hp. failure is but a twist of tongue. hermione granger/oliver wood.
Posting my entry for hermione_smut ☺
(can be found at the community | 01.11.2009)
Title: Failure Is But A Twist Of Tongue
Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to J. K. Rowling - I am merely and humbly borrowing them for a quick round in the sandbox thereof. It is a huge, inspiring sandbox. There's no profit coming out of writing this other than the satisfaction of the readers.
Pairing: Hermione Granger/Oliver Wood
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,177
Warnings: There's teasing, nipples, crotches, dampness and a lot of kissing.
Summary: A bitter taste in her mouth after a bad relationship, Hermione Granger decides to focus on her work. But there are times in life when it won't allow things to happen our way.
Author's Notes: I hope the giftee will be pleased with the outcome of a terrible cold that made me write this while cringing in throat pain and stingy eyes. I am more than open to write a more detailed, and juicier, sequel.
Life wasn’t quite what Hermione Granger had expected it to be.
In her case, this was a huge issue; mainly due to the fact that Hermione was a master planner. Each and every event, no matter how small, no matter how insignificant, had to be carefully considered beforehand, and then there was always a Plan B. It had worked during Hogwarts time, helping her to become an over-achiever, and it had been there in between, helping her friends to survive.
Even after all the unexpected and ridiculously blood-curling events that had occurred afterwards, she could still say in all honesty that the outcome had been more than satisfactory. Triumph, and relief: two feelings she had heartily enjoyed; heartily, but briefly.
Being thrown out in the real world had been a shock for Hermione Granger - eminent student, magna cum laude, her mind set on the career path she had always dreamed to follow. Just when all the pieces seemed to fall in their right place, and to form the puzzle as smoothly as she could picture it when batting her eyelashes once, it happened.
Love was too complicated a concept for a rigid mind to predict; so she had failed.
-
“Not another Quidditch player!”
The strong voice of reason, always present, warned Hermione to stay away from trouble. But was that trouble? She couldn’t quite figure it out. After all, Ron Weasley hasn’t been just a Quidditch player; he was - used to be - her friend, he closest friend. There was Harry, there was always Harry too, but he was somehow more distant, more… difficult to grasp.
“I loved one once”, she was thinking. It was the sort of love that habit, and the sudden change thereof, brings upon you. They had grown up together, their lives entwined, and then the war came. Ron and she had grabbed each other for help, support, and mutual comfort; they had succeeded for a while. However, the decline had burst, rather than occurring slowly. It had taken them both by surprise. She hadn’t yelled; he had. There had been red on his freckled cheeks, a mass of red patches quickly burning him, burning her, burning off the connection they had thought they had had.
And then, there had been silence, for a while.
“Holy Merlin, it’s no one else but Hermione Granger! How long is it, lass?”
She acknowledged the somehow massive figure coming towards her at an alert pace. He seemed vaguely threatening, with his long stride, and disconcertingly familiar. There were no robe adornments or badges to distinguish him, but when he stepped into the sunlight, Hermione could remember the billowing red cloak; the ducking and the diving; the Golden Snitch, it was Harry’s job, but his, his was to protect the goal. He’d always given her the impression of a man ready to serve.
“Oliver Wood.” Her lips parted, slightly cracked. She was thirsty; it was a hot summer day. There had been wandering up and down the reconstructed Diagon Alley, in search for new Ministry robes.
“Right ho”, he exclaimed, his comely face split by a large smile. In a single leap of the heart, Hermione acknowledged how much she had been missing honesty and candor on a man’s face; how lonely she had been, ever since Ron… “I’m so pleased to see you again!”
He made a stop a few inches in front of her, towering over. Much to her surprise - and not dismay, she realized - he leaned in and kissed her cheeks enthusiastically.
“Me - me too”, she muttered, his large hands on her shoulders.
-
There was talking, and freshly squeezed lemon juice galore. Oliver knew a good place, he claimed, and Hermione had to agree: they served excellent, icy cold lemonade. She was taken aback by his ability to communicate, too. Her broad picture of Quidditch players was more or less morose; but then again, she could blame that on Viktor, on Viktor who had - all in all - been her first adolescent love.
“It’s good not to be a captain anymore”, Oliver laughed. “It saves up stamina, with all the bellowing in another bloke’s charge. It also bothers me, occasionally. I think I miss it.”
Everything about him was light, open. Where Ron had been quiet and prone to mood swings, Oliver seemed to maintain a balance all men should be longing for. His voice was cool; his tone was even - soothing, perhaps. Hermione found herself with her chin perched on her palms, drinking his words. And he was talking about the most boring subject in Wizardry: Quidditch.
“I have no bellowing to do either”, she dared. “The department I work for has to be extremely quiet, if you know what I mean.” She was one of the keepers of secrets; she could not boast about it. There was no boost in confidence in her words, and maybe the simple tone made Oliver find it funny. He smiled. She smiled back, a bit insecure. People didn’t usually find her very amusing.
“Right, I -“ He suddenly jumped on his feet, almost tumbling the table over. “I have to go.”
There. It was proof enough of how meek she probably seemed to anyone; Hermione’s eyes stung.
“I’m horrendously late for practice because of you, Hermione Granger, but here’s the deal: I’ll owl you later with our game schedule, and get you an invitation if you’d like to come and see me ducking in the good old fashion!”
Off he went, words floating behind him - he had bellowed, in the end.
“Deal”, Hermione’s silent agreement fell over like a curtain of sudden happiness.
-
Even Oliver Wood’s presence didn’t change her mind: Hermione still thought that Quidditch was a pointless, though exciting game. For once, she was fully enjoying the thrill, not having to think about the fate of any of her friends; for once, she trusted the man’s skills to the extent where she wasn’t preoccupied for his safety. She didn’t jump up and down, but her heart did so.
“If we win -“
A shriek almost escaped her lips. Oliver had silently swept through the air around her, astride on his broom, and was now grinning a few inches away from her nose, floating over the people seated below.
“- will you go out for dinner with me?”
It was just celebration, after all. It wasn’t going to kill her, or to harm her in any way. She didn’t think she was very resilient - she needed time to get over past moments, past episodes of torment when she was still hoping she could save something of what had been there between her and Ron.
“I might”, she managed. Blushing, she thought about the little black dress she had chosen for the evening, very inappropriate attire for a Quidditch game; yet, it was well hidden under her silky robes. She didn’t know how to quench the fire grasping her cheeks, so she did the silliest thing: she buried her face between her knees, bushy hair serving as cover.
Oliver had already flown away.
-
It was odd to follow the steps; they were developing a relationship in the modern acceptance of the concept. For Hermione this was fascinating and frightening at the same time. Things have gone on so differently with Ron, when they were both merely children, the pressure of unruly hormones upon them just as much as the constant dark threat.
With Oliver Wood there were not only Quidditch dates. He accepted her proposition of going for a walk in the park - he started a fight with damp, golden-rusty leaves and they ended up rolling on the pasture, their faces red and cut by large smiles. Flowers and midnight owls (bearing simple, but efficient) words of thanks, followed. Hermione dared to think, every now and then, that she was happy.
Her rational mind still refused to accept such a largely-defined idea. It kept rejecting it, suspecting it, and denying it until she had a very bad day at the Ministry. She burst in the café where she was to meet Oliver, completely drenched by the stubborn rain outside. Her hair was hanging pathetically over her trembling shoulders; he wasn’t there, so she sloped to a table in the farthest corner and slid on the chair rather than taking a seat.
“You told me you’re obsessed with cleanliness, but this time you went overboard.”
Oliver sat across the table, his hands immediately clasping over hers. “You’re soaked.”
“I had a nasty day.”
“You’re a mess.” His eyebrows arched at the same time, a flick curious and amused at the same time. “We’re not drinking this bloody tea”, he frowned. “I might as well have something better.”
“You know how to make tea.” It wasn’t a question. It was pleasant surprise.
“We’re also Apparating”, he offered. He grabbed her hands tighter and shut his eyes.
-
Hermione’s analytic spirit was dissatisfied by the lack of time she had to take in the details of Oliver’s place; all in all it was messy - just about - but cozy, and the coziness strangely reminded her of home. Her nostrils pulsed, smelling something familiar.
“You like it too”, she said; another statement. She didn’t make assumptions when it came of pumpkin pie. “My mother was always scorning me because I made her bake the pie all year, instead of accepting that it was for Halloween only.”
“It’s not, and we’re having it now!” Oliver’s voice came from - Hermione assumed - the kitchen; somewhere to her left. She advanced in small steps, following the lead of his rushed, but pleasant tone. “What happened to your mother?”
She stepped in the kitchen just in time for him to see her mouth twitch.
“I’m sorry.”
Hermione nodded. She didn’t think she was prepared to discuss the subject of her mother, her parents, just yet. Not when the air was filled with one of the scents she approved of, not when Oliver looked so casual and comfortable, perched over a huge teapot that began whistling merrily.
“Nutmeg and cinnamon, for the aftertaste. I’m not saying a word about what’s inside, though. You’ll have to do some guesswork, but I have no doubts you’ll nail it alright - you’re good at this.”
She thought she could kiss his smile. She wrapped her arms around him instead, her eyes fixed upon his, hazel melting into hazel, a delicious, sweet fondue. Hermione licked her lips. Oliver leaned in; he covered her mouth with his; he smelled good; he tasted better. Their tongues teased each other lightly, teeth grinding ever so slightly.
Oliver kneeled, slowly. His gaze locked into hers, he undid the lace that kept her collar steady. His eyes caressed her bare collarbone - then his fingers followed. Hermione gasped; she wanted to object, she wanted tea, she actually wanted him never to stop. Closing her eyes to feel less ashamed, she took his hand and placed it firmly over her breast. He went further. His nibble fingers found their way under the tissue, jolting at the discovery that there was no bra to prevent them from exploring freely. Her nipple hardened between his index and his thumb. Still kneeling between her legs, Oliver kissed it; Hermione’s mind tried to warn her that there was a huge stain on her blouse, but her body was so shaken she couldn’t care less. Then she flinched, her back arched, and she planted her hand in his hair - he had quickly flicked his tongue around her nipple, then suckled it. Hermione felt damp between the legs.
The teapot broke off in a maddening whistle. “Oh”, whispered Hermione; her eyes were wide. Much to her dismay, Oliver stood up. She saw regret in his eyes, and something else, something deeper and darker and tempting at the same time - she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Ron so driven by desire for her; if ever.
“We should have tea”, he managed. His words trembled.
Hermione reached for his crotch, without knowing exactly what was she up to. She grabbed a handful of it, gently, teasing. He gasped; his eyes closed. “For the aftertaste, I think I’ll have you”, she replied.
-
Failure had been a concept unknown to Hermione Granger for a long, long while. She had always been hard-working, constant, and driven; always animated by the same principles she had nurtured with care. There had been no point in pointing fingers in her disastrous relationship with Ron, but then again, it was a failure.
Now the second failure, she hoped it would be the last.
She had promised herself not to fall in love again, and she had failed; miserably. She had had her mind set on dedicating her energy to her work, and she had found herself wanting, divided. But this was a different sort of failure, a more delicate, gentler failure that bore a nicer, more promising name.
Trapped between the arms of a lanky, sleeping Oliver Wood, she felt safe; she felt at home; she felt her heart sinking so deep, she was afraid of a real failure.
(can be found at the community | 01.11.2009)
Title: Failure Is But A Twist Of Tongue
Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to J. K. Rowling - I am merely and humbly borrowing them for a quick round in the sandbox thereof. It is a huge, inspiring sandbox. There's no profit coming out of writing this other than the satisfaction of the readers.
Pairing: Hermione Granger/Oliver Wood
Rating: R
Word Count: 2,177
Warnings: There's teasing, nipples, crotches, dampness and a lot of kissing.
Summary: A bitter taste in her mouth after a bad relationship, Hermione Granger decides to focus on her work. But there are times in life when it won't allow things to happen our way.
Author's Notes: I hope the giftee will be pleased with the outcome of a terrible cold that made me write this while cringing in throat pain and stingy eyes. I am more than open to write a more detailed, and juicier, sequel.
Life wasn’t quite what Hermione Granger had expected it to be.
In her case, this was a huge issue; mainly due to the fact that Hermione was a master planner. Each and every event, no matter how small, no matter how insignificant, had to be carefully considered beforehand, and then there was always a Plan B. It had worked during Hogwarts time, helping her to become an over-achiever, and it had been there in between, helping her friends to survive.
Even after all the unexpected and ridiculously blood-curling events that had occurred afterwards, she could still say in all honesty that the outcome had been more than satisfactory. Triumph, and relief: two feelings she had heartily enjoyed; heartily, but briefly.
Being thrown out in the real world had been a shock for Hermione Granger - eminent student, magna cum laude, her mind set on the career path she had always dreamed to follow. Just when all the pieces seemed to fall in their right place, and to form the puzzle as smoothly as she could picture it when batting her eyelashes once, it happened.
Love was too complicated a concept for a rigid mind to predict; so she had failed.
-
“Not another Quidditch player!”
The strong voice of reason, always present, warned Hermione to stay away from trouble. But was that trouble? She couldn’t quite figure it out. After all, Ron Weasley hasn’t been just a Quidditch player; he was - used to be - her friend, he closest friend. There was Harry, there was always Harry too, but he was somehow more distant, more… difficult to grasp.
“I loved one once”, she was thinking. It was the sort of love that habit, and the sudden change thereof, brings upon you. They had grown up together, their lives entwined, and then the war came. Ron and she had grabbed each other for help, support, and mutual comfort; they had succeeded for a while. However, the decline had burst, rather than occurring slowly. It had taken them both by surprise. She hadn’t yelled; he had. There had been red on his freckled cheeks, a mass of red patches quickly burning him, burning her, burning off the connection they had thought they had had.
And then, there had been silence, for a while.
“Holy Merlin, it’s no one else but Hermione Granger! How long is it, lass?”
She acknowledged the somehow massive figure coming towards her at an alert pace. He seemed vaguely threatening, with his long stride, and disconcertingly familiar. There were no robe adornments or badges to distinguish him, but when he stepped into the sunlight, Hermione could remember the billowing red cloak; the ducking and the diving; the Golden Snitch, it was Harry’s job, but his, his was to protect the goal. He’d always given her the impression of a man ready to serve.
“Oliver Wood.” Her lips parted, slightly cracked. She was thirsty; it was a hot summer day. There had been wandering up and down the reconstructed Diagon Alley, in search for new Ministry robes.
“Right ho”, he exclaimed, his comely face split by a large smile. In a single leap of the heart, Hermione acknowledged how much she had been missing honesty and candor on a man’s face; how lonely she had been, ever since Ron… “I’m so pleased to see you again!”
He made a stop a few inches in front of her, towering over. Much to her surprise - and not dismay, she realized - he leaned in and kissed her cheeks enthusiastically.
“Me - me too”, she muttered, his large hands on her shoulders.
-
There was talking, and freshly squeezed lemon juice galore. Oliver knew a good place, he claimed, and Hermione had to agree: they served excellent, icy cold lemonade. She was taken aback by his ability to communicate, too. Her broad picture of Quidditch players was more or less morose; but then again, she could blame that on Viktor, on Viktor who had - all in all - been her first adolescent love.
“It’s good not to be a captain anymore”, Oliver laughed. “It saves up stamina, with all the bellowing in another bloke’s charge. It also bothers me, occasionally. I think I miss it.”
Everything about him was light, open. Where Ron had been quiet and prone to mood swings, Oliver seemed to maintain a balance all men should be longing for. His voice was cool; his tone was even - soothing, perhaps. Hermione found herself with her chin perched on her palms, drinking his words. And he was talking about the most boring subject in Wizardry: Quidditch.
“I have no bellowing to do either”, she dared. “The department I work for has to be extremely quiet, if you know what I mean.” She was one of the keepers of secrets; she could not boast about it. There was no boost in confidence in her words, and maybe the simple tone made Oliver find it funny. He smiled. She smiled back, a bit insecure. People didn’t usually find her very amusing.
“Right, I -“ He suddenly jumped on his feet, almost tumbling the table over. “I have to go.”
There. It was proof enough of how meek she probably seemed to anyone; Hermione’s eyes stung.
“I’m horrendously late for practice because of you, Hermione Granger, but here’s the deal: I’ll owl you later with our game schedule, and get you an invitation if you’d like to come and see me ducking in the good old fashion!”
Off he went, words floating behind him - he had bellowed, in the end.
“Deal”, Hermione’s silent agreement fell over like a curtain of sudden happiness.
-
Even Oliver Wood’s presence didn’t change her mind: Hermione still thought that Quidditch was a pointless, though exciting game. For once, she was fully enjoying the thrill, not having to think about the fate of any of her friends; for once, she trusted the man’s skills to the extent where she wasn’t preoccupied for his safety. She didn’t jump up and down, but her heart did so.
“If we win -“
A shriek almost escaped her lips. Oliver had silently swept through the air around her, astride on his broom, and was now grinning a few inches away from her nose, floating over the people seated below.
“- will you go out for dinner with me?”
It was just celebration, after all. It wasn’t going to kill her, or to harm her in any way. She didn’t think she was very resilient - she needed time to get over past moments, past episodes of torment when she was still hoping she could save something of what had been there between her and Ron.
“I might”, she managed. Blushing, she thought about the little black dress she had chosen for the evening, very inappropriate attire for a Quidditch game; yet, it was well hidden under her silky robes. She didn’t know how to quench the fire grasping her cheeks, so she did the silliest thing: she buried her face between her knees, bushy hair serving as cover.
Oliver had already flown away.
-
It was odd to follow the steps; they were developing a relationship in the modern acceptance of the concept. For Hermione this was fascinating and frightening at the same time. Things have gone on so differently with Ron, when they were both merely children, the pressure of unruly hormones upon them just as much as the constant dark threat.
With Oliver Wood there were not only Quidditch dates. He accepted her proposition of going for a walk in the park - he started a fight with damp, golden-rusty leaves and they ended up rolling on the pasture, their faces red and cut by large smiles. Flowers and midnight owls (bearing simple, but efficient) words of thanks, followed. Hermione dared to think, every now and then, that she was happy.
Her rational mind still refused to accept such a largely-defined idea. It kept rejecting it, suspecting it, and denying it until she had a very bad day at the Ministry. She burst in the café where she was to meet Oliver, completely drenched by the stubborn rain outside. Her hair was hanging pathetically over her trembling shoulders; he wasn’t there, so she sloped to a table in the farthest corner and slid on the chair rather than taking a seat.
“You told me you’re obsessed with cleanliness, but this time you went overboard.”
Oliver sat across the table, his hands immediately clasping over hers. “You’re soaked.”
“I had a nasty day.”
“You’re a mess.” His eyebrows arched at the same time, a flick curious and amused at the same time. “We’re not drinking this bloody tea”, he frowned. “I might as well have something better.”
“You know how to make tea.” It wasn’t a question. It was pleasant surprise.
“We’re also Apparating”, he offered. He grabbed her hands tighter and shut his eyes.
-
Hermione’s analytic spirit was dissatisfied by the lack of time she had to take in the details of Oliver’s place; all in all it was messy - just about - but cozy, and the coziness strangely reminded her of home. Her nostrils pulsed, smelling something familiar.
“You like it too”, she said; another statement. She didn’t make assumptions when it came of pumpkin pie. “My mother was always scorning me because I made her bake the pie all year, instead of accepting that it was for Halloween only.”
“It’s not, and we’re having it now!” Oliver’s voice came from - Hermione assumed - the kitchen; somewhere to her left. She advanced in small steps, following the lead of his rushed, but pleasant tone. “What happened to your mother?”
She stepped in the kitchen just in time for him to see her mouth twitch.
“I’m sorry.”
Hermione nodded. She didn’t think she was prepared to discuss the subject of her mother, her parents, just yet. Not when the air was filled with one of the scents she approved of, not when Oliver looked so casual and comfortable, perched over a huge teapot that began whistling merrily.
“Nutmeg and cinnamon, for the aftertaste. I’m not saying a word about what’s inside, though. You’ll have to do some guesswork, but I have no doubts you’ll nail it alright - you’re good at this.”
She thought she could kiss his smile. She wrapped her arms around him instead, her eyes fixed upon his, hazel melting into hazel, a delicious, sweet fondue. Hermione licked her lips. Oliver leaned in; he covered her mouth with his; he smelled good; he tasted better. Their tongues teased each other lightly, teeth grinding ever so slightly.
Oliver kneeled, slowly. His gaze locked into hers, he undid the lace that kept her collar steady. His eyes caressed her bare collarbone - then his fingers followed. Hermione gasped; she wanted to object, she wanted tea, she actually wanted him never to stop. Closing her eyes to feel less ashamed, she took his hand and placed it firmly over her breast. He went further. His nibble fingers found their way under the tissue, jolting at the discovery that there was no bra to prevent them from exploring freely. Her nipple hardened between his index and his thumb. Still kneeling between her legs, Oliver kissed it; Hermione’s mind tried to warn her that there was a huge stain on her blouse, but her body was so shaken she couldn’t care less. Then she flinched, her back arched, and she planted her hand in his hair - he had quickly flicked his tongue around her nipple, then suckled it. Hermione felt damp between the legs.
The teapot broke off in a maddening whistle. “Oh”, whispered Hermione; her eyes were wide. Much to her dismay, Oliver stood up. She saw regret in his eyes, and something else, something deeper and darker and tempting at the same time - she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen Ron so driven by desire for her; if ever.
“We should have tea”, he managed. His words trembled.
Hermione reached for his crotch, without knowing exactly what was she up to. She grabbed a handful of it, gently, teasing. He gasped; his eyes closed. “For the aftertaste, I think I’ll have you”, she replied.
-
Failure had been a concept unknown to Hermione Granger for a long, long while. She had always been hard-working, constant, and driven; always animated by the same principles she had nurtured with care. There had been no point in pointing fingers in her disastrous relationship with Ron, but then again, it was a failure.
Now the second failure, she hoped it would be the last.
She had promised herself not to fall in love again, and she had failed; miserably. She had had her mind set on dedicating her energy to her work, and she had found herself wanting, divided. But this was a different sort of failure, a more delicate, gentler failure that bore a nicer, more promising name.
Trapped between the arms of a lanky, sleeping Oliver Wood, she felt safe; she felt at home; she felt her heart sinking so deep, she was afraid of a real failure.