InsaneJournal

Soap - R/Hr - NC-17
Title: Soap
Author: shocfix
Pairing: Ron/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2400

Um, there is a secret com, called ron4redblaze, dedicated to the luminous redblaze, who needs cheering up with lovely dollops of a certain redhead.

And my Ron wanted to help out.

So, I wrote a little something.

*such big hugs, sweetheart, to you and your family*

I am crap at saying grown-up stuff in situations like this, so have a little Ron-smut instead.


Soap
****
I hate being all girly about stuff, and I know what we are doing is more important.

But I want to be clean.

Ron and Harry are sitting at the small rickety table, looking at a map and talking quietly.

They are both filthy dirty too, of course, but they are boys and they don’t care.

I poke the fire viciously and Ron looks over.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Oh, why can’t he go back to being oblivious? Why does he have to be so bloody caring all of a sudden?

I sigh. “Oh, nothing,” I say. “I’m just so sick of being dirty.”

Harry sniggers.

“Oh, shut up, Harry,” I say. “I just want to be clean; I want to wash my hair. And I know it’s pointless, because we’re off again tomorrow, and we don’t even have any proper shampoo and...”

“We should be able to rig up a bath, or something,” Ron interrupts. “There’s that water barrel outside. Why don’t you heat the water with a Charm? I’ll get some shampoo.”

“No,” I say. “You can’t be seen on Diagon Alley shopping for shampoo…”

“Give me the Muggle money,” he says to Harry, ignoring me. “I’ll go to Muggle London, no one’ll recognise me.”

Harry hands him a fistful of notes and he grins at me and Disapparates, without even combing his filthy hair.

No one’ll recognise him, but I wonder if anyone’ll serve him.

I start to fret about him, but Harry overrides me. “He’ll be fine,” he says. “I think he can manage shampoo; let’s see if we can heat the rainwater.”

I follow him outside, muttering about stupid, gorgeous, risk-taking, protective wizards.

The barrel isn’t big enough, so we expand it, and suspend our blankets around it, creating a sort of tent.

Harry stands back and lets me do the Charm work – he hangs the blankets with actual rope.

We are admiring our handiwork when Ron pops into the garden.

He is clutching a paper bag covered in swirly roses and I raise an eyebrow.

I’d expected a Boots plastic bag, not this.

“Here,” he says, pushing it into my hand and herding Harry back into the house.

I step between Harry’s blanket curtains and put the bag down on the window ledge beside the barrel.

Casting a quick warming charm on the air, too, I undress and slip into the warm water.

It is bliss and I sink under the surface, wetting my rats’ nest of hair.

I let the warmth leach into my bones.

Up to my shoulders in water, I reach for Ron’s shopping.

Opening the bag, I burst into tears.

As is it wasn’t caring enough that he went to buy shampoo for me; I would probably have sniffed all the way through using some Head and Shoulders and a bar of carbolic soap.

But he has bought handmade rose soap – with actual rose petals embedded in it.

He has bought matching rose shampoo, in a beautiful glass bottle.

I close my eyes and inhale the delicate, natural scent.

Oh, what am I going to do with that boy?

I gleefully shampoo my hair, running my fingers through snarls and smoothing them out with the fragrant oils.

I rinse off under the water, then, breaking through the surface, I shake my head vigorously, slopping water over the sides of the barrel.

Reaching for the beautiful soap, I work up a rich lather and smooth it into my skin.

A throat clears itself outside the blankets.

“Hermione?” Ron asks. “Everything OK?”

I can almost hear his blush.

I know he can smell roses; know he knows my body is covered in fragrant bubbles.

I love it.

“Everything is perfect, Ron,” I call softly. “I can’t thank you enough for this – it smells wonderful - feels fantastic.”

He makes a strangled meeping noise in his throat.

“I’m, um, glad,” he murmurs. “Anytime. Anything you, you know… want. Um. I know roses are your favourites.”

“Ron?” I call.

“Hmmm?”

“Can you come in here?”

He gasps.

A freckled hand parts the blankets and he sidles in, ears flaming.

I am submerged up to my shoulders, rosy bubbles covering my flushed skin.

He looks straight at the barrel.

I hold out my hand to him and he rolls his eyes and takes the last step forwards, entwining his fingers with mine.

Unexpectedly, his skin is damp – cool damp, not sweaty.

I look at him – his hair is wet, water dripping down his neck – he is wearing a clean shirt.

“You washed?” I ask him.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Can’t have you smelling of roses and me and Harry smelling,” he says. “We sort of showered with our wands – it doesn’t work very well.”

I smile at him and he flushes, smiling back.

“Can I be a real pain and ask for another favour?” I ask.

“Of course,” he says, chivalrously.

I hold the soap out to him. “Could you wash my back?” I ask, watching his face go red and then white, leaving those perfect freckles standing out darkly across his nose.

His eyes flick between my face and the soap and I see him take a deep breath.

He takes the soap and I obediently turn around, standing up, so the water is at hip-level.

Ron meeps again.

I reach up and gather up my hair, pulling it over my shoulder, baring my back for him.

I can hear him breathing, hear him lathering the soap between his hands.

And then I feel his hands on me.

I hadn’t realised how large they were.

I am so used to my soft hands caressing my skin, and Ron’s hands are callused and strong.

He runs them across my shoulders, spreading his fingers as they trail downwards, his thumbs following my spine and parting as his hands circle my waist.

My breathing speeds up; I feel like some ridiculous missish creature in a novel, someone with an eighteen-inch waist that he can span easily.

His hands move upwards again, the tips of his fingers brushing the sides of my breasts as they pass.

I gasp and he stills. “Hermione?” he whispers. “I…”

“Yes,” I say, having no clear idea what I am agreeing to.

His fingers trail down my spine again, to my waist, my hips, round to my stomach.

He pulls me back against him, water surging between us, careless of his clean shirt, and he presses a kiss to the back of my neck.

“Merlin, Hermione,” he whispers against my skin.

“Yes,” I say, again and he keeps kissing me, his hands meeting in front of me and moving relentlessly upwards, before cupping my breasts and stealing my breath.

He freezes, hands motionless, mouth sucking gently on my neck, and I know it is up to me to go further.

I move and he snatches his hands away, mouth open to babble an unnecessary apology as I turn in his arms.

His eyes fall, irresistibly to my soapy breasts and he groans as I press up against him.

I place my hands on his shoulders as I stand on tiptoe and we finally kiss.

A kiss I have dreamt of since I was thirteen.

A kiss I thought I had pictured in every possible situation – why had I never imagined I’d be standing, naked, in a barrel of rose-fragranced rainwater?

Who knew that that would be the perfect kiss?

That his lips would be soft and warm and sliding across mine and setting off tiny fireworks in every nerve ending.

His arms come round me, hands stroking my back in ever falling circles, until they plunge beneath the surface of the water and cup my bottom.

I gasp into his mouth and he whispers, “Is this OK?”

I manage to say ”Hmmmm” and he kisses me again, shockingly open-mouthed.

I try hard to think straight, but all I can do is wonder why the feeling of his tongue in my mouth is so shocking, when I am frantically unbuttoning his shirt and pressing my breasts against his skin, while his hands are squeezing me, his fingertips pressing my tailbone, pulling me up against him.

I drag his shirt down his arms and he frantically shakes it off over his hands and I laugh and he snorts and reaches for me again and my laugh dies in my throat as he cups me and lifts me again.

We kiss and I watch his eyes flutter closed and I ache for him.

To be closer to him.

Closer how?

My arms are wrapped around his neck, my head tipped back, open mouthed as he leans over me and kisses me.

My breasts are crushed against his chest, nipples painfully erect.

His hands are pulling me hard against the edge of my bath, the rim digs painfully into my pubic bone and that pressure reminds me that there is something hard pressing against the outside the barrel.

And that that is what I want.

Him.

Ron.

All of him.

My hands slide down his chest, moving between our bodies and reaching for the button on his jeans.

He stops moving, stops breathing.

I bravely suck on his tongue as I unzip him and he thrusts his hips forward against my hands.

And I feel him.

His - oh, say it Hermione, you’re going to touch it - his erection.

“Hermione,” he breathes, pulling his head back to look at me. “Should you really…”

“Yes,” I say firmly.

“But we’ve only just…”

He is trying so hard to be a gentleman, and he is so sweet and I can’t be bothered with all that.

I push his jeans down, over his slim hips, and he steps out of them, obediently.

“What are we going to do, Ron?” I ask, sliding my hands round behind him and down inside his orange boxers, mimicking his hold on my cheeks. “Do we date for a year before we go this far? Do we go to Madam Puddifoot's together? Try and make small talk and get to know each other?”

His eyes run over my face as I frown and rant at him and he smiles.

His most killer smile.

“OK,” he says, leaning in to kiss me and stop my lecture. “We don’t need to date, but...”

So I push his boxers down, leaving him naked.

“I am trying to be a gentleman, woman,” he complains, trying to keep a straight face, but kicking his boxers away.

“And I am trying to seduce you,” I point out.

He raises an eyebrow.

“OK, you win,” he decides, and I laugh.

“So, get in,” I say.

“Get in?” he chokes.

I back away, leaving room for him and he gawps at me.

I smile a challenge at him.

He snorts and throws a leg over the rim of the barrel, and he is taller than me and his… erection floats on the surface and I try not to look at it.

He laughs and sinks cross-legged under the water, reaching for me and pulling me into his lap.

And it is completely natural to wrap my arms and legs around him and we are kissing and kissing and kissing and his erection hah! is pressed against my stomach and the water buoys me up as he cups my… not my bottom, Ron would say ‘arse’… he cups my arse and rubs our bodies together.

And it is fantastic.

Ron’s face is flushed and he breaks off a kiss to moan, “I love you,” and he is such a sap and then he holds me hard against him and thrusts and gasps and something hot spurts against my stomach and I look down to see his erection jerking between us and a white cloud spreading in the water.

“Ron,” I breathe and watch his face, as he drags his eyes open and gazes at me, taking huge open-mouthed lungfuls of air.

“Hermione,” he mutters. “God, that was… Was that OK?”

“That was beautiful,” I whisper.

He raises a sceptical eyebrow.

“You’re beautiful,” I say. “And I made you… excited.”

“You made me come,” he says, leaning in for a kiss.

I bite my lip. “I didn’t do anything,” I point out.

“Yeah, being allowed to thrust against your naked body isn’t anything,” he laughs.

“Well, it’s a start,” I allow and he chokes.

“Let me touch you?” he asks tentatively and I roll my eyes. “What?” he says.

“I am sitting in your lap, naked, with my legs wrapped round your waist,” I point out and his eyes go slightly out-of-focus. “I think touching is allowed, if not compulsory.”

He laughs.

And sobers.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits.

“Good,” I say, smugly and he looks taken aback. “If you were smooth at this, it would break my heart like you’d… you’d bought me lavender soap!”

He frowns at me. “You’re mental,” he complains. “What a thing to say! Of all the…”

“Touch me,” I interrupt.

He smiles.

“Show me,” he says.

My heart races.

I let go of his shoulders and lie back in his lap.

The water supports me and Ron’s hands are still on my arse and he braces his elbows against his sides and pushes me to the surface and I relax my legs and Ron looks down, past where his… oh, no longer erect, so… his… cock… past where his cock is floating and pressing against my thigh.

To where my hand is moving between my legs.

I watch his face as he watches my fingers.

I have imagined him touching me, imagined his hands on me.

I never imagined his fingers digging into my arse as he licks his lips and shifts beneath me, his eyes running over my body, being drawn back time and again to watch my fingers rubbing faster and faster as I reach out for my climax.

And then his fingers tangle with mine, exploring me, caressing me.

And I sit up in his lap, reaching for his face and kissing him, moaning against his lips until they open and I open for him and his tongue is in my mouth, its rhythm matching that of his fingers as he strokes and strokes and strokes until I cry out and press my thighs close around his hand, stilling him and rubbing against his fingers as I ride out my orgasm.

And then his arms are around me, and his face is buried in my hair, and the water is cooling and we are actually together, finally together and I am happy and I am scared and I love him.

“I love you,” I whisper into his neck.

His arms tighten.

“I love you,” he whispers back.

We are finally together.