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[Aug. 20th, 2005|05:23 pm] |
Gah. LJ hates me today.
Title: Conflict
Rating: NC17
Summary: The morning comes and she does not know whether what they do is the binding of two hearts or the mating of two bodies, and therein lies the conflict. They of all people have that way of dancing around words, of never saying what they should, of hurting one another only to soothe the wounds they inflicted. And Hermione knows if she has one more night of feeling Ron's lips burn against her skin without the comfort of knowing he will face the dawn as hers, she really will hate him.
Warnings: This is long-winded. That's a warning, :)
AN: I haven't ever done R/Hr flangsty smut and it's been awhile since I even wrote this pairing. So if I'm rusty, chalk it up to me being not altogether too fond of Hermione and waay too fond of Ron. This one's for delylah who always takes time to leave the most wonderful comments and who I fangirl, and for Pam 'coz you have always made me feel like I'm a good writer and you don't have to take the time that you do to do so. :)
~*~
Sometimes, Hermione hates Ron.
Merlin, she hates him, a burning, simmering, weeping hatred that crawls up from the very depths of her gut, choking her throat, making blood rush to the surface of her skin. It is the sort of hate that cuts like a dulled knife- not kind enough to be sharp, clean, easy. But cruel enough to split her raw, tender emotions until the scars that stripe her skin fall open, revealing the truth of her heart.
Because she hates Ron, but she loves him.
Oh, Lord, does she love him, a warm, tingling sort of euphoria that swims through her veins and covers her heart in the way a gardener would a prized rose. Dark burlap, keeping the tenderness of her protected.
It's the sort of love that aches constantly in every molecule of her body, the sort of pain that slides sweetly through her limbs and pools in that pit of her stomach. The love is there and it complements that agonizing, desperate, resigned hatred. It is a truth that Hermione has long ago learned to accept, this conflict within her.
She wishes she understood, but one doesn't understand madness.
Hermione does not hate Ron in the way that Harry hates Voldemort, that one hates an archenemy, a deadly rival. Rather, she hates him in the way a besotted lover does an unnattainable goal, in that frenzied, mindless way that preludes ultimate release. She hates him because of her love for him, because of the unrealized nature of her own tempest raging within her.
Does she simply want him so bad that she must name the chaos as hatred, when it could simply be something so primal, so human, as...desire?
Yes. There is desire, that much is devastatingly clear.
In the dark of the night one summer month after the War has long ago ended and everyone is happy, or at least pretending to be, Hermione succumbs to the question inside. She is a scholar before most anything else, and a woman before that, so she knows what she must do to reach the answers she seeks. Hermione will find out tonight if Ron Weasley truly wants her or not, and she will be released from the terrible burden of hating the one she loves once and for all.
"Ron," she whispers. She is in his room and it is hot, stifling. Sweat gathers behind her ears, slides down her breasts.
He opens his eyes and oh, he is looking up at her with so much trust in his eyes that she knows this must go quickly so she does not do something stupid like cry. Her bare legs brush his restlessly hanging hands as she kneels beside Ron's bed, guiltily gratefulful that Harry must now sleep on his own because of his nightmares. But Hermione has spent so long worrying over Harry, the war, her family, that she pushes these thought out of her mind and focuses on Ron, on herself, on them.
"'Mione?" he asks, his voice rough from sleep. The way his lips caress those syllables... Long, drawn out, drawling: My. Own. And she is, she is his own, she's never belonged to anyone else, and again, hatred so despairing, so weakening, flares deep within. Why does he rule over her so? Why does he not feel exactly what she feels? Why does he not come to her, and why, why, why does he continue to fan the flames of hope in her when all sensibility (and all insecurity, if Hermione is honest with herself) tells her that he won't ever love her back?
"Hullo," Hermione says softly, reaching a hand out to trace a line down his jawline. It is a gesture that she has done many times over these years, feeling the prickle of stubble sting her skin and knowing that Ron is a man now, not a little boy. They have grown accustomed to small touches, friendly gestures, something that as teenagers, they never could quite fathom.
Now, though, the maddened, complacent nature of friendship encourages these little things and no one else but Hermione knows how Ron's skin electrifies her.
He grabs her finger in that playful way of his, his own fingers curling her hand into a fist. He brings the fist up to his mouth and places a small kiss on the knuckles.
"Couldn't wait till morning to see me, hmm?"
Ron has a way of making her forget that they have done this before, that this is routine for them. The flirting, the teasing, the incessant jump of excitement in their chests at hearing each other's voices. They have danced this dance for a year now, twelve months of hot, heavy nights, of sticky sheets, of sated sighs. One would think the physical act itself would be enough for Hermione now, the way Ron's fingers comb through her hair, the way his hands cradle her bum, the way his lips close over hers. But it drives her even more around the bend with confusion, these nights, for the morning inevitably comes and they are no closer to answers.
The morning comes and she does not know whether what they do is the binding of two hearts or the mating of two bodies, and therein lies the conflict. They of all people have that way of dancing around words, of never saying what they should, of hurting one another only to soothe the wounds they have inflicted. And Hermione knows if she has one more night of feeling Ron's lips burn against her skin without the comfort of knowing he will face the dawn as hers, she really will hate him.
"No," she whispers, and the way Ron's eyes darken let her know that he has heard the arousal in her voice. He reaches out and hauls her to her feet, catching her round the waist and tugging her against him. His body is all hard lines and heat, and Hermione traces her palm down the warm skin under his t-shirt. She doesn't waste any time and tugs the shirt up, over Ron's head. Her lips are on his skin, tongue flickering to taste the salty sweetness of Ron. She is pressing kisses everywhere, her fingers threading through his hair, her nipples tight and aching as they brush through her nightdress against his chest. There is a wild frenzy to her, a desperate need to feel what they do not say. Ron seems to sense this, and his hands tighten against her waist as he lifts her slightly to kiss her hungrily.
His tongue is a hot slide against hers, and he purposely slows the pace of the kiss. These are luxurious, wicked kisses, his teeth tugging at her lips, his mouth a stamp of ownership against the flushed skin of her neck. Hermione jumps as she feels Ron's fingers slip under the hem of her nightdress, the slow drag of skin against skin as he pulls it up over her head, as he hooks his thumb around her knickers, as he slides the plain underthing down her legs and fings it somewhere where it can never bother him again. She is naked, deliciously and heated-skin naked against him, her thighs rubbing against the flannel of his pyjamas.
Ron's hands are massaging her breasts, able, strong fingers cradling the creamy mounds of flesh and working the nipples into peaks. His mouth is hot against the sensitive skin as he swipes one nipple with his tongue, worrying it between his teeth. Hermione cries out and clutches his head to her breast, grinding her hips against the hand that has slipped down to the apex between her thighs. Ron's fingers, those damn, magical fingers slide in and out of her wet, slick centre in a rhythymic stroke, his thumb rubbing firm circles around that distented bundle of nerves that is buzzing at the contact. She is fairly dancing, rolling her hips against his persistent hand, her breathless moans swallowed up by Ron's wandering mouth.
"Come for me." Ron grins, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. Hermione feels the familiar hatred of this power over her rear up as the white-hot waves of pleasure build. She won't, not just because he says so, she won't-
"Oh, God." And then the rubber band inside her snaps and her body is shaking and arching as Ron continues gentle ministrations, waiting until she comes down from her high. "Ron," she starts.
But then he is kissing her again, only this time is is sweet and gentle, and so tender that a stirring begins deep within her. Oh, no. Tears. Ron's hand glide up to lace through her hair as he peppers soft kisses on her chin, her nose, her eyelids, her cheek. She can feel the hard, throbbing evidence of his arousal against her belly, but he is taking it slow, making it sweet. For her. She needs to change the atmosphere, she needs to-
Hermione slips her hand down the band of Ron's pyjamas, running the tip of her finger across the weeping head of Ron's erection. His breath hitches and his fingers curl in her hair, and Hermione shoves the pyjamas down so she can fully wrap her hand around the thick, hot length of him. The velvet over steel texture fascinates her and the way Ron's eyes glaze over empowers her. She strokes up and down, firm, sure strokes that have Ron thrusting up to meet her hand. But it is not enough. Hermione needs to go that step further, she needs to--
She slides down lower on the bed and then, looking up to note Ron's bewildred expression, she flicks her tongue out to lick the salty essence of him, and Ron convulses, grabbing her shoulders and groaning, low and gravelly. She cocks her head and then she is taking him in her mouth, the hot, heavy feel of him resting on her tongue. She swirls her tongue around and up to the base, cupping him and watching as his eyes widen.
He does not thrust into her mouth and he warns her before he comes, and as she watches him spend himself on her thigh, she thinks she loves him more than she can bear and that conflict rages again in her heart.
"You're so beautiful, Hermione," he croaks after he's calmed down, though his eyes are still wild. "Sometimes I can't believe-" he shakes his head and turns her around gently, burying his face in her hair, tucking her close to his body as they lie down. Hermione can't believe that they just had mind-blowing orgasms and he wants to just lie down and talk! This wasn't- this isn't-
It's not how things usually happen.
"I'm crap at words, Hermione," he whispers. "I always mess things up. I make you cry. Sometimes I think you hate me."
The silence is heavy and tensed as Hermione retreats within herself for a moment, absently circling the arm tucked around her waist with a finger.
"But...I know that you-- that you're the only one who makes me feel this way. Important. Worthy." Hermione can feel the heated skin of his blush against her shoulder. "Sexy."
"I realize I've never said it before and right now is probably not the right time, but then-- I never get things right anyway, yeah?" He holds her closer and takes a deep breath and the panic and hope is building in Hermione's heart to an unbearable level.
"I want you to stay with me in the morning, Hermione," he whispers fiercely. "I need you to stay with me in the morning and all day long and all night long because my life doesn't feel right without you driving me mad all the time."
For the moment it takes things to register, Hermione can only lament that he did not say the words she needed to hear. But as she listens, truly listens, she knows that Ron has just said everything that matters- in his own way.
They forego making love that night, his arms wrapped around her waist instead, cradling her close. He seems content to just lie with her and sleep, but she stays awake, the sudden clarity with which she sees thing sharp and unrelenting. She has her answer and it twists and turns giddily within her even as the sun warms their bodies as dawn blooms.
Ron loves her and she loves Ron and she hates herself for ever hating him at all.
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