Daily Deviant
- there is no such thing as 'too kinky'
Fic: "Liquid Luck" (Rosmerta/Ron) NC-17 
9th October 2010 19:20
Title: Liquid Luck
Author: [info]tjs_whatnot
Characters/Pairings: Rosmerta/Ron
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Under the Influence
Other Warnings: cross-gen, first time, second person POV
Word Count: 5,000
Summary/Description: You think it is enough that he watches and that you know it. You don't even imagine anything coming from it but fantasies for an inexperienced young man and a lonely older woman. But then, one night, he comes in alone and he's not wearing the Invisibility Cloak. He looks well scrubbed, best-dressed and full of his own bravery.
Author's Notes: Thank you so much [info]pale_moonlite and [info]kinky_kneazle for the awesome beta job! Any remaining mistakes are all my own.



You have seen it all before. It's been so long that not only have you seen it, you've seen generations repeating themselves. As you watched a young and stupid Harry Potter and his best friend Ron Whatshisname sneak shots of Firewhisky from unsuspecting patrons as they skulked around in their ill-fitted Invisibility Cloak, you can't help but think of two other smart asses under that same cloak. You were younger then, oh so young. You followed those exposed boots as they stumbled from one table to another, their hands snaking out from the cloak, swiping whatever was handy.

You watched as the two, sometimes three, boys got so drunk that they had to lean against each other, and you giggled the times that they had to lean against surprised and confused patrons.

You had only left Hogwarts yourself a few years before. You had watched them forge their friendships. You all knew from the beginning that they would become lifelong friends and would do amazing things, and you were all sure they'd do a lot of stupid things, too. You used to watch them in the common room, doing each others' homework, hunched over parchment. Plotting. Planning. You all knew they were "up to something," and a lot of your friends wished they could be "up to something" with them.

You liked to watch young Sirius and James as they smiled, flirted and spread their charisma throughout the common room. But for you, it was always the quiet ones. You watched Remus almost as much as that nosy git Severus Snape did. In fact, you were the only one who wasn't surprised when Remus and the Greasy Git started sneaking out behind the Three Broomsticks while Sirius and James were passed out in a corner, their cloak slipping off.

You were young and disenchanted, wanting more than to be a barmaid in your parents' pub. You wanted more than anything to have someone look at you like The Git looked at The Quiet One when he didn't think anyone saw. You wanted to blush at someone the way Remus did when Severus snarled something in his ear in passing. Mostly, you wanted someone to watch you the way you watched them.

You got really good at watching.

When Remus came back to teach, you kept your eye out for a rekindling of the forbidden tryst and were not disappointed.

That was also the year that you noticed the Invisibility Cloak was again being used, and you marveled at the similarities of the new crop of trouble makers. Yet, when they seemed to be just as curious about where their professors hid themselves as you were, you found ways to distract them. They were nothing more than innocent children then, and it was your duty to protect them.

You laughed at how inconspicuous they believed they were. Maybe they were; you were just really good at seeing what no one else noticed.

Still, with all your supposed eye for the subtle, it took you a ridiculously long time to notice a boy turn into a man right before your eyes. It took you way too long to realize that while you were watching others, wishing that someone watched you, you were indeed being intensely studied.

He came in on the Hogsmeade Weekends just like he'd been doing for the last four years. By then you knew his name, knew he was a Weasley. You should have always known. They were all the same. But different, too, you started to notice.

He had a new girl now. A flirty, dolled up one, and you wondered what happened to the studious girl, but you saw her with Potter at a different table and it fell into place. You had been young once yourself. This girl seemed to like you even less than the other one, and you couldn't understand why. Then one day, right after Christmas, he caught your eye. The look he gave you made you blush and hide your face like a school girl. Again, it all fell into place and you wondered how long he'd been seeing you while you were oblivious.

Still. He was a child.



He starts coming in on his own on random nights when it is quiet and there are no other students. He hides under the Cloak, but he has grown so tall that his scuffed, hand-me-down trainers peek out from under the magical fabric. You let him believe that he is hidden and you let him sit on a quiet bar stool at the end of the bar as you serve the few wizards and witches that come in these days. An electric pulse runs through you whenever you see those shoes circle around that stool. You know he is watching your every move. It makes your whole body buzz with a current of heat and of longing.

You notice that every day when you dress for work, you think of him. In your flat over the bar, you stand at your wardrobe and wonder what he would like. You choose the lowest cut shirts—you know that even now, your breasts are your best feature. He's going to like this, you say to yourself as you cinch up the corset. You feel slightly indecent at the amount of heaving you're doing, but you notice the difference when he walks in. You can almost hear the drool falling from his lips onto the floor.

It doesn't hurt your tips that night either.

He changes his seat so he is at the center of the bar to be closer to you, and you know that he's being reckless under that cloak, and this excites you. You imagine him that night going back to his dorm, closing his curtains, casting a silencing spell and pulling his prick out to stroke. This thought causes you to be reckless, too, and you accidentally leave a shot of Firewhisky within his reach to see what he will do with it.

Of course you have done the math in your head and deduced that if he isn't exactly of age yet, he will be very shortly. You may be reckless, but you aren't a degenerate. Still, watching the glass disappear behind the cloak sends a thrill through you.

You think it is enough that he watches and that you know it. You don't even imagine anything coming from it but fantasies for an inexperienced young man and a lonely older woman. But then, one night, he comes in alone and he's not wearing a cloak. He looks well scrubbed, best-dressed and full of his own bravery.

Your heart pounds again as the illusion of him comes alive before you. He sits in the bar stool that for weeks now he's been occupying, and he looks at you like he knows that you know; like the relationship has started long before and you're just now getting around to actually introducing yourselves.

There's a scratch at the back of your throat, and you want to say something; something that will remind him of the roles. But you can't seem to think of anything that would reestablish your control of the situation, so instead you pull out two shot glasses and reach for the Ogden's.

“It's my birthday,” he announces, and his voice is deeper. There is a huskiness to it that you hadn't heard before in those brief times you've heard it. Before it was like he was trying to sound the way he does tonight naturally.

“Yeah? And you're here? By yourself?” you say, pouring the first shot.

“Well, not my actual birthday,” he mumbles, then clears his throat. “What I mean is, I'm seventeen. I'm legal now.”

“That right? I should make this a double then?”

“Doesn't matter. I already had the only drink that matters tonight.”

You look up. The mischievous look in his slightly glazed eyes and the wicked grin on his lips make you weak. There's a delightful lightness to your thoughts, and for a moment you fear that you are once again going to have one of your spells. One of those times when you lose a bit of time in the ether of your aging mind, with only a vague remembrance of a blond man walking away.

You swallow against this thought as you lift the glass and slam the contents down your throat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Friend gave me a taste of a special elixir, supposed to make all my dreams come true.”

“That's some powerful elixir. I better catch up then, huh?” you say. You swallow another shot before sliding a double to him.

“You going to celebrate with me?” he asks, and there's a slight pleading, but more than that, almost a command.

“Alright,” you say and you raise a refilled glass. “To dreams come true.”

That look of his is back, and you wonder just what it is he's dreaming about. You get a sudden flash of images, skin on skin, limbs entwined. You can almost feel it all as you grasp the bar to steady yourself. Your whole body is on fire.

“Are you alright?” he asks, and his husky timbre is gone, replaced by nervous concern. “Did I do that?”

You look up, and he appears to be as scared as he sounds.

“What do you think you did?” you ask.

This time you watch him very closely and see the fear flicker and then die on his face. It is replaced by a genuine smile that stills your raging heart. You wonder how he manages to show his every thought, his every emotion so blatantly on his face like that.

“Well, I got it in my head that maybe you'd want to see what I dream of and then I thought I wished I could show you. I'm sorry. I didn't know it would work. I'm not really trained. It must be the elixir.”

“Some dream,” you whisper.

He beams at you. “There are other dreams, too. It's not always...that...um...well, sometimes there is talking.”

You laugh and don't know if you want to pinch his cheeks and pat his head or take him up to your flat and ravish him.

“Why don't we start with the talking dreams,” you say, coming around the bar and sliding beside him. You wonder at the luck that would have tonight be the first night in a while with absolutely no patrons.

He smiles, visibly relaxing, and nods. “Sure. We could do that.”

“So, what did you do on your birthday?” you ask.

He laughs. “Oh, not much, just got poisoned...twice. Only almost died once though.”

“What?” you ask, shocked by his cavalier attitude.

“I accidentally ate chocolate dosed in love potion and then when I'd recovered from that, Slughorn rewarded me by giving me a shot of mead laced with poison.”

“Slughorn?” you whisper as something floats just in the corners of your subconscious, something about measurements and gloved hands holding a vial. Bile rises in your throat, but you swallow it down and shake your head, pushing the half formed memory back in the mire it came from. Ron is talking, but you haven't heard a word of it. You see he's still smiling though, as if reliving a funny anecdote.

“Some birthday,” you say, trying to match his mood. “Tell me about this elixir of yours. Your birthday present.”

He bends over to whisper in your ear. You ignore the way your hair bristles at the back of your neck. “Felix Felicis. You know it?”

“Liquid Luck?” you whisper back, before whistling through your teeth. “This friend of yours must like you a lot.”

“Harry's my best mate. He knows what this means to me.”

You don't know what part of that you should address first. “Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived? The Boy with a target on his forehead has Felix Felicis and he gave it to you? For this?”

“Just a drop. The smallest taste. It will probably wear off in about two minutes.”

“Why did you need it?”

He barks out a laugh and then looks sheepishly at you, and again you just want to shuck him under the chin and make him a cocoa. Or, maybe that other thing. Stop it, you tell yourself. He's a child. Well, not exactly. Still...

You don't know if he senses your hesitation, or if he's losing the liquid luck he came in with, but he reaches beside you and pulls the whisky bottle towards him, refilling both your glasses.

You both raise your glasses and without taking your eyes off each other, throw the drink back and swallow it down.

You feel the burn of it as it travels down your throat and you can't remember the last time that it felt like that. “Answer the question.”

He swallows again before answering. “I've been trying to work up the nerve to come in here like this for a long time.”

“Why couldn't you?”

His whole face turns red. He pours another shot and drinks it fast, and when he talks again, his words slur slightly. “Look at you. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? Now look at me.”

Your face flushes, and you look in his eyes and see what you've been waiting for. Someone to look at you; to really see you. Maybe it's the booze talking, or the loneliness you've been feeling. Either way, you like it; even convince yourself that you need it.

That's why you lean into him and let your lips slowly and gently brush against his. “I think you're beautiful, too.”

He pulls back and laughs softly. “You're drunk.”

You're surprised to realize that you are a little, and that you are still thirsty. You hold out your glass for him to refill and laugh, too. “Not that drunk.”

You can't remember the last time you were drunk. You drink a lot, it's part of the job, but to feel that buzz, that tingling of your magic on your skin, the sense that anything is possible, if only for that moment, that night? It's been so long that you have no longer associated it with being drunk and had thought of it as a side effect of being young.

Maybe that is what you're feeling. Young.

You want to feel more. You want to feel everything. Even if for only this moment, only this night.

“What about you?” you ask, as you watch him take a drink, watch the liquid glisten on his lips until he snakes his tongue out to catch the last of the taste. “Do you still feel lucky?”

His smile is so wicked now that you're glad you are sitting down. You can't imagine ever finding the strength in your limbs to stand up again. But maybe, you think, I won't have to stand alone.

And then his lips are on yours. Unlike your sweet, almost chaste kiss, his is full of hunger and longing, tongue and teeth. Then his arms are around you tightly, and you feel light and airless as his tongue plunges and dances with yours. As you wrap your arms around him, one hand stroking his hair, the other at the small of his back, pulling him flush against you, you sigh into his kiss. He tastes of Firewhisky and a sweetness that must be the last bit of liquid luck. You take his tongue in your mouth and suck, just for a little of the luck yourself. Not that I need it now, you think.

This causes him to moan into your mouth, and in one fluid motion he is on his feet and has you pressed into the bar. His left hand is in your hair, while his thumb caresses your jaw. The fingers of his other hand are gently sweeping along the fabric of your blouse where it puckers along your breasts. He seems to be asking permission, and you are deeply touched and aroused. Pulling away slightly to read his eyes, you watch him swallow, as if waiting for rebuke. Now it is your turn to smile wickedly as you flip your wrist in the direction of the door and lock it with a silent spell.

Taking his hand, you guide him to the ties of your corset. You notice his fingers are shaking as he works on the knot that binds you into your clothes. You take his face in your palms and kiss him, slow and easy. He sighs and tugs on the stiff fabric of the corset while you pull down the shoulders of the chemise, revealing your breasts. Again you take his hand, telling him it's okay, he can touch them.

He does. Merlin, does he. He cups your breasts before catching the nipples between his thumb and forefinger and squeezing slightly. You've never felt fingers so delicate and yet daring.

He whistles something under his breath and then licks his lips before placing them wetly on the hardened nipple peaking between his fingers. Sucking, then flicking with his tongue, he works his way from one breast to the other, laying licks and kisses as he goes. You don't even want to think about how he knows how to do this.

Your hands are in his hair, and then they are on his shoulders as you pull at his shirt, pulling it over his head, wanting to touch him, to feel him.

His skin is so smooth, but along his arms and chest are scars that remind you that he is not a child, that he has seen more battle than almost every other man you've ever been with. His hands remind you, too, that he is a man. He splays his fingers flush against your back and pulls you to him. Wrapping your legs around his hips, you give a little yelp when he picks you up.

He looks at you with concern, like he has done something wrong, and you convince him that he hasn't by kissing the corner of his mouth, his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his jaw before twining your fingers in his hair and sucking hard on his neck.

He moans, and on his tiptoes, places you on the bar. You can't remember the last time you've been this brazen, and you feel more alive than you have in a long time. Nothing else matters. Not the shrinking business, the increase of violence, the smell of war in the air, or those times where you lose a bit of your days and your memory goes.

You look at him, standing there before you smiling that wicked smile again, and you give him one of your own to match.

“What happens next?” you ask.

He swallows, and you see panic in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“In your dream? What happens next in the dream?”

He turns red, looks down at his feet and shrugs. “It varies.”

He's just so earnest, and again you struggle between the desire to pat him on the head or ravish him. You take his face in your hands and force him to look at you. The kiss you give him is soft and reassuring. “Why don't you come up here with me. You look like you need another drink.”

He smiles, and you bite your lip like a teenager, nervous that he will change his mind, nervous that you'll let doubt set in. You reach for the bottle. If you're going to make stupid choices based on hormones, you might as well blame it on the whisky.

You take a swig directly from the bottle before handing it to him. Lifting it to his lips, he takes a very large swallow. You reason that he's even more nervous than you are. But it also convinces you that he has no intention of changing his mind. You sigh and wait for him to finish his drink.

“Easy there. Unless part of your dream has you hunched over a toilet in the loo.”

“Nightmare more like,” he says, handing the bottle back to you.

You put it down before you swing your legs up onto the bar, getting on your knees before pushing him down on his back. He looks nervous as you straddle him and reach for the fastening of his trousers. The nervous look turns to one of horror as you feel a small lump in his pocket. He tries to get it out of his pocket before you see it. But you are too curious now and pull it from his hand. It is a small capped vial half full.

“What is this?” you ask.

“It's nothing,” he sputters.

You uncap it and bring it to your nose. It smells of grass, leather and whisky. The look of horror is still there, and the red of his face has spread down to his neck and shoulders, too.

“I know what this is,” you whisper. It's been a long time, and it smelled differently then back in her school days. “Did you think you were going to need to slip this to me?”

“No,” he says too fast. This time you don't know if you want to punch him or shake your head. But then he continues. “This wasn't for you.”

“No? Meeting someone else later?”

“No! It's not like that. It isn't what you think. Or it is, but it's a new version. Another birthday present.”

“Yeah?”

“This one is from my brothers.”

“The joke-shop brothers?” you ask, worried about what this all means.

He covers his face with his hands and answers you. “It is supposed to...um...prolong things...in case...”

“Oh.” And it becomes clear to you. “Is this your first time?”

He continues to hide his reddening face with his hands. He doesn't answer you; he doesn't have to.

You bend over and kiss his hand as you pull them away from his blushed face. Then you kiss his cheeks, eyelids and forehead before you kiss his lips, gently opening them with your tongue. The kiss seems to calm him; it isn't long before his hands are back around you, pulling you to him.

Breaking the kiss, you put your lips to his ear and ask, “And what happens if I drink the potion?”

You're kissing along his jaw now and feel his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. You flick your tongue over it as it rises and falls again. “Well?”

“I... don't... know. I mean... I've never tried it with someone... but... it... well, it's supposed to... to um... heighten your senses.”

“Really?” you say, looking at him. You give him your most wicked of smiles, and he looks genuinely scared. It thrills you and makes you feel reckless.

You sit up and uncork the bottle. “Shall we?”

He nods eagerly.

You hand it to him first, and he takes a swig and swallows before handing it back. Your smile is still in place as you hold the bottle above him and slowly dribble it down his chest and stomach.

His gasp is replaced with a moan as you bend over him and lick the elixir slowly and thoroughly. The effects of the potion hit you almost immediately as you feel a sudden numbing on your tongue followed by a tingling that runs down your throat as you swallow. Suddenly his skin feels like silk against your tongue, and the liquid you are sucking from his belly button tastes like the most decadent of sweets.

By the time you take the head of his cock into your mouth your senses are exploding with their heightened senses. You swallow him just to see what it feels like. His moans are like a chorus, and his fingers digging into your scalp send shivers up and down your arms.

After a few strokes, you pull away with a smack of your lips. You are ready to move on to other sensations. You know he's got help in sustaining his arousal, but you also know that young inexperienced men need more than potions to last as long as you'd like to fully assault him. This feels too good to stop anytime soon.

You shift and pull at the fabric of the skirt to allow you to work on getting your knickers off. He shocks you, though, by sliding down the bar so that he reaches his head up, and with his teeth nibbles on the silk. He works it into his mouth with his tongue before ripping it almost effortlessly.

“Fuck!” you exclaim. “What are you kids up to at that school?”

All you see is a raised eyebrow, but you know that smile is back as he wraps his arms around your thighs so that he can pull your pelvis to him.

Sweet Merlin! Either that potion is the greatest thing ever created, or he's really, really good at this, you think as he sucks at your clit while sliding his middle finger in and out, slow and deep.

Your whole body is on fire with want and need. While you rock into his attentions, you also reach for his cock, stroking it, feeling the power of him in every pore. As you feel your own orgasm building painfully slow, you hear him fighting his own. You suddenly need him inside you more than you've needed anything.

In one fluid motion, you lift yourself off him and slide down until his cock is at your entrance. He moans when you pull away and now whimpers as you hover above him, teasing his cock with how close it is to getting what it wants, what it's always wanted.

Please,” he begs.

“Please what?” you ask, trying to hide just how much you want this, too.

“Love me,” he says, then bites his lip.

His earnestness almost breaks your heart and completely takes all the teasing spirit out of you. You nod, and then slowly guide him inside you.

The potion's effects coupled with the fact that it has been a really long time since you've been fucked makes you reel with almost painful pleasure as he fills you.

“Merlin,” he whispers as if mystified.

You clutch your muscles around him, and his breath catches as he throws his head back, bucking his hips, clutching your thighs painfully. You know he wants to come desperately but can't. Not yet.

“I love this potion,” you say, as you slide up and down slowly, feeling every inch, every shift in trajectory. Watching his facial expressions change with each thrust is a reward in itself. The way he bites on his lips, you're sure they'll start bleeding any moment. His eyes are so glazed, you wonder if he sees anything at all. He lets you set the pace, and you take your time, secure in the knowledge that the potion will do its job and he'll last.

“Do you like this?” you ask as you continue your slow slide.

He nods his head, unable to speak.

“How about this?” you ask as you rise up and slam down hard and deep. You want to watch his face, watch the pleasure you supplied, but you are not prepared for how it would feel yourself. You gasp as your body is sizzling with sensations and you lose control. You no longer want it to last forever, you want it all and you want it now.

You lean back, pulling his knees up and using them for leverage as you slam down on him over and over. You're panting now and feel the slick of sweat between the two of you. You can hear him begging you to ride him harder, faster, and you do as you're told.

You feel the orgasm rising in waves all through your body as your thrusts become erratic. Suddenly he is sitting up and has his arms tight around you. Moments later you feel his ejaculation deep inside you as he tenses and then shudders. In the last moments before you lose him to post coital slumping, you grind against him, milking his cock with your walls, and you come hard as you hold on to him tightly.

You both continue to hold on to each other as the world stills and your breathing returns to something like normal. This has never been your favorite part. The part where he looks uncomfortable and gathers his clothes and scurries away never to be seen again. You want to hold on to it, to him, a little bit longer.

“That...was...bloody...brilliant,” he pants into your cooling skin.

You tighten your grip for only a moment before you loosen the hold, allowing him to pull away if he wants to. He doesn't.

“Was it as good as your dreams?” you ask.

He looks at you with a look as if he thinks you're crazy. “In my wildest and most amazing dreams, it was never like this...was never this good.”

You smile and hide your beaming face in his neck.

“Was it...? Did you...?” he asks in a whisper.

“Very much,” you answer, and you feel his sigh against your chest. “You have a real future, Ron Weasley.”

“Is that your way of saying good bye?” he asks.

You look at him. He's so sincere, and it throws you. Was it your way of saying goodbye? Of course it was. What could come of this? What role were you to play in each others' lives tomorrow and the next day?

“Perhaps,” you answer because you find it impossible to crush him.

He holds you for a long time in silence. “I understand,” he finally whispers into your ear. “Thank you.”

You don't know what to say to that, so you just hold him for a while longer as you relive the night. It's a pastime you imagine you'll revisit for quite a while in the coming months. You know you'll need this dream of a night for when the world gets turned upside down, and your mind slips more and more into moments you can't remember. This is a memory you will fight to save for a long time to come.


Comments 
10th October 2010 03:37
Wow, this was an amazing story. So many little details thrown in there and the way you've captured Rosmerta's thoughts and feelings (and things she can't quite remember...) was just perfect. And your Ron is hotter than hell. Fantastic!
10th October 2010 06:05
Thank you! It was fun getting into Rosmerta's head!
10th October 2010 14:29
You write the most interesting pairings! I've never seen this one before, yet you make it believable and both the characters so appealing. I'm a sucker for second-person stories, especially when they work as well as this one. Ron getting potions from his brothers -- ha! Trusting lad. But it comes across as rather sweet of him.

Excellent line: You know you'll need this dream of a night for when the world gets turned upside down, and your mind slips more and more into moments you can't remember.

one typo: "The affects of the potion" and "The potion's affects" -- you want "effects"
11th October 2010 03:13
I've never seen this one before

Me either. And I really wanted to.

Thank you so much for reading. It means a lot to me... also thanks for the pointer. Fixed now.
23rd October 2010 03:09
That was completely beautiful. Love the second person voice, love Rosmerta's insecurities, and wow, loved Ron through her eyes. An enamoured young thing blurring that line between sweet and ever so slightly creepy. :D But I love how she plays with him under the Cloak, slipping him drinks. And that she loves the attention so much. Great Rosmerta voice!
23rd October 2010 03:44
Thank you!

I really had a lot of fun getting into Rosmerta's head! I'm glad that peeked through. :)
18th November 2010 08:43
This is fabulous. Beautifully characterised and hot all at once. And so many of my favourite things - cross-gen, first times, and interesting style. Wonderful.
18th November 2010 17:03
Thank you! I'm so glad you enjoyed it.
3rd December 2010 12:23
I love the second-person voice - it's gorgeous! And so very hot!!!
5th December 2010 06:20
Thank you! I was super nervous about the second person so I'm glad it worked!

Thank you too for all your help!
7th April 2011 19:23
I have no idea what compelled me to read this, but I'm so glad I did! It was wonderful!
7th April 2011 22:46
Awww! Thanks!
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