Summary: Hermione's got Ron trying on a new pair of jeans, much to his dismay.
Characters/Pairings: Ron/Hermione, Harry
Genre: Humor, Fluff
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, suggestiveness
Word Count: 1,341
Can the Order post to Tumblr?: Yes
If yes, your Tumblr username: heartsamongstars
Ron Weasley stared at his reflection in the mirror in dismay. His eyebrows were drawn together in a deep frown, and his normally cheery blue eyes were troubled.
He looked like a bloody twat. Honestly, if he didn’t love this woman so much, he would have spouted a very loud and very firm no. His dignity was on the line here, after all.
Ah, yes, and that was her now.
“How are you doing in there, love?” she continued. “Is everything fitting all right?”
He nodded, still staring at himself, and adjusted the denim trousers that were molded snugly against his body. Oh, yes, everything fit. In fact, the ensemble was a little too fit, if you asked him. Hell, it was so fit, he could practically see the outline of his—
“You never answered me.”
“I’m sorry, Hermione. What was your question again?”
There was a slight pause, and she chuckled. He noticed the outline of her shadow move from behind the curtain, and before he could protest, dainty fingers grasped the fabric and pushed it aside as she stepped into the crowded dressing room.
“Well, I was asking how everything fit, but you took so bloody long to answer, I thought I’d just come and see for myself.” She paused, eyes widening as she took in his appearance. Her mouth opened slightly, and her gaze traveled from his foot all the way to the top of his apple-colored hair. “Oh, wow, Ron, you look…” She trailed off, and a pink flush found its way across her cheekbones.
She had never seen him in a getup like that before. His shirt was stretched tautly over his chest, the sleeves molding against his biceps and shoulders so precisely that she could clearly see the effects of his new Quidditch career. The same could be said for his abdomen. Until that moment, she had not known that they made shirts that fit so tightly against skin. Due to his training, he was quickly gaining solid muscle underneath, and as she stared at his midsection, she was thrilled to realize that she could just about count every single ripple.
The jeans were what made her blush, though. He wore black jeans that fit snugly against his skin—really, really, indecently snugly. She caught a glimpse of his arse in the mirror; the denim molded across his backside like a second skin, and she literally had to clamp her mouth shut to stifle a quiet hum of interest. Moreover, the fabric must have been rubbing against him in a pleasant way because she could practically see the outline of his…
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I look like a right ponce. Honestly, ‘Mione, this is all your fault! If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have tried on this bloody stupid outfit. I don’t see why I need to look like a damn Muggle just to go to this con—”
He was cut off abruptly when she launched herself at him, tackling him against the mirror with a loud thump. She attacked his lips with hers, swallowing his cry with her mouth as she wrapped her arms around his wide shoulders and pulled his body flush against hers. He responded on instinct, lips moving in tandem with hers even as his eyes widened in pleasant surprise. She wasn’t normally the aggressive one in their relationship, preferring for him to take the lead (which was probably odd, he realized, considering how bossy she was in everyday life), but there were those rare moments when she did try to take the upper hand from him. He relished those moments.
It wasn’t long before he relaxed into her embrace. His arms wrapped around her tiny waist as he brought her closer to him. Her hands tangled into his soft hair, gripping the strands for leverage, and she continued to ravage him with her mouth. She kept pushing him more firmly against the window, as if she was trying to push them straight through the wall, and for a moment, he was worried that she would actually break the mirror.
He didn’t have long to dwell on that possibility, though, because soon enough, her tongue was insistently swiping at his lips, her teeth gently nipping him when he didn’t respond fast enough. Complying, he opened just enough to allow her entrance, and she became even more aggressive, a loud moan, guttural and deep, resonated from her throat as her tongue danced with his. Her hands wandered, first stroking his neck, and then wandering down his chest and toward his shoulders. She squeezed his biceps, and at the same time, hoisted her leg around his waist to draw her pelvis flush against his. There was definitely no mistaking his excitement now.
With a soft growl, Ron gripped her small waist tightly, lifting her into the air and pulling her legs completely around his waist. He switched their positions, turning them so that her back was pressed against the mirror, and all she could do to keep from collapsing was tighten her legs around him. She moaned at his show of dominance, lips wrenching from his to catch a breath, and he took the opportunity to trail his mouth down her neck, peppering her warm skin with nips and kisses. Her head fell back against the mirror with a dull thump, and her breathing quickened.
In the back of his mind, Ron realized that they should really probably stop before things got out of hand.
But she just felt so…
“Oh, my God, Ron! Hermione! Crikey, can you two not keep your hands off each other for ten minutes? Honestly, I just left to get a drink, and I wasn’t even gone that long, and I come back to find you two dry-humping like dogs in heat!”
The amorous couple hurriedly broke apart, faces flushed from the lack of oxygen, and bodies warm from excitement. And Ron, well, he was—
“Ron! For Merlin, Morgana, and Circe’s sake, mate!”
Realizing the extremely awkward position he had put himself in (well, to be fair, it was mostly Hermione’s fault), Ron quickly turned his back away from Harry, craning his head to smile sheepishly at his best friend.
“Sorry about that, mate. We didn’t mean to get that carried away.”
“He’s right, Harry,” Hermione chimed in. Her cheeks were still adorably flushed, and her eyes bright from their activities. She was admirably trying to calm her breathing, small shoulders rising and lowering rapidly as she took deep breaths. “It was my fault, really. I sort of attacked him! I mean—I didn’t, oh, anyway. Sorry you had to see that.”
The green-eyed man scoffed and shook his head in amusement, allowing himself a small chuckle as he shrugged his leather jacket over his shoulders. “Whatever, you two. We need to go now, though, or we’re going to miss the beginning of the concert.” He took another glance at Ron, and his lips curved in a smirk. “But you should probably get some new pants first, Ron. Those ones are obviously too tight for you. You’ve gone and ripped a hole in the arse.”
Hermione gasped as she noticed the tear at the same time. “Oh, Ron! Was that my fault? I’m so sorry! We’ll have to pay for that, then, won’t we?”
Ron’s eyes widened, hands instinctively going to clutch his bum.
Well, that would explain the sudden draft.
He looked to Hermione, dismay in his eyes, and was slightly affronted to find her stifling her laughter behind a closed fist.
“Hush, witch,” he growled. “And to answer your question, yes, this is entirely your fault.”
He lunged for her, tackling her to the floor of the dressing room, and delighted in her shrieks of laughter as his mouth sought hers once more.
Clearly, they were never going to make it to this concert on time.