#we have a fuckload of slugs

[imperial-nuisance-rudje]

I think I should make beer traps for the garden and planters, gotta remember to ask for a single can of the cheapest beer available and a bunch of tiny dishes

[be11atrixthestrange]

Waking Up In Vegas Chapter 13

After a night of debauchery, Ron and Hermione wake up in Vegas... married.

Muggle!AU. Romcom!Romione. Slow burning, smutty, angst-fest.

Rated M for reasons.

Ao3 | FFN

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[Ron]

The moment immediately after Ron admits his feelings, and before he draws up the courage to snog Hermione senseless in public seems to last a lifetime, and it's bursting with questions.

Why does he hesitate? He can't simply tell a girl he's falling in love with her, pause to stare at her lips, panic, and then do nothing.

But that's what Ron does. Maybe she's thinking the same things he is: that they agreed not to kiss, and they weren't expecting to admit such strong feelings, nor were they expecting them to be reciprocated. Although it feels silly not to kiss, doing so would feel like breaking a promise, and they have all night to kiss, so what's the rush? Why risk outing their relationship at the wrong time simply because of the heat of the moment?

Or maybe she's simply wondering why the fuck he isn't kissing her.

However long the moment lasts, it's over when a drunken Seamus staggers up to them and interrupts.

"Ron, Hermione! I've been looking for you," he says, stumbling through the crowd to greet them, oblivious to what he's barging in on. "We're going on the Deathstick. Come on!"

Seamus points to the ride in question — the Deathstick — and next to Ron, Hermione groans in response. In the middle of the venue is a thrill ride that towers up and through the ceiling. Riders pair up into compartments and rotate around a tall pillar, rising through the ceiling until they… well, Ron doesn't actually know. Presumably, they drop, but it all takes place above the roof, out of sight. That's probably part of its appeal.

The pair follows behind Seamus, and Ron can sense the reluctance from Hermione. One glance at her pale face tells him she's not much of a thrill-seeker.

"You good?" he asks.

"I'm not sure about this," she says, eyeing the tower with trepidation.

"You don't fancy an adrenaline rush?"

Hermione laughs. "Oh, I do. It's just that my idea of an adrenaline rush is a glass of wine and a murder mystery."

A glass of wine and a murder mystery sounds fantastic right about now, and Ron can't help but smile at the thought of Hermione curled up on the sofa with a book, her legs on his lap, and a cabernet in her hand.

In the London flat that they share, of course.

"Well, that sounds amazing," says Ron. "We don't have to go." His heart sinks the moment he says it, and he's suddenly aware of how much he wants to go.

"You should go," she says, noticing his reaction. "I'll wait for you."

Ron smiles at her and turns toward the ride. The rest of the wedding party has already partnered up for the two-person compartments — Harry with Ginny, Dean with Seamus, Neville with Luna, and Demelza with Lavender. Ron's all alone.

Ron looks back at Hermione and follows her gaze to a group of girls — possibly another hen party — running into a similar dilemma. Hermione scowls as one of the partner-less girls scans the crowd, looking for someone to ride with. He can hear a faint suggestion from her friend, "Why don't you ask that red-head? He's cute…"

"I'll go with you," Hermione says, smiling back at Ron. "How bad could it be?"

"Are… are you sure?" he asks, unable to stop the smirk that spreads across his face. She's jealous.

"Yes, I'm sure," she says. "I wouldn't want you to ride alone, or worse, with a complete stranger."

"Agreed, I'd prefer to ride with my wife than a girl I just met," says Ron, winking at the girl who's both. They proceed to the ride entrance, and Hermione hesitates before letting Ron pull her along.

"I'm sure the view up top will be worth it," she says, her voice shaking.

Once they reach the front of the line, they pile into the tiny cell and strap themselves into their harnesses. Hermione's fingers intertwine with Ron's as the doors close, and she lets out a small whimper. Ron squeezes her hand.

"It'll be over soon," he assures her, even though he's not sure he wants it to be. It's probably only a five to ten minute ride, and the small compartment has a lot of privacy.

As if on its own accord, his thumb starts caressing the top of her hand.

They start their slow ascent to the top, passing through The Slug Club's ceiling into the night sky. Hermione squeezes Ron's hand more firmly, and Ron can feel her rising pulse through her fingers.

"How are you doing?" he asks.

"I'm okay," she says, her voice trembling.

Las Vegas shrinks as they ascend into the night sky, until they're floating above a sea of sparkling lights. The neon signs, vehicle headlights, and illuminated windows pepper the desert floor, now looking like tiny, electric legos that Ron could pick up and hold between two fingers. From up high, the city looks like the perfect set of pieces to rearrange and create something new from scratch. It reminds him of his childhood daydreams when he would build castles and fortresses with blocks and imagine he could fit inside and live there. He'd write himself into stories about knights, talking statues, princes, and princesses, and play out the unlimited possible futures and happy endings.

The weight of Hermione's hand pulls him out of his reverie, but only partially. There's something magical about the moment, hovering above the world, with the commotion of the city reduced to candlelight, that keeps him tied to the innocent optimism of his younger self. As a child, Ron lived his life guided by a heart that had never been broken, and he would have had no issues falling in love with a princess before learning her middle name. Maybe there's wisdom in that forgotten mindset because right now, the idea of building something beautiful from nothing and writing his own happy ending feels more relevant than ever.

"Check out that view," says Ron, breaking the almost silence.

They rotate on the axis, and Hermione's eyes tear up as she admires the electric grid below. Ron continues to rub circles onto her hand, matching the calming pace of his breath. Hopefully, she feels a moment of peace too.

Away from the ambiguous city noise at ground-level, it feels like he's been submerged in silence at first, but as his ears adjust, the subtle sounds of their breath fill the space. It's a sound he hasn't heard in a while, and upon a closer listen, he starts to make sense of it — it's like its own language, nuanced but informative. His calm, rhythmic breath matches the peace of the moment, and as they slow to a stop at the ride's highest point, Hermione's choppier, erratic breathing reminds him that at any second, they'll drop into freefall.

"It's beautiful," she says, squeezing his hand back and admiring the view.

"So beautiful."

Hermione must sense by the closeness of his voice that he's looking at her, not the view, and she turns toward him with a smile on her face. They lock eyes, and the heat in her gaze suggests that if she weren't strapped down by a harness, she'd be snogging him senseless by now.

Then they drop into freefall.

The quiet of their carriage turns to screams of adrenaline as they plummet toward the ground, only to rise and drop again; how many times, Ron doesn't know, but he grips her hand as the only still, unmoving anchor to reality as the world blurs around them.

Eventually, their screams turn to laughter, and Ron's relieved to see Hermione smiling wide, her eyes sparkling. Her face is red, her hair is frizzing out every which way, and Ron has never seen anything so gorgeous.

"That was amazing!" he says once he catches his breath, and his heart rate returns to normal. "How do you feel, Hermione?"

"I don't know yet. Give me a second," she says, but her smile suggests she's just fine. "A little dizzy."

"Well, let's get you to a bench."

As they exit the ride and head over to a bench to rest, the rest of the wedding party pours out of their compartments, unsteady on their feet, and Ron has to stop himself from looping an arm around Hermione. Instead, he reaches for her arm under the guise of supporting her balance.

"I'm so proud of you!" he exclaims when she plops to a seat.

"What? Why?" she groans, leaning back on the bench and closing her eyes. She deepens her breath as if staving off nausea.

"Because you just did something that terrifies you, and it took a fuckload of courage."

Hermione laughs. "You did it too."

"Nah. Stuff like that doesn't scare me," he says as he sits next to her and waves off her questioning glance. "You're amazing, Hermione. Really."

Her eyes crack open for a moment, and she smiles at him. Ron's extra aware of the distance between them and how easy it would be to close it. He could just pull her into his lap for a quick snog. Who's really watching?

He doesn't have the chance to act on the temptation before Harry's panicked voice diverts his attention.

"Ginny! Are you okay, love?"

Harry sprints past their bench faster than a lightning bolt to where a sick Ginny is leaning over a rubbish bin.

Without a second thought, Harry rolls up his sleeves to hold her hair back. He doesn't bat an eye when she's sick yet again, and when she finishes, Harry pulls her into a hug and kisses her forehead, paying no attention to the risk of contaminating his shirt.

"I want that," mutters Hermione, staring wistfully at Harry and Ginny.

"Want what?" asks a confused Ron.

"Aren't they cute?"

Ron scoffs. "No, they're not. Look at them. They've never looked worse," he says, laughing.

"Well, that's exactly what I mean!" says Hermione, turning toward him now.

"Explain yourself."

"You and I think they look… awful right now," she says, gesturing toward Harry and Ginny, who are still embracing. "But even though they're stumbling drunk and covered in sick, they still think the other is the most attractive person in the world. I think it's sweet."

Ron watches his sister and future brother-in-law. Harry mutters something in Ginny's ear that makes her smile. The look in his eyes is one that Ron never wants to see directed at his sister, but Hermione has a point.

"I want to know what that's like," she says.

Ron looks over at Hermione, and he can't help but smirk.

"What?" she asks, her eyes narrowing.

"You do know what that's like, Hermione."

For good measure, he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She catches his hand and leans her cheek against his palm. Her cheeks flush pink, and in a bold moment, she turns her head and presses a kiss to his hand.

He almost gets lost in the moment before he remembers that the reasons he can't kiss her are the same reasons he can't stay here and cradle her face. She seems to have the same realization and lifts her head, letting his hand drop back to his side.

She smiles at him, and there's a glint of something in her eye — mischief, maybe.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, fully knowing his tone comes off as suggestive. He doesn't care.

"That I owe you a drink."

Ron raises his eyebrows. "But didn't we agree to stay sober tonight?"

She raises hers back. "Just one drink?"

Ron smiles. The way he sees it, his best life decisions have been made while drunk with Hermione Granger.

"Just one drink," he confirms.

Hermione grins, and by the look she gives him, he knows that she doesn't mean just one. It's okay, though, because he doesn't either.

When they reach the bar, Ron's disappointed to discover that they aren't the only ones in the wedding party with the idea. It appears that the adrenaline rush of the Deathstick has made everyone thirstier, so their friends scatter in pairs around the taproom. With everyone's attention a quick shout away, Ron's hopes of stealing a kiss from his wife diminish.

"Hello again, Mr. Weasley. Miss Granger. Can I get you a drink?" asks Rosmerta, approaching them with a smile.

"Sure," says Ron. "Madam Rosmerta, what is the most popular cocktail at this bar?"

"Madam! I like that!" smiles Rosmerta. "Our most popular drink would probably be Felix."

"Never heard of it!" says Ron.

Rosmerta leans across the bar as if preparing to tell him a big secret. Hermione and Ron lean in to listen.

"Years ago, a customer came in and handed over directions to concoct a very specific drink. He called it 'liquid luck'," she says, winking. "At first, we laughed at him; thought he was taking it way too seriously. He was a very superstitious type. The joke was on us, though. He hit up the casino and left five million dollars richer. We ended up naming the drink after him."

"Bloody hell. We'll take two of those!" he says, sending a questioning glance toward Hermione, who nods.

"Don't get too excited," says Rosmerta as she fixes up two shimmery golden cocktails. "No one's ever been able to mimic that level of luck, though many have tried." She slides the drinks across the bar to Ron and Hermione and shrugs. "It tastes good, though."

Ron reaches into his pockets to fish out some cash for Rosmerta. She deserves a big tip for putting up with a rowdy crowd like this one, and who knows what rude customers she's had to deal with today.

"Thanks, Rosmerta! Can you hold the straws on those, please?" he asks, just as Rosmerta is reaching under the bar to grab two plastic straws to plop into their drinks.

"You sure?" she asks, hesitating before the open cabinet.

"Yeah," says Ron. "Save the sea turtles, right?"

"As you wish!" says Rosmerta.

Ron turns back toward Hermione and opens his mouth to speak, but pauses when he catches her eye. There's a fiery passion in her gaze, and it's something that Ron has never before seen in a woman's eyes, at least not directed at him.

Her look is like a spotlight, yet he doesn't mind the attention. It feels like he's on a stage, and no matter what he says or does, it will earn him a standing ovation. He can't help but wonder if Hermione's ever looked at a man like that before, but before his insecurities can take root, she springs forward and crashes her lips against his.

It takes some time for Ron to process what's happening before he responds. He's not entirely sure how much, as time might as well stop turning. When he gets his bearings, his fingers snake into her hair, and he holds her head in place, although he doesn't need to as she makes no effort to break away from him. She kisses him with a passion that Ron would expect behind closed doors only; the way her tongue slides between his lips is slow and sensual, yet eager and full of lust, and the sound she makes when he gently tugs at her hair sends Ron's mind spiraling into dangerous fantasy territory.

With great reluctance, they pull away, panting to catch their breath. Ron doesn't even think to look around and check if anyone saw them. As far as he's concerned, they're the only two people in The Slug Club.

"I know we were trying to keep this quiet, but—" she says, but Ron cuts her off by pulling her lips back to his.

The second time is even hungrier. Ron can feel Hermione's teeth bite his bottom lip, teasing him, as her hands slip around his shoulders. She lets out a soft moan as her fingers trace the muscles of his arms, and any negative thoughts he's ever had about his body — too lanky, too scrawny, not athletic enough — float to the background and become irrelevant. The increasing pressure in his shorts suggests he's close to getting carried away, and although he wouldn't mind, he doesn't want Hermione to get a slap on the wrist for public indecency, so he forces himself to pause.

When they surface for the second time, Ron notices that she's ditched her bar stool and is standing before him, leaning her weight against his leg, dangerously close to his growing erection. His arms have managed to wrap around her hips, and his hands are shamelessly resting on her bum, but again, he pays no mind to the crowd. There's only one person that matters.

"I haven't even had a sip of Felix yet, and I already feel like the luckiest man in here," he says. "What inspired this?"

"It was everything. I swear every time you look at me, and every little thing you say, it gets more difficult to keep my hands off of you."

Ron pulls her against him, tilts his head up, and presses a light, chaste kiss to her lips. He loves that she's short enough to reach his lips when he's sitting down, and her face is just as beautiful from this new angle. He wants to see it from every vantage point possible.

"What was the tipping point?" he asks, his tone playful.

"The straws," she says. "And the 'save the sea turtles' bit."

Ron beams. Straws. Of course.

"What did sea turtles do to make you love them so much?" he laughs, tightening his embrace. "And can they give me some tips?"

Hermione smiles down at him and toys with the hair on the back of his neck. "You don't need any tips," she says, inching her lips closer. "You'll be just fine."

She closes the space between them, and once again, he immerses himself in kissing her. As if they're back on the Deathstick, the ambient noise of the surrounding crowd fades away, and he finds no difficulty tuning into the sound of her breath and the taste of her lips.

Nothing can distract him from this moment. The wolf-whistles around them fade away, and Ron has all but forgotten about the two sparkling gold, untapped glasses of Liquid Luck on the bartop. He could kiss her forever, taking mental notes on every response, every reaction, eager to discover this growing language between them, and the endless stories it can tell.