror, examining her eye, totally naked. Hermione viewed nudity in a sensible, reserved way: she was almost entirely unconscious of her own body: the way it curved and swelled delicately, the way her breasts, larger than they appeared under her uniform, sat so alluringly on her slim frame, and she tended to hide it under loose robes, shirts, and practical jeans. But on her own, and especially in the heat of the Weasley bathroom, she privately enjoyed the freedom her naked body yielded. She perched on one of the towel rails and Ron’s face swam into her head, the way it had done, with somewhat alarming regularity, all summer.
As soon as she realised it was there, she tried her best to shake his freckly grin out of her mind. It was stupid; the way she thought he could be anything except her friend. She tried to picture them kissing. All she could come up with was Victor Krum’s face when she had finally kissed him. Everyone thought they had been kissing for weeks, but she had always found some reason to turn her face away at the last minute: the thought of kissing terrified her: what if she got it all wrong? Hermione’s get things wrong because they didn’t do things that they weren’t good at. Not quidditch, not cooking, not kissing.
Then, on the night of the ball, she had finally done it. The kiss, wet and warm and almost entirely disgusting, had lasted for about three seconds, after which Krum had pulled away, wiping his mouth, and had said to her sadly “Her-my-ninny, you do not kiss good. But you are beautifool, so I will try to like it.”
She had been mortified.
The idea of Ron, pulling away from her in disgust, made tears prick at the back of her eyes. She wiped them away savagely with the back of her hand, wincing in pain as she touched the black eye. She was being stupid: she could never, ever kiss Ron.
She sat down on the closed toilet, which gave a low growl, and began to towel-dry her hair. It fell, loose and wet down her damp body, its curls beginning to bounce again as dried.
She heard the click of the bathroom door and looked up, suddenly alarmed. She quickly wrapped the towel around her body and coloured deeply. It was Fleur.
Fleur slipped through the door, and brushed the clouds of steam out of her way as she clambered over the pipes to reach the bath. She slipped off the dressing gown she was wearing, revealing nothing but a pair of pink lace knickers and Hermione let out an involuntary squeal.
She suddenly realised why Ron and Harry stared at her with eyes the size of saucers; why they would do everything for her and why, whenever she spoke to them, they lost the ability to speak. She was absolutely stunning. Her skin was pale, almost opalescent, and every inch of it seemed to glow slightly. Her long blonde hair fell in a curtain down her back, hugging the curve of her waist and brushing the top of her little round bottom. Hermione felt the guilty pleasure of the hot damp rush between her legs, and she tinged pink all over.
She let out a reluctant cough: she wanted, more than anything, to stay, hidden as she was by the protruding shower, and watch the part Veela bathe. She had known for a long time that she found girls just as attractive as boys, and, practical as always, had researched it, accepted it, and had chosen to keep it private: it hadn’t felt appropriate to share it with Harry and Ron in the middle of the previous year’s events. But her conscience made her cough- it really wasn’t fair on Fleur.
Fleur did not hear her. She had slipped off her pants and climbed into the steaming bath, and her head was already underwater, her hair floating on the surface like wet silk. She came up for air, in a stream of bubbles, and flicked her wet hair over her shoulder, spraying silver drops of water up through the steam. Then, she did something with her hands which Hermione couldn't quite see over the edge of the bath, and her face contorted slightly. For a moment Hermione thought she might be in pain, and was about to rush over and help her, but then Fleur let out a long, slow moan and tilted her head back, exposing her pale neck, and her pretty shoulders, and below that…
The heat between Hermione's legs was becoming almost unbearable, and she could feel dampness between her thighs which she was certain wasn't water from the shower. She coughed again, loudly, colouring a deep crimson as Fleur turned round to face her.
"I'm sorry," She began, "You didn't notice I was here and you didn't turn round when I coughed and I'll just…" She edged embarrassedly towards the door.
Fleur reached out a damp hand and caught Hermione's wrist. She stared up at her earnestly. "You 'ave been cryeeng, Hermione? What ees wrong?" Hermione blushed even more deeply. She had no idea where to look, and she was painfully aware of Fleur's naked body, sitting inches away from her in the water. Yet there was a quality in Fleur's voice which made her want to stay: made her want to confide in the part Veela, despite the fact that usually, she couldn't stand to being the same room as her.
She sat on the edge of the bath, and stared intently at her own knee was she answered.
"Its just that I… I have a problem. A problem with a boy…" She stopped, surprised at herself: she was never normally lost for words.
Fleur interrupted softly: "You love Ron, oui?" I can see it when you look at 'im, and when you speak weeth 'im."
Hermione jumped, startled. She prided herself on the fact that her affection for Ron was completely secret, and that nobody, nobody, would ever have guessed how she felt. She lifted a hand to her face, to cool down her burning cheeks, and felt hot salt teas running slowly down to her chin. She hadn't realised quite how upset she was. "It's just that I can't, well, don't seem to be able to..." She took a deep breath, "I'm not very good at kissing."
She stared at Fleur defiantly, as if daring her to laugh.
Fleur did not laugh. Instead, she lifted one hand gracefully out of the water and wiped Hermione's tears with it, smiling slightly. "Of course you can do eet. Per'aps you just need to be shown zee right way" she murmured, leaning forward slightly.
Hermione, about to protest that no she didn't need lessons and even if she did she would never find anyone to give her any, suddenly found Fleur's lips on hers. The heat between her legs shot sparks through her spine and she parted her lips, as Fleur's tongue brushed across them gently, reaching just inside, tentatively. Hermione kissed her back deeply, the sudden wave of desire overcoming any qualms she had about skill. Fleur began to reciprocate, kissing her with more haste, her hand resting on the back of Hermione's head, guiding her mouth gently.
Hermione's hand moved down to the soft damp skin of Fleur's back, feeling the little droplets of water move under her caress. She ran her nails lightly over Fleur's shoulder blades, and she emitted a low moan, which sounded almost like a laugh.
Fleur unwrapped the towel which hugged tightly round Hermione's shoulders, and it fell silently to the floor. She began to move her lips down Hermione's neck, nipping the skin with her teeth, a sensation which made Hermione see stars and shiver with pleasure. She came to Hermione's shoulder blades, and then gently closed her lips around one of Hermione's nipples. Hermione gasped the curling heat of Fleur's tongue, rough like a cat's, forcing her breath out in short sharp pants.
There was a knock on the door.
"Oi, Fleur, hurry up, some of us need to use the bathroom."
It was Ginny.
They broke apart in shock, and Hermione, more embarrassed than she had ever been before, hurriedly scooped up her towel. Fleur stood up, shaking the water from her body (Hermione tried to look at the floor, but her eyes kept darting up to caress the part Veela's body with her stare.)
Hermione was the first to reach the door, but before she turned the handle, Fleur caught her face in her hands, and, staring down at her, whispered: "You 'ave nozeeng to worry about. Ron will be a very lucky boy eef 'e 'as a girlfriend who can kiss as well as you."
Glowing, both with pride and embarrassment, Hermione kissed the Veela chastely on the mouth, turned the handle of the bathroom door, and fled down the hallway to her room, Ginny watching in disbelief as Fleur followed, slightly pink, and with very red lips, and walked down the stairs, into her own room.
Hope you liked it- please comment!
Axx
Age:18
Reasons you like/adore/love slash?It lets you explore the many many ways all characters can be taken, and lets ypu read the artistic outpourings of others you'd never otherwise read. And the smut, naturally ;)
Which do you prefer the most: female slash or male slash?either.
What's your favourite slash pairing?Harry/draco, also a fan of most others, esp hermione/luna
What's your least favourite slash pairing?Prof Mcgonagal/anybody/
What are your thoughts on incest slash?Its ok, if its doen well, and sorta tastefully (?)
What are your thoughts on chan-slash (very young child having sex with an adult)? Not so good, I'm afraid.
Here is my first ever post here- its Hermione/Luna! Hermione stepped out of the shower. She fought her way over to the mirror through the thick steam, wiped a small area of it clean and inspected her eye. Mrs Weasley had used every healing charm Gilderoy Lockhart knew and several more that Hermione herself had provided on it, but to no avail. The black eye, courtesy of Fred and George's magical telescope, was still sitting there, smug and purple, four hours after it had punched her.
The Weasley’s bathroom, and there was only one, seemed to epitomise the bizarre, rambling nature of the Burrow. There was a long deep bath, with gold feet and taps with plummy voices; a huge shower, large enough to fit three people in, which was painted pillar box red and resembled an outsized phone booth: Mr Weasley had plumbed it in himself one summer, using a muggle manual. This explained the plumbing, which wound its way across the bathroom, looping several times around the ancient looking toilet, whose lid snapped fiercely shut immediately after use, and culminated in a chandelier-like conglomeration just above the largest of the three sinks. There were two towels rails, and an overwhelming amount of hot water, enough for the entire Weasley family and their guests (or so Mrs Weasley liked to boast) but there was no lock. Hermione never worried about the fact that the door didn’t lock: the steam which was forced out through the cracks round the door was an excellent indicator that the bathroom was in use: and even if someone did push the door open, the cloud of steam which hit them obscured everything and everyone in the bathroom from view.
She was standing in front of the mirror, examining her eye, totally naked. Hermione viewed nudity in a sensible, reserved way: she was almost entirely unconscious of her own body: the way it curved and swelled delicately, the way her breasts, larger than they appeared under her uniform, sat so alluringly on her slim frame, and she tended to hide it under loose robes, shirts, and practical jeans. But on her own, and especially in the heat of the Weasley bathroom, she privately enjoyed the freedom her naked body yielded. She perched on one of the towel rails and Ron’s face swam into her head, the way it had done, with somewhat alarming regularity, all summer.
As soon as she realised it was there, she tried her best to shake his freckly grin out of her mind. It was stupid; the way she thought he could be anything except her friend. She tried to picture them kissing. All she could come up with was Victor Krum’s face when she had finally kissed him. Everyone thought they had been kissing for weeks, but she had always found some reason to turn her face away at the last minute: the thought of kissing terrified her: what if she got it all wrong? Hermione’s get things wrong because they didn’t do things that they weren’t good at. Not quidditch, not cooking, not kissing.
Then, on the night of the ball, she had finally done it. The kiss, wet and warm and almost entirely disgusting, had lasted for about three seconds, after which Krum had pulled away, wiping his mouth, and had said to her sadly “Her-my-ninny, you do not kiss good. But you are beautifool, so I will try to like it.”
She had been mortified.
The idea of Ron, pulling away from her in disgust, made tears prick at the back of her eyes. She wiped them away savagely with the back of her hand, wincing in pain as she touched the black eye. She was being stupid: she could never, ever kiss Ron.
She sat down on the closed toilet, which gave a low growl, and began to towel-dry her hair. It fell, loose and wet down her damp body, its curls beginning to bounce again as dried.
She heard the click of the bathroom door and looked up, suddenly alarmed. She quickly wrapped the towel around her body and coloured deeply. It was Fleur.
Fleur slipped through the door, and brushed the clouds of steam out of her way as she clambered over the pipes to reach the bath. She slipped off the dressing gown she was wearing, revealing nothing but a pair of pink lace knickers and Hermione let out an involuntary squeal.
She suddenly realised why Ron and Harry stared at her with eyes the size of saucers; why they would do everything for her and why, whenever she spoke to them, they lost the ability to speak. She was absolutely stunning. Her skin was pale, almost opalescent, and every inch of it seemed to glow slightly. Her long blonde hair fell in a curtain down her back, hugging the curve of her waist and brushing the top of her little round bottom. Hermione felt the guilty pleasure of the hot damp rush between her legs, and she tinged pink all over.
She let out a reluctant cough: she wanted, more than anything, to stay, hidden as she was by the protruding shower, and watch the part Veela bathe. She had known for a long time that she found girls just as attractive as boys, and, practical as always, had researched it, accepted it, and had chosen to keep it private: it hadn’t felt appropriate to share it with Harry and Ron in the middle of the previous year’s events. But her conscience made her cough- it really wasn’t fair on Fleur.
Fleur did not hear her. She had slipped off her pants and climbed into the steaming bath, and her head was already underwater, her hair floating on the surface like wet silk. She came up for air, in a stream of bubbles, and flicked her wet hair over her shoulder, spraying silver drops of water up through the steam. Then, she did something with her hands which Hermione couldn't quite see over the edge of the bath, and her face contorted slightly. For a moment Hermione thought she might be in pain, and was about to rush over and help her, but then Fleur let out a long, slow moan and tilted her head back, exposing her pale neck, and her pretty shoulders, and below that…
The heat between Hermione's legs was becoming almost unbearable, and she could feel dampness between her thighs which she was certain wasn't water from the shower. She coughed again, loudly, colouring a deep crimson as Fleur turned round to face her.
"I'm sorry," She began, "You didn't notice I was here and you didn't turn round when I coughed and I'll just…" She edged embarrassedly towards the door.
Fleur reached out a damp hand and caught Hermione's wrist. She stared up at her earnestly. "You 'ave been cryeeng, Hermione? What ees wrong?" Hermione blushed even more deeply. She had no idea where to look, and she was painfully aware of Fleur's naked body, sitting inches away from her in the water. Yet there was a quality in Fleur's voice which made her want to stay: made her want to confide in the part Veela, despite the fact that usually, she couldn't stand to being the same room as her.
She sat on the edge of the bath, and stared intently at her own knee was she answered.
"Its just that I… I have a problem. A problem with a boy…" She stopped, surprised at herself: she was never normally lost for words.
Fleur interrupted softly: "You love Ron, oui?" I can see it when you look at 'im, and when you speak weeth 'im."
Hermione jumped, startled. She prided herself on the fact that her affection for Ron was completely secret, and that nobody, nobody, would ever have guessed how she felt. She lifted a hand to her face, to cool down her burning cheeks, and felt hot salt teas running slowly down to her chin. She hadn't realised quite how upset she was. "It's just that I can't, well, don't seem to be able to..." She took a deep breath, "I'm not very good at kissing."
She stared at Fleur defiantly, as if daring her to laugh.
Fleur did not laugh. Instead, she lifted one hand gracefully out of the water and wiped Hermione's tears with it, smiling slightly. "Of course you can do eet. Per'aps you just need to be shown zee right way" she murmured, leaning forward slightly.
Hermione, about to protest that no she didn't need lessons and even if she did she would never find anyone to give her any, suddenly found Fleur's lips on hers. The heat between her legs shot sparks through her spine and she parted her lips, as Fleur's tongue brushed across them gently, reaching just inside, tentatively. Hermione kissed her back deeply, the sudden wave of desire overcoming any qualms she had about skill. Fleur began to reciprocate, kissing her with more haste, her hand resting on the back of Hermione's head, guiding her mouth gently.
Hermione's hand moved down to the soft damp skin of Fleur's back, feeling the little droplets of water move under her caress. She ran her nails lightly over Fleur's shoulder blades, and she emitted a low moan, which sounded almost like a laugh.
Fleur unwrapped the towel which hugged tightly round Hermione's shoulders, and it fell silently to the floor. She began to move her lips down Hermione's neck, nipping the skin with her teeth, a sensation which made Hermione see stars and shiver with pleasure. She came to Hermione's shoulder blades, and then gently closed her lips around one of Hermione's nipples. Hermione gasped the curling heat of Fleur's tongue, rough like a cat's, forcing her breath out in short sharp pants.
There was a knock on the door.
"Oi, Fleur, hurry up, some of us need to use the bathroom."
It was Ginny.
They broke apart in shock, and Hermione, more embarrassed than she had ever been before, hurriedly scooped up her towel. Fleur stood up, shaking the water from her body (Hermione tried to look at the floor, but her eyes kept darting up to caress the part Veela's body with her stare.)
Hermione was the first to reach the door, but before she turned the handle, Fleur caught her face in her hands, and, staring down at her, whispered: "You 'ave nozeeng to worry about. Ron will be a very lucky boy eef 'e 'as a girlfriend who can kiss as well as you."
Glowing, both with pride and embarrassment, Hermione kissed the Veela chastely on the mouth, turned the handle of the bathroom door, and fled down the hallway to her room, Ginny watching in disbelief as Fleur followed, slightly pink, and with very red lips, and walked down the stairs, into her own room.
Hope you liked it- please comment!
Axx