| Persistence Pays Off - R/Hr - R |
[Feb. 27th, 2003|01:00 am] |
Title: Persistence Pays Off
Rating: R
Word Count: 250
A/N(optional):
"Okay," Harry said, "poke me."
I put out one shaking forefinger and poked him between the eyes, knocking his glasses off.
"Close enough," he said. "Didn't feel a thing."
"So, you're drunk?" I asked.
"Close enough," he said. "Shouldn't remember a thing."
"She wants to have sex with me," I said, "at Christmas."
"Is that your present?" he asked.
"I don't think so," I said. "'nless she gives me a sex book and tests me on it."
"Still," he said. "Don't you want to have sex?"
"Of course I do! It's just... huge."
"Your... equipment?"
"No."
"Hermione's?"
"No! Doing... it."
"A huge step," he clarified.
I nodded.
"But you've... done stuff?" he asked carefully.
"Stuff," I agreed.
"Stuff with... hands?"
"Hands, yes."
"She's made you... happy, with her hands?"
"Very happy," I said firmly. "And my hands have made her happier than I ever thought possible."
"Uh, good," he said, looking at my hands. "But don't poke me, anymore."
I nodded.
"So, sex is next, then?" he prompted.
"Well, it's on my list," I said, "but I was gonna propose..."
"No way!" he interrupted.
"What?"
"You were gonna propose?"
"Not marriage, you arse," I spluttered. "Blow jobs!"
"Right," he said. "I s'pose they do... come next."
I nodded.
"So, you haven't..."
"I've asked her," I admitted. "Quite often, actually. Quite, quite often."
"But she won't?"
"She... changes the subject," I said sadly.
"Well," he said encouragingly, "keep asking; you know what they say, 'if at first you don't suck seed...'" |
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| A Thousand Words - R/Hr - PG-13 |
[Feb. 27th, 2003|02:00 am] |
Title: A Thousand Words
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 326
A/N(optional):
Really, what's the big deal?
I've showed her often enough, haven't I?
Doesn’t breakfast in bed and a screaming climax paint a thousand words?
Isn't it better to show than tell?
What about Ron? Has he said those three little words, yet?
I heard Hannah asking her, in the pub, last night, all girly and breathless, while I was talking to Harry and Neville about bloke stuff, but Hermione just laughed and changed the subject.
She's brilliant, my Hermione, and she knows; she bloody well knows how I feel.
Three little words, my arse.
I've said three little words to her.
I've said, "mine's a pint," and "pass the butter," and "fuck, don't stop."
And.
When she went to Australia, to find her parents, I said, "I'm coming with."
You.
OK, I said, "I'm coming with you."
That's not the point.
She knows how I feel; she probably knew it before I did.
And it's not like she's actually said it to me, anyway, either, anyway, not in words.
But she never left my side, after the battle and through the whole of Fred's funeral; she clung to me and let me cry into her hair and she slept in my room and held me all night.
And I knew.
I didn't need to hear the words.
I don't need to hear the words.
Words aren't particularly truthful, anyway, and I still have, "I love you, Won-Won, do you love me, too?" ringing in my ears.
And I didn't say it, fuck, I didn't say it back, I'm not a complete idiot or a complete bastard, but I heard it and it meant nothing.
Of course it wouldn't be the same if Hermione said it.
That wouldn't make me cringe, make my skin crawl.
And if Hermione said it, if Hermione wanted me to say it, then I would.
But she just laughed and changed the subject; she knows what's important.
She knows I love her. |
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