Above A Lake Of Fire (R/Hr, R-NC-17)
Author: shyshutterbug
Requestor: letmypidgeonsgo
Claim: Prompt #94 - Ron & Hermione find a moment to themselves & things get hot ‘n heavy when they realise this could be the end.
Rating: Hard R at least, possibly NC-17. That means if you're underage, no clicky teh cutty. (Mods, if you know of a way to lock this in some manner, please do!)
Pairings (if any): R/Hr
Summary: Perhaps, if you hold him close enough, you’ll be able to absorb some of the grief that you know aches in his soul, so that he won’t have to suffer anymore. Takes place shortly after Fred's death.
Warnings (if applicable): Angst. Smut. Second-person. (Did I mention angst?)
Author's Notes: "I Could Fall," from which the title of this piece and the lyrics at the beginning are taken, was written by Evan Lowenstein and Billy Falcon (© Tzitzis What We Do Music and Pretty Blue Songs, 2000) and recorded by Evan and Jaron for Columbia Records. This fic would not exist without my cherished f’list, who held my hand and lovingly encouraged me through the entire writing process. Special thanks to my incredible betas and champions, sowritesauds, daisy_mae_evans, and queenb23more. letmypidgeonsgo, I do hope this lives up to expectations!
look at me, i’m flying
a breath away from dying
holding on to her and letting go
as i walk across this wire
above a lake of fire
and lean into the wind that starts to blow
with my eyes wide open
knowing full well i could fall from heaven...
You had not expected it to happen like this. But then, every time you had ever pictured it - fantasized about it, to be more accurate - you had pictured him happy, laughing, jubilant.
Whole.
You had pictured it happening with his family intact, not so much because you actually believed that was the way events would transpire, but because you could not bear to consider alternatives. Alternatives such as this.
You are in a long forgotten classroom, one not far from the Great Hall. Indeed, he could not bear to remain in the Great Hall too long, with the shell of his once exuberant brother lying lifeless on the floor. Even the family he loved dearly, the family who shared his grief on the deepest, most primal level, could not siphon off his rage.
That first kiss between you seems an eternity past now, as you stand sandwiched between his long, lean body and the cold stone of the classroom’s wall. After years and years of suppressing feelings and impulses and affection, you could no longer hold back, and threw yourself into his arms, where you just knew you were home. The kiss had been passionate, yes, for neither of you were exactly adept at concealing strong feelings; but it was also gentle and tender and sweet and all of those other wonderful adjectives that you had always applied to such a scenario when you envisioned it.
No, this is most definitely none of that.
He kissed you before with a loving passion, but this is different - this is a raw, angry passion. His lips are bruising now; they do not caress yours as they did earlier in the night, and you do not feel that lovely smile in them. Before, his arms had come around your waist and lifted you off the ground, almost as if he was making to twirl you, the way the prince always did to the princess in those ridiculous Muggle movies you watched as a girl; now his hands fist in your hair, making tangles you know would be impossible to get out, if only you cared. You swear you can taste anguish on his tongue.
You have read about this, in your mum’s psychology books. Sometimes in moments of extreme emotional trauma, one will act out in ways that do not solve the problem at hand but relieve the psychological turmoil - emotion-based coping, it was called. You know he loves you, but he is not kissing you out of love right now. He is kissing you to rid himself of pain. And you are only too willing to let him do that like this. You will do anything, anything, to reclaim your wonderful, beautiful, bright man.
His lips are trailing from your mouth to your jaw, then from your jaw to your collarbone, and you are panting without any mark of restraint, which surprises you somewhere in the back of your mind. His hands have left your hair in favor of your blouse, and it is not until half the buttons are undone that you realize your almost naked chest is nearly bare to him.
If he has any comments about your appearance, he keeps them to himself. Since the dawn of your sexual development, you have lamented having small breasts, wishing instead for some undefined happy medium between your current state and Lavender Brown’s considerably more impressive assets; but when he cups one of your regrettably small breasts deep in his palm and bends to kiss the other through your bra with a kind of bizarre reverence, you see his large hand nearly engulfing it, fitting flawlessly, and it feels and looks and is perfect.
Two warm, callused hands reach around your back now and fumble clumsily with the clasp on your bra, somehow managing to release the catch, and it falls from your shoulders. His hands and mouth attend to your now naked breasts, and moisture pools between your thighs. You feel something unusually hard press into your leg, but it is gone almost as soon as you notice it; then it is there, then absent again. Belatedly, and most embarrassingly, you realize that he is thrusting against you, fully clothed.
You know that things are moving much too fast. If you and he were in your right minds, if this were happening in any other circumstance, then you would voice your concerns and he would stop and apologize needlessly and you would both blush furiously and smile shyly and resume the gentle snog you no doubt would have begun earlier. But he is not in his right mind at the moment, and clearly, neither are you. Without thinking of it in these exact terms, you offer yourself up to him, as the sponge that will accept his pain. It doesn’t matter how many Death Eaters he fights or kills; nothing will bring Fred back, and that pain will sit in him until it explodes. You will let him release it, here and now. Perhaps, if you hold him close enough, you’ll be able to absorb some of the grief that you know aches in his soul, so that he won’t have to suffer anymore.
His kisses are more and more fervent, more and more heartbreaking. When his eyelashes brush your face, they are wet, and you taste tears on his lips. He is still thrusting against your thigh, but you doubt he knows he’s doing it. You do nothing to stop him - you only kiss him back with every single ounce of love and concern and affection you have for him in your body, and hope it’s enough.
Then his hands are at the snap of your jeans. In a swift movement, he unzips them, and you are met with a million feelings at once. It is the strangest contradiction you have ever felt: You are utterly safe in his arms, with his warm, solid body pressed against yours, fitting against it so perfectly; but you are beginning to feel acute, severe fear infringing on that territory. You swallow the latter feeling. How can safety and fear coexist right now? He loves you. You love him. You will allow him to process this with you, no matter what that means. You will not let him fall into despair.
His fingers are clumsy inside your knickers, a fact for which you are unreasonably thankful, as it indicates he has not done this before with women whose breasts are larger than yours. He is kissing your collarbone, and your fear forces you to focus on that rather than on the activity between your thighs. You know you are wet, and you suppose if you had time or breath to be embarrassed, you might be.
His hands have always been large, even when he was a boy. If you are honest with yourself - and you have been trying to awfully hard of late - his hands have always aroused you. Too many times at Hogwarts you would Silence and Imperturb your four-poster and permit your imagination to construct scenarios that somehow involved his lovely hands on every square inch of your skin. Which makes it even more ridiculous, really, that you are fighting terrible nerves now. You have dreamed of this, haven’t you? This is a waking fantasy!
Within moments, however, your nerves make their point with a vengeance. His fingers are quite long, quite thick, and when one slides inside you, you cannot hold back a cry of pain. At your protest, he looks at you for the first time that evening. His eyes are your favorite shade of blue, but bloodshot; they are wide and guilt-ridden.
You cannot help but feel as if you have failed him. You were supposed to be his sponge. You were supposed to be his outlet. His family couldn’t siphon off the rage, but you felt you could, if only for a moment. You were supposed to provide him some relief, just the tiniest bit of respite...and you couldn’t hold out for him. He is hurting more than you ever could from just his trying to touch you.
He quickly removes his finger from your body; you wince a little without meaning to as it comes out. “Oh my God,” he whispers. “Oh my God, Hermione...I’m...fuck, sweetheart...I’m so sorry.” His hands go back to work on your blouse and bra, but this time he is hastily trying to get his hands to work the clasp back together, trying to get you buttoned up again. He is shaking so much he cannot even do those simple tasks, and so he throws the flaps of your shirt together and backs halfway across the deserted classroom, not meeting your eyes.
You watch him as you close your own bra and blouse and jeans, as his hands come up to cover his mouth in shock and he stares at the floor with panic-stricken eyes. You cannot shake the feeling that your heart is halfway across the room. You reach for him, tentatively. “Ron - ”
He backs away from you further, still refusing to look you in the eye. “I can’t believe I just did that. I can’t fucking believe...” His voice cracks, and so does your heart. “That was...that was horrible of me. I’m so sorry, Hermione. God...I hate myself now - ”
You step over to him, swiftly now, so that he doesn’t have the chance to run from you. You take his stubble-roughened face between your palms and force his gaze up to meet yours. “Don’t you dare say that about yourself, Ronald Weasley,” you whisper forcefully. “I let you. I let you. You are not allowed to feel bad about what just happened between us. Don’t.” You can’t go on, for now your own voice is breaking. You bring his head down to yours so that your foreheads touch, and tears from his face drip onto your cheeks, mixing with your own tears.
“I hurt you,” he says softly, his hands coming up to brush your shoulders, treating you like you’re bone china that will break if he’s too rough with you.
“Don’t worry about that,” you reply. “Next time you’ll know.”
He looks at you with shock written in his eyes. “N-next time?”
You nod into his chest. “Next time. After this is over, after tonight, when...when he is gone, when Harry gets rid of him...and when Harry’s okay and Ginny’s okay and your mum and dad and my mum and dad are all okay...we’ll have a next time.”
He sniffs loudly, and his chest quivers under your face. “Next time...next time I’ll do it right...be gentle and all that.”
You smile in spite of yourself. “I know you will.” A strong wave of affection rushes over you, filling your heart and soul almost painfully as you breathe in his scent.
“I love you, Ron,” you tell his t-shirt. You had always anticipated anxiety about saying that for the first time, but the words leave your lips as naturally and easily as your own breath.
His heart speeds up under your cheek. “I love you, too,” he replies, and the words tickle your hair. Rather suddenly, he crushes you to him, holding you as close as he possibly can, and you do the same.
“I love you,” you repeat. “I love you so much.” And as you say it, you feel the tension in his muscles start to ease, the strain starting to fade. It is clear to you now. Now you are his sponge. Now you are taking away his pain. The only thing you have to do is to never let go.
Forget not: Comments = love ;)
Requestor: letmypidgeonsgo
Claim: Prompt #94 - Ron & Hermione find a moment to themselves & things get hot ‘n heavy when they realise this could be the end.
Rating: Hard R at least, possibly NC-17. That means if you're underage, no clicky teh cutty. (Mods, if you know of a way to lock this in some manner, please do!)
Pairings (if any): R/Hr
Summary: Perhaps, if you hold him close enough, you’ll be able to absorb some of the grief that you know aches in his soul, so that he won’t have to suffer anymore. Takes place shortly after Fred's death.
Warnings (if applicable): Angst. Smut. Second-person. (Did I mention angst?)
Author's Notes: "I Could Fall," from which the title of this piece and the lyrics at the beginning are taken, was written by Evan Lowenstein and Billy Falcon (© Tzitzis What We Do Music and Pretty Blue Songs, 2000) and recorded by Evan and Jaron for Columbia Records. This fic would not exist without my cherished f’list, who held my hand and lovingly encouraged me through the entire writing process. Special thanks to my incredible betas and champions, sowritesauds, daisy_mae_evans, and queenb23more. letmypidgeonsgo, I do hope this lives up to expectations!
look at me, i’m flying
a breath away from dying
holding on to her and letting go
as i walk across this wire
above a lake of fire
and lean into the wind that starts to blow
with my eyes wide open
knowing full well i could fall from heaven...
You had not expected it to happen like this. But then, every time you had ever pictured it - fantasized about it, to be more accurate - you had pictured him happy, laughing, jubilant.
Whole.
You had pictured it happening with his family intact, not so much because you actually believed that was the way events would transpire, but because you could not bear to consider alternatives. Alternatives such as this.
You are in a long forgotten classroom, one not far from the Great Hall. Indeed, he could not bear to remain in the Great Hall too long, with the shell of his once exuberant brother lying lifeless on the floor. Even the family he loved dearly, the family who shared his grief on the deepest, most primal level, could not siphon off his rage.
That first kiss between you seems an eternity past now, as you stand sandwiched between his long, lean body and the cold stone of the classroom’s wall. After years and years of suppressing feelings and impulses and affection, you could no longer hold back, and threw yourself into his arms, where you just knew you were home. The kiss had been passionate, yes, for neither of you were exactly adept at concealing strong feelings; but it was also gentle and tender and sweet and all of those other wonderful adjectives that you had always applied to such a scenario when you envisioned it.
No, this is most definitely none of that.
He kissed you before with a loving passion, but this is different - this is a raw, angry passion. His lips are bruising now; they do not caress yours as they did earlier in the night, and you do not feel that lovely smile in them. Before, his arms had come around your waist and lifted you off the ground, almost as if he was making to twirl you, the way the prince always did to the princess in those ridiculous Muggle movies you watched as a girl; now his hands fist in your hair, making tangles you know would be impossible to get out, if only you cared. You swear you can taste anguish on his tongue.
You have read about this, in your mum’s psychology books. Sometimes in moments of extreme emotional trauma, one will act out in ways that do not solve the problem at hand but relieve the psychological turmoil - emotion-based coping, it was called. You know he loves you, but he is not kissing you out of love right now. He is kissing you to rid himself of pain. And you are only too willing to let him do that like this. You will do anything, anything, to reclaim your wonderful, beautiful, bright man.
His lips are trailing from your mouth to your jaw, then from your jaw to your collarbone, and you are panting without any mark of restraint, which surprises you somewhere in the back of your mind. His hands have left your hair in favor of your blouse, and it is not until half the buttons are undone that you realize your almost naked chest is nearly bare to him.
If he has any comments about your appearance, he keeps them to himself. Since the dawn of your sexual development, you have lamented having small breasts, wishing instead for some undefined happy medium between your current state and Lavender Brown’s considerably more impressive assets; but when he cups one of your regrettably small breasts deep in his palm and bends to kiss the other through your bra with a kind of bizarre reverence, you see his large hand nearly engulfing it, fitting flawlessly, and it feels and looks and is perfect.
Two warm, callused hands reach around your back now and fumble clumsily with the clasp on your bra, somehow managing to release the catch, and it falls from your shoulders. His hands and mouth attend to your now naked breasts, and moisture pools between your thighs. You feel something unusually hard press into your leg, but it is gone almost as soon as you notice it; then it is there, then absent again. Belatedly, and most embarrassingly, you realize that he is thrusting against you, fully clothed.
You know that things are moving much too fast. If you and he were in your right minds, if this were happening in any other circumstance, then you would voice your concerns and he would stop and apologize needlessly and you would both blush furiously and smile shyly and resume the gentle snog you no doubt would have begun earlier. But he is not in his right mind at the moment, and clearly, neither are you. Without thinking of it in these exact terms, you offer yourself up to him, as the sponge that will accept his pain. It doesn’t matter how many Death Eaters he fights or kills; nothing will bring Fred back, and that pain will sit in him until it explodes. You will let him release it, here and now. Perhaps, if you hold him close enough, you’ll be able to absorb some of the grief that you know aches in his soul, so that he won’t have to suffer anymore.
His kisses are more and more fervent, more and more heartbreaking. When his eyelashes brush your face, they are wet, and you taste tears on his lips. He is still thrusting against your thigh, but you doubt he knows he’s doing it. You do nothing to stop him - you only kiss him back with every single ounce of love and concern and affection you have for him in your body, and hope it’s enough.
Then his hands are at the snap of your jeans. In a swift movement, he unzips them, and you are met with a million feelings at once. It is the strangest contradiction you have ever felt: You are utterly safe in his arms, with his warm, solid body pressed against yours, fitting against it so perfectly; but you are beginning to feel acute, severe fear infringing on that territory. You swallow the latter feeling. How can safety and fear coexist right now? He loves you. You love him. You will allow him to process this with you, no matter what that means. You will not let him fall into despair.
His fingers are clumsy inside your knickers, a fact for which you are unreasonably thankful, as it indicates he has not done this before with women whose breasts are larger than yours. He is kissing your collarbone, and your fear forces you to focus on that rather than on the activity between your thighs. You know you are wet, and you suppose if you had time or breath to be embarrassed, you might be.
His hands have always been large, even when he was a boy. If you are honest with yourself - and you have been trying to awfully hard of late - his hands have always aroused you. Too many times at Hogwarts you would Silence and Imperturb your four-poster and permit your imagination to construct scenarios that somehow involved his lovely hands on every square inch of your skin. Which makes it even more ridiculous, really, that you are fighting terrible nerves now. You have dreamed of this, haven’t you? This is a waking fantasy!
Within moments, however, your nerves make their point with a vengeance. His fingers are quite long, quite thick, and when one slides inside you, you cannot hold back a cry of pain. At your protest, he looks at you for the first time that evening. His eyes are your favorite shade of blue, but bloodshot; they are wide and guilt-ridden.
You cannot help but feel as if you have failed him. You were supposed to be his sponge. You were supposed to be his outlet. His family couldn’t siphon off the rage, but you felt you could, if only for a moment. You were supposed to provide him some relief, just the tiniest bit of respite...and you couldn’t hold out for him. He is hurting more than you ever could from just his trying to touch you.
He quickly removes his finger from your body; you wince a little without meaning to as it comes out. “Oh my God,” he whispers. “Oh my God, Hermione...I’m...fuck, sweetheart...I’m so sorry.” His hands go back to work on your blouse and bra, but this time he is hastily trying to get his hands to work the clasp back together, trying to get you buttoned up again. He is shaking so much he cannot even do those simple tasks, and so he throws the flaps of your shirt together and backs halfway across the deserted classroom, not meeting your eyes.
You watch him as you close your own bra and blouse and jeans, as his hands come up to cover his mouth in shock and he stares at the floor with panic-stricken eyes. You cannot shake the feeling that your heart is halfway across the room. You reach for him, tentatively. “Ron - ”
He backs away from you further, still refusing to look you in the eye. “I can’t believe I just did that. I can’t fucking believe...” His voice cracks, and so does your heart. “That was...that was horrible of me. I’m so sorry, Hermione. God...I hate myself now - ”
You step over to him, swiftly now, so that he doesn’t have the chance to run from you. You take his stubble-roughened face between your palms and force his gaze up to meet yours. “Don’t you dare say that about yourself, Ronald Weasley,” you whisper forcefully. “I let you. I let you. You are not allowed to feel bad about what just happened between us. Don’t.” You can’t go on, for now your own voice is breaking. You bring his head down to yours so that your foreheads touch, and tears from his face drip onto your cheeks, mixing with your own tears.
“I hurt you,” he says softly, his hands coming up to brush your shoulders, treating you like you’re bone china that will break if he’s too rough with you.
“Don’t worry about that,” you reply. “Next time you’ll know.”
He looks at you with shock written in his eyes. “N-next time?”
You nod into his chest. “Next time. After this is over, after tonight, when...when he is gone, when Harry gets rid of him...and when Harry’s okay and Ginny’s okay and your mum and dad and my mum and dad are all okay...we’ll have a next time.”
He sniffs loudly, and his chest quivers under your face. “Next time...next time I’ll do it right...be gentle and all that.”
You smile in spite of yourself. “I know you will.” A strong wave of affection rushes over you, filling your heart and soul almost painfully as you breathe in his scent.
“I love you, Ron,” you tell his t-shirt. You had always anticipated anxiety about saying that for the first time, but the words leave your lips as naturally and easily as your own breath.
His heart speeds up under your cheek. “I love you, too,” he replies, and the words tickle your hair. Rather suddenly, he crushes you to him, holding you as close as he possibly can, and you do the same.
“I love you,” you repeat. “I love you so much.” And as you say it, you feel the tension in his muscles start to ease, the strain starting to fade. It is clear to you now. Now you are his sponge. Now you are taking away his pain. The only thing you have to do is to never let go.
Forget not: Comments = love ;)