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Title: Grief
Author: iulia_linnea
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Hermione/Ron, others implied
Word Count: 1425
Summary: Hermione doesn't care.
Warnings (Highlight to view): For violence and mention of character death.
Disclaimer: This piece is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers, including, but not limited to: Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Note: Written for HP Kinky Het's Three Kinks Challenge.

She knows that she should not do it, and she knows it well, but watching the sweat drip down his chest as he casually removes his Chuddley Cannons jersey to wipe his body with it is her undoing.

Muscles, nipples, sweat . . . mine, she thinks, following him through the crowd of well-wishers.

She will wait until the others leave the changing rooms. She knows that he is always the last one out. Once, this was due to her, but no longer. He is married now, to someone she should respect, and still she waits.

For good things do come.

He is the first father of triplets in his family, and he has two sets. Six children and a busy touring schedule make him a frustrated man. She can see that from his game-play—aggressive, not quite fair.

He likes it rough. He likes being told what to do. He likes me, she thinks, imagining his long fingers closing around his thick cock as he stands in the steaming jets of water in the showers.

She is glad that she did not surrender her wand at the gate. The troubles in the aftermath of the war concern her, and she has seen enough to know that one never gives up one's protection.

But he'll let his guard down in the shower.

The others leave. She slips into the changing rooms and removes the invisibility charm at which she has worked so hard to master. Her nipples tight with excitement, her knickers soaked with nostalgia, she peels off her dress and under-things, leaving her boots on and her wand in hand as she creeps toward the showers.

And there he is, all soapy and guilt-ridden. Poor baby.

It is fitting, she knows, that he should feel remorse in taking his pleasure when his beleaguered wife is alone with six very young children, but she does not feel anything for the witch who stole her man from her.

Let her suffer. He's perfect like this.

His breath hitches as he palms the top of his thick, reddened head, and she smiles. About to step in, she stops as she hears her name falling from his lips.

"Lu—Luna."

Suddenly she is quite angry.

Luna never sucked you off in the showers. Luna never dressed your wounds in the field. Luna never—

"On—ly Lu—na," he shudders out.

"No."

"Wh—what?"

"I said no. Stop," she orders.

Ron drops his hand, and too late realizes what a fool he has been. He does not have his wand. But when he sees who it is, when he sees that she is almost nude but for the pair of boots he bought her so many years ago, he freezes.

"Hermione, what—"

"I didn't give you permission to speak," Hermione says, walking into the shower and almost against Ron's dripping body. "And I don't intend to give you permission to speak. Clear?"

He gulps and nods.

Hermione is surprised. It has been a long time since they have played, but Ron immediately assumes a pleasing kneeling stance and bows his head.

Oh, good! she revels. This is going to be fun.

She tests Ron's obedience by muttering the spell that always caused him to be the most fractious. But he does not move save for a stiffening of his glorious muscles, so she walks around behind him and crouches low to better position her toy.

It is self-lubricating and slides in with little difficulty, only to expand as Ron's passage grows used to it.

"I think you may object to what comes next," she tells him as she straightens to stand.

Ron, however, says nothing.

Hermione makes a gesture with her hand, and her transfigured wand begins to vibrate—just barely. It is enough to make Ron moan, so she cuffs him.

"No noise. You don't deserve to make noise, do you?"

When he does not respond, Hermione enjoys the redness spreading across his left cheek that owes nothing to the water, and contemplates.

What shall I have him do? I want to come, but I don't want him to come. He doesn't deserve to come, she tells herself, remembering her sleepless, tear-stained nights in the wake of his defection from the Auror Corps.

"You love your pretty little blonde wife, don't you, Ron?"

"I—"

This time Hermione strikes him so hard that he loses his balance and falls over.

"Stay down," she says coldly. "Stay down and roll over on your back."

Ron obeys her, and she straddles his head, gesturing again with her hand as she does so for the toy to buzz a bit harder, buzz a bit harder and lengthen. His eyes squeeze shut to prevent himself from crying out.

Hermione wishes that she knew more wandless magic.

Like Harry. He always helped me with not crying out, didn't he? He'd have given me a gag.

The bittersweet thought makes her smile, and she places her cunt over Ron's mouth and tells him, "Make me come, Ron. Like you used to. . . . Pretend Harry's watching if it will help."

That was mean, her conscience reproaches her.

But she does not care, not as Ron's long, talented tongue begins to lick the folds of her excited sex, not as he stabs his guilt and undeserved fury against her clit.

Oh!

It feels good to take his mouth again. She cannot think why it has been so long.

Oh, oh! That's right—the trouble.

Hermione is still an Auror—like Ron was—like Harry was. She has responsibilities, not brats.

The pressure of Ron's tongue is not enough to satisfy her.

"Stop."

He does.

Hermione reaches back and grabs his turgid prick in a rough grip and pulls.

Ron bucks upward, breathing out a protest or a plea as he does so.

"You want me, Ron? You want me and not your little housewife?"

Flipping her head around to glare at him, she sees the tears in his eyes, or perhaps it is the water. She does not know. She does not care.

"Then you'll have to earn it. Hands and knees."

Ron shimmies out from underneath of Hermione and presents his arse to her, and she grins wickedly as she gestures for the dildo to thicken and throb as wildly as it can.

"A—ahhh!"

Hermione lunges forward and bits one of his arse cheeks deeply enough to draw blood and places her hand against his gaping hole to seize the end of the dildo. The device obligingly grows a handle for her, and she bites Ron's arse in time with each thrust.

For good measure, she gestures for the dildo to grow just past comfortably hot.

Ron keens. She knows he cannot help it, but she presses the toy in and out of him almost too quickly—and at an angle that will not afford him much pleasure.

He feels it anyway. He feels Harry. He feels loss, she tells herself, lapping at the coppery edges of one of her bite marks. Good.

"Tell me what you're feeling, Ron," she asks, slamming the toy home again.

She does not truly care; she has become too aroused by the control, by the biting, by the thought of making Ron feel Harry's cock slamming into his arse again.

"I . . . want—"

"NO!" Hermione shrieks. "Not what you want. What. Do. You. Feel?"

Ron's knees buckle.

"IfeellikeIneedtoscream!"

Abruptly, Hermione removes the toy from his arse and transfigures it back into her wand. Ron whimpers, but he does not move.

"Do you?"

"Y—yes," he begs more than says.

"So do I. All the time. All the time since Harry died, you useless, abandoning FUCK!"

And then she is back in the changing room by her clothes, though she does not remember how she got there. A simple spell has her dry and clean and dressed in no time, her frustration fled in the face of her grief. She can hear Ron crying and pictures his sprawled, bruised, and bloodied body on the tiles of the wet shower floor. It does not make her feel better. Nothing ever makes her feel better.

I don't deserve to come, either, she tells herself.

She has paperwork to do. The Death Eaters who stood by Voldemort's side the day Harry destroyed him—the day Harry died—are in custody thanks to her team. She is proud of her team—the team of which Ron was once a part.

Even though she knows that she should not do it, and she knows it well, she scoops up Ron's sweat-soaked jersey before she leaves. She does not know why she does it.

But I don't care.