AN: Another drabble written for SMJL's birthday! 3
"Hermione? Have you seen my jumper? I swear I put it away last night, and now the bloody thing has gone missing!"
Hermione tuts at the disturbance and lifts her head from the book she only just settled on the sofa to read. Why does Ron have to bellow at her like that from the bedroom, a whole floor above her? Why can't he come downstairs and ask her nicely?
She takes her time in placing the bookmark between her pages then sets the novel back down on the coffee table. With a yawn, she pushes herself to her feet, deliberately stretching out the minutes before she answers him. It's her only day off today and they're heading to the Burrow for lunch soon. She had been looking forward to having a bit of time to read something not work-related. Plus, Ron's a grown man, and she shouldn't have to waste her energy chasing him around and sorting out his bleeding jumpers. She's his wife, not his housekeeper.
It's probably staring him right in the face, anyway.
"And may I ask which jumper you are shouting at me about?" she asks as she rounds the wooden door frame to their bedroom, leaning against it with her arms crossed over her chest.
Ron stands in front of his side of the wardrobe in his beaten up, holey jeans and the Chudley Canon's t-shirt that is much too tight for him. Even though Hermione has spent hours replacing his old hand-me-down clothes for brand new ones over the past five years, he still prefers to gravitate to the older versions. She's sure he only does it to annoy her.
"Much more comfortable this way," he always protests, whilst tugging the too-short-arms of his Gryffindor hoody down to reach his wrists.
Hermione's husband is too caught up in rifling through the cupboard that he doesn't hear her. Either that, or he's choosing to ignore her. His top rides up as he sinks deeper into the cabinet, exposing the expanse of freckles above his jeans. The sight is enough to flood her core with warmth, and she squirms at the sensation.
Who gets turned on by seeing her husband's back, a part of his body she gets to see every day? Get a grip, woman!
"Ron? What jumper are you looking for, love?"
His head shoots up, and Hermione winces as he cracks it on the edge of the pine wood. She's surprised it doesn't knock him out. Rubbing the injured spot, Ron turns to face her, his eyes widening as he takes her in.
"That bloody jumper! No wonder I can't find it, you're wearing it!"
Hermione glances down at the maroon coloured sweater she pulled on this morning, whilst still bleary-eyed and without coffee. She hadn't been paying attention and definitely hadn't clocked that it wasn't hers. Anyway, she's used to wearing his clothes now, and they like a second skin to her. There's something comforting about the scent of him lingering as she goes about her daily business. Although she'd never admit it, Ron is right. His old hand-me-downs and hand-knitted clothes are more comfortable than anything else they can buy at the store.
A smirk spreads across her face as she reasons, "Can't you wear a different one?"
"But I want that one!"
"Well, you can't because I'm wearing it."
Ron slams the wardrobe door shut, sending the precariously built wood wobbling. Hermione holds her breath for a moment as she waits for the cupboard to collapse, but it lives to see another day. He takes two steps left then opens another set of doors.
"Fine! If you're adamant on wearing my clothes, then I'll go to dinner in an item from your wardrobe. Maybe a pretty dress?"
He reaches in and takes hold of the first thing he places his hands on—her best purple cashmere cardigan.
"Don't you dare," Hermione warns, but her husband pays no heed to her as he pulls the sleeves over his arms, grunting with the effort. "Seriously. You stretch it or ruin it and I'll divorce you."
Yanking the cardigan up over his shoulders, Ron turns to grin at Hermione. He looks ridiculous, his arms in a half-hunched position as the tight material holds him in place. Although he's attempted to button it, there's no way the edges will meet over his broad chest.
If clothes could cry, this cardigan would be sobbing.
The mirror over Hermione's vanity desk whistles and the young witch almost agrees with it. The deep colour suits him, making his azure eyes look deeper than usual. She's not sure whether to swoon or giggle.
"If you've ruined that Ron Weasley, then I will hex you into oblivion. Take it off."
"Make me!"
Hermione takes a step towards him, laughing as he immediately moves away. "Ron!"
"I told you! If you want it, come and get it."
A flurry of activity follows his command as she attempts to get hold of him without ruining her cardigan. Every time Hermione inches closer, Ron takes a giant stride away. He's faster than her, and although she tries her best, she can't keep up with him.
Losing her breath and getting wound up at the ridiculousness of it all, she launches herself at him and wraps her ankles around his legs, sending the pair tumbling to the bed. She straddles his hips, the constraints of the cardigan enough to stop him from fighting back as she launches a tickle attack on him.
"Hermione! Stop! I'm serious. I hate being tickled!"
"I know!"
It continues for a while longer, both of them getting more and more breathless and wound up. Ron must decide it's not worth trying to retaliate without the use of his arms because before she knows it, he's craning his neck up to capture her lips in a surprise kiss. It has the desired effect—Hermione abandons her assault and melts into him with a loud moan.
The fighting couple snog until their lungs burn from lack of air. Hermione takes advantage of her position, pressing her hips tight to his to feel the growing hardness as their tongues battle. She loves how easy it is to do that to him.
Ron pulls away with a gasp, rubbing his nose against hers and turning her legs to jelly.
"See, it's not nice having your clothes stolen, is it?" he questions, beaming up at her with that wide-eyed look on his face that tells her he's plotting something.
The lop-sided grin that comes with it sends a flood of desire through her body, and she's breathless when she asks, "How long have we got until your parents are expecting us?"
"Half an hour or so…."
She devours his words, too impatient to wait to hear the last of the sentence as her fingers find the edge of his jumper. For some unknown reason, she's found her stubbornness in keeping his clothes on has disappeared.
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