A/N mugglemama and redheadsarehot made a joint donation for a fic about how sexy Ron's freckled hips are.

Now THAT I can do!

FYI this is the censored version. Follow the link to my Live Journal from my profile for all uncensored fics.

From the Clutter to the Stars

High shelves were sexy.

She put everything on high shelves.

Things she would use on a daily basis. Things she needed to lay her hands on at all times. If she could have kept her toothbrush on a high shelf she would have done it.

Ron would throw everything on the floor and she'd huff and grumble and then climb up onto a footstool and put it away on the highest level possible.

She was a clever girl, Hermione.

"Have you seen my watch?" Ron called out as he moved back and forth through the flat with lolloping strides.

"Where did you leave it?" Hermione was watching him over the top of her book.

"I've looked everywhere I would've put it and its not there," Ron said, casting a reproachful look at all visible surfaces.

Hermione did her best to look as if his search was a distraction to her real focus, the book, as she casually suggested a place she might have 'tidied it away'.

"Why are you always doing that?" Ron huffed as he looked to the top shelf of the cabinet she'd just told him his watch might be.

"You're just so messy all the time. I have to put things away in a safe place so you don't lose them."

Ron stretched up and felt around on the shelf for the watch while Hermione's eyes fixated upon the exposed strip of freckled skin that was revealed as his t shirt rode up.

"But when you move stuff from where I put it, it becomes lost!" Ron grumbled.

Hermione was still looking at him over the top of her book. She gripped it tightly and bit her lip. Every time he had to lift his arms above shoulder level the hem of whatever he was wearing would display a glimpse of belly, a flash of back or sometimes underwear, and when she was really lucky she got to indulge in the protruding hipbones sliding free of his waistband.

His torso was very long but his waist so very narrow. Her hands weren't that big but sometimes she felt sure she could place her hands on his waist and get her fingers to meet at his back.

His body fascinated her. He wasn't scrawny, there was nothing unpleasant to look at regarding his body at all, but his proportions were so other worldly. It was as if he had been designed by an artist, a sculptor, who extended the perfect muscular male form onto an elegant frame and stretched and tightened it into a lean giraffe of a man.

He could be clumsy, when he was younger he was gangly and clattered about the place as if he was wearing somebody else's feet, but some things were so graceful too.

Playing Quidditch and growing more confident about his range of movement had done him a world of good. He'd still recline on the sofa like a stilt-walker who had just thrown down the leg extensions in a careless manner as he sprawled across every available space on the cushions, but watching him dress and undress had become hypnotic to her.

Obviously Ron undressing was a masterpiece to behold but dressing? She had stared at him stepping into loose running bottoms and a threadbare sweatshirt and as soon as he'd padded through to the living room to find his trainers she'd had to touch herself under the bed sheets, holding her breath so he couldn't hear what she was doing.

His stomach curved inwards. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him and the modest muscles he had pulled his form into a tight package. She couldn't understand how he could store all the food he ate in such a compact little space. His stomach felt so solid and firm under her hand, nothing like her own.

She was soft and had squashy bits. His whole body was hard, he had sharp corners and tantalising stick-y out bony bits. She'd lost herself trailing kisses along his collarbones in the past, his jaw was constantly begging to be caressed as she leaned in to a kiss. The angle and the lines of it were a perfect fit for the palm of her hand. Her thumb could graze his cheek while they occupied their busy mouths with something other than talking.

And they could really talk!

But she was becoming obsessed with his hips. Those jutting wing tips of pelvic bone pushing out against freckled skin. They'd sneak out and tease her with appearances atop the waistband of his jeans. They'd be the only things holding up the loose joggers with the elastic gone and nothing else to keep them in place. He'd wander through the flat, dripping wet from the bath, with a towel tied around his waist and glistening droplets slithering down his body until slipping under the towel. Tiny rivers would follow the grooves on either side of his hollow belly and she'd have to do something.

She was forced to do something.

It was out of her hands really...that was part of the problem, she wanted her hands on him. She needed to hold those hips, grip them firmly, and press them into a mattress or a wall or herself. She'd get so carried away sometimes that she'd leave bruises.

He'd be wearing a towel and being wet and glossy and covered in rivulets that dragged her eyes down with them and then, once her eyes were on his hipbones, she had to get him to do something otherwise she'd wet herself with frustration.

So she'd ask him to grab a book down from the top shelf and he'd reach up...the towel would ride down a little way...his hipbones would poke up above the white, fluffy fabric...his body would extend with graceful artistry...and she'd launch herself at him and snog him into the wall with his hands pinned above his head.

She'd had erotic dreams about Ron wearing nothing but a loincloth, swinging down from the branch of a tree before her, and then letting her hook her thumbs inside the lose material and pulling it away. She'd always wake up sweaty and randy before the cloth exposed anything and would then roll onto him and snog him awake.

"Found it," he said as he dropped his arm back down, watch in his hand, and looked back at her with a huff of resignation. "How do you even get my stuff up there? You can't even reach."

"It can't be lost if it's out of the way," she said with a crack in her voice.

Ron looked at her with narrowed eyes for a moment. He ruffled his hair, something his always did when she was staring at him, and then gave a tut before wandering out of the room.

"The woman's mad."

She smiled to herself, knowing that Ron was about too look at himself in the mirror to make sure he hadn't got a spot or a strange sticky up bit of hair. He always felt something must be wrong with his appearance if he was being so closely scrutinised.

She leaned to peek around the door at him and jumped as he reappeared and looked at her with amused suspicion.

"So should I look for my shoes in the attic or something?" He asked her.

"Oh, er, no." Hermione jumped up from the chair and wandered over to the airing cupboard to open the door and bend over to rummage through his massive shoes for the right ones.

She suddenly felt an odd sensation and turned to look over her shoulder. Ron was leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded, his head tilted to one side, and a lopsided smile pulling his lips wide as he stared at her arse.

"You...are you looking at my rear end, Ron Weasley?"

"Aw, you named your arse after me!" He said with a chuckle.

"Are you, Ron Weasley, looking at my bottom?" Hermione said, firmly.

"Might be," he said with a one shouldered shrug.

"Is that..." she rose from her stooping position and turned to face him. "Is that why you're always leaving stuff all over the floor?"

"Might be," he said, grinning a bastard of a grin now.

"Right," she said, flustered, flattered and furious, "for that I expect you to grab a feather duster and clean the tops of all the book shelves, all the cabinets, all the curtain rails...everything I can't reach, and you're to do it without magic!"

"That's not fair!" Ron protested, mirth dropping away from his face like a stone.

"I've been picking up after you all this time, don't talk to me about fair!"

"Well I've been reaching up and getting things down for you for just as long and...and..." he stalled and then looked up at the bookcase he'd been directed to dust.

Hermione needed to distract him so she summoned the feather duster and pushed it into his hand before clapping her own to make him jump to attention.

"Chop chop, get on with it."

He looked at her and seemed to be trying to read her flushed expression. He didn't say a word, always something to worry about with him, and then set about dusting the tops of every piece of furniture in the living room.

Satisfied that she hadn't given herself away, Hermione sat back down in her chair and picked the book up to continue pretending to read while watching Ron stretching up and his jeans dragging down.

He swept the duster over the wooden cabinet and then rubbed his hands against his t shirt, glancing over his shoulder and catching her watching him. She looked back at her book and cleared her throat.

"Don't let me stop you," she said with a sniff.

She didn't see his expression but she felt a change in the atmosphere between them. It was more than just the dust rolling around the air in the room, dancing in the beams of sunlight and settling elsewhere, but she took a full minute before she dared ogle Ron's hipbones again.

He was really stretching to bend his arm around the back of a shelf to clean behind it. There were little grunts and puffs while he pushed himself onto his toes and extended himself as much as he could.

She crossed her legs and held the book closer to her face, eyes determinately remaining over the top of the pages and fixated upon him.

He dropped back down onto the balls of his feet and cracked his bones with a graceful yawn that was almost balletic in its execution. He accompanied this with a magnificent groan and sigh combination.

Then he held the bamboo handle of the duster between his teeth and turned to face her. She snapped her eyes back down to the book once again.

"'Urg-ni-anee?" He said before removing the duster from his mouth.

"Yes?" She said, staring at the crease in the centre of the book.

"Good book?"

"Very interesting, yes."

"Haven't you read that before?"

"I like to re-read good books."

"So good you read it twice eh?" Ron said with a smirk.


"And so easy to read you can even do it upside-down."

She looked at the words on the page properly. She was, she was reading the book upside-down.

She looked, cringing, over the book and back at Ron. He was really grinning now, the sod.

"So high shelves are the best place to keep things eh?"

"I stand by what I said," she responded, primly.

"Maybe I should build you some more," Ron offered, still visibly amused as he stretched up and pointed to a bare spot on the wall, "how about here?"

She looked at where he was indicating and then gulped as her eyes followed their natural path down to the exposed skin and pointy bones on show as his t shirt rode up and his jeans slipped down a fraction.

"Or are you more interested in hanging onto here?" Ron placed both hands onto his hips and chuckled.

"At least I ogled you while tidying things up!" She snapped.

"I was late for work the other day because my keys were on top of the wardrobe." Ron said, advancing on Hermione like an animal on the prowl and plucking the upside-down book from her hands and tossing it away, carelessly.

"Hey!" Hermione's arousal wasn't enough to keep the outrage at throwing a book around at bay.

"Who would keep keys on a wardrobe?" Ron ignored her protest and knelt before her. "Who would look for keys on a wardrobe?" His hands settled upon her knees and he looked into her eyes in that disarming 'Ron' way.

"So, you got me," Hermione said, leaning forward and licking her lips, "I like how your body looks when you reach for things so I kept making you reach. What are you going to do about it?"

Ron arched his eyebrows and his lips curled wickedly.

"Reach..." he whispered as he leaned in and kissed her lips, softly.