TO THOSE WHO WAIT
Fictionallizzy
Full Summary:
After Fred dies unexpectedly in the final battle, Hermione and George spend a forbidden night together, purely out of grief.
But George has been keeping a secret for a while now…
What if one stupid decision was a precursor to new possibilities you never even thought were possible?
That's what she and George were: A reckless, forbidden decision that turned out to be the most beautiful and unexpected thing in Hermione's life.
A/N:
Whelp, I'm back, but not for Dramione or Theomione this time.
I originally intended to write a Fremione fic but ended up doing Geomione instead.
I would love some feedback if you like the first chapter and think I should continue. Luckily, if it's terrible, I can delete it and try something else.
If you've read any of my other fics, you already know that there's always some form of angst or emotional damage and this fic is no different.
But I promise to add some fluff, too.
All credit goes to J.K. Rowling. I do not own Harry Potter in any way, shape or form.
Last but not least, this fic hasn't been beta'ed. All mistakes are my own.
Here are some song suggestions:
Avril Lavigne - When you're gone
Snow Patrol - Run
Taylor Swift - Guilty as sin?
CHAPTER 1:
What kind of person…what decent human being has sex with someone right after a funeral? The funeral in question being her boyfriend's, and the 'someone' her dead boyfriend's twin brother of all people.
Hermione was curled up on the couch in her tiny living room, nursing a strong cup of coffee while she waited out a bitter hangover.
Thanks to copious amounts of firewhisky, her head was now throbbing in a steady cadence, her mouth tasted foul and the black coffee in her favourite mug was making her stomach churn.
While parts of what had happened yesterday after the funeral remained fuzzy, she remembered—unfortunately—more than enough to make her feel like absolute shit.
She was well aware of what she'd been up to for most of the night after she and George had left the pub. A dull ache between her thighs made itself known every time she moved, her nipples were raw and sensitive against the material of her t-shirt, and her skin was littered with bruises from George's mouth and fingers, like little tattoos of damning evidence.
If her friends or god forbid Molly, found out about this, they'd never forgive her.
Hell, she wasn't even sure if she'd ever be able to forgive herself for this. Some lines were simply never meant to be crossed.
FLASHBACK:
Hermione was already on her fourth firewhisky when George walked into the pub.
It seemed they both needed to drown their sorrows this evening.
He gave a weak wave once he spotted her and weaved through the tables that separated them, joining her at the bar.
He didn't say anything to her as he settled in beside her, and instead, lifted a casual hand to beckon the bartender over to them.
As Hermione knocked back the dregs of her fourth whisky with a gasp, George took it upon himself to order her another.
He downed his first drink without preamble, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and ordered himself another before the barman even had the chance to turn away.
At least someone was hurting as much, if not more than she was right now. Someone who understood her need to numb the pain with alcohol, without a word of judgement on the matter.
Although she and George had barely spoken at the funeral earlier, both too lost in grief to pay anyone else much mind, she relished the quiet companionship right now.
There was fuck all to say to each other; nothing that would make them feel better after losing Fred so suddenly.
Hermione appreciated that George didn't resort to inane small talk, but kept up with her, firewhisky for firewhisky as early evening departed to reveal a star-spangled indigo sky through the grimy pub windows.
Around them, patrons departed with a tinkle of the bell above the door, and new ones were welcomed in the same manner. The easy conversation as they hurried inside in groups blended seamlessly into the ever-present din of the Leaky Cauldron. Yet, she and George remained where they were, barely noticing the shuffling of feet, the scrape of chairs, or the easy laughter while the two of them were drowning in grief.
At last, with copious amounts of firewhisky buzzing in her veins and razing any traces of common sense, she sighed into her glass and muttered, half to George, half to herself, "D'you know Freddie proposed?"
She trailed her finger over the lip of her glass instead of looking at George as she said, "Barely minutes before he—" she cut off, choking on her words.
A tear slipped down her cheek—a solitary one because she'd already cried way too fucking much.
"I said no." A bitter laugh followed her statement, and she shook her head at herself.
This, at least, got George's attention.
He lifted a brow, waiting for her to elaborate.
"I said he should wait until after the war. That he should propose again if we survived. That maybe he was acting impulsively because he might not get another chance to ask."
George watched her with a frown but still said nothing.
"Guess I was right to be wary," she scoffed and took a large drink. "Go figure."
She finished her drink, angled her body to face George fully, and with a pronounced slur, continued, "What kind of decent girlfriend would turn down her boyfriend's proposal in a situation like that?"
Gods, could she ever hate herself more than she did right now?
George heaved a sigh that looked so burdened that Hermione had to look away. It was painful to watch him this…this…utterly destroyed.
"Doesn't matter anymore, though. Does it?" He said with a dismissive shrug and flung back the last of his drink. He didn't order another as she'd expected. "It's not like he's around to be mad at you about it."
xxx
How exactly they'd left the pub was a blur of drunken, vaguely flirtatious banter, and a half-arsed proposition from George to head to his place and forget about everything.
She'd been embarrassingly easy to convince.
But things came back into stark focus when they'd started undressing each other, fumbling drunkenly with buttons, belts, and zippers like two teenagers who were about to have sex for the first time.
The midnight blue sheets on George's bed were cool under her back and, contrastingly, his fingers burned against her skin as they trailed a leisurely path up her thighs and dug roughly into the swells of her hips.
His lips and teeth on her nipples made her eyes roll back, and the heaviness of his body as he hovered over her was familiar and welcome, even though neither of them had been with each other like this before.
They'd been great friends ever since she and Fred had started dating in her fifth year, as opposed to the casual friendship they'd maintained before then.
But now, as he impatiently tugged her panties to the side to slip two fingers into her, it felt normal. Natural. Amazing.
His brown eyes flicked up from between her legs and found her eyes. His gaze was intense and burning as he watched her reaction.
"Can't believe you're this wet for me," he murmured almost inaudibly before he slipped his fingers slowly out and aligned his cock with her core.
His breath stuttered.
And gods, why was this so intense with him?
Sex with Fred, the few times they'd gotten the opportunity, had always been easy, relaxed and filled with laughter.
But this was different. Electric. Scorching. Magnetic.
And it scared the hell out of her.
Even so, in this moment, it felt as if she had Fred back. As if the last few days spent drowning in grief was nothing more than a bad dream she'd awoken from.
"Oh fuck!" George groaned lecherously against her jaw as he pushed into her, slow and steady, until he was buried to the hilt.
He stilled for a moment, lips seeking out hers to kiss her deep and slow as her insides clenched and released convulsively around the welcome girth of him, adjusting.
She tried her best to stay her orgasm, already teetering dangerously on the edge even though they'd barely started. But Merlin, she needed this to last longer than a few seconds.
As if he knew her body better than she did, George whispered against her mouth, "It's okay, Granger. You can let go; I've got you."
He pulled back to watch as Hermione burst into a million jagged pieces in his arms, around him, while tears threatened to fall. This was all at once everything she needed and not at all.
Because…he wasn't Fred.
This was so, so wrong. And yet, being with him like this felt so incredible that she simply couldn't stop herself from eagerly taking everything he was giving.
When her orgasm finally subsided, George wrapped her trembling legs around his hips one by one, pulled his hips back, and started thrusting as if his control had snapped.
His eyes were unfocused, his jaw was clenched and pinpricks of sweat beaded like little jewels across his brows. And right now, more than anything, she wanted to touch him. Make him feel just as good as he'd made her feel. But she was terrified that if her hands made contact with his skin, he'd snap out of this reckless moment, and he'd leave her cold and alone once more.
"Get out of your head, Granger," he growled waspishly, slowing down his thrusts as if this would gain her undivided attention. "And focus on the pleasure, because beyond this bedroom, things are going to be very fucking bleak for a long time to come."
His words were a slap to the face, and yet it was exactly what she needed to hear. She needed to take whatever she could get right now.
Even if this was a really fucking terrible thing she and George were doing.
A tortured cry echoed in the tiny bedroom when George sucked her nipple into his mouth and swiped the pad of his thumb over her clit, wrenching an unexpected orgasm from her body. The pleasure was so intense and blindingly good that it left her momentarily breathless.
Stars burst behind her lids as she squeezed them shut, her legs tightened around his hips and her fingers finally found purchase on his skin, digging into his back as though she'd float away if she didn't hold on tightly enough.
When lucidity returned, leaving her feeling sluggish and electrified all at once, George flipped her onto her stomach and hitched up her hips.
Being displayed on hands and knees in front of him made her feel vulnerable and embarrassed, and it took everything not to cover herself up.
He was so familiar, yet a stranger intimately, and she had no idea what was going through his mind as he took her in from this position.
Her fears were instantly allayed when she turned her head over her shoulder to find George fisting his glistening cock while simultaneously taking a shameless, ravenous inventory of her body.
When she turned back, a hot palm grazed slowly over her arse and up her spine, sending goosebumps rippling across her skin and she shivered in response.
A low moan escaped loud and unbidden when he wrapped her hair around his fist and tugged her head back with just enough force to make her belly clench with surprise and, oddly, excitement.
She liked this hint of roughness George displayed around his damaged edges. Never thought she'd like it as much as she did in this moment.
There had honestly not been much time to experiment in bed with Fred. School, the twins starting their business in Diagon Alley and the time spent hunting Horcruxes with Harry and Ron had left them with little more than vanilla sex, usually rushed in case they got caught.
George nudged her legs wider with a knee, curled his hand around her hip to steady her, and with a bone-jarring thrust, he filled her up again. But in contrast to earlier, he rocked his hips into her with a torturous slowness, taking his time.
It was as if he feared what came after…
But so did she. Because she knew that as soon as reality hit, and eventually it would, it would hit them like a punch to the gut.
So, she let him have her as slowly as he wanted, in whatever position he desired. Let him coax orgasms from her body until she wasn't sure she could take any more. Until her orgasms were near constant flutters and spasms that never seemed to end.
And when George finally gave in, he pressed his lips into the curve where her neck met her shoulder and came with a strangled moan that reverberated through her entire body, rending her heart.
Muttering incoherently into her skin, his hips kept pumping into her, spilling deep inside her with jagged thrusts until a mixture of his cum and her arousal trickled hot and sticky from where they were joined.
It was sexy and dirty and completely forbidden, but she was way too tired to feel guilty for it just then. Tomorrow would be another story entirely.
They fell asleep within minutes after he'd slipped out of her, both sticky and sweaty, but unable to summon the strength to get up and clean themselves.
And when the first rays of sunlight crept through the gap in the curtains, Hermione snuck out of George's bed, slipped into her rumpled funeral dress, and headed home where she could castigate herself in peace.
A/N:
Hides behind couch...
What did you think?