the_water_clock: abstract painting (Untitled (Seagram Mural) 1959)
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Author: Clio
Title: How to Be a Domestic God(dess)
Pairing: Harry Potter: Harry Potter/Hermione Granger
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Hermione isn't the best of cooks, it's true, but she still knows the way to her man's, um, heart. Yeah, heart.
Length: 500 words
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Notes: Title from the Nigella Lawson cookbook. Fulfills the "feeding—erotic" square of my [profile] schmoop_bingo card.




Harry rolled over in bed and opened one eye to check the clock. No children in the house for the entire weekend meant one could sleep in on Saturday morning, not to mention have completely unhurried sex the night before. He reached for his glasses and smiled, looking forward to two days of doing as little as possible.

Hermione walked in carrying a tray with a tea, soft boiled eggs sitting in their cups, and asparagus. She sat down at the foot of the bed and set the tray between them.

"Breakfast in bed?" Harry asked.

She shrugged. "You've brought it to me enough times," she replied. "Though your breakfasts are more substantial."

"Eggs are fine," he said, as Hermione wasn't the best of cooks; the kitchen was generally his territory, particularly now that they had children to feed.

She stretched out her legs and Harry draped his hand over the ankle closest to him. "What would you like to do today?" she asked, pouring the tea.

He leered at her, and she rolled her eyes. "What?" he asked.

"Even we can't spend the next thirty hours fucking," she said.

"We could try?" he asked. At her raised eyebrow he continued, "Fine, what do you want to do?"

"It's a beautiful day," she said. "I'd like to sit in the garden and read a novel."

Harry wasn't fond of reading as a voluntary activity, but he did have the new Barry Ryan bio. And he liked sitting with his wife on their garden bench, her feet in his lap. "All right," he said. "After lunch."

“Good,” she said, surprised; clearly she hadn't expected him to agree. "And before lunch?"

"Well, we are already in bed," Harry said, sliding his hand a bit further up her leg.

She pursed her lips. "Eat your eggs," she said, and he knew he had her. "You'll need the energy."

“So will you,” he replied, sitting up. He cut the top off one of the eggs and sprinkled it with salt, then dipped in a spear. “This is some suggestive food you’re serving me,” he said, watching the bright yellow ooze up around the green stalk. He offered her the stalk, now coated in egg yolk. “So I’m thinking you’re not all that reluctant.”

She bit off the dripping end of the stalk, licking a bit of errant yolk from her bottom lip. She chewed slowly, and Harry realized it had been a good long time since he’d just stared at her pink lips. Often when they were younger and she was going on about something he already agreed with, but knew she needed to get out of her system, he would just watch her mouth move and think about how nicely her lips plumped once he’d kissed them, how they looked stretched around his cock, how she bit them when she was turned on.

“Maybe I just wanted to take it slow,” she said, preparing a spear for him. “Maybe I wanted to seduce you.”

“Well,” Harry said, his voice husky, “you’re doing a damn good job of it.” Then he leaned forward and took a bite.


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