fic: Lie to Me (Remus/Hermione)
Title: Lie to Me
Author: victoria p. [victoria @ unfitforsociety.net]
Summary: Remus's relationship with the truth has always been casual.
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters belong to JK Rowling and Scholastic/Bloomsbury etc.; this piece of fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.
Archive: Lists, Achromatic.
Feedback: Always welcome and more appreciated than you know.
Notes: I wrote this last night in the bathroom, while wrapped in a towel after my shower. Hermione is awfully pushy at one in the morning. Heh. That could be the summary of the story, as well.
Date: June 15, 2005
~*~
Lie to Me
It's after midnight when Hermione appears at his door. Her nightgown is thin cotton and even in the candlelight he can see the curves of her breasts and hips, the shadow of her cunt, reminding him she's no longer an awkward thirteen-year-old. She pushes her way into the room, into his arms, shoving him down on the bed and climbing into his lap. She buries her face against his chest, and her hair tickles his nose. It smells of summer -- lemon-orange sunshine, so out of place in the cold, stone rooms of Hogwarts, their last place of refuge from the war raging outside.
Her mouth, when she kisses him, tastes of tears and cherry lip balm, which is new for him, and firewhisky and despair, a flavor he is all too familiar with, first on Sirius's tongue, and then his own. She's too young, he thinks, to taste like this, but then, he and Sirius weren't much older the first time around.
"Hermione," he says, pulling back and tucking her unruly hair behind her ears. "What--"
"I don't-- I can't--" she chokes out and kisses him again.
"Hermione?" he asks, and she rubs against him like a cat, her hands roaming over his chest and shoulders. His body responds, reminding him it's been years since he's had a lapful of warm anyone, and he has to close his eyes against the feeling.
"We're all going to die," she says, and it should sound hysterical, but the possibility is too close to the truth, so it just sounds matter-of-fact. Dumbledore is dead and Minerva is spending all her strength trying to hold Hogwarts together in the aftermath. Snape has disappeared -- dead, maybe, or returned to his former master's side. Remus doesn't know which and isn't sure it matters. Harry is stretched thin, like a ghost who hasn't realized yet his body's dead. "I don't want to die," she says. Her eyes are wide and brown and full of tears. "I don't."
"I--"
"Lie to me," she pleads, and now he knows why she's come to him. His relationship with the truth has always been casual. "Please."
She kisses him a third time, hungry, sloppy, desperate, and for a moment he can't quite remember who she is -- she's not the same girl he met four years ago, when all her passion was tied up in schoolwork, nor the young woman from two summers ago, fired with zealous enthusiasm to right the world's wrongs. She's another soldier in this war now, and she's soft and warm and willing in his lap.
Remus has never been able to resist a determined seducer.
Perhaps if he had, things might have turned out differently. Perhaps--
The feel of her small hands fumbling at the slit of his boxers jerks him out of the old regret and into the new. Her fingers are soft and trembling slightly as they wrap around his prick, and he bites his lip at the touch. She shifts, straddling him now, and she's not wearing any knickers beneath her nightgown.
She doesn't leave him time to say anything, just sinks down onto him with a soft sigh, her mouth ghosting over his jaw, her hands tangling in his hair. When she begins to move, his hands settle on the curves of her hips as if they belong there.
The tight, wet heat of her body drives away his thoughts, his doubts, and he is nothing but sensation, the thrust and glide of tongue and cock, the sharp sting of her nails on his back, the salt-sweet taste of her skin against his lips, the low hum of her soft cries and his hoarse words of encouragement, punctuated by the wet sound of flesh on flesh as they move together.
He reaches down to thumb her clit, and she moans against his neck. He does it again and again, thrusting up with what leverage he has, until she clenches tight around him, shuddering. He swallows her moan, and once again tastes the salt of tears upon her lips. He chooses to believe they're tears of joy, and the deception lasts long enough for him to come, hard and deep inside her, and then it floats away on the wave of desperate pleasure flooding him, and he can't avoid the truth.
They shiver and cling for a few minutes, more like survivors of a shipwreck than lovers embracing.
He lies back and takes her with him, drawing up the covers and entangling their legs. "Sleep," he tells her when the shaking has stopped. He cradles her close and whispers, "Everything is going to be all right."
And for a little while, they can both pretend to believe it.
end
***
Feedback would be awesome, and suggestions too, as it's unbetaed.
Lunch now.
Author: victoria p. [victoria @ unfitforsociety.net]
Summary: Remus's relationship with the truth has always been casual.
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters belong to JK Rowling and Scholastic/Bloomsbury etc.; this piece of fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.
Archive: Lists, Achromatic.
Feedback: Always welcome and more appreciated than you know.
Notes: I wrote this last night in the bathroom, while wrapped in a towel after my shower. Hermione is awfully pushy at one in the morning. Heh. That could be the summary of the story, as well.
Date: June 15, 2005
~*~
Lie to Me
It's after midnight when Hermione appears at his door. Her nightgown is thin cotton and even in the candlelight he can see the curves of her breasts and hips, the shadow of her cunt, reminding him she's no longer an awkward thirteen-year-old. She pushes her way into the room, into his arms, shoving him down on the bed and climbing into his lap. She buries her face against his chest, and her hair tickles his nose. It smells of summer -- lemon-orange sunshine, so out of place in the cold, stone rooms of Hogwarts, their last place of refuge from the war raging outside.
Her mouth, when she kisses him, tastes of tears and cherry lip balm, which is new for him, and firewhisky and despair, a flavor he is all too familiar with, first on Sirius's tongue, and then his own. She's too young, he thinks, to taste like this, but then, he and Sirius weren't much older the first time around.
"Hermione," he says, pulling back and tucking her unruly hair behind her ears. "What--"
"I don't-- I can't--" she chokes out and kisses him again.
"Hermione?" he asks, and she rubs against him like a cat, her hands roaming over his chest and shoulders. His body responds, reminding him it's been years since he's had a lapful of warm anyone, and he has to close his eyes against the feeling.
"We're all going to die," she says, and it should sound hysterical, but the possibility is too close to the truth, so it just sounds matter-of-fact. Dumbledore is dead and Minerva is spending all her strength trying to hold Hogwarts together in the aftermath. Snape has disappeared -- dead, maybe, or returned to his former master's side. Remus doesn't know which and isn't sure it matters. Harry is stretched thin, like a ghost who hasn't realized yet his body's dead. "I don't want to die," she says. Her eyes are wide and brown and full of tears. "I don't."
"I--"
"Lie to me," she pleads, and now he knows why she's come to him. His relationship with the truth has always been casual. "Please."
She kisses him a third time, hungry, sloppy, desperate, and for a moment he can't quite remember who she is -- she's not the same girl he met four years ago, when all her passion was tied up in schoolwork, nor the young woman from two summers ago, fired with zealous enthusiasm to right the world's wrongs. She's another soldier in this war now, and she's soft and warm and willing in his lap.
Remus has never been able to resist a determined seducer.
Perhaps if he had, things might have turned out differently. Perhaps--
The feel of her small hands fumbling at the slit of his boxers jerks him out of the old regret and into the new. Her fingers are soft and trembling slightly as they wrap around his prick, and he bites his lip at the touch. She shifts, straddling him now, and she's not wearing any knickers beneath her nightgown.
She doesn't leave him time to say anything, just sinks down onto him with a soft sigh, her mouth ghosting over his jaw, her hands tangling in his hair. When she begins to move, his hands settle on the curves of her hips as if they belong there.
The tight, wet heat of her body drives away his thoughts, his doubts, and he is nothing but sensation, the thrust and glide of tongue and cock, the sharp sting of her nails on his back, the salt-sweet taste of her skin against his lips, the low hum of her soft cries and his hoarse words of encouragement, punctuated by the wet sound of flesh on flesh as they move together.
He reaches down to thumb her clit, and she moans against his neck. He does it again and again, thrusting up with what leverage he has, until she clenches tight around him, shuddering. He swallows her moan, and once again tastes the salt of tears upon her lips. He chooses to believe they're tears of joy, and the deception lasts long enough for him to come, hard and deep inside her, and then it floats away on the wave of desperate pleasure flooding him, and he can't avoid the truth.
They shiver and cling for a few minutes, more like survivors of a shipwreck than lovers embracing.
He lies back and takes her with him, drawing up the covers and entangling their legs. "Sleep," he tells her when the shaking has stopped. He cradles her close and whispers, "Everything is going to be all right."
And for a little while, they can both pretend to believe it.
end
***
Feedback would be awesome, and suggestions too, as it's unbetaed.
Lunch now.