Author: TMBlue PM
COMPLETE! 2011 rhr fest gift, for napchic: After weeks away during Ron's Auror training, he returns to Ottery St. Catchpole to find Hermione waiting for him.Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance - Ron W. & Hermione G. - Words: 6,116 - Reviews: 18 - Favs: 70 - Follows: 9 - Published: 06-07-11 - Status: Complete - id: 7061694
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: This is smut. That is all it is! Please be forewarned! This was my entry for LiveJournal's 2011 rhr_smutfest! It seems like that should imply smut, lol! This was a gift for my first ever fandom friend, my wonderful napchic! I LOVE you! It was an absolute joy to write this for you and I'm so glad you liked it! xx
Thank you, THANK YOU, to emmacmf for the beta! *massive hugs*
(PS - Do not worry, I am working on Sharing Sleep! Just thought I'd post this story here now that the Master List has gone up on LJ, revealing who wrote which story and who arted which art!)
OH. OHHHH. Please. Please, please, PLEASE check out MY rhr_smutfest gift FROM napchic! So awesome that it turned out to be a trade! What a wonderful way for my first full year of festing to conclude! Here it is... remove spaces... and prepare for the hottest, most gorgeous smut you have ever seen... http : / / rhr-smutfest . livejournal . com / 23475 . html
*leaves fandom, as there is nothing left to do here now that my eyes have looked upon perfection*
He saw her from very far away, even through the fog of not-quite-morning. The cobbled street ahead of him seemed too distant to reach, though the town lingered in his sights, taunting him. He was near collapsing. Three weeks, gone. The last forty-eight hours... no rest, no food... just running and shouting and cursing...
The dew damp grass and dirt beneath his feet hindered his movements, boots squishing into the mud with each step, sticking and sucking. He squinted. And she was still so very far away, her gray silhouetted shape in the distance.
How had she known he'd be here? Unable to Apparate, unsure if he could risk trying it, he'd walked from the Portkey two miles north. The longest two miles of his life... or at least since the war had ended.
Ottery St. Catchpole was dead quiet so early. Dark gray skies faded lighter as minutes passed. And then, she saw him. He couldn't make out her face clearly through the haze. But he knew the very moment she spotted him. Must have been his hair, he reckoned, bright contrast to the overcast morning as she sprinted straight for him, shoe soles echoing against the stone street with each of her frantic steps as her figure grew larger, closer.
He stopped walking, stopped trying when he reached the edge of the street, heaving each breath as he waited for her to reach him. He mouthed her name, swayed as he tried to remain upright. It wouldn't do for her to think he'd been hurt too badly, not after so many nights without contact.
Her hair bounced and he grinned, welcoming familiarity as her wide eyes cut through the fog at last, meeting his as she panted, slammed against his body a second later, before he could speak. He closed his eyes in surrender as he allowed himself to feel every inch of her that was pressed against him.
Arms around his neck, she buried her face under his jaw, rubbing her cheek against his thick stubble, and he could barely hold her and remain standing. He had to get off his feet, or relieve the strain somehow.
"Hermione... gotta... stop..."
He pulled her back from him just enough to meet her eyes again, lowering her back down to her own feet. He had just enough strength to take her hand and drag her forward, then right, down a wide alley, the end of which faced the sunrise horizon, the edge of town, a hillside of deep green morning-damp grass swaying in the light breeze. He leaned fully against the stone wall on one side of the alley, pulled her tightly between his legs, against his chest, and sighed out all of his pain as she moaned into the ripped collar of his robes.
"Are you hurt, Ron?" she asked him as she clutched his clothing in her fists.
"Scratches," he said as he snaked a hand under her robes, palm flat against her warm, cotton shirt covered back. The layers that separated their skin seemed at once too vast to untangle and too thin to be possible. A surge of not-quite-energy rose somewhere in the pit of his stomach as her chest tightened against his, breathing timed exactly from subconscious years of rehearsal, each inhale bringing them closer together.
She shivered, and somehow, he found her even closer afterwards.
"How did you know I'd show up here?" he asked her, knuckles bending and stretching to move his fingers against her back, over the muscles that constricted with each of her exhales.
"I've been staying in your room at the Burrow," she whispered against his chest, on tiptoe to reach the highest point possible on his body without his strong, helpful arms lifting her, removing feet from the cobblestone. And he couldn't do it this time, couldn't hold her that way, though he'd like to. Relief at finding himself in her arms was all that kept him from collapsing dead asleep on the stone beneath them.
"Mum didn't mind?" he teased, her hair tickling his lips.
"She didn't know..." and he could feel her temperature rise with her blush.
"Really?" he marveled.
She impressed him. But it was a common occurrence these days. He squeezed her too tight, and she gasped before continuing. He'd managed to knock the wind out of her, and it was hard to tell if her wandering hands had found something to cause her to moan, fingertips achingly close to his nipples beneath his button down shirt, or if she'd simply delayed her reaction to his crushing embrace.
"I've been coming..."
She paused for a breath and he nearly had a heart attack at where she'd almost left her sentence, and perhaps he was regaining more strength than he'd anticipated...
"...up into town every day, just to see if maybe... maybe you'd be coming home."
He closed his eyes, though for some reason, sleep didn't tug him down as he'd feared. Impossibly alert, he waited for her next words.
"I've been Apparating in and out of your room in the middle of the night. It's been so..."
And what could she call it, this miracle he was hearing? So she'd missed him. He wasn't surprised, though he had to remind himself not to be on a daily basis. She always missed him when he left her, when he was sent away on a 'no contact' mission to places owls were not admitted. If she missed him half as much as he missed her, she'd be crushed with it, every day, every night she had to rest her head on a lonely pillow, clothes fully intact, or more so than they would be if things were different.
Fuck, he missed sleeping naked. Those few nights before he'd applied for training, few weeks before he'd been sent away... a series of memories to cling to when so many stars shone down on his camp and he could possibly figure out which direction she was facing, in her bed, in her room, if he used the map of the sky to position her, closing his eyes to nearly feel her...
"You've not been where I imagined," he said finally, and she leaned back to look up into his eyes as he opened them again.
"What do you mean?"
"I pictured you in your room at your parents' house."
A splash of surprise rain broke their gaze as Hermione blinked against it where it fell, dropping through the front of her messy hair to sprinkle her face with cool water. Ron grinned, but was interrupted by another splash in his own too-long hair.
"I can't believe you're home," Hermione breathed, and he tried to blink her back into focus as another drop of rain fell through his pale eyelashes.
"I could be dreaming you," he sighed, knees sagging. But he felt her. She was warm and solid and... "I'm so fucking glad you're up here and not down at the Burrow. I could never have made the walk..."
"Want to stay at an inn?"
"Or right here," he suggested, sinking further against the wall, smiling sideways as he hauled her down, down...
And then she was in his lap, and he was on the ground, propped against the wall.
They breathed, and with each passing second, each tiny shift of the gray sky above towards the purple-orange horizon of overcast dawn, they awakened. If he thought about it, somewhere buried beneath desire and the awe of unexpected reunion, he could find his not-so-long-ago longing for the unconscious world. But she shifted on top of him, and his exhaustion and hunger from earlier both vanished into thin air. And her hands were sliding his robes off his shoulders. Her eyes grew darker, wider, and somehow even brighter all at once.
He needed to feel every inch of her.
"I need you," he said, shocked at his own voice, so deep. Yet, had he really intended to speak at all? Once again, thoughts broke through his lips before he could tell them to wait.
Immediately, rain pattered against the stone around them with insistence. Hermione's eyes glued themselves to Ron's chest, and he looked down to see the winkled white material of his shirt pressing itself to his pale skin, rain-soaked fabric turning see-through before his eyes, nipples visible as dark pink spots beneath what Ron was sure he would soon no longer be wearing.
He was done watching her watch him, hands motionless on top of his thighs. He had to feel everything, all at the same time, and as soon as physically possible.
He shoved her robes off her shoulders with his large hands, pushed away from the wall to move his own discarded robes from behind his back, and laid the robes out flat to his right, a soft-ish covering over the now-slippery stone. Her hands were on his buttons, but he had no time for six of them, and before she had the first one fully undone, soaked fringe in his eyes, he wrapped his hand around the back of her head, fingers buried deep in her thick, wet hair. And he crushed her mouth to his.
And it was absolutely pouring.
There was nothing dry within sight, not that he could see much but the inside of his eyelids as he clamped them shut, overwhelmed as her tongue slid smoothly into his mouth. A lifetime of 'welcome homes' in a kiss.
They separated with identical gasps of pleasure.
"I was so worried," Hermione admitted, both fists clenched in the collar of his drenched shirt.
Summer rain water now flowed freely down the sloping main street to their left, though Ron's skin seared with passion-heat, and the pounding rain could do nothing but pleasantly cool his burning flesh as he touched her neck with trembling fingertips.
She was chaotic now and sporadic and unpredictable and fucking beautiful. She tugged him, and he stood with her, crashing together, mind blank of all that wasn't her. His painfully downward-bent neck eased as he forgot what pain was, her head tucked up into him so their lips could freely mesh in sharp harmony. Her breasts against his chest, her hands sliding over the rain-saturated shirt that was, for some bloody reason, still clinging to his skin. He could do nothing, nothing but think of one much better place for his shirt to be... and she read his mind as she separated from him, panting through her heightened desire, ripping and clawing at him, scratching his sensitive skin with her ink-stained nails.
He worked his own hands under her shirt, shocked to find so little lace covering her soft breasts. He was preoccupied now with his own fresh discoveries, too much so to focus on hers. And before he knew it, button holes ripped, and shreds of cloth slid down his slick torso as she completed her task, not even a moment's apology for the destruction of an article of his clothing. He found a new love for her reckless desire, and he grinned and moaned at the same time as her hands found their way down to the button of his trousers.
She was far too dressed, and he owed her. So, with the knowledge of her soon-to-be-naked upper half, he was able to remove her cool hands from their task long enough... He tore her shirt straight up over her mass of tangled, drowning hair, and as he dropped the useless piece of fabric to the ground, he staggered forward, crushing her to the opposite wall as he pressed his forehead to the slippery stone above her head, just as he felt his trousers loosen, hanging helplessly on his hips, now unrestrained by zipper or button. She'd worked fast, had gotten good at that element of surprise that she knew drove him mad.
She looked up, heaving chest barely covered by triangles of so-fucking-thin black lace. God, he could see her nipples straining against it, and it was pointless to keep looking and not touching. But he sensed her about to speak, as he had found he'd become quite good at doing. And he forced himself to lean his head back away from the wall and pause, only long enough to hear her out.
"Scratches," she tutted, studying his wafer thin torso with loving eyes.
He looked down, spotted a bit of blood streaked down and across one of his larger, diagonal 'scratches', but it took merely a delayed half-second for the relentless rain to wash it clean. Hermione met his eyes and he shrugged in that way he'd found out she loved. And she melted into the stone behind her. And he followed her, palms pressing their way up between their bodies, against her wet stomach, up towards the little lace bits that were fascinating him over again each moment he took to remember they were there.
As his fingers finally curved up over her breasts, his lips reattached themselves to hers, downpour unrelenting and forcing more of his shaggy hair into his eyes and hers, if she opened them. But the moment his fingers found her nipples through delicate lace, lightning could have shot between them. Her ankle locked behind his shin, and with a jolt, she slammed her hips against his, shaking as she squeezed his leg with hers afterwards, refusing to let up an ounce of pressure.
He managed to lower his hand to her jeans button, unsecuring it in record time, surely breaking her zipper as he ripped it down. And she released her hold on him, shivering and panting and gasping and groaning as he slid his warm hands around to fit perfectly over the swell of her bum.
"Boots," he thought he heard her say, and then her face slipped lower as she slid down the rain-glossy stone wall behind her.
Her knees parted his legs as she bent to crouch and he finally looked down, took a tiny step back to allow her more room between his bony body and the smooth wall. And as he watched, her tiny fingers wound and unwound his boot laces, working furiously and carelessly to the last of them. Before she had the chance to ask, he toed both boots off, her task not quite finished, but close enough for his liking, close enough for his growing impatience at their half-clothed state. And finally, his jutting hipbones gave up their last remaining hold on his heavy, rain-soaked trousers, and they fell to his ankles in a dark heap. He kicked them away with haste and clutched her arms, helping her up again.
Somehow, he was now overdressed, and his hands worked her jeans against her hips, though he made terribly futile progress in removing the offending article of clothing. The soaked denim stuck tightly to her thighs, clinging like another layer of skin. And he groaned as she slid her back up against the wall, leaning up on her tiptoes to suck at the base of his neck.
"Off," he moaned as he tugged her jeans uselessly, unsure who or what he was actually directing his demand towards. He felt Hermione giggling against him, her lips still pressed to his neck, as his fingers worked their way under the heavy material that still refused to relinquish its strong hold.
Impatiently, he suddenly yanked much harder than he ever would have without the haze of desire and too many hours without sleep to distort reality. But Hermione didn't seem to mind at all. In fact, she dropped her head back against the stone and closed her eyes, allowing him the awed opportunity of gazing down at her lips as they softly curved up at the corners.
Shivering with need, he dropped slowly down in front of her, tugging her jeans as he went, finally making some progress, revealing the most wonderful black lace knickers, tiny string-like ribbon ties on either side. He continued his downward motion, wondering vaguely if the wet, rough material was scratching her as he forced it off. But he was instantly distracted when he'd worked the jeans past her knees, his face now level with those little black knickers, the curves of naked thigh and hip, and that little space right in the middle, tempting him away from his highly important task of actually removing her clothing before shagging her...
Such a complicated predicament. Unfair really, for the clothes to be there in the first place.
But he must have taken too look observing, because Hermione abruptly toed off her shoes with abandon, stepping on the bottom hems of her jeans and effectively sliding them the rest of the way off her rain-silky legs, cool moisture shimmering against her pale skin.
He took a moment to observe anew as she stood there against the alley wall, almost naked.
She was wearing the sexiest socks, off white with little dots in the stitching, up to just below her knees, a tiny half-inch of lace around the top hems. Questions flooded him as his own socks soaked up the water from the ground beneath his large feet.
"But you didn't know you'd see me today," he reasoned almost shyly, standing again in front of her, index fingers looping into either side of her tiny knickers, tugging the thin ribbony strings away from her hips.
"Got some new things... wanted to be sure I was prepared," and she smirked. Hermione Granger smirked at him!
He audibly sighed.
His hair was completely plastered to his head, made shaggier and longer and messier by the rain's weight. And hers... was impossible. Somehow thicker and heavier and darker than ever. And he was tossed back into that bloody incredible memory he carried of her climbing into the shower with him the morning he'd left.
...what were her hands doing now? !
Her fingers brushed once, twice, over his nipples. He vibrated with pleasure, and he had no choice but to tug those tiny little knickers of hers towards his own body, bringing their hips together again, but completely undoing the ribbon on the right side, leaving the sheer fabric bent down on that same side, ribbon hanging limp down her thigh and reminding him of one of those brilliant stocking suspenders he'd told her he was in love with the one night she'd worn them around the inn they'd stayed at til hours past check out.
He crushed her lips with a sloppy kiss, made more so by heavy water droplets trickling down her cheeks like tears, though he was assured of their true back story by the lack of salt mixed into the water he tasted. Her hands desperately clutched the elastic of his boxers, moving around and tucking the edge down at the same time. She was moaning and sighing and breathing so quickly into his mouth, and his tongue met hers, retreating quickly before meeting again.
He finally sucked his lips away, and she dropped down again, sliding against the wall and bending her knees. Every muscle in his body contracted as her face passed the top hem of his soaked boxers, sure she could make out every line and definition of what waited underneath, trying its absolute best to break free.
She slid her hands up his thighs, under the wet cotton clinging to his skin for dear life. And his legs suddenly remembered his exhaustion from earlier, as worked up as he was now, and he had to get her on the ground. Her fingers were tugging, his boxers were dropping and he wasn't honestly sure if he could handle standing upright if she tried anything else...
"Hermione..." he exhaled, and when she grinned up at him, he knew she understood. He pulled her to the right as his knees bent of their own accord. He ushered her with as much grace as possible onto his laid out robes, and just as she was lying back, he wrapped an arm around her waist to pause her action, pulling her tight against him as he tilted his head down over her bushy hair-covered shoulder to swallow and give his shaking hands a visual guide to unfasten her bra.
He worked fluidly, effortlessly, and he paused to be impressed with his speed, especially given the recent weeks without rehearsal, but then she was on her back, and her bra was slipping down either shoulder, and she was writhing against his drenched robes, and he could see so much of her peeking out from under her half-open knickers and descending bra cups. Rain splashed against her tight stomach, rolling side to side as she adjusted her body, stretching out before him. She parted her legs, and it was simply an instinct now to move between them on sight. She tossed her useless bra away before his chest met hers, giving him a shock of full skin contact, the silver scars that swirled up his arms almost glowing as he seized for a moment before collapsing against her.
He started his routine worship at her mouth, his lips parting hers. But he moved quickly to her neck, open mouth against the tiny scar that remained from a time that seemed so distant and terrifying. He was able, now, and with much practice, to look at it and not feel the bile rise as his hatred and terror resurfaced over a memory and a time that had looked so destitute. If he'd lost her...
A ghost beneath him would be now, and a broken everything if... if...
But she tugged his hair a bit too hard and he winced with pain-pleasure before dropping his head down lower, lower...
'What ifs?', successfully vanquished.
He kissed his way down her breastbone, sucking sparkling rain water from her brilliantly smooth skin. He groaned against her as his mouth moved lower still, inches from her belly button, his freckled hands gliding with ease over her wet breasts, counting each delicate rib with his fingertips. He trailed his tongue down the invisible line from belly button to top-of-knickers, and then, he swiftly moved left, attaching his teeth to the end of a ribbon bow, the only remaining obstacle he could see between her naked body and his hungry eyes. He tugged, jerking his head back, and as the tie gave way, she arched her back... and as he shivered from the rise of her breasts and the backwards tilt of her neck, her knickers fell away completely, and he had only a moment before her hand was in his hair again, squeezing and pulling.
"Ron..." he heard her sigh through the sound of the continuing downpour. And the orange glow of the sun on the horizon was now so brilliant, reflected off the gleaming surface of her pale skin, that he was momentarily stunned motionless, palms flat against her thighs.
He wanted to taste every inch of her slick skin, to feel parts of her that were impossible to truly feel, to somehow exist inside of her and know what it was like to be perfect. The unattainable nature of his desire left him but one choice, one chance to feel that pure proximity, the moment when they merged and were no longer each other all alone but each other together.
Her hand was on the waistband of his boxers again, and he slid them down and discarded them into the void of everything else outside this impenetrable bubble they'd made right here. But he had to taste her, and he dropped his lips to that stretch of skin between thigh and shin, just inside her left knee. She groaned with pleasure as he pressed his tongue to her delicious skin, dragging it up the inside of her thigh as her stomach pulsed with excited anticipation, hips moving side to side, squirming towards his touch.
And when he was merely an inch from his goal, he pulled back and she protested with a throaty moan, clenching her eyes shut and grasping for him with a blind hand. But he stopped her movements, closed his own hand around hers, and kissed her palm... before readjusting his position and dropping his head between her legs.
She tasted all at once sweeter and more familiar than he could ever have dreamt. It was exactly the taste that he'd longed to discover but had never quite ascertained. And it had been her all along. He pressed a smile to the warmest part of her, closing his eyes as he slipped a shaking hand underneath the small of her back, right where it arched away from his robes, on the ground beneath them. Her legs slid over his shoulders, and it was suddenly much easier to reach her. He trembled against the ground as his left hand curved to fit perfectly around the right side her naked bum, sliding down so slowly to fit along the contours of her slick thigh.
Somewhere distant, he heard her speak. And though he couldn't make out her strained words, her meaning was clear. She was begging him, asking him for something he instinctively knew she needed him to do. So with aching reluctance, he removed his tongue and lips from their former occupation and slid her legs off of his shoulders. Her glistening eyes met his and he swallowed as unqualified love and lust merged into one.
Without pause, he covered her with his own body and crushed her mouth with his, shutting his eyes as her thighs slid smoothly up his hips, muscles clutching him and forcing him closer. His tongue slipped past her lips, rolling over the hot curves of the inside of her mouth, and she trembled furiously underneath him as his weight compressed her fully into the ground.
The thought of her flawless taste now mixing within their joined mouths registered deep in the recesses of Ron's brain, and he knew that it would be detrimental to his endurance if he focused on it very much. But she shifted her lips away from his before he could go too far, and he cracked open his eyes to look into hers. He smiled so softly as she studied his face, rain showering his fringe, hair positively stuck to his skin.
"I can't even tell you how much I've missed you," she breathed.
"Neither can I," he answered, an easy truth slipping out between his lips, though he was far too focused on her words to think much about his own. It was as if every molecule in her body was speaking for her, the heat and the chill somehow one and the same, sparking between their bodies and proving words honestly unnecessary.
Her wet thighs rubbed against his hips, and he shuddered down into her, no use resisting. His muscles rolling and clenching as he buried himself within her, much faster than he had expected, and with shocking ease. He dropped his head, muffling his surprise cry by pressing his open mouth against her neck.
She arched her back, pushing her chest somehow even tighter against his, and her cry was much more audible.
"Ron!" shouted through stray strands of his hair, a rumble through her chest and abdomen that he was sure he somehow felt from his position inside of her, vibrations traveling from her own sound through to his being.
He took only a moment to recover, to lie enveloped within her quivering arms, before he slid his lips across her jaw and moved once more between her legs. Days of anger and frustration and exhaustion abruptly disintegrated, washed away by the rain, soothed by the feeling of being whole again. She moved up against him just as he moved down into her, deeply fusing their bodies time after time, repetitive reminders of who they were. His purpose shone back as he looked into her eyes again, breathing hotly against her wet, skin.
She slid her hands up his spine, bending elbows and clamping his broad shoulders to secure him above her. He moved a hand along the ground to rest curved over the top of her head, palm brushing her wet hair off her forehead.
He wanted to freeze time as her eyes met his again, made so much more consuming by the connection of their bodies, by the way she was moving beneath him, tiny cries escaping her as he touched her forehead with his own.
"Herrmiiione..." he whispered, voice caught by a light breeze, by the now-soft patter of rain around them. And he muffled her response with his swollen mouth against hers, eyes drifting shut. Her left foot glided down the back of his thigh, and he shuddered against her as he opened his eyes again to find her gazing right back up at him, lips still joined.
The muscles in his arms clenched tight as he struggled to hold himself up, dropping his face to Hermione's neck as her fingernails scratched their way down his back.
"...love..." he heard her say as the world blazed freely behind his closed eyes.
It began at his toes, and traveled upwards through his body, an earthquake through his veins. He felt hers too, colliding with his somewhere near the center of their joined chests.
And then he was quite still. And he felt her lungs deflate with a heavy exhale.
He gathered her as he rolled over onto his back, limbs twisted together and chaotic. Her nose burrowed against his jaw, and he grinned as his eyes fluttered shut.
"Bloody hell..." he breathed, shivering with contentment.
The rain had stopped, though he wasn't sure when it had happened. He only realized now as they rested, as life outside their little world slowly came back into focus. It was fully morning now, the sun burning brightly through the alley, cutting through the gray clouds of earlier. And if he strained his ears, he could hear some distant mumble of life, of the world awakening.
Hermione laughed happily, and he squeezed her tight as her chest rumbled against his side.
"Goodnight," Ron teased, sighing lazily as Hermione lifted her head to stare down at him, smirking.
She pushed away from him and he pouted as she sat up fully, looking over her shoulder at him where he remained motionless on his back.
"So sorry to disturb you," she began, poking his side with her index finger, "but the town is waking up, and I don't particularly fancy them all finding us here, sunning our naked skins in their quaint little alleyway."
"Not to mention this," he said, gesturing to his hipbone where tiny sparks of electric light were quietly crackling.
Hermione arched an eyebrow.
"Don't reckon Muggles have ever seen anything like that," Ron said, actually suppressing a yawn. He hadn't felt so happy, so peaceful, since he'd left Hermione, weeks ago.
Hermione tutted playfully and her other eyebrow lifted to meet its partner.
"Your pale freckly arse, you mean?" she asked, grinning as she stretched her arms up over her head.
He opened his mouth to complain, but her body arched back as she extended her muscles... and words drifted away amidst the warm air between them. But as she straightened out again, she squirmed as she tried to reach a hand up her back, nails raking across her skin.
"Got a scratch?" Ron sighed out, captivated by her every movement.
"Itch, Ron. It's itch, you mean."
Ron's lazy eyes drooped, but he managed to hold them open and sit up behind her, steadying himself with a hand on her hip.
"Where-" he began, finally succumbing to a yawn, "-is it?"
"Wore you out, did I?" Hermione laughed.
"Absolutely," he said, resting his shoulder against her bare back.
"Right about there, actually," she said, and he puzzled his way through her statement before rubbing his shoulder against her. "Yeah, there."
He slid back just far enough to reach a hand up between them, scratching lightly at the spot down between her shoulder blades, just out of her reach. She leaned into his touch, encouraging him to scratch harder. And he did. And she moaned, satisfied.
"Oh, much better," she breathed.
"You're welcome," he smiled as he stopped, palm resting against her skin.
Disruption came in the form of voices, echoing from somewhere down the main street. Hermione sucked in a breath and looked over her shoulder fully to meet Ron's eyes.
"Good luck with your shirt," she said, grimacing. "I think I may have ripped it..."
"Yeah..." She looked so adorably apologetic, and he was forced to kiss her nose and mouth in quick succession.
"I think we're even after the destruction I caused to your jeans' zipper."
She pushed away from him, stood, and he found it hard to breathe all over again. The sun gleamed against her still-wet skin, sparkling at the tips of her breasts and over her smooth shoulders.
Slightly overwhelmed, he stood before her, head bent down over her.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too," she grinned, tilting back to look up at him.
"Now, take me to a bed," and he began to quickly collect their discarded clothing.
"And some food?" Hermione joked as Ron handed her her soaked and wrinkled shirt.
"So much food," Ron nodded. "It's going to be disgusting."
She shook her head and rolled her eyes.
"And Ron," Hermione added, voice suddenly more firm and authoritative.
"Hm?" he questioned as he slipped on his boxers and got to work on his trousers.
"Your 'scratches' need Essence of Dittany and bandages," she said, hands on her hips, clothed only in her half-tied knickers and clingy, drenched t-shirt.
He smiled broadly at the sight of her, knowing that just now he'd agree to anything she could possibly ask him to do. He was a sucker for her, lost in her, and he'd never felt more perfect.
He reached down for his robe, dusted it off, wrung it out, and draped it over Hermione as she was now trying to secure her jeans despite the torn zipper. She looked up at him with a soft smile and somehow managed to blush at his chivalry, even after what they'd just done, even though his robe was filthy and soaked through and was probably the cause for her renewed shivers...
Ron slid his arms into his useless shirt and took her hand.
He kissed her temple and she kissed his chin, and they turned towards the main road, fiery rays of morning sun beating down against their backs as they walked. He nearly bounced with an overabundance of relief as her arm slid around his slim waist, realizations of home colliding within him.
"It's so fucking good to be home," he sighed, crushing her against him, arm around her shoulders.
"I know," she sighed in return, "it is."