forever is the sweetest con (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
delacourtings) wrote2018-11-19 02:57 am
delacourtings) wrote2018-11-19 02:57 am
Entry tags:
[fic] secrets i have held in my heart; hp, ron/pansy
i wrote pansy/ron for this year's hphet minifest and am just now getting around to posting it here. whoopsies. hope you like it!
secrets i have held in my heart. harry potter. ron/pansy. r. 1200. @![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hphet 's dw and lj, and ao3.
The fifth year of Pansy’s life was an exceptionally educational one. Not only did it mark the beginning of her formal education, not only did it mark the first of many tutors she would come to have over the years, but it was also the year she learnt the most important lesson of all.
She was at an upscale restaurant, pushing around a food she didn’t recognize on a laughably small but expensive piece of china while her mother gulped down glasses of Merlot. Her father had stepped out for a smoke over half an hour ago. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he never came back.
Pansy had carried a beloved toy with her to the restaurant, despite her mother’s insistence that Pansy was much too old to be carrying around stuffed animals. But Pansy refused to back down. And that was how Seraphina the dragon came to rest on one of The Goring’s dining tables.
Seraphina was beautiful, with an ivory coat, azure eyes, and sparkling green wings. Pansy loved Seraphina more than anything else. Mainly because Seraphina was the only thing to ever give Pansy undivided attention. So, when the waiter came to refill her mother’s glass for the umpteenth time and accidentally spilled red all over Seraphina’s beautiful white coat, tears flooded from Pansy’s eyes before she could stop them.
Her mother took her by the arm with too tight of a grip and led her to the ladies’ room, where she promptly informed Pansy that Parkinsons did not cry. They did not weep or wail, they did not anger, they did not scare. Parkinsons did not emote, period. A Parkinson could fake emotion, in order to manipulate someone. But it could never be genuine. No one should ever know what really goes on in a Parkinsons head and especially not their heart.
This is what Pansy is thinking of as she watches Ron Weasley pace across her living room floor, ranting about bureaucracy.
What she wants to say is, I never thought we would last this long. I thought you’d grow sick of me. I thought you would have given up by now. Why are you still here? And I think you might be perfect for me. And I think I love you. And I know I am never going to tell you any of this.
What she actually says is, “Then quit. If it’s really bothering you that much. Fuck the Ministry. Fuck everyone.” Fuck everyone but you and me.
Ron stops his ranting, his brow furrowing, a crease appearing in his forehead. “What’s wrong with you?”
She hates this, hates how easily he can read her.
(No, she doesn’t. But this is what she tells herself. This is what she has to tell herself. If she doesn’t, if she reciprocates in any way, she is vulnerable. She is weak. She is nothing but a vessel built for leaving.)
“Nothing,” she says icily, and gets up to fix herself another glass of wine.
Ron comes up behind her, puts his hands on her waist, his chin on her shoulder.
“Tell me,” he insists.
She sets down her glass, pretending to consider it, and then turns around and plants the type of kiss on him she knows he’ll respond to.
He leans into it, just like she knew he would. She leads his hands to the buttons on her blouse, delighting in the touch of his calluses brushing against her breasts. Her blouse falls to the floor and her bra soon follows.
“Merlin, you’re gorgeous,” Ron breathes out. He still sounds as awed as he did the first time he saw her naked. A thrill of pleasure goes up her spine.
“I know,” she says, because she doesn’t want to say thank you for still believing that even after you’ve seen the worst parts of me.
He slides down onto his knees, reaching his large hands around to her backside, unzipping her skirt and tugging it down. He groans as her knickers come into view and she looks down in confusion. She was wearing simple cotton underwear, nothing like the lacy lingerie she knows he’s a fan of. But he’s being genuine, she can see it in the way he’s hungrily taking her in. He wants her. She knows this, in theory. But it still sends a thrill through her every time. He makes her beautiful, worthy of admiration.
”Perfect,” Ron says, interrupting her thoughts. “You’re perfect.”
An ache goes through Pansy at those words and she kisses him to stop herself from repeating the words back at him.
If anyone’s perfect, it’s him. He’s perfect for her. In every conceivable way. He balances her out, is an ever present steady hand on her shoulder. He softens her, in a way that she needs but will never admit to. But at the same time, he’s able to rile her up, make her feel more than just apathy, make for run through her veins when he’s touching her. Like now.
“Weasley,” she rasps and pushes him down between her legs. “If I don’t feel your tongue on me in—-” Her sentence is cut off by a slick of a tongue against her.
“Yes,” she moans. That’s another way in which he’s perfect. He always knows exactly what she needs. She’s never felt this with anyone else, this intensity, this connection. All of her previous lovers had numerous instructions, but Ron had only needed one lesson before he was able to make her completely come apart.
She starts rocking her hips against his tongue in an effort to make this seem more like simple animal attraction, and nothing like what she’s currently feeling, nothing like love. He pulls away from her but quickly slips his fingers into her as a replacement for his tongue.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous, Parkinson,” he says, staring up at her in awe.
She can’t take this. “Get up here,” she says breathily and kisses him with everything in her when he’s back at eye level.
“Wanna feel you,” Ron says, pulling away and kissing down her neck.
“Wanna feel you inside me,” he whispers into her ear. “You always feel so fucking good. Perfect. Like you’re made for me.”
He looks into her eyes as he says the last part, as if he’s saying something else. As if he’s saying, We’re perfect for each other. When are you going to stop fighting this?
She wants to agree with him, wants to tell him how perfect he is, how perfect he is for her. But she knows she can’t do that, might not ever be able to. So, she tries to convey it with her actions, looks into his kind, blue eyes as she helps him guide himself inside her, lets her out moans freely instead of hiding the way he makes her feel. Tells him how much she loves him by not immediately kicking him out of her flat the second he’s finished, by kissing him just because she wants to and not as a means to an end. Perhaps one day she’ll be able to come out and actually say the words but for now this will have to be enough.
secrets i have held in my heart. harry potter. ron/pansy. r. 1200. @
hphet 's dw and lj, and ao3. parkinsons did not cry. they did not weep or wail, they did not anger, they did not scare. parkinsons did not emote, period.
The fifth year of Pansy’s life was an exceptionally educational one. Not only did it mark the beginning of her formal education, not only did it mark the first of many tutors she would come to have over the years, but it was also the year she learnt the most important lesson of all.
She was at an upscale restaurant, pushing around a food she didn’t recognize on a laughably small but expensive piece of china while her mother gulped down glasses of Merlot. Her father had stepped out for a smoke over half an hour ago. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he never came back.
Pansy had carried a beloved toy with her to the restaurant, despite her mother’s insistence that Pansy was much too old to be carrying around stuffed animals. But Pansy refused to back down. And that was how Seraphina the dragon came to rest on one of The Goring’s dining tables.
Seraphina was beautiful, with an ivory coat, azure eyes, and sparkling green wings. Pansy loved Seraphina more than anything else. Mainly because Seraphina was the only thing to ever give Pansy undivided attention. So, when the waiter came to refill her mother’s glass for the umpteenth time and accidentally spilled red all over Seraphina’s beautiful white coat, tears flooded from Pansy’s eyes before she could stop them.
Her mother took her by the arm with too tight of a grip and led her to the ladies’ room, where she promptly informed Pansy that Parkinsons did not cry. They did not weep or wail, they did not anger, they did not scare. Parkinsons did not emote, period. A Parkinson could fake emotion, in order to manipulate someone. But it could never be genuine. No one should ever know what really goes on in a Parkinsons head and especially not their heart.
This is what Pansy is thinking of as she watches Ron Weasley pace across her living room floor, ranting about bureaucracy.
What she wants to say is, I never thought we would last this long. I thought you’d grow sick of me. I thought you would have given up by now. Why are you still here? And I think you might be perfect for me. And I think I love you. And I know I am never going to tell you any of this.
What she actually says is, “Then quit. If it’s really bothering you that much. Fuck the Ministry. Fuck everyone.” Fuck everyone but you and me.
Ron stops his ranting, his brow furrowing, a crease appearing in his forehead. “What’s wrong with you?”
She hates this, hates how easily he can read her.
(No, she doesn’t. But this is what she tells herself. This is what she has to tell herself. If she doesn’t, if she reciprocates in any way, she is vulnerable. She is weak. She is nothing but a vessel built for leaving.)
“Nothing,” she says icily, and gets up to fix herself another glass of wine.
Ron comes up behind her, puts his hands on her waist, his chin on her shoulder.
“Tell me,” he insists.
She sets down her glass, pretending to consider it, and then turns around and plants the type of kiss on him she knows he’ll respond to.
He leans into it, just like she knew he would. She leads his hands to the buttons on her blouse, delighting in the touch of his calluses brushing against her breasts. Her blouse falls to the floor and her bra soon follows.
“Merlin, you’re gorgeous,” Ron breathes out. He still sounds as awed as he did the first time he saw her naked. A thrill of pleasure goes up her spine.
“I know,” she says, because she doesn’t want to say thank you for still believing that even after you’ve seen the worst parts of me.
He slides down onto his knees, reaching his large hands around to her backside, unzipping her skirt and tugging it down. He groans as her knickers come into view and she looks down in confusion. She was wearing simple cotton underwear, nothing like the lacy lingerie she knows he’s a fan of. But he’s being genuine, she can see it in the way he’s hungrily taking her in. He wants her. She knows this, in theory. But it still sends a thrill through her every time. He makes her beautiful, worthy of admiration.
”Perfect,” Ron says, interrupting her thoughts. “You’re perfect.”
An ache goes through Pansy at those words and she kisses him to stop herself from repeating the words back at him.
If anyone’s perfect, it’s him. He’s perfect for her. In every conceivable way. He balances her out, is an ever present steady hand on her shoulder. He softens her, in a way that she needs but will never admit to. But at the same time, he’s able to rile her up, make her feel more than just apathy, make for run through her veins when he’s touching her. Like now.
“Weasley,” she rasps and pushes him down between her legs. “If I don’t feel your tongue on me in—-” Her sentence is cut off by a slick of a tongue against her.
“Yes,” she moans. That’s another way in which he’s perfect. He always knows exactly what she needs. She’s never felt this with anyone else, this intensity, this connection. All of her previous lovers had numerous instructions, but Ron had only needed one lesson before he was able to make her completely come apart.
She starts rocking her hips against his tongue in an effort to make this seem more like simple animal attraction, and nothing like what she’s currently feeling, nothing like love. He pulls away from her but quickly slips his fingers into her as a replacement for his tongue.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous, Parkinson,” he says, staring up at her in awe.
She can’t take this. “Get up here,” she says breathily and kisses him with everything in her when he’s back at eye level.
“Wanna feel you,” Ron says, pulling away and kissing down her neck.
“Wanna feel you inside me,” he whispers into her ear. “You always feel so fucking good. Perfect. Like you’re made for me.”
He looks into her eyes as he says the last part, as if he’s saying something else. As if he’s saying, We’re perfect for each other. When are you going to stop fighting this?
She wants to agree with him, wants to tell him how perfect he is, how perfect he is for her. But she knows she can’t do that, might not ever be able to. So, she tries to convey it with her actions, looks into his kind, blue eyes as she helps him guide himself inside her, lets her out moans freely instead of hiding the way he makes her feel. Tells him how much she loves him by not immediately kicking him out of her flat the second he’s finished, by kissing him just because she wants to and not as a means to an end. Perhaps one day she’ll be able to come out and actually say the words but for now this will have to be enough.