Hard Day - Harder Night: Episode Three
RAMIFICATIONS
Oh Merlin - this is not my pillow! Bugger off - this is not my bed!
Okay.
Relax.
This is not as bas as you think.
First things, first: open your eyes.
Close them! Close them!
Bloody Hell! Pain - agony! Light from a hundred sodding suns is in the same room!
Okay.
Breathe.
Bloody hell! What is that smell?
Stop thinking! Stop thinking! Thinking makes dizzies.
Okay. Can't think, can't breathe through nose, and can't see. What's left? Groaning pathetically?
Ooh! Groaning is good! Groaning is VERY good! Groaning is… motivating! Motivating me to… Eeee-gads! Stop thinking! More dizzies! Okay - I get it, I get it. Resume groaning.
Good, groaning. Nice groaning. Groaning is my friend.
Okay - try this: while groaning, turn head to the side and rest cheek against pillow. I can do that. WAIT!
What?
Remember to keep to head attached to shoulders and not let it roll off the bed and across the room.
Okay, okay - here I go.
It worked! Head moved, eyes stayed shut and nothing bounced onto the floor. Success! Now, crack your eyes just a little…
Oh hell! What is that? There is a big, dark, tumour growing out of my shoulder!
Okay. Don't panic. Whatever you do, don't panic. You can do this. Just reach up and touch it.
Bugger! Bugger! Bugger! It's hairy!
Hang on - who ever heard of a hairy tumour? Great. Six billion people in the world and I am the only one with a dark, hairy tumour growing out of her collar bone.
Okay.
Relax.
There are Healers for these kinds of things. Or, Mum and Dad will find a doctor. Okay. Solved. Done. Business with the hairy tumour is settled.
Ooh! What about this: what if you groaned really long and, in the process, pushed yourself up-right at the same time?
I can do that - with a lot of groaning.
Okay. On the count of three you are going to do this.
One: where are my fingers?
Two: find arms and lock elbows.
Three: breathe in stinkiness and…
Bugger! Bugger! Bugger!
Hairy tumour is not a tumour! Found my fingers - they are resting against the groove of a warm, bare, back. Muscular back is attached to hairy tumour! Hairy tumour just breathed on my neck!
Okay.
Relax.
This is not as bad as it seems.
Oh yeah?
You can do this. Trace his back, follow his spine. See if…?
Yep. He's naked.
BOLLUCKS!
Oh hell! Am I?
Double bollucks!
Did we?
Yep. Can't you tell? Every part of you between your chest and your knees feels like churned butter.
Wait a minute. When did I start talking to my self in the second person? Bugger that - when did I start answering myself in the second person?
Dizzies! Dizzies! I can feel the rotation of the earth seeping through the mattress. Stop bloody thinking! Remember: thinking bad, groaning good.
Hold on - have I actually groaned? Out loud, I mean? Oh yeah - led to the discovery of former hairy tumour growing out of my shoulder now apparent sex god still imbedded inside my now very tender, private places.
Okay - onto Plan B.
Find other set of fingers. Move second set of fingers. Fingers are entwined through something. Seem to be tangled among some rather nice, silky-coarse, hairs. They feel… nice. Smooth and fluid, the ends are prickling the undersides of my fingernails. Oooh! Progress! I have discovered that I have fingernails!
Okay. This is nice and no groaning required. Nice, light strokes. Up and down, back and forth, nice abstract patterns… Oh Merlin! Stomach sinking and rising! Don't puke! Please don't let me puke! Don't puke! Why did I drink so much last night?
Wait! Who says I drank last night? When did I have pints after shots after doses of firewhiskey while out with friends? They are not friends, they are anti-friends. Friends would not let you do this to yourself. Friends would get you laid but not so pissed you could not remember said act. Wicked, wicked friends indeed! Note to self: must remember to get new, non-anti-friends as soon as possible.
Okay.
Relax.
You can do this.
Without puking? Not likely. Doesn't look good - so many smells, too small a place.
Okay. You have to get up. You have to get out - before he wakes up.
Why?
Do you really want to be here when he wakes up?
He? Who is he?
He's what was formerly referred to as the Big, Dark, Hairy, and Breathing Tumour.
No. I mean it. Who is he?
You don't know?
You mean you don't?
Oh Merlin - you've done it now! He's moving. He's waking up! TOO LATE!
Oh whoever-you-are - don't squish me! Please - don't vibrate the mattress too much!
He's pulling his head off of your shoulder.
Okay. Battle plan time.
Breathe through your mouth. Keep your eyes closed and your head turned to the side. If you don't look at him, you still have a chance at denying that this ever happened - you never saw a thing. Above all else - DON'T PUKE!
He's looking at me! I can feel it. He's going to say something.
"Hey."
The lad is a bona-fide Chatty Cathy. And has really bad breath. At least he did not ask, 'if it was good for me'.
Mmmm… Nice. He is rolling his hips and pressing in and up at the same time. More than nice, actually he's quite good at that. I wonder if the boy knows more than one language.
"Nice smile. Ready to go again?"
He's shifting, rising up. His breath hit all the right spots in my ear and on my neck. His voice is nice too - husky and deep.
Dilemma. He knows I am a wake, he knows I like what he is doing and, after all, opening one's legs but not one's mouth could be considered rude - right? If I turn my head and open my eyes at the same time maybe I can - damn! I forgot to groan! The light of a thousand sodding suns and the rotations of all nine planets and every one of their moons are pulling at every square inch of stomach.
"Puking! Now!"
For the record, Side-Along Apparation is highly over-rated when one is about to puke one's guts out. And, as much as we girls talk about how a real man would hold a woman's hair back while said female puked her guts out, the honest truth is this: the LAST thing any of us want is someone nearby while vile, angry noises come from our throats, our bodies freeze and lock as the heaving takes over and chunks of chocolate cupcake we ate at lunch stick to the sides of the toilet bowl. Guys are not supposed to know that women eat junk food. It is bad enough that they know we fart.
Can't sense him hovering over me. Good. Can focus on breathing and ignoring the way my throat hurts. Can't spare the energy making him go away if I am to keep the searing brightness from permanently scarring my brain. On second thought, where is he?
Damn! Thinking again - with out groaning. Oh holy, hell! Round two!
The cereal I had for breakfast redeemed a round trip ticket from my stomach to my mouth. I might be wrong, but I think my shoes just came out of my mouth as well. Damn - I really liked those shoes too.
Merlin, I smell bad. Tears and snot and puke are all over my face and dripping down onto my chest. Gross! - even my arms are sweating from all the bucking. Who knew someone could shiver from cold and feel like they are over-heating at the same time?
Okay.
Finished puking, now is time for a new plan.
Flush toilet. Squeeze eyes shut. Brace nasty, sweaty arms on toilet rim, flex and transfer body from floor to sink. Done. Glance at self in mirror above said sink. Lovely. I am the cover model for Perfectly Poised Princess Weekly. Next, lower one's forehead onto environmentally condemned upper arm. Reach out for the cold water tap…
Wave of knee-buckling dizziness was not part of the plan. Oh Merlin! I am going to fall!
No. Wait. Caught by a pair of long arms and pulled against a nicely tall, decidedly male, body. Hair is hanging in my face so I cannot see him, but he can't see me either: good call. But, looking down, I can see an arm across my middle. He has skills - he is holding me up without squeezing me. The paper cup in his other hand is being pressed into mine.
"Swish - don't swallow - understand?"
This man is a sex god and a humanitarian. The purifying minty goodness of mouthwash flows around my teeth. The second dose he offers me feels even better as my tongue shrinks from completely filling my mouth to just resting against the roof of my mouth.
The sound of cascading water and the wafting of a fine mist in the air are making me tremble. Getting in there might be beyond me - even if I groan piteously.
"Shower time."
"I don't think…"
"You can do this."
He's right. The water hitting my front is slightly cooler than normal and feels so good against my prickly skin. At my back are the hard planes of his thighs, stomach and chest which are keeping me from being too cold. He is pushing my face into the stream. I rinse my mouth one more time. Tipping my neck back, his shoulder is just the right height for my heavy head to rest against as the horrible day, drinking, dancing and the night's debauchery swirl around the drain.
'The night's debauchery'? - drama much, Granger? Great. Now, not only am I talking to myself and answering myself, but I can add 'rolling my eyes at myself' to the list. I wonder? Which ward at St. Mungo's I should sign myself into?
Okay. So my day sucked. But, in my defence, at the time, consuming consecutive series of fermented beverages did not make it any worse. For some reason, the memory of sponsoring a wet t-shirt out of male contestants and the ensuing bragging rights earned comes to mind. It's the 'afterwards', when payment comes due, and right now I do not have a galleon to my name. But, this shower is lovely. The guy is not half bad either: sex god, humanitarian and washer-upper of one-night-shags.
"Close your eyes."
Think about telling him that the only times my eyes have been opened were the split-seconds when I saw 'The Return of the Chocolate Cupcake' and the cover-shot to Princess Weekly. But the clean smell of shampoo makes me smile - again. Strong fingers spreading the stuff from my forehead to my temples and from my temples to the very ends of my hair - I can feel my self bending and twisting my neck in whatever angle I think he needs to do the job properly.
"Tilt your head into the spray."
He's a gentleman; another item to add to the list. His hands pushing my shoulders forward so the suds could leave my hair did not slide front for a gratuitous breast groping.
He is trailing one hand down my right arm, lifting it and placing it on the curtain rod. My left hand, he is pressing my palm flat against the wall of the shower.
"Stay there."
Groans and moans, moans and groans. The man knows what he is doing! Spinning soap in his hands, creating a rich lather, before smoothing the clean smelling cleanser all over my body in long, even strokes. He must be - I do not feel the hardness of a bar of soap - and rinsing me clean in the cascading water.
"Turn around."
Mini steps - no spinning! - have me placing both hands in front of me. The pads of my fingers pressing against the back wall of the shower, I drop my chin to my chest.
More moans than groans. Ooh! Moans are MUCH nicer than groans! SPLENDID!!! His hands on my back, butt and legs are generous with out being lewd. Attention paid to my tenderest places is not clinical or cock-happy. It is… salacious. Almost reverent. Evocative of what happened earlier without being demanding. More like he's giving me a reminder without the reprimand.
He's cut the water. He's helping me out of the shower.
Oh Merlin, the light, "Too bright."
"Done."
The bathroom is now wonderfully dim.
"Propexum Exporerrectum."
Whatever he said, it made my hair smooth and tangle-free. A gentle, whirling, warm - breeze? - is wrapping around my body, heels to head. It's a drying spell. Merlin, this man has been trained well.
Even the bedroom candles were all but extinguished. Gripping his forearm for support, all I can smell is the subtle aroma of melting beeswax from the two small votives left lit on the mantle. The signature scents left behind by the visiting of numerous bars, the reek of stale alcohol and two people making wild, crazy monkey love is gone. Where did he find fresh bedclothes? Bag the training - this man graduated from Boyfriend School with full honours.
Wild crazy monkey love? Oh Merlin…
Okay.
Deep breath. Look up. Good. No nail marks on the rafters. Guess there is something to be said for small favours after all.
Resume breathing.
Hmmmm… Choices… Decisions…
Hot, sexy, nameless, faceless, naked guy standing behind me is holding me upright. Naked, lustful, totally turned on, not-nearly-so-drunk-but-still-quite-buzzed, newly clean woman with needs that need to be met standing half way between the door and a freshly made bed. Question is: do I do something about it now or do I take care of myself later? I know - each could be equally satisfying, especially if perceived sex-god turns out to be a 'one-trick pony' with a fancy saddle.
Paranoia 101 - yep, I am still intoxicated but elements of personality are seeping back into verbal repertoire.
What was that I said - slurred - to Luna this afternoon? The first nameless, faceless and question-free guy was going to be the winner.
"My turn."
His turn? Huh? What?
OOOHH!! Now, I get it.
The lad does speak a second language.
Let me help him with his 'diction'. If I hold onto his shoulder with one hand, lift the opposite leg onto the side of the bed and tilt my pelvis like this, then that leaves me a hand free to toy with my breasts and nipples like so… Sharply inhaling a steadying breath, I gotta 'fess up to the fact that these are the kind of dizzies I want more often!
Damn! - this man is a VERY cunning linguist!
Oh Merlin! Where did he learn that! Moaning. Can't think… Moaning more. Grasping my breast harder. Knees are going to give way! I can feel his muscles underneath my fingers, and his hand is splayed out across my lower back, not letting me fall, keeping me in perfect position for... Starbursts! Flashes of light! BLOODY HELL! Is that one finger - or three? What the MERLIN is he doing with his tongue! If he goes there, then I am…
Convulsing. Trembling. Crying out. Clenching and releasing fistfuls of his shoulder.
Is he… laughing? No - not that. More like well paced, partner-centred 'humphs' of self-impressed male pride are being puffed against my sopping wetness.
Let's see if this winner is ready for the bonus round, heh?
Like the way I change positions and am scratching at your chest? That's right - I'm turning you around and walking you backwards. Fabulous - nipples are at a perfect height for nipping. As well as providing a tasty distraction as I move you back to the bed.
Let me see if I can play connect-the-goose pimples with my tongue across and down your stomach as I sink down and let the carpet cushion my knees.
My, my, my… how interestingly your thighs tremble when all I do is blow hot, moist air across your 'boys'. I wonder what would happen if I did…
"Oh, Merlin!"
Hmmm… love the way you fell back on the bed and let your knees fall slack for me. Gives me more room to… explore. Tantalize. Graze the underside of you with my nails. Snaking out my tongue, to do this…
I can think of better things for you to grab onto than the bedclothes, my friend.
So, if I wrapped my fingers around you like this and did this…
Much better - your hands are better used burying themselves in my hair than squeezing the stuffing out of the quilt. What's the quilt going to do for you?
"It is going to soak up every drop that I am going to draw out of you." His words are forced over his teeth, but even I cannot miss the promise imbedded within.
Sodding Legilimens. I can feel a wicked smile come over me as I conjure a specific image in my mind.
Nice response time. Guess you liked that - didn't you? What do you think of this position? Really? And here I was thinking that it would be impossible for you to get any harder.
"Minx!"
Talking with my mouth full - that would be rude - but I can summon a fantasy that I have wanted to enact for years. I only hope he can…
"Done!"
I can barely understand what he said, his word was so guttural. But finding myself lifted up and off him, nothing was lost in translation as to what was going to happen next. Nor is the way he is scooting, back on the bed, taking me with him contradicting my thoughts. Being lifted up high and impaled onto his length in one crashing, downward pull nearly knocked the wind out of me. Nearly. The rest of me is experiencing sexual overload for the first time. - probably for the second time but anything that happened earlier is still a blur.
"You want to have your…"
"Yes."
He is slamming up into me as hard as I am crashing down on him. My inner voice is chanting in-time to our cadence: a-maze-ing, a-maze-ing.
"Do you know what that-"
"-means?" The fact that I finished his question told him I knew. Sensation after sensation, I do not know if I can keep my perch. "Merlin, this feels so good!"
His hands are filled with my breasts, his fingers pinching all the right places. Sodding Legilimens. I am so wicked - I like that fact that I do not have to spare the time to tell him how I like to be touched. The way his breath is coming up short and his shallower thrusts are tell-tale signs he is as far-gone as I am. I am posting again; my hair is flung far down my back.
"Now."
He is on the verge - I can feel it.
"Look at me now!"
For the first time all night, I see who has been pushing my body beyond any point I have ever experienced in my life. For the first time, I am seeing the only man I have ever invited - begged - to make love to my s o u l.
My gasp is too late - I am already on my back and he is firmly re-seated. My brown eyes are locked onto his green depths. I am falling up. Every downward thrust, every thigh-to-thigh impact is raising me higher. I can feel him - everywhere: in the back of my chest, underneath my toenails. I am drowning in emotions and sensations. I am still clapping my body against his; our pace is faster, harder and bruising. Literally. But we are beyond pleasure. We are beyond pain. We are - somewhere else. He is in that scary place in the back of my mind where all my in securities dwell. He is in the place where my happiest memories rejoice. He is…
Oh Merlin! Something… Something is happening… It… It is…b e a u t i f u l
A life time of feelings and emotions are cascading around me. It is nearly overwhelming. People, places, things I have never seen are in my mind, wrapped up in the sparkling explosion of the most intense orgasm ever to have wracked my body, soul and mind. Fragments of thoughts not my own sound in my ears, embarrassing moments belonging to the man above me are blending and merging with my own joys and sorrows. We are the same - he and I - and yet we are separate. Separated by gender, by experiences - but we are the same. My inner self is silent in her projected, howling orgasm, It is her first and it has swept her out of her safe little realm and forefront into what makes me, me.
I can see him - his eyes and face as our souls touch, intertwine and stay connected. His back is arched, his pelvis is still driving my body into the mattress - he is beyond himself. He is here, with me: outside of our rented room above the Leaky Cauldron, beyond the confines of any physical location. We are together, in front of a backdrop of a golden sky pin-pricked by the constellations of the stars. We are standing still, facing each other, naked. Our eyes see nothing but each other. I raise my right hand, palm flat and facing him. He presses his right hand flat against mine, his long fingers exceeding my own. He raises his left hand - a proposal of sorts - palm flat and facing me. With infinite grace, I lift my arm, uncurl my fingers and, section by section, mould my hand to his. Something sears my left wrist at the same time as it marks his left wrist
Magic holds us - it is bonding us, branding us to each other. The very elements are sweeping around us. Everything is here, in front of me, in front of him, around us. Pulses of power are pulling at us. Second, third and fourth orgasms rip through us both, the light is encompassing. Our cries are one: his deep, incomprehensible shouts merging with my feminine wails of pleasure and soul-lifting freedom.
Oh Merlin! Can't… take… much… more… don't… want… to … stop…
*** *** *** *** ***
"Knock it off."
"Huh? Knock what off?"
"Your heart - it's beating too fast. It's keeping me awake." A silly, you-have-just-been-shagged-within-one-inch-of-your-life-grin is spoiling my scolding.
"Oh yeah? Try smelling sexy-woman smells. That'll keep your eye-lids open." His voice is hoarse, like it has been overused. The deep timbre is sensual and the truth in his eyes tells me his is biding his time until he is 're-loaded'.
I cannot resist. Nor can I keep the mischievous twinkle out of my eyes. "To see when she is going to shower and be powder-fresh?"
"Bollocks on that - I want to keep my lady smelling like me for as long as possible." His eyebrow arch is a match for my twinkle, "Manly honour and all that."
Somehow, I am nestled on his shoulder. We are still pressed together from hip to thigh. Our left hands are still locked together, palms flat against one another and fingers intertwined.
"Wow." No need to exclaim what we both know.
"Wow." The fact that I do not hear anything more than reverence about what just occurred tells me he is equally moved.
"Harry?"
"Yeah, Hermione?"
"I saw you, you know."
Silence.
"You were there, following me. All night, in fact." The images were fast and furious, but when we connected, I saw him, looking out for me, no matter where I went, no matter what I did, he was there. I must have known it somewhere in my chemically fogged brain - which would reason out why my libido chose him in the first place.
More silence. But his heart rate hasn't dropped either.
"Can I tell you something?" I am looking at his chest, suddenly feeling self-conscious for the first time all night. Morning?
Strong fingers are lifting up my chin. His deep green eyes are open, unguarded and re-assuring.
"'Mione - boundaries have never been a part of our relationship." He must have seen the sceptical look in my eye. "Okay - there has been one boundary we haven't crossed. That, now, as of tonight, does not exist." Running a hand through my hair, he said, "Tell me."
"Some how, I always suspected it would be you." A light kiss from those wonderful lips had me smiling against his teeth.
A warming sensation had me looking away from his face and down at my wrist. Runes written to small to read in such wonderfully dim light are wrapped around wrist in the colours of forest green and black. Mom is going to kill me for getting a tattoo! Bugger! Hold on - when did I have time to get a tattoo last night?
"It's not a tattoo, Hermione. Think about it." A light smile is touching his now serious eyes. "As for your Mum taking your life - I say it is a seventy-thirty chance, in your favour."
Have I said, 'sodding Legilimens', yet?
I gotta buy myself some time to figure it out - residual levels of alcohol and sexually driven endorphins are messing with my logic skills. "What does it read?"
Turning my wrist gently, he translated. "It means: now, is the time." He can tell I still have not put all the pieces together. "It's my family's motto, written the colours of approval from my Mom and Dad."
I should be terrified. I should be scrambling back into my clothes and fleeing the scene, but I'm not. Something finally 'clicks' with my powers of deduction. "It's an Eternal Bond, isn't it?"
"Our lives are now bound together in a way the whole Wizarding World can see. And yes - it is more significant than a Marriage Mark."
Stirring, twisting a bit so that I can rest my chin just below the pulse point at the base of his neck, ramifications have yet to sink into my sated body and mind and storm-swept soul. So much to process…
"Hermione?" A level of seriousness underscores my name.
"Yeah, Harry?" I am getting really sleepy. Questions, ideas, thoughts and concepts have formed one big ball and have taken aim at my Attention Span.
"We have a lot to talk about." Tiredness has crept into his voice, but the lad is right. There is A LOT that needs to be settled - beyond what has happened tonight.
"I know." Somehow, my cheek has found its way to lean against his shoulder. "Tomorrow?" my one word is a promise.
A kiss falls on the top of my head as he shifts us both into a spooning position.
"Tomorrow."