harry/hermione; i've got headaches and bad luck (but they can't touch you)
i've got headaches and bad luck (but they can't touch you)
..........|harry potter; harry/hermione; pg-13.
NOTE: Yes, I shamessly wrote affair!fic. What can I say, it's not even that graphic and yet I'm almost embarrassed to post it. This goes against everything I believe in... haha.
She takes a not-so-deep breath, and dunks her head in the bathtub.
.
He wants to die. He wants to die, and never have to keep lying to everyone every second of every day ever again. He thinks it would be so much easier to just get a ticket to heaven and skip around with his mom and dad and not think about her, and not think about how this is wrong, and how they should stop, and how they need to let go, and how, for some strange reason, they can’t.
But really, he knows. He knows he won’t go to heaven, but really he never expected to.
He looks down at the pillow and sighs at the mascara stain on his sheets. Stretching out into an exhale, he strokes the large black smudge and feels like creating his own with blood.
He wonders if people physically bleed evil. He thinks they should. The world should know of their faults, just as they should know about his.
She was crying last night. As he ran his hands down her back, as she moaned into his mouth, as he laid atop her, she was crying. She was more dressed up than usual, too, he thinks, as he spots her ripped dress on the floor. Damnit, he thinks, when he realizes she must have worn home one of his shirts.
Or nothing at all.
(He thinks Ron might have been happier with the latter, and suspicious about both.)
Really, he hates pretending. He just wants to take her in his arms and shout from the top of the Ministry building that he’s in love, in complete and utter love, and for once it’s not one of those puddle-deep birds that seemed to flock around him at Hogwarts.
No. She’s different. And all he wants to do is take her in his arms and apparate-apparate somewhere, he doesn’t give a crap where-and kiss her and hold her and wash her clean until her skin doesn’t smell like Ron and her heart doesn’t smell like him. Because, really, he wants her to radiate him. He wants her, only her, and if last night was any proof, then she wants him as well.
He wishes it were that easy: wanting and wanting. He wishes the waiting didn’t have to be put in to play. Or the watching. Or a lot of other things he doesn’t have the patience or the heart to list right now. (He’s not really sure which one.)
.
Sometimes, he thinks he can still hear her scream as she claws into his skin and bites down on his bottom lip. He tastes the blood from where her teeth punctured the skin, can feel the cuts run down his spine where she ripped through the light tissue. There was no doubt about it: she was rough. Silently, he wonders if she was softer towards Ron. Silently, he’s disgusted by the thought.
He remembers Ginny, sometimes, too. But she was over long before she happened. Long after she and Ron happened. Sometimes, though, he wishes Ron and Ginny would just forget they’re siblings and go screw each other so he wouldn’t feel so guilty.
Ron’s his best friend. But so is she.
(Knowing that doesn’t help, somehow, he thinks.)
.
He’d decided where he wants to apparate her. He was thinking somewhere in Bermuda, so they could fake one of those haunted triangle stories and just disappear forever. No Ron, no Ginny, no guilt, no war. Just the two of them, living somewhere warm, somewhere where she can wear bathing suits and he can take off his shirt, and for once, they can be kids all over again (or for the very first time).
He wants to do things kids do, like innocent beach-playing and throwing New Year’s Eve parties.
He thinks that if they ever get out, the first thing he’s going to do is buy a balloon.
.
She tastes like cinnamon. Always. And when he asks her about this one night, she replies: Ron likes to make cinnamon toast. He never took the redhead as one to cook. Actually, he never took the redhead as one to much anything, really.
His heart hurts as she starts kissing his stomach.
.
He wants to tell someone. Anyone, he doesn’t care whom, a random man on the street or some crazed professor at Hogwarts. A priest or a pastor or a nun or someone. But not Ron. He can never tell Ron.
He sighs. Life hates him. He wonders if life hates her, too, and if the feeling’s as mutual for her as it is for him.
.
He takes a not-so-deep breath, and places the knife on his wrist.
..........|harry potter; harry/hermione; pg-13.
NOTE: Yes, I shamessly wrote affair!fic. What can I say, it's not even that graphic and yet I'm almost embarrassed to post it. This goes against everything I believe in... haha.
She takes a not-so-deep breath, and dunks her head in the bathtub.
.
He wants to die. He wants to die, and never have to keep lying to everyone every second of every day ever again. He thinks it would be so much easier to just get a ticket to heaven and skip around with his mom and dad and not think about her, and not think about how this is wrong, and how they should stop, and how they need to let go, and how, for some strange reason, they can’t.
But really, he knows. He knows he won’t go to heaven, but really he never expected to.
He looks down at the pillow and sighs at the mascara stain on his sheets. Stretching out into an exhale, he strokes the large black smudge and feels like creating his own with blood.
He wonders if people physically bleed evil. He thinks they should. The world should know of their faults, just as they should know about his.
She was crying last night. As he ran his hands down her back, as she moaned into his mouth, as he laid atop her, she was crying. She was more dressed up than usual, too, he thinks, as he spots her ripped dress on the floor. Damnit, he thinks, when he realizes she must have worn home one of his shirts.
Or nothing at all.
(He thinks Ron might have been happier with the latter, and suspicious about both.)
Really, he hates pretending. He just wants to take her in his arms and shout from the top of the Ministry building that he’s in love, in complete and utter love, and for once it’s not one of those puddle-deep birds that seemed to flock around him at Hogwarts.
No. She’s different. And all he wants to do is take her in his arms and apparate-apparate somewhere, he doesn’t give a crap where-and kiss her and hold her and wash her clean until her skin doesn’t smell like Ron and her heart doesn’t smell like him. Because, really, he wants her to radiate him. He wants her, only her, and if last night was any proof, then she wants him as well.
He wishes it were that easy: wanting and wanting. He wishes the waiting didn’t have to be put in to play. Or the watching. Or a lot of other things he doesn’t have the patience or the heart to list right now. (He’s not really sure which one.)
.
Sometimes, he thinks he can still hear her scream as she claws into his skin and bites down on his bottom lip. He tastes the blood from where her teeth punctured the skin, can feel the cuts run down his spine where she ripped through the light tissue. There was no doubt about it: she was rough. Silently, he wonders if she was softer towards Ron. Silently, he’s disgusted by the thought.
He remembers Ginny, sometimes, too. But she was over long before she happened. Long after she and Ron happened. Sometimes, though, he wishes Ron and Ginny would just forget they’re siblings and go screw each other so he wouldn’t feel so guilty.
Ron’s his best friend. But so is she.
(Knowing that doesn’t help, somehow, he thinks.)
.
He’d decided where he wants to apparate her. He was thinking somewhere in Bermuda, so they could fake one of those haunted triangle stories and just disappear forever. No Ron, no Ginny, no guilt, no war. Just the two of them, living somewhere warm, somewhere where she can wear bathing suits and he can take off his shirt, and for once, they can be kids all over again (or for the very first time).
He wants to do things kids do, like innocent beach-playing and throwing New Year’s Eve parties.
He thinks that if they ever get out, the first thing he’s going to do is buy a balloon.
.
She tastes like cinnamon. Always. And when he asks her about this one night, she replies: Ron likes to make cinnamon toast. He never took the redhead as one to cook. Actually, he never took the redhead as one to much anything, really.
His heart hurts as she starts kissing his stomach.
.
He wants to tell someone. Anyone, he doesn’t care whom, a random man on the street or some crazed professor at Hogwarts. A priest or a pastor or a nun or someone. But not Ron. He can never tell Ron.
He sighs. Life hates him. He wonders if life hates her, too, and if the feeling’s as mutual for her as it is for him.
.
He takes a not-so-deep breath, and places the knife on his wrist.