Work Text:
Six Months Later
“Ron!” I scold as we walk up the path to the front door of the Burrow. “You cannot do that in front of your mother!”
“Can’t help it,” he shrugs, shifting the two loaves of bread he baked this morning into his other arm. He tugs me close to his side and whispers, “Your arse is just so jiggly in that skirt.”
I smack his shoulder, but we both laugh. “Glad you like it,” I reply. “But behave.”
We straighten at the front door, Ron’s hand cheekily still on my bum. The fabric of my skirt is thin and flowy, trailing down to my ankles and patterned with small wildflowers. I still wear a cosy jumper on top—for the beginning of May, there’s a bit of a nip to the air today. The weather forecast called for spring storms.
Before either of us can knock, Luna opens the door. Her dirty blonde hair is held back by a tie-dyed kerchief, and flour dusts her brows.
“Luna!” I greet, pulling her in for a hug. “Were you waiting for us?”
Between my tendency to be anxiously early and Ron’s proclivity for procrastination, there’s always a lot of squabbling when it comes to getting ourselves to events on time.
“No, no,” replies Luna sweetly. “Heard laughter out in the garden and knew you two couldn’t be far away.”
Ginny’s head appears just behind Luna’s. “Hermione! Ron!” She pulls me into a tight squeeze, and I embrace my best friend.
“Good to see you again, Gin,” I smile.
After opening night, Ginny and I shouted and hugged, then shouted some more. She was thrilled to hear that Ron and I were together again, and apologetic over “keeping Luna busy” during the musical’s intermission. I, on the other hand, couldn’t believe she hadn’t discussed retiring with me. Ginny shouted back that it was obvious, because why else would she be in Ottery St. Catchpole in the middle of football season? At which point we argued over what counted as noteworthy news to share (“My career doesn’t define my life the way yours does!” she’d said at one point), and how I could get wrapped up in my own problems at times.
We’re okay now, though. Ginny and Luna just moved in together. She calls Ron with frequent updates on their parents, and calls me with entertaining small-town gossip.
Around two months after I went back to the Globe, Ron found a job—a promotion, really—as a fire chief in London. The two of us got a flat together not long after.
Nearly four months of sleepless nights, tears, rejection emails, and Ron’s reassurances culminated in me leaving the Globe. I started at a new theatre last month. They’re known for their creative modernisations of Shakespeare’s works.
My first project is Henry V.
And last week, during a picnic in the sunny spring air, reminiscent of the long summer days under which Ron and I first fell in love, he proposed.
After we called the Weasleys to share the good news—and Mrs. Weasley stopped crying long enough to catch her breath—she informed us that we would be attending an engagement party at the Burrow the following weekend.
I spin the ring around my left finger, still getting used to the feel of it. The band is gold, with a round-cut diamond. It’s simple and elegant. I love it.
“Let me see the ring!” Ginny squeals. She’s already seen endless photos.
“Oh, Ron and Hermione, you’ve arrived!” cries Mrs. Weasley, who bursts into tears at the sight of us. Ron graciously intercepts her, patting her on the back, but she won’t be consoled until I give her my left hand to inspect.
Mr. Weasley gives me a quick hug. “Welcome to the family,” he says, a little apologetically.
I smile. “Thank you.”
After the chaos of arrival, Mr. Weasley returns to his shed to “finish getting the house ready.” Percy, Audrey, and their children will be arriving later this afternoon.
Mrs. Weasley pulls Ron away, putting him to work immediately. “I need your help, your father just can’t seem to figure out the directions…”
Ginny links her arm through mine, pulling me into the kitchen.
Luna returns to the countertop, mixing batter for something fragrant and chocolatey.
“So,” Ginny asks, “How’s the new theatre been?”
“The right choice,” I agree. “You…you gave me some good advice last year.”
“Oh ho ho!” Ginny crows. “Are you admitting that I was right?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, you were right. And how’s your new job going?”
“Swell. Love it. Nice to not be on the road so much.”
“She does a really wonderful job,” affirms Luna. "And I thought you might want to know, Hermione, we're doing Rocky Horror Picture Show at the theatre next."
"Oh," I say with a nod, both impressed at the ambition of this community theatre program and relieved that I'm not on the hook to direct it.
Ginny grins, then leans over to swipe a finger through the batter. Luna gasps and scolds her good-naturedly, but Ginny only giggles and tries to steal another taste.
I leave the two of them laughing as they try to smear batter on one another’s faces, and wander into the dining room.
Mrs. Weasley stands with her hands on her hips and a dish towel in her hand. Ron picks up different shapes of wood and sorts them into piles, a paper sheet of instructions in his hand.
“…with Bill and Fleur having a third on the way, and Percy and Audrey coming round with Little Molly and Lucy so often, we needed a highchair,” Mrs. Weasley explains, gesturing at the boxes full of deconstructed furniture. “And then to replace that chair; Charlie’s dog chewed the leg off when he was here over Christmas holidays. Your father can’t seem to manage it. And your sister hasn’t got the patience for it.”
“Don’t worry, Mum,” Ron says. “I’ve got it. Go finish the stew.”
I let Mrs. Weasley gush over my ring again and kiss my cheek before she heads back into the kitchen to holler at Ginny for taking such a chaotic approach to dessert.
Ron doesn’t seem to notice me, focusing instead on the task at hand. Golden shafts of afternoon light filter in through the dining room windows, fading and glowing as clouds pass across the sky.
“Need help?” I ask.
“Not right now,” Ron replies with a shake of his head. “I’ll let you know if I need you.”
He crouches down, worn-in jeans tight around his small (but firm) bum. There’s a tiny hole near the big toe of his hand-knit socks. He runs his hand through his hair as he grabs what looks like the seat of the highchair and affixes it to a long wooden leg.
Ron looks back at the directions, lips moving as he reads them silently to himself. He rolls the sleeves of his cream cable-knit sweater up his forearms.
I’m mesmerised.
Brows furrowed, he takes a screw held between his lips, then slips a washer over it before adding it to the chair.
I lean on the table across the room. It’s a warm, solid oak, scarred from decades of family dinners. Chairs around it are an eclectic mix of car boot sale finds and newer replacements. A tall grandfather clock chimes in the corner, carved to look like an organ, its hands replaced with roses.
As I watch the man I love engrossed in his task, I feel heat building within me.
In one smooth motion, he tugs the back of the cream cable-knit sweater up and over his head.
A tiny exhale leaves my mouth. His red striped Sheffield United tee clashes horribly with his hair. But the shirt rides up to reveal a strip of lower back muscles before Ron reaches to tug it down. His tattooed arm on full display, I watch his bicep flex as he picks up another chair leg.
Ron catches my eye and grins, two screws still held in his mouth. Then he rubs his jaw, skin scratching against his short beard, and is back to work. He sits on the worn carpet, long fingers nimbly screwing nuts and bolts in before reaching for the Allen key.
I watch his forearms flex as he tightens it further.
My lips part. I let out an involuntary gasp.
Ron bites his lip. He shakes his head slightly in confusion. Then, he reaches back to grab a different piece, his shirt inching up his torso. I eye the trail of hair down his lower abdomen, disappearing into his jeans.
Oh. My. God. I sit in a chair, then shift uncomfortably.
I am obscenely turned on right now.
Ron glances up at me. “All right?”
“Mmhm,” I reply, maybe a little absentmindedly. “More than alright.”
One eyebrow of Ron’s quirks up, but then he’s back to finishing the highchair. It’s taking shape. And I can’t stop watching him, on the verge of drooling, as he builds an Ikea chair for his mother.
Every gentle twist of a screw, I feel the pads of his calloused fingers pinching the soft flesh around my hips. When I watch his shoulder muscles move beneath his shirt, I imagine my teeth sinking into them as he drives into me, holding me close. With each moment of confusion, he runs his fingers through his hair until it sticks up like a case of adorable bedhead. And when he groans an expletive, frustrated over how the pieces don’t look like they do in the directions, it sends a flame racing down my spine as I imagine his rough voice swearing as I kneel before him, taking him in my mouth.
Ron sets the completed highchair on its feet. He squats down to pick up the directions for the next chair, thighs straining against his jeans.
“Ron,” I ask in what I can only hope is a casual tone. He looks up at me. “How long is this chair going to take you to build?”
He shrugs from his seat on the floor. “Fifteen more minutes?”
I’m going to combust.
A peal of laughter from the kitchen startles me, reminding me that we’re in a house full of family.
But I am nothing if not a problem solver, and Ron Weasley building an Ikea chair in front of me has most definitely created a problem.
I stand, stepping over discarded bubble wrap. Ron reaches out, rough hands rubbing the backs of my calves beneath my skirt as he looks up at me. “Everything alright, sweetheart?”
If only his hands skated higher, between my thighs… “Meet me in your bedroom in fifteen minutes.”
“Sweetheart,” Ron says softly, “what’s wrong?”
I shift, tugging at my knickers over my skirt, until they drop down, hitting Ron’s hands where they encircle my lower legs. “Watching you build these chairs,” I confess in a whisper, “has made me so wet that it’s running down my thighs.”
His eyes widen, and he looks around as if half-expecting Mrs. Weasley to barge in, brandishing a wooden spoon. “I can probably build it in five minutes, actually,” he chokes out.
“Good,” I smile devilishly, stepping back to leave my knickers in his hands. “I’ll be upstairs. Waiting. Don’t take too long, or I might have to get started without you.”
Ron nods, eyes still wide, shoving my soaking wet knickers into a pocket of his jeans as I turn on my heel and walk through the doorway.
I can feel his eyes on my arse the whole time, and I just know it’s torturing him.
Good.
Luckily, the rest of the Weasleys are too busy in the kitchen or the shed to interrupt me on my climb up the stairs to Ron’s old bedroom. It feels thrillingly naughty to be walking around like this.
I open the door to his childhood bedroom. It’s slightly dusty, like nobody’s been up here in a while. A poster from a production of Hannibal by Chalumeau is tacked up on the walls. The sloping ceiling is aggressively painted in red-and-white stripes, just like the Sheffield United jerseys.
A twin bed and a small nightstand sit at one end of the room. A papier-mâché music box sits atop it. At the other end, a rickety old desk sits beneath a small, round window. I approach. It overlooks the back garden.
I think about Ron downstairs, finishing that chair as fast as he can. Smiling, I hop up onto the desk, slowly drawing my skirt higher and higher.
The soft, buttery fabric bunches at my waist, revealing one thigh as I place my foot on the desk chair in front of me.
I brace a hand on the desk behind me, and close my eyes. Forearms. Thighs. The screws between his teeth and the flex of his fingers tightening the Allen key. The images wash over my mind, and heat consumes me.
I press one finger to my clit. Already, I’m so wet. The slick sounds of my fingertip fill the quiet and still attic room. Flames of desire race up my body, heating me until my very skin feels like it’s sizzling.
All alone up here, I could keep going until the thought of Ron sends me all the way over the edge. He’d never know.
But I don’t want it like that. Instead, after a minute or two, I stop, legs parted, and let my skirt flutter back down to the floor. Arousal drips like molten lava, a burning heat between my thighs. The tiniest bit of fuel, and I could erupt.
Deep breaths. I feel the hard wood against my arse. The cool, smooth window panes against my back. Clouds roll in outside, dimming the room.
I slip a finger inside me, biting back a moan at the sensation, grinding my clit against the heel of my hand. Instead of satiating me, it’s like getting only a bite of food when you’re starving. I need more—I need Ron—and I need him now.
Hurried footsteps thump up the staircase.
“Hermione?” A quiet voice calls.
“In here, darling,” I reply softly, readjusting so I’msitting up straight, hands in my lap.
Ron steps in the room, and the air shifts. He shuts the door behind him and locks it.
“We have no more than ten minutes before they realise we’re gone.”
“Do you need more than ten minutes, darling?” I ask devilishly, parting my thighs and tugging up my skirt. “Because I certainly don’t.”
A slow, audible exhale slips through Ron’s lips. He leans back against the door and slowly sinks to the floor, only a few paces from me. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“I know you like to take your time, but I think we’re down to nine minutes.”
“Fuck,” Ron swears as he tugs off his shirt and tosses it aside.
I peel my jumper off, and let it fall beside the desk. Ron stares hungrily at the tight white shirt from his vantage point on the floor, my nipples visible. “Eight minutes,” I remind softly.
Eyes on me, Ron Weasley grins with a glee that sends a shiver down my spine. Then he starts to crawl.
“Oh, fuck,” I gasp, groping my breasts through the thin white fabric and pinching my nipples. “That’s even hotter than building a chair.”
The room isn’t large. In moments, Ron is at the desk. I close my eyes and let out a moan at the feel of his soft touch tracing patterns up my ankles, my calves, my knees.
“No, sweetheart,” he admonishes. “We can’t have that.”
“What?” I pant, as he stands over me.
He kisses down the side of my neck, then peels off my shirt. Ron uses a knuckle to slowly trace one pebbled nipple. My hands grip the wooden desk so tightly, I almost think I might crack it. His forehead comes down to lean against mine. The heat of our bodies is too much so close together, and every movement feels like it crackles with sparks.
He pushes apart my thighs and rucks my skirt up entirely around my waist. My fingers scrabble to undo the button of his jeans, the zipper, and I whine as I pull him from his boxers into my hand.
“That,” Ron admonishes. “We can’t have that. If I’m going to finish what you started, you have to be quiet.”
I look up into his eyes and nod. “Please,” I whisper, my voice barely above a breath. “Inside. Dammit, I need you inside.”
“Swearing for me,” Ron murmurs, “you know I love that.”
I shove his jeans down lower. Ron holds me by the hips as the tip of his cock slides against me. I bite my lip, trying to swallow back a moan.
“Good girl,” he says. I loop my hands around the back of his neck, noses bumping, breaths mingling. “So good at following rules.”
“Seven minutes,” I reply, trying to make him hurry up. I can’t take this teasing.
At that, Ron slides into me, filling me up. He buries his face in my neck, letting out a tiny, muffled groan. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Your fucking lilac perfume. Your wet, perfect cunt. In the bedroom where I used to wank, imagining this very thing. You are what my fantasies were made of, sweetheart.”
He thrusts into me again, holding me tight by the hips. I fall back with a cry, shoulders against the window and forearms on the surface of the desk. “More, darling,” I beg.
Ron thrusts into me again. “Shhh,” he hushes. “We have to be quiet.”
I bite my lip, looking up at him. My thighs wrap around his waist, pulling him against me. Ron cups one breast in his hand, thumb running back and forth over my nipple. I arch into him, and I can’t stop the noise of pleasure that escapes my lips.
Ron pauses, cock twitching inside me. I can feel how close we both are, but he doesn’t move. Clatters and voices from downstairs filter up into the attic to fill the silence. I writhe on the desk. A few raindrops plunk against the glass behind me, the start of a spring rainstorm.
“Please,” I beg. “Please let me come.”
“Bloody hell,” Ron swears. “I want nothing more than to fuck you senseless, sweetheart, but you have to keep quiet.”
“I can’t,” I whine. “I’m doing my best, but—oh!”
Ron’s hand moves from my tit to my lower belly, pressing down slightly and swiping his thumb back and forth across my clit. There’s no way I can keep quiet.
“Do you want me to stop?” Ron whispers.
I shake my head. “Need…you…” I reply, as quietly as I can. But the pleasure is agonising. It burns, crackling through my veins, flames licking everywhere our skin meets.
Ron does not stop. He pulls out, then thrusts into me again, but before I can cry out, he presses his other hand over my mouth, covering my moan.
My hands fist against the wood of the desk as I look into his eyes, nodding, pleading, desperate for more. He thrusts into me harder, hand pressing over my mouth, forehead dropping down to touch mine. The desk thumps against the wall, but we’re both too far gone to care.
My breathing goes erratic as every square inch of my skin erupts in ecstasy. I moan Ron’s name into his hand as I come, and he presses his muffled moans into the side of my neck as he shudders and finds his own release.
The two of us stay entangled for a split second before the desk lets out a loud, protestant groan, and collapses beneath us.
We land in a heap, both of us completely fine, entirely taken over by a severe fit of the giggles.
“Shhh!” I try to say through my own breathless laughter, pressing my hand against his mouth. “We have to be quiet!”
But Ron’s chuckles feel warm as his beard rubs against the palm of my hand, and we both dissolve into guffaws. The spring rainstorm picks up outside, drops of water that will fuel a cycle of new life.
“Well,” I say once I catch my breath, “I guess we’ll just have to come back and I’ll have to watch you rebuild it.”
Ron threads his fingers through my left hand, kissing my ring and then my forehead. “Anything for you, Hermione,” he says. “But the thing I’m most excited to build, we have to do together.”
“What’s that?” I ask, tracing a pattern in the freckles on his shoulder.
“Our future,” he says simply.
It’s cheesy, but I tug him down for a tender kiss.
From two flights down, Mrs. Weasley’s voice shouts, “Did anyone hear that crash?”
And we both start laughing again.