FIC: There Rose Immortal -RemusxHermione- (an army of lovers challenge)
there rose immortal - remusxhermione (r)
(for the hp_literotica 'an army of lovers' challenge in March. Title and quote taken from a Sassoon poem. None of this is mine).
summary: Remus indulges in a flight of fantasy.
but now i've said goodbye to Galahad
and am no more the knight of dreams and show.
For lust and senseless hatred made me glad
and my killed friends are with me where I go.
- the poet as hero, S.S, 1916.
"Come on, Remus..."
She was disengaging his fingers from around his glass, but he was holding on, grasping, fumbling, melted ice and another sip.
"Remus?" Her fingers were so soft (his rubbed raw). "Don't you think that you've had enough, Remus?" He didn't. He hadn't. There wasn't enough in the whole world anymore (his ghosts were legion). When he looked at her, he twisted (more to drink than he'd thought), remembered her as a little girl before the world resolved itself in amber mist. Not a little girl anymore, shoes kicked off under the table, hair finding ways to spill out of elaborately arranged pins.
"Her...Heh..." Sounds wrapped around his tongue, making him feel drunk and foolish. "Look..." Another glass already on the table (even after all this time, hadn't managed to convince himself that Sirius wouldn't be home for a drink). His hands trembled as he poured her a measure (a large one, a double) and pushed it to her across scarred wood (skin had healed, but the house remembered). Hermione took off her glasses, and took a sip, barely wincing (brave girl). As he watched her drinking, he saw her layered on top of herself; quiet and serious child, quiet and serious young woman, but with a shimmer of a spark, now. What she'd gained from being loved so well. The war had taken Tonks away, but her influence was there, electric-brilliant highlights, red and gold and violet blue. Hermione ran her fingers under the collar of her blouse (flash of white lace, soft swell of breast, not a little girl any longer). Above them, the house was full of abandoned lovers; Ginny and her baby girl (Wilhemina to be known as Bill her whole life, wirey golden hair and freckled coffee skin)...Ron (Harry gone more and more these days)...Hermione herself, her pretty girl gone so long and white lace dreaming of being peeled back from her skin. Twenty two years old, Hermione's body body was young and perfect and supple. Twenty two year old girls dream of dancing shoes and being kissed.
After he kissed her, he traced the seams of her stockings with the palms of her hands, pushing her legs wider (he could smell her, faintly). When she lay back, he covered her body with his, kissing down her throat. Her nipples hardened at the barest touchin, his breath, the brush of his stubbled jaw (didn't shave as often as he should). On her back on the table, he opened her like a rose, like a secret, pink striped cotton, white lace. She moaned and mumbled, arching up, rising like the sub as her palmed her, played her, as he rolled her with his fingers. She wrapped her legs up around his waist, pin stripe rolling up around her thighs. Twenty two year old girls dream of love but sex will do in all of the confusion (twenty two year old girls are tumult and noise). Hermione's sighing was a song, as he pushed her skirt up two handed, as he rubbed and touched and moulded her with the tips of his fingers. There was a new world waiting in the dip and rise of Hermione's body; her breasts and the smooth curving lines of her collarbone were the domes and vaulted arches of a city undiscovered. Her scent, rising as she rocked and moaned was like the filtering incense of muggle churches. Her hips were doors and gateways. He pushed into her (explorer, coloniser, pioneer...her gates found standing open). Her thighs constricted, pulling him in deeper (twenty two year old girls are ripe to be conquered). Hermione's body knew nothing about death...
In the world of Hermione's body, there was no such thing as war.
"Oh, Remus..." Lovers we never the best soldiers (hearts are fragile, full of faultlines). The war had made children of them all, fumbling, improvising. They talked like virgins, now, but they had been lovers, once...
And what war did.
"Remus..." She stifled a yawn... "I'm going to bed, Remus..." Pretty girl on the other side of the table, silver under the collar of her pink striped blouse (buttons intact), white lace waiting to be peeled away from breasts which spilled together as she bent to pick up her shoes. He was an oldman, and he'd been alone too long.
My love is gone.
"Goodnight, Hermione," said Remus, feeling faintly ashamed of himself, pouring another drink, nobody left to watch his back.
(for the hp_literotica 'an army of lovers' challenge in March. Title and quote taken from a Sassoon poem. None of this is mine).
summary: Remus indulges in a flight of fantasy.
but now i've said goodbye to Galahad
and am no more the knight of dreams and show.
For lust and senseless hatred made me glad
and my killed friends are with me where I go.
- the poet as hero, S.S, 1916.
"Come on, Remus..."
She was disengaging his fingers from around his glass, but he was holding on, grasping, fumbling, melted ice and another sip.
"Remus?" Her fingers were so soft (his rubbed raw). "Don't you think that you've had enough, Remus?" He didn't. He hadn't. There wasn't enough in the whole world anymore (his ghosts were legion). When he looked at her, he twisted (more to drink than he'd thought), remembered her as a little girl before the world resolved itself in amber mist. Not a little girl anymore, shoes kicked off under the table, hair finding ways to spill out of elaborately arranged pins.
"Her...Heh..." Sounds wrapped around his tongue, making him feel drunk and foolish. "Look..." Another glass already on the table (even after all this time, hadn't managed to convince himself that Sirius wouldn't be home for a drink). His hands trembled as he poured her a measure (a large one, a double) and pushed it to her across scarred wood (skin had healed, but the house remembered). Hermione took off her glasses, and took a sip, barely wincing (brave girl). As he watched her drinking, he saw her layered on top of herself; quiet and serious child, quiet and serious young woman, but with a shimmer of a spark, now. What she'd gained from being loved so well. The war had taken Tonks away, but her influence was there, electric-brilliant highlights, red and gold and violet blue. Hermione ran her fingers under the collar of her blouse (flash of white lace, soft swell of breast, not a little girl any longer). Above them, the house was full of abandoned lovers; Ginny and her baby girl (Wilhemina to be known as Bill her whole life, wirey golden hair and freckled coffee skin)...Ron (Harry gone more and more these days)...Hermione herself, her pretty girl gone so long and white lace dreaming of being peeled back from her skin. Twenty two years old, Hermione's body body was young and perfect and supple. Twenty two year old girls dream of dancing shoes and being kissed.
After he kissed her, he traced the seams of her stockings with the palms of her hands, pushing her legs wider (he could smell her, faintly). When she lay back, he covered her body with his, kissing down her throat. Her nipples hardened at the barest touchin, his breath, the brush of his stubbled jaw (didn't shave as often as he should). On her back on the table, he opened her like a rose, like a secret, pink striped cotton, white lace. She moaned and mumbled, arching up, rising like the sub as her palmed her, played her, as he rolled her with his fingers. She wrapped her legs up around his waist, pin stripe rolling up around her thighs. Twenty two year old girls dream of love but sex will do in all of the confusion (twenty two year old girls are tumult and noise). Hermione's sighing was a song, as he pushed her skirt up two handed, as he rubbed and touched and moulded her with the tips of his fingers. There was a new world waiting in the dip and rise of Hermione's body; her breasts and the smooth curving lines of her collarbone were the domes and vaulted arches of a city undiscovered. Her scent, rising as she rocked and moaned was like the filtering incense of muggle churches. Her hips were doors and gateways. He pushed into her (explorer, coloniser, pioneer...her gates found standing open). Her thighs constricted, pulling him in deeper (twenty two year old girls are ripe to be conquered). Hermione's body knew nothing about death...
In the world of Hermione's body, there was no such thing as war.
"Oh, Remus..." Lovers we never the best soldiers (hearts are fragile, full of faultlines). The war had made children of them all, fumbling, improvising. They talked like virgins, now, but they had been lovers, once...
And what war did.
"Remus..." She stifled a yawn... "I'm going to bed, Remus..." Pretty girl on the other side of the table, silver under the collar of her pink striped blouse (buttons intact), white lace waiting to be peeled away from breasts which spilled together as she bent to pick up her shoes. He was an oldman, and he'd been alone too long.
My love is gone.
"Goodnight, Hermione," said Remus, feeling faintly ashamed of himself, pouring another drink, nobody left to watch his back.