the necessary porn
Title: Trust, or Something Like It
Author: negativecosine
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ron/Hermione
Rating: R
Warning: Ron's One True Squick. (And dub-con, bondage.)
Summary: See warnings. Honest.
A/N: Due to a rush job, this is unbeta'd.


“Trust me,” Hermione had said, and of course who was Ron to deny her? It’s just one of those things he was bad at, really, no point in trying. He tried to relax as she secured his wrists and ankles to the bed, reinforcing the silk scarves with a rather stout charm. He even allows her to blindfold him, grinning dopily when she places a kiss on the tip of his nose, murmuring reassurances.

And, really, he can’t think why she worked so hard to talk him into this—it’s nice, all tickly and distracting. She’s doing something with her fingernails, or her hair, or something, trailing down his ribs and back up his sides. Hermione pays no mind to his squirming, apparently too caught up in being a vicious tease. Not once does the touch extend lower than his navel, though he imagines he can feel the warmth of her beside him, carefully keeping out of range of contact.

“Trust me?” she says again, only it’s less of an order this time, more of a question. She’s pinching his nipple, just this side of too sharp, enough to make sure that yes, Ron is really, really paying attention. She takes his moan as an answer, and kisses him, then goes back to what she was doing. Or, not quite—there’s a little pinch, now, somewhere on his abdomen, and it still tickles, but her fingertips feel funny, they’re moving differently, like she’s using both hands to imitate—

“Take the blindfold off,” Ron suddenly croaks. She pulls away, but the little cluster of touches is still there. It moves, and Ron shivers violently. “Take it off.”

“Ron,” she says softly, in her most soothing voice, but that only terrifies him more. He tugs at the scarves on his wrists, but he can’t budge. “Relax. I’m not going to take the blindfold off yet, but I will.” Her voice is so soft, so calm. “When I do, I want you to focus, Ron. Don’t block anything out. Okay?”

He doesn’t know if he can speak—his heart’s hammering in his chest, he’s shaking a bit—but he nods. Her fingers are lower, now, teasing along the insides of his thighs, brushing against his balls, and he now knows, with a cold, resigned horror, what is causing that little moving cluster of pinches, which has wandered up lazily to his ribcage. He knows full well that he’s going to scream when Hermione takes the blindfold off, and he knows he’s going to try to get away, and he knows she’s not going to let him. It’s that morbid, horrified certainty that allows him to relax slightly. He’s half-convinced he’ll actually die, and then, he thinks, no more fucking—

“I’m going to take it off, now,” she murmurs, her voice suddenly hot against his ear. Her hand wraps around his cock, and, try as he might, Ron can’t help but buck up and moan, even though he’s still about ready to faint. She sets a slow, steady rhythm with a few strokes, first, before she slips off the scarf with her free hand.

And then, at the sight of it, his gut clenches. He knew, he knew it was there, but there’s still that little jolt of sickened shock that Hermione would do this to him. The tarantula is big, black, hairy, like a miniature version of the thing that has haunted his nightmares since second year. He can see its little fangs.

He can see its fangs.

The scream wells up in Ron as Hermione speeds up; he is only peripherally aware of her voice, whispering comforts hot into his ear, and her hand seems almost irrelevant, because he is going to die, he is. He hears himself babbling, begging her to kill him, kill the spider, threatening to kill her, or himself, and the words stop being words and are now just syllables, just primal noises of fear and hate and the edges of his vision are going white, all he can see is the spider on his chest—

And he wakes up, what he presumes is a few minutes later, though it could be hours, days. Hermione is petting his forehead and kissing his face, and the spider is on her bare shoulder, which is a bizarrely beautiful place for it to be. It’s a few moments before Ron even realizes that he must’ve come—his stomach is sticky, his hands and ankles have been released from their bonds. He could run, now, he could run away and never come back.

“Crazy bitch,” he croaks, instead. “Love you.” She kisses him, long and slow and as much an apology as he’ll ever get.