Work Text:
Honestly, he’s over it.
The hottest day of the year corresponds with his only day off of the week – not a true day off, but on principle, he should be enjoying it. Or pretending to. Mostly, it’s a sparse time that he uses to spread between chores and his house renovations. Grimmauld Place is officially sold off, the money shifted into an account for Teddy Lupin, something that he knows Sirius would have wanted anyway, given the gravity of ghosts and darkness attached to the Black Estate. He bought a smaller place, using family money and much of his own to negotiate for his privacy. His brilliant idea to renovate a space for himself has, of course, backfired. Given his propensity to be a workaholic – he has plenty of friends that have offered anything and everything from spells to names to their own hands. But he’s committed, of course, to getting this done himself.
“You know, you could hire someone.”
The visual representation of his issues enters the house too. Hermione is covered in sweat, paint, and a string that is allegedly a bikini, patches of fabric that cup her breasts. His eyes follow a trail of sweat that starts to roll down her throat.
“I like hard work,” he says, swallowing. Barely.
His other issue is multifold, given that his best friend is, well, hot. That there are a series of unavoidable puns that can really relay his frustration with his realization. She’s hot. He likes that she’s hot. He doesn’t like that he has to face it when they’re alone. And of course, the boiling point is that it’s nearly ninety degrees out and she has already shed the gym shorts he’s lent her.
“You can like hard work,” she says dryly. She moves to his fridge, grabbing a water bottle. The bottle starts to sweat immediately too. Water drops onto her skin. His eyes dart to the ceiling. “I just think that you’re torturing yourself a little bit.”
“It’s not always this hot,” he retorts.
“Harry,” she sighs. “You work like me.”
He rubs his face. She’s right.
“Look.” The water bottle leaves her hand for the kitchen counter. She steps to him. Her fingers curl into her shirt and she tugs. He sighs heavily, staring at her. “I’m going to help you,” she says firmly. “But maybe we wait until later in the day to paint?”
“We can take a break,” he relents.
“Are you pouting?”
“I’m not pouting.”
“Maybe just a little,” she says with some amusement.
He narrows his eyes.
“We can still paint,” she tells him. She turns her wrist, checking the time. “Let’s do another thirty minutes? And then maybe take a break? We could go swimming.”
“In the lake?”
“Yes, Harry. We swim in the lake.”
“You’re right.”
Hermione sips from her bottle again. Almost unconsciously, his fingers catch some the water that dribbles from her chin. He licks them. Her eyes narrow finally.
He swallows. “Thirty more minutes,” he says.
-
The bikini bottoms are low.
Dangerously low, in fact. Hermione has a birthmark on the slight, swell of her hip.
“Why sage?”
“Aunt Petunia hated sage.”
Hermione’s mouth twitches. “Fair,” she concedes. “But do you like sage?”
“I’m partial to it,” he admits, his eyes drinking in the way the bows flutter against her hip to a non-existent breeze. He can’t decide if her bikini is gold or just a shimmery beige, an intense contrast against her skin.
Over the years, she’s become an avid runner. Her legs are toned, shaped - her ass too and honestly, he could go down the list of how her body has aged into his view. It’s a struggle to see the woman because she’s there, she’s self-aware enough to make it dangerous. He likes that she’s grown into her confidence, an unapologetic combination of bratty seriousness and what makes Hermione uniquely Hermione. The struggle isn’t complicated; he just doesn’t know how to handle it.
He wants her. And it’s vicious.
“Wait.”
He moves to where she sits. He sits behind her next, shifting so that she rests between his legs and he surrounds her. Without thinking, his hand closes around her wrist. He moves her into a brushstroke.
“Like this,” he says firmly, but gently too - her breath catches. He hears it.
“Painting may not be for me,” she murmurs. “You asked the wrong friend.”
He guides her hand into a second brushstroke. “Doubtful,” he tells her. Her skin underneath his fingers is warm and flushed. He can smell her too - soft, sweet, sticky. “You’re the prettiest one to look at.”
“Ah.” He can’t see her. Her voice takes on a slight, husky lit. There’s a tremor. He licks his lips. “You’re very nice, Head Auror Potter.”
Nice? No, he’s not nice. Nice implies that his eyes have not travelled down the valley of her breasts, over ghost scars, and her stomach and finally, the apex of her thighs. The fabric between her legs is thin and maybe glistening, glistening between the sweat and the wet grass and the killer humidity. No, he’s not nice - a nice guy would not want to fuck his best friend.
“Nice,” he murmurs, his hand stilling. The paintbrush relaxes in her hand. “I don’t think I’m very nice, Auror Granger.”
“Oh?”
The paintbrush is dropped as soon as his hand relaxes, as soon as her wrist follows, and her back starts to relax against his chest. His t-shirt feels thin, thin enough to feel her spine curve into his chest, enough to feel desire thrum, low and feral and always near. His eyes dart to the dip in her neck, the way her shoulder is just that bare, just waiting, taunting for him to sink his teeth into.
“Oh,” he mimics. “It’s true.”
The dangerous thing about a line is that it is always there to cross. They are not children anymore. The threat of war is a memorial, but they’ve aged into their scars. He cannot pinpoint a time where he hasn’t wanted an Adult Hermione Granger, where the very idea of burying himself inside of her, of stealing every pant, every moan, every stupid, little sound she’s ever made and making it his. He means it when he says – he’s got issues.
His heart starts to pound. His nose grazes her shoulder. “I mean,” he says softly, “I think it’s wonderfully flattering that you think I’m a nice man, considering how long you’ve known me.”
“I’d call you a good man,” she says, her voice a little breathless. Harry becomes adventurous. His hand drops to her stomach. His fingers, taunt, spread against her skin.
“But not a nice one,” he concedes.
“You did call me pretty,” she murmurs.
Ah, he thinks. There. The hitch in her voice. His free hand, the one that he balanced against his weight as he painted what felt like one long, endless brushstroke – it rises, his fingers wrapping gently, deftly around her throat. His mouth brushes against her ear. Her ass presses back into his dick. She likes that he’s gone and called her pretty.
“I did,” he says. His fingers tug a little at her throat. She moans just a little, just enough for him to catch it. “You seem to like that I call you pretty.”
“Uh-huh.” Somehow permission comes in the form of a slight tilt of her head, bowing to the side and offering him the long, delicious plane of her neck. He dips his head forward, his nose nuzzling her skin. “I suppose I do.”
“Is that why you came to my house then,” he says, and his head is starting to spin. He allows himself a taste, his mouth grazing over her skin. His tongue darts out to follow. She is salty and perfect. “In this fucking tiny bikini to paint,” he manages to finish, and Hermione even laughs huskily, his fingers buzzing against the sound.
“I’ll never tell,” she sings.
The strap starts to slide down her shoulder. It reveals more of the rounded swell of her breast. Her nipple peeks too, all pinky and rosy and flushed with the heat. His mouth is watering. He was never going to win this.
His hand tightens around her throat, tilting her head back so that he can kiss her. When her mouth touches his, he feels starved, his tongue plying her lips open as she laughs into his kiss too. It’s everything. His head is spinning. The kiss is a mess, sloppy and sticky, wet as his mouth coaxes hers greedily. Her tongue pushes back against his, twisting into his too as his fingers flex into her stomach and suddenly, she is shifting to turn and settle into his lap.
The second strap starts to slide down her shoulder. He beats it. His hand reaches for the tie on her back and he pulls.
“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh,” he says again. “You’re really fucking pretty, Hermione.”
He doesn’t wait for her response. He takes her breasts into his palms, his mouth around a nipple and it earns him a whimper and a mewl, both equally perfect. He starts to suck at both breasts, alternating as her fingers burying themselves into his hair and pulling just as her hips grind into his.
He’s hard. There’s another scrap of fabric between them.
“Tell me again,” she manages, and he laughs huskily, biting a nipple. Her fingers twist in his hair, just enough for them to pull at his scalp, a pleasant buzz scraping at him. “Please,” she breathes.
His hand reaches for the ties at her hip. He pulls one side, then the next. His cock is straining against his trousers.
“Only because you asked so prettily,” he teases, and his palm slides between them. His fingers spread against her pussy, dipping her. She’s slick too. “You make me insane,” he confesses, and the bikini bottoms are lost to his legs and the grass. His fingers stroke her clit, then drag around her entrance. He can’t want to slide his tongue inside her too. “This fucking bikini and the fact that it is now forever imprinted in my brain.”
Her knees drag into the grass. They’ll laugh at the stains later. For now, he grabs her and hoists her up as he stands. Her legs lock around his waist. His mouth catches hers.
“You should see my underwear,” she manages, and makes sure to smile into his kiss, knowing full well that he’s taking her inside.
Oh, don’t worry, he thinks. He will.
-
“Oh, Hermione,” he breathes. His eyes are drawn to her pussy. Her legs are spread. It glistens. He stares at the nub, his fingers twitching in memory. They’re still sticky. Ready. “Your cunt is perfect too,” he says.
She laughs huskily.
He grabs her legs, dragging her to the edge of the bed. His face buries itself between them too. His nose wedges against her clit. She gasps, his tongue dipping inside of her. He runs it as deep as it goes, stretching, only to dart back and give the seam of her pussy one, long indulgent stroke.
Sex is messy. He wants it to be messy with Hermione. He wants to pepper her with kisses and marks. He wants to make sure that she knows how committed he is to steal every gasp, every sigh and wants to taste every messy, little drop. He wants to bury himself inside of her, wants to feel her pussy spasm around his cock, wants to watch her body flush and shrink into his – every milestone, every fantasy he wants it and he wants to make sure that she knows that he does too.
“It’s delicious,” he tells her. His eyes are hooded. He watches as her cunt stretches around his fingers. She makes this sound – a new one – it comes from the back of her throat. Her arms fly back, her hands digging into the sheet as she withers with just his hand. “I can’t decide what I want to do –” His fingers take a languid pace. He watches as he’s nearly knuckle deep, only to add a third finger. “Do I want you to come with my fingers inside you?”
“Harry,” Hermione pleads.
“Or –” He hums, watching as her hips rise into his palm. He dips forward again, his lips catching nub between his teeth. He bites lightly. Her pussy spasms around his fingers as she shrieks with another plea. “What about my cock, princess? Do I want to watch you come around that too?”
There is a splattering of freckles against the inside of her thigh too. This is new. He lets his teeth graze against it, watching as her body snaps back into her orgasm, as her cunt tightens around his fingers. He leans in, only to run his tongue against the seam of his cunt, to lap away at her release as if he were finishing off the rest of his dessert.
“I told you, sweetheart,” he says. “I am not a nice man.”
They have barely begun.
-
The lake water is cool at night.
Don’t ask how they ended up here. The house is in the distance. The sheets, in his bedroom, are a messy, tangled where he fucked her first, then again, when he let her pin his hands over his head as she rode him too. The space by the dock is shallow enough – this is private property, obviously, and with his cock stuffed into her cunt he could care less who sees them. Magic comes in handy, of course, in the strangest of times.
He’s position himself into some sort of seating space, the water serving as a faux chair as he grips both of her thighs. He holds her, suspended in the water so that the soft waves can shift against her clit. This is crazy, of course, but she makes him insane enough to want to be buried inside of her wherever they are.
“Maybe I should hire someone,” he muses, nuzzling her neck. She laughs shakily. Then she whimpers. Her hips rut slightly. “We can spend more time in the lake,” he murmurs.
“Proper use of personal time,” she manages.
“I’d say,” he agrees.
“Going to fill me up, then?” she asks, and god, only Hermione Granger would know how to get him – the words are readying him to spiral, to feel his cock pulse inside of her, to fill her with his cum, all the way up, sounds like a promise that he would sell his soul to keep. The color of her voice changes and she knows, how to take that tilt and run with it – “Please,” she says, and it’s far too pretty for him to refuse too.
His hips start to rut.
It’s the way the water starts to move, shudder, as his eyes squeeze shut and he can only imagine the way her pussy squelches, the way it might sound as he dives into her – they can try it out on shore after, of course. His hips are shaking. He drags his mouth down to her shoulder and his teeth sink, only enough to break some skin.
“I don’t share,” he warns, his voice hitching too. “You should know that –”
His belly is hot and taunt. He can feel his orgasm coming. Hers is building, as she rides him with vigor. She’s withering too, his hands releasing her legs, only for his hand to return to her throat. Her body is starting to jerk. His cock hits that point, the bundle of nerves that start pitch, hit, and send him into stars, his fingers squeezing as she comes with a loud, desperate cry.
She is tight around him, swallowing him dry as he tips her head back and catches her mouth. His tongue tangles with hers as his orgasm finally follows, his belly contracting, his dick spilling into her, the image alone enough to send him into overdrive. She’s going to be so pretty full of his cum.
“Next thing,” she teases, “you’ll want me to call you daddy.”
His hand remains around her throat. His face feels a little hot. He still uses his thumb to stroke her skin. The water starts to calm into pleasant touches, even as he remains inside her and their bodies start to relax.
Her expression is delighted, as much as he can see it. He’s in trouble. His face feels flushed. He feels a little drunk. He just can’t stop touching or kissing her.
“I’ll hire someone for the painting house,” he murmurs, and dips his head forward, stealing a kiss. She laughs into his mouth. “I’ll give you that. Just no bikinis.”
Of course, there’s too much to talk about. Of course, there is the restructuring of feelings, past and present. Of course, there are two adults who have to navigate adult choices and lives and see how they can fit. But right now, right now, he is faced with the notion that she’s always been a constant, that he can love her in every iteration, and that now, here, might be the beginning of leaning into the cumulation of it all.
“Can’t make any promises,” she says. “Daddy.”
He growls into a laugh, kissing her again. He swallows her laugh too, his hand dipping over her stomach and returning between the junction of her thighs.
See? He’s over it.
He’ll just have to keep taking the bikinis off, he decides.