Masquerade (Hermione/Tonks, R/NC-17)
Plotbunnies for Hermione/Tonks, of all pairings, have been nibbling at me for some time now, so I thought I'd give it a whirl. A longish drabble, at 469 words.
Title: Masquerade
Pairing: Hermione/Tonks
Rating: R/NC-17 [sorry for not being all that smutty]
Words: 469
For katemonkey, who requested a pairing involving Hermione, set at 12 Grimmauld Place.
Masquerade
Nymphadora has beautiful hands.
Beautiful hands, Hermione thinks, as she lies sprawled on the bleached, crumpled white sheets and stares at the ceiling. There's a little crack in the plaster--right there--and it looks a bit like--oh--a bit like a spiderweb, or a clawed hand.
(And there she goes again; it all comes back to the hands.)
No matter how many times Nymphadora changes, her hands have the same fluid, flexible quality to them that makes Hermione ache inside and out at the sight of them. The comfortable sameness of that one part of her body leads Hermione to think that that is what the hands she was born with are like.
Hermione has never seen Nymphadora's true form. Or she doesn't think she has. The thought crosses her mind that the older woman might've occupied that shape for awhile and had had everyone just think it was another one of her disguises. It must be hard to have so many masks that nobody knows your real face when they see it.
Sometimes Hermione wonders if Nymphadora remembers her real body. If, every once in awhile, she changes back to it alone in the dead of night. If she keeps it a secret, and why.
Or maybe she's never gone back to the beginning, metamorphosing so many times that she's long forgotten that she has any true identity; no beginning to go back to.
But Hermione doesn't have time to think about that now, because those long fingers are stroking and moving and the ceiling and the crack and the sheets run together into a seamless blur of motion and vast awareness. For an instant, the sweeping sensation of knowing everything in the world tightens to a single pinpoint of feeling: Nymphadora's hands rubbing against her clit and never changing at all.
The woman and the girl have found a new use for the third guest bedroom at Grimmauld Place. While the rest of the Order members suffer in silence and tentative conversation downstairs, Hermione and Nymphadora make love among the creaking floorboards and half-stuffed, stained mattresses. It is something like paradise.
Sometimes Nymphadora is a slim blond beauty, one of the models in Playwizard, with golden curls, full breasts, and a mouth in a red O like desire. Sometimes she is a curving classical goddess, dark long-lashed eyes and darker hair cascading down past the round swell of her hips. Or an Amazonian queen, lean, with long strong limbs, sun-browned and feral.
But always, her hands.
Hermione straightens her body and sits up, eyes smiling as Nymphadora plants a kiss on the smooth ridge of her collarbone. In her turn, Hermione kisses each of the fingertips, all ten, and wonders (as she always does) if today will be the day to finally remove the mask.
Title: Masquerade
Pairing: Hermione/Tonks
Rating: R/NC-17 [sorry for not being all that smutty]
Words: 469
For katemonkey, who requested a pairing involving Hermione, set at 12 Grimmauld Place.
Masquerade
Nymphadora has beautiful hands.
Beautiful hands, Hermione thinks, as she lies sprawled on the bleached, crumpled white sheets and stares at the ceiling. There's a little crack in the plaster--right there--and it looks a bit like--oh--a bit like a spiderweb, or a clawed hand.
(And there she goes again; it all comes back to the hands.)
No matter how many times Nymphadora changes, her hands have the same fluid, flexible quality to them that makes Hermione ache inside and out at the sight of them. The comfortable sameness of that one part of her body leads Hermione to think that that is what the hands she was born with are like.
Hermione has never seen Nymphadora's true form. Or she doesn't think she has. The thought crosses her mind that the older woman might've occupied that shape for awhile and had had everyone just think it was another one of her disguises. It must be hard to have so many masks that nobody knows your real face when they see it.
Sometimes Hermione wonders if Nymphadora remembers her real body. If, every once in awhile, she changes back to it alone in the dead of night. If she keeps it a secret, and why.
Or maybe she's never gone back to the beginning, metamorphosing so many times that she's long forgotten that she has any true identity; no beginning to go back to.
But Hermione doesn't have time to think about that now, because those long fingers are stroking and moving and the ceiling and the crack and the sheets run together into a seamless blur of motion and vast awareness. For an instant, the sweeping sensation of knowing everything in the world tightens to a single pinpoint of feeling: Nymphadora's hands rubbing against her clit and never changing at all.
The woman and the girl have found a new use for the third guest bedroom at Grimmauld Place. While the rest of the Order members suffer in silence and tentative conversation downstairs, Hermione and Nymphadora make love among the creaking floorboards and half-stuffed, stained mattresses. It is something like paradise.
Sometimes Nymphadora is a slim blond beauty, one of the models in Playwizard, with golden curls, full breasts, and a mouth in a red O like desire. Sometimes she is a curving classical goddess, dark long-lashed eyes and darker hair cascading down past the round swell of her hips. Or an Amazonian queen, lean, with long strong limbs, sun-browned and feral.
But always, her hands.
Hermione straightens her body and sits up, eyes smiling as Nymphadora plants a kiss on the smooth ridge of her collarbone. In her turn, Hermione kisses each of the fingertips, all ten, and wonders (as she always does) if today will be the day to finally remove the mask.