seedee

Title: One Hour
Established pairing(s): Ron/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~780
Warnings: Adultery, graphic sex
Summary: Hermione knows her husband too well to fall for Polyjuice.
Notes: Written for prompt #26 of the One Night Stand Mini-Fest: Hermione is aware she's fucking someone other than Ron; she recognizes the Polyjuice, of course.

Many thanks to

tree00faery for being a brilliant beta.

One Hour

I know it's not Ron.

How could I not? It's not the shape of his nose that defines him or the colour of his hair. I didn't marry him because of his long legs or his flat stomach. I love his body, but his body isn't him.

Ron is more than the sum of his parts. I recognise him in the way he smiles, the jokes he makes, the familiar way he riles me up and cares for me and the endless depth that is his heart.

He's not the hard length inside me or the hands on my breasts. He's not the mouth that sucks a mark on my neck, the arse I squeeze in an effort to pull him deeper into me, to make his curls rub against my clit.

Ron is gentle caress, light fingers, soft kisses. He's laughter and kindness. He's not biting at my lips and pressing me down on our bed, his hands twisted in my hair. He doesn't grip my hips hard enough to leave bruises. He doesn't push as I struggle for purchase, for leverage to push back.

I don't know whether these thrusts are too hard and these hands too firm. Does it go too far or have I just never gone far enough? The limits are swimming away, and I know it's not my husband, but I hadn't known right away, so would it even make sense to stop now?

I'm two.

One of me watches my body respond in a way that is frightening. I arch my back, bucking and jerking. My fingernails leave deep marks, my lips are parted in a snarl.

One of me has blurred the line between reality and fantasy, between wishing and having, between being treasured and being trapped under my husband, treated as an equal, fighting to keep up with him as he takes his own pleasure and loses himself in me without limiting himself. There was a line between Ron and the person that looks like him, but I don’t know when I crossed it.

I know that Ron doesn't draw a sloppy path with his tongue from my throat to my nipples. He doesn't roll them between his teeth a shade too hard, so that it feels like there's a clamp biting into tender flesh. And I don't grab Ron's hair - soft, red, familiar - and shove his head closer, make him suck on my breast. My feet aren't planted on either side of Ron, and I don't push up faster, fucking myself when he isn't fast enough.

This isn't making love. It isn't about Ron and Hermione. It's about Ron's body and Hermione's body, and while I'm in mine, Ron's not. These eyes aren't Ron's eyes. They are a shade darker, more malicious. They are focused and intense.

I come.

Ron always goes slower when I come. He doesn't fuck me through it, one hand in my hair, one holding my wrists above my head, his tongue deep in my mouth. Over-stimulation makes me whimper, but I fall over the edge a second time, something I told Ron wasn't possible. My lower body has stopped moving, but I keep my legs spread wide, look at my husband's body fucking me, shuddering, coming, groaning.

I'm breathing hard, my heart pounding in my chest, and I'm clutching at someone's back. I know he's not my husband because my husband is considerate. Ron lifts himself off me after sex, summons a towel and then lets me go to the bathroom. He asks me if I'm alright, if he hurt me; he tells me that he loves me and that he thinks I'm beautiful.

He doesn't just stay on me, his weight heavy and suffocating, pressing me down, refusing to give me any space. His hands don't stay clenched in my hair. Ron's kisses to the side of my face aren't little bites and licks, dancing on the edge between pain and pleasure until I'm not sure which of those I'd prefer.

"Don't move," isn't something Ron ever said. And he'd never say, "I'll stay inside you. And when I'm ready, I'll fuck you again. Maybe I'll turn you around, take your arse."

I moan in response. I'm helpless because I don't want to help myself. "Who are you?" I ask, and the unfamiliar eyes are looking at me from the familiar face.

The chuckle is lower than Ron's would be. "I'm what you're missing," he says. He's wrong.

I know it's not Ron.

But I can pretend for another thirty-eight minutes.