Title: Itchy Fingers
Music: Draw You - Daniel Bedingfield
Disclaimer: I own nothing!
Summary: He loved to draw her. [Dean/Hermione - OneShot]
She had the kind of beauty he was sure too many overlooked. He couldn't really complain because when he thought it through, should anybody else see her the way he did, he might just lose the most incredible part of his life. Her beauty came out best in a certain dim lighting, with charcoals and overused paint brushes scattered in front of him. When his muse was at an all time high and he had a canvas before him, waiting to be filled with whatever his mind came up with then.
Sometimes, she didn't even know he was drawing her. She'd lay there, unknowing, showing a side of herself that only he was able to see. It might be early morning when she was just waking up, blinking away sleep and squinting at the overwhelming sun coming through the shades. She might kick off the blanket, letting her long, bare legs tangle in the sheets or lay across the bed in an all too tantalizing sight. Or perhaps it was mid-afternoon and she was sipping a cuppa, the light raining down on her just right as she stared out the window of their flat, eyes taking in the sights as if it were new each day. But his favorite was at night, with the fire warm behind her, a stack of books sitting tall by her favorite thread-bare arm chair. She'd be holding whichever book caught her interest this time against her thighs. It'd be heavy and dusty and when he painted it, it would leave her breathless and speechless as she gazed at just how accurate it would look. And she'd stroke it with her fingers as if she expected the book to jump right out for her to read once more.
And then she'd look across at everything else, at the facial expression he caught of hers. Chewing her lip, nose wrinkled, brow furrowed just slightly, eye lashes brushing her cheeks. Her hair would be the true spotlight stealer though. With its wild curls and thick waves, falling all around her shoulders and nearly shielding her face. There'd be an elastic trying to hold it back and failing and she'd have a curl fall across her eye but she'd ignore it, so used to her hair's ways by now. She'd notice the way he caught her wrinkled night dress, how it slid up her thighs in a way that drew the eye but kept her modesty all the same. And she'd smile at him, that way she always did, and give him the best grade she could offer.
Painting wasn't his favorite, however. Though he did love seeing her come to life in all the colors he had picked up over his lifetime. He was almost certain he had more paints than she had books, though she'd certainly scoff at the fact. But it was drawing that he really loved. In drawing, he could get all the tiny, almost unseen details. He could get the six freckles across the bridge of her nose and he could better shade the quirk of her lips that appeared even when she was angry. And he could draw her hair to perfection when he had a pencil in hand. The way it frizzed and furled and seemed to take on a life of its own, perched atop her beautiful head.
When he drew her, his hands came to life. They seemed to move of their own volition, across the paper or whatever lay in front of him. He'd once tarnished a book of hers, opened the cover and just started drawing until his fingers ached and she'd noticed just what he'd done. But they'd itch -his fingers, of course- and his body would tighten with the need to take what was in his mind or what his eyes had been caught up in and put it on something, whatever was closest. She started putting her books away after that, never left them near him anymore. And she began buying large piles of paper that she'd put in places she knew he frequented. There was a drawing pad in their bedroom, in the top drawer. There was a stack of papers in the bathroom drawer, right next to the face clothes. When she had noticed he'd gotten the inspiration to draw her nude as she bathed behind the shower curtain, he didn't know, but it was a fascinating piece when he'd finished and she obviously wasn't so much annoyed as she was encouraging. He found papers in the kitchen and at her desk, by his favorite chair out on the balcony and next to the couch where he often laid to watch the telly.
And he'd used so much of the paper she offered, he sometimes wondered how she could possibly afford to pay for it. His girlfriend was brilliant, nobody could deny that, but they both had rather modest jobs despite their background. He'd taken to working for the Daily Prophet but his true passion always lay in his art. She always encouraged him to go somewhere with it, but while he enjoyed sharing it with her, he'd rather keep his own personal masterpieces just between them. Not to mention the fact that she was often what his hands itched to trace and to sell anything that showed others what true beauty lie inside her would be encouraging chaos.
She had fallen in love with a nearly out-of-business book store that specialized in both Muggle and Wizarding literature which she then tried to turn around. It was getting plenty of business nowadays but most of the money made went to either fixing up the shop or buying more books. While they weren't rolling in galleons, they were both more than content with the life they lived.
He still remembered the day that he first realized she was more than what she seemed. It was shortly after the war and his stint of being on the run was in the past, along with the safe house that Shell Cottage had become for him before the true battle broke out. He'd just finished celebrating the defeat of Voldemort with Seamus and a few others and was on his way home when he spotted her. She had her coat held tight around her, a hand clasped around the front to keep out the chilly wind. Her hair was being blown all over, looking ready to suffocate her as it continued to keep her blind to where she was going.
Anybody else might've laughed but he... He took one look at her and immediately began drawing her in his head. He caught the way the wind blew her frantic curls all around, he noticed how her knuckles had gone white holding her coat so tight and how she stomped her foot as if to hope it might bring an end to her distress. And then, all of a sudden, the wind died down enough that her hair was let loose from its disarray, letting her see and breathe and walk with as much dignity as she could muster. And without a pause in step, he walked right over to her and blurted out something he was almost certain any other witch would've slapped him for. "Can I draw you at your most vulnerable?"
Any other bloke might've immediately taken back what he'd just said, especially staring this very well-known witch in the eye, but his artist's heart wouldn't let him. Not when a true masterpiece was right before him.
Quirking a brow, she replied, "Does that ever work?"
Letting out a chuckle, he shook his head. "It wasn't a line. I... I draw, I... I just saw you and- and it was magnificent and..." He laughed, feeling foolish. "You probably think I'm mental but... It was beautiful just then... Your hair it was... The most incredible sight I think I've ever seen."
Pursing her lips, she rolled her eyes. "You know, if I hadn't known you in school, I would've thought you were just feeding me nonsense. But, the real way to a woman's beauty, be it for artistic means or otherwise, is probably to start out small." She let out a small smile before stepping past him.
Unable to let the moment pass, he turned around and called out, "Dinner then? Or lunch? Is that smaller?"
Chuckling, she looked back at him. "I'll meet you for tea and then we can discuss this fetish you have for my hair..."
Grinning, he nodded. "Tea it is!"
She simply turned back around and apparated away.
With a happy sigh and a new muse in mind, he left for home, unknowing of just what lay in the future.
And what a future it was. Four years later and that tea had turned into a few dinners and a couple lunches and what had begun as a portrait that would capture her true essence became a relationship that he never wanted to end. It became long nights spent in his flat with her wearing very little and sprawled atop whatever caught his eye so he could get every angle and every curve with his dexterous fingers. And those nights turned into mornings where her hair was even more of a mess after she'd spent it rolling across the bed and throwing her head back as he pleasured her in every way he knew possible. With his fingers and his mouth and languid kisses across her entire form that left her shaking and pleading for more. And he loved her mouth, the words that came out of those sweet, pink lips. He wished he could draw her moans or the way she cried out his name; he wished he could capture that ecstasy on paper and admire it day in and day out.
He had tried to draw it a million times before. Of the way her brow crinkled and her nostrils flared; how her fingers dug into his shoulders or her hips rose in succession with his; how her breasts lifted as if filled with her cries and her desire and the need that drew him deeper. He drew fluidly and caught shadows and indents, but never could he truly capture the glint in her eye when she looked up at him in the throes, when she stared desperately inside of him. He could never quite get down the way he felt her heart hammering out of her chest and into his. He tried and drew and painted but every time, though better than the last, it never quite caught what was there, between them.
So visceral and carnal and deep and all encompassing that it only lasted during those moments. When her nails bit into his skin and her body arched into air beneath him, when her damp hair stuck to her face and her swollen lower lip broke away from her clenched teeth. When she sobbed his name and tightened all around him, falling apart and taking him with her into the farthest reaches of perfection. Where they were boundless; flying across skies of such color not even his limitless amounts of paint could match them. And then they'd fall, back to the ground, to the comfort of their bed or the hard top of the kitchen table or the cold, wet shower wall and sometimes even that favorite chair of his out on the balcony. And they'd lay together, boneless, clutching one another, their thick breaths the only thing to fill the room now. He'd kiss her shoulder or her neck or the breast his teeth marked, just coming down from the high.
And now he sat, like so many nights before, with his pad in his hand and his fingers covered in charcoal. His head was tipped to one side, his leg flung over the arm of his chair, and his eyes set solely on her, sitting across from him with that all-knowing curve to her lips. She lifted a brow at him, as if urging him to do something. And he waited, watched to see what she might do next.
She was perched on the front of her desk; a stack of worn books on one side of her and a mess of financial papers on her left. She wore only one of his dress shirts, the arms rolled up to her elbows and the tail ends brushing the top of her knees. Her legs were swinging front and back as she leaned forward just slightly, her hands gripping the edge of the desk. His eyes narrowed; what was she doing?
She lifted one leg and then the other, placing her feet where her hands were, spread far apart, thighs taut, and giving him quite the view from where he sat. He shifted in his seat, his long body suddenly feeling entirely too stifled. She slid her hands from the tops of her knees down her thighs, dragging the shirt up with her. She wasn't wearing any knickers and he couldn't complain in the least. He was given a beautiful view of every fold she possessed and he couldn't help but be reminded of the time he told her how much he loved drawing that particular part of her anatomy.
He'd been shagging her up against one of the bookcases in the store, hands wrapped around her thighs, holding her up as he pinned her harder against the shelves with each thrust. His panting blew her hair out of his face and away from her ear and he'd taken the chance to whisper just how much he loved her sweet slit; how beautifully perfect it was to shag and draw and just simply look at. Had she not been so involved in what they were doing, she might've blushed; instead she only squeezed him as he slid deep inside her.
And now, here she was, displaying all that he so loved; in every way, shape and form. He loved sinking inside of it, drawing it, licking and kissing every sweet, delicious inch of it. He loved her scent and her soft, warmth; he loved how she felt around his tongue, his length and his fingers as they pumped inside her quivering tightness. In fact, he was quite sure no other woman on the earth was made quite as incredibly as her. And he knew she'd disagree; she'd tell him he was being ridiculous and that it was only because it was them that he said it, but he refused to bow down to that idea. She may not know it, but she was in possession of the most beautiful object there ever was.
One of her hands rose away from her heat, fingers just barely skimming her upturned breast before her fingers took the top button of the shirt between them and undid it. One by one, she let the shirt fall apart until it just barely hid her breasts from his eyes and left her flat stomach open to him. She was beautiful; probably no more than usual, but whenever he found himself so engrossed with her, it was hard to believe he'd ever laid eyes on her and managed to take them off.
There was beauty in the chaos; of her hair, mostly. But there was also a grand elegance to the wrinkle of her nose when she disagreed or the twist of her lips when she was angry. There was something attractive about the way her hand found her hip just before she tore someone's head off or how her foot tapped when she was just waiting for the right moment to strike. So she wasn't as soft as he might feel her features made her; she didn't come off as sweet and gentle or calm in nature. But he loved that about her; the wildness of her hair only agreed with her strong personality. Of her will to be more and see more and create a whole new brilliance for the world to understand.
Her eyes darkened as she stared at him though deep brown eyes surrounded by long black lashes. She wet her lips with her tongue, teeth biting down on her lip for only a split second before releasing it. She showed no signs of insecurity, how could she when she knew how much he loved her; when she'd been there when he thoroughly explored every inch of her. The beauty mark on her bottom, the scar behind her knee, her so-called misshapen feet, the flair of her hips, the rise of her breasts, the delicate ball of her shoulders and the long line of her back. He'd touched and kissed and seen every single part of her and he loved it all.
So she wasn't shy when she slid a hand beneath the cover of the shirt to cup one of her breasts or when she trailed her finger along the open display of her heat. She didn't hide her hiss of pleasure or the way her thighs tightened in response to her touch. She fully embraced it and showed it to him, entirely open to the idea that this might be his new favorite; this might be the piece of art that he spent hours on, mulling over every detail until it was just right, until he had captured every contour and pleasure-filled expression.
But tonight, he wouldn't. His fingers itched, yes, but he put his paper aside and rose from his chair. His jeans hung low on his waist and the end of them dragged along the hardwood beneath his feet. Reaching one arm over his shoulder he gripped the back of his shirt and yanked it up and over his head, shedding it entirely. As he reached her, she looked up at him with a smile; as if she was satisfied she'd outdone his need to draw.
She spread her legs further, inviting him in close. Her hand fell from her breast and her heat, reaching for him, curling around his biceps. He could fell her wet fingers against his arm and leaned in closer until his jean-covered hips were pressed against her intimately. Her eyes fluttered before she lifted them back up to stare intensely into him. Sliding her fingers away from his arms, she trailed them down his chest. He loved this part, seeing her milky white hands against his dark brown torso. Such a drastic difference and yet they fit there; those small hands with delicate wrists and long fingers. She traced the definition of his chest and down across his stomach, her thumbs sliding beneath each indent admiringly before she hooked her fingers around the waist of his jeans.
"What happened to what the artist's heart wants, it gets?" she chastised, teasingly.
She'd done this before; more times than he could count; tried to lure him from his painting or his drawing to come to her. And more than once he'd told her that the itch of his fingers had to be answered before the twitch in his pants. She always laughed, pecked his cheek and let it go. But there were a few times that he hadn't let the moment slip away. Where the yearning for that look on her face, the one he could never quite capture on paper, was too strong to ignore. And this was one of those moments.
Hands gripping her thighs, he drew her legs around his waist. "This artist's heart only wants you..." he murmured.
There was a softness in her eyes then; one that she rarely let show. She told him time and time again that she wasn't a romantic; that much as she loved him, she didn't need the frilly words or declarations or anything of the sort. But there were times when he could see she appreciated them more than she let on and this was one of them.
"And what does this heart want to do with me?" she asked, that mischievous brow of her raised once more.
He twisted his hips just enough to brush against her and she let out a whimper of approval.
"Dean..." she breathed, looking up at him with the same need and desire and want he felt coursing all through him.
His hand rose to cup her cheek, fingers brushing the thick hair he'd come to love so long ago. "Tell me what you want, my muse, and I'll give it to you..."
She tugged on his jeans before sliding her hands around his back and spreading her fingers out as she drew him in close. "Just you."
The magic words.
His lips sought hers with a passion equaled only by her own. And everything else in that moment was lost to them; books and paints and pencils and charcoal were no longer important. There was just him and her, his muse for all eternity. The brilliant, fiery witch that he planned to one day make his wife. And if no one else saw the reason why, he knew it each time he set eyes on her. It was in the frenzy of her hair and the gold flecks in her eyes; it was in that raised brow and those pursed lips; it was the tone of her voice and the touch of her skin. It was everything about her that sparked his fingers into action.
As he yanked the shirt from her, his charcoal tainted fingers left the coloring along her arms and her neck and the white of the crisp fabric. Her pale skin was touched by his art in the same way his itch was renewed with every move she made. Some might call it insanity, this possession she had over his artistry, but he called it love; in its most pure form. She was a field of wild flowers caught in early morning's sun; she was a night sky twinkling high above a dark, sleeping city, unawares; she was a babbling creek that's beauty was only felt by the bed of rocks it rushed across. And he was the man who caught this unseen masterpiece; he was the man who never let it pass him by but instead took it all in for what it was. And she let him; she showed that same appreciation back with each stilling movement she made, letting him capture it as it was, never interrupting the process but instead embracing it.
As her head fell back and her body lifted toward him, his lips caught a taut rosy nipple and suckled it deep inside, tongue twirling and teeth holding it tight. Her blunt nails dug into his back and she made a noise of enjoyment from the back of her throat. One of her hands fell, pushed his pants lower, begging for more of him. And he'd give it to her in time, but first he had to explore and enjoy and capture every one of these angles for future reference. Because it was never truly over; he had to try again and again. He had to capture all the pleasure in every tightening of muscles and gripping of fingers. So when they were done, adorned with perspiration and peppered with kisses and still experiencing the aftershocks of a mind-blowing orgasm, he'd have the look on her face stuck in his mind, and his fingers would itch to try once more, to get it down on that paper in just the right way. But it wouldn't come out right and he knew it. Because those moments were only to be savored when they were happening and so it was with little regret that he knew he must continue to do so, to enjoy and love and take it all in over and over and over again; today and tomorrow and all the days of the future.
He sunk into her with that thought in mind. His eyes fell closed and he dragged in a deep breath that he swore felt like freedom. Her nails scored down his back and legs tightened around his waist as the tilt of her hips asked for more. She always felt so small compared to him; with his long body pressed against her own, much shorter, petite form. Her personality said more than that, made her feel much larger. But in these moments, when it was skin to skin and panting breaths colliding between meeting lips, it was just Dean and Hermione; the artist and the know-it-all; the brilliant mind and the itchy fingers; two lovers and two fighters that found their balance with each other. He had it all, as far as he was concerned. And when the moment came, caught in time, unable to be experienced any other way, he could see in her eyes that she felt the exact same way. He couldn't ask for anything more.