Whispering Thighs - R/Hr - R
Title: Whispering Thighs
Rating: R
Words: 375
Author's Note (if any): thank you, M, for the loving beta

Written for Challenge 1 of the rwhg_ldws.

Prompt: 'Tents are not the most comfortable of places.'
Drabble length: 100 - 500


Whispering Thighs
.:*:.
Intense.

My fantasies are intense.

My fantasies are in tents.

Tents.

Small, stupid, claustrophobic, stupid places, which are far too small for me and Hermione and what she's making me think about.

What she's always made me think about, but she'd always been a couple of solid stone walls away from me, and the only noises I could hear in the dark were blokes snoring and… being blokes.

But in tents.

Where it is somehow sexier to discard the adolescent fantasy images of short, black lacy nightgowns and bending down in unlikely high heeled shoes… and substitute the curling up in an armchair in pink pyjamas and bare toes as she plaits her hair for bed.

Actual Hermione-getting-ready-for-bed.

I can see her. In. Bed.

Where she sleeps just feet away from me, and I can hear her breathing and murmuring and rolling over and her bedclothes rustle as she moves and I know she isn't touching herself, not with me and Harry just feet away.

But I strain my ears and try to identify sounds.

Surely that was pyjamaed thighs, rubbing together; even muffled by two blankets, I can hear her thighs.

I roll over and try to mirror her movement, but my pyjamaed thighs, rubbing together, are silent. I comfort myself with the thought that my upper leg is far heavier than Hermione's, and that that is deadening the sound; Hermione's silken thighs would slide together, with a whisper of warm, Hermione scented fabric.

I press my palms together to experiment.

Yeah, press them heavily together and you don't get a whisper of anything, but pretend they're Hermione's smooth inner thighs and they glide against each other.

I breathe in and sigh heavily.

I breathe in a lungful of Hermione and moan quietly and sigh heavily and Merlin, it's been a fucking long year.

.:*:.

Sleeping in the same tented room as Ron could be my worst idea, ever.

I can hear him breathing and murmuring and rolling over and his bedclothes rustle as he moves and I know he isn't touching himself, not with me and Harry just feet away.

But I hear skin sliding against skin and I hear him stifle a moan and sigh heavily.

Merlin, it's been a bloody long year.