Summersmut Mod (summersmutmod) wrote in hp_summersmut, @ 2007-09-06 09:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | bill weasley, bill/hermione, hermione granger |
[FIC] An Acceptable Outlet for Aggression: Bill/Hermione
Originally posted here on 23 August 2007
Title: An Acceptable Outlet for Aggression
Requestor: kirasha
Author/Artist:
Rating: R
Pairing: Bill/Hermione
Summary: Bill has a hard time readjusting to life at the Burrow after the War, but Hermione's got it all under control.
Warnings (if any): Um, smut?
Disclaimer: Fiction, fiction, fiction. Not my property, sadly.
Author's Notes: Thanks to my dear beta, who poked me to write and corrected what needed fixing. The kinks requested that I tried to include are: wolfish behavior, first time, biting, frottage, and clothed wall!sex.
"If no one has any more information?" Kingsley Shacklebolt paused and looked around the table. Bill suppressed his resentment and his objections, shifting in his chair restlessly. "Fine. Weasley, set it up with the goblins. Let me know when it's done."
With that Kingsley stood and headed to the door. In a move he probably thought was subtle, but which fooled no one in the room, Harry straightened from his slouch against the wall and followed.
Most of the Order members lingered in the kitchen after the pair left the room, gossiping about the relationship between Kingsley and The Boy Who Became The Man Who Lived, discussing their assigned tasks, speculating about how much longer Order meetings would continue to be scheduled now that the war was over and things were settling back down. Bill didn't even try to participate in the friendly banter; he was waiting for his temper, which was ever more volatile lately, to cool enough that he could Apparate without worrying about splinching himself.
"You know, it'll get better."
Bill was so focused on his internal issues that he hadn't realized anyone had taken the seat next to him.
"You spent most of the war working on your own in Europe; even without werewolf traits making dominance issues a problem, you probably aren't used to working under such direct supervision," Remus said.
He wasn't saying anything that Bill hadn't worked out for himself, and it didn't really help to hear it reiterated. Remus' calm voice made his hackles rise, and he had to stop himself from growling. Remus smiled wryly before continuing, "And you resent me even saying it. I know you don't want to hear any advice, but I'm going to give you some anyway. You need to find a way to work off some of your aggression before it becomes uncontrollable."
Another news flash. This thing with Kingsley was bad enough. At least Bill could understand the logic of his authority as head of the Order. That made him the equivalent of the alpha wolf of the pack, and Bill could accept that, even if it grated on instincts he had only been peripherally aware of since recovering from Fenrir Greyback's attack. There was no explaining the other source of irritation: Hermione Granger.
Yes, Bill had known that his family's situation had changed in his absence. There was no way for it not to have done so; his sister now lived in the Janus Thickey ward at St. Mungo's, and his mother and youngest brother had been killed in the attack that had incapacitated her. Hermione had been an awkward teenager when he and Fleur had moved to Strasbourg to act as Order liaisons, and somehow the news that she had given birth to Ron's daughter months after he died and that she now ran the Burrow hadn't really sunk in until he'd returned home.
It had made perfect sense for Hermione, whose family had been targeted in Voldemort's first wave of Muggleborn-directed hate crimes, to stay at the Burrow after Ron's death. Even if she hadn't been pregnant, the family would never have left her on her own; with or without a formal ceremony, Hermione was a Weasley. Most of the family's friends agreed: Arthur Weasley was a broken man without his wife, and one of the few joys in his life was Maggie Mae Granger-Weasley.
Bill could appreciate that Hermione ran the house, and her presence there kept his father on an even keel and the twins under control. Even Percy, who came to dinner on Sundays with Penelope, approved of her assumption of authority. But reading about the situation in letters from Charlie and experiencing the reality first hand were two entirely different things. Being ordered about as if he were a toddler like Maggie Mae set him on edge. The fact that the bossing was being done by a woman who made every cell in his body stand up and scream wanttakehavemarkclaim made him grind his teeth until his jaw ached.
After counting to ten in English, then in French, then Arabic, he turned to Remus and nodded. "I'm working on it, thanks."
And he was. He had every intention of doing something to relieve the tension he was feeling: he was going to try to avoid the sources of said tension. So instead of heading back to the Burrow with Fred and George, he accepted Sturgis Podmore's invitation to join his friends for a drink. One beer turned into four beers turned into a couple of shots of firewhiskey and then some horrid Muggle drink called Sambucca, and by the time the Dirty Duck closed, Bill was feeling no pain. He was also completely incapable of Apparation, so he took the fistful of Floo powder Podmore offered and stepped into the hearth, thinking that at this hour, there'd be no one up to disturb when he stumbled up to his old bedroom.
Bill's hand on the Weasley clock was moving to "home" when the fire flared green and burped him out onto the grate. He looked around the room, and was vaguely relieved that the only light was from the fire. Steadying himself with a hand against the mantle, he brushed soot off his shoulder and shook out his ponytail – even half-drunk, he knew he'd never hear the end of it if he trailed ash and cinders through the house – and turned to head upstairs.
"Must have been some meeting."
The voice came from a darkened corner of the lounge, and stopped Bill in his tracks, his hand on the banister and foot on the first stair. Half of him was cursing his luck; Hermione had better radar than his mother had had, for Merlin's sake. The other half, the more primitive half that Bill usually had the sense to ignore, was off on its wanttakehavemarkclaim tangent again.
"Worried about me?"
A wand tip lit, illuminating Hermione, curled up on the sofa with her hair curling around her face and her knees drawn up beneath her chin. Her eyes held his for a minute, and it felt like a challenge. Every bit of the tension he'd drunk away was back, and then some. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he knew that something was going to happen; there would be some resolution. He just wasn't certain yet what it would be.
"Should I have been? You certainly don't look like you need my concern." Hermione sniffed in disapproval as she abandoned her spot on the sofa. She moved as if she were going to head up to bed, but Bill grabbed her wrist as she brushed past, halting her on the step above him.
"I’m an adult. I don't need to be managed like an infant or an emotional cripple," he growled.
There was a flash of some emotion in her eyes, one that Bill didn't recognize. He didn't know her expressions well enough to tell if it were fear or hurt.
"Neither do I."
No, that was definitely not fear in her voice. It was a challenge again, enough to have him fisting one hand in her hair. Hermione's lips curved in a small smile, almost a smirk, full of knowledge, and just like that he knew: she knew what she was doing to him all along. A small part of Bill's brain whispered that he should have known – hadn't Dumbledore deemed her the brightest witch of her age? Of course she'd have researched werewolves and their habits, if only to educate herself – but that whisper was near-silent in comparison to the mental howl of satisfaction every instinct released when her eyes slid closed. Her head tilted to the side, baring her neck, and that was just it. The feral, possessive voice was now chanting lickbitesuckmarkOWN, and he had neither the willpower nor the desire to fight it. Not with her soft hair curling around one hand, a fragile wrist quiescent in his other, and the curve of her body against his.
He leaned closer and buried his nose in Hermione's hair. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of citrus and ink and baby powder and female, letting it settle into his lungs, into his being. In a gesture that was a wee bit more canine than he cared to admit, he slid his face from the top of her head to behind her ear, sniffing as he went. He paused to lick at one delicate earlobe, smiling at the shiver it caused, before dragging his nose and mouth down to join of her shoulder and neck. He pressed a light kiss there, swiping the skin with tongue once, twice, before biting down hard. The grab of teeth against tendon had Bill growling, and Hermione answered with a low moan and the press of her free hand against his back. Satisfied with that reaction, he released the flesh, licking the teeth marks lightly before laying a trail of not-quite-gentle nips back up to her ear.
"Hermione—" Bill whispered in her ear, and he wasn't even sure what he was asking.
She knew, though. She twisted her wrist out of his grip and pulled him with her as she stumbled backwards, falling awkwardly against the wall. Off balance, Bill landed against her heavily. Under other circumstances he would have been appalled, would have apologized, but it placed him right where he wanted to be: pressed against the soft body that had been teasing him – deliberately, he now thought – for weeks. His body let him know in no uncertain terms how much it liked it, and how it thought this adventure should end.
Bracing himself on one elbow, holding Hermione's eyes with his own, he loosened his grip on her hair and let his hand slide down her neck and shoulder to her breast. He watched her reaction as he cupped it, then abandoned it to continue down her torso, drifting over the curve of her hip before pausing at the apex of her thighs. Even with a layer of fabric between his hand and its target, he could feel her warmth, and his nostrils flared in anticipation.
She was waiting, almost shivering in excitement, and he knew she expected him to touch her through her nightgown. Instead, Bill moved his hand to her thigh; lifting it, he pulled it up over his hip and rocked forward. Her pelvis jerked into his, and then they were moving, grinding against each other mindlessly. Their lips met for the first time, sparking another groan, and then Bill's tongue was inside Hermione's mouth, slick and sliding, mimicking some of the things he wanted to do to her – would do with her, he promised himself – when they were somewhere other than the staircase in the house he grew up in. Her arms were around him, holding him tight against her body, and he gripped her leg more tightly, flexing his fingers. His last coherent thought was that he hoped there would be fingerprint bruises there when he let go. Then they were rutting against each other, panting and moaning and coming.
Bill sagged against Hermione, his weight against the wall all that kept him upright. His lips brushed the side of her neck, and he felt her shiver when he touched the spot he had bitten. The bruise was already darkening. He released Hermione's leg, mourning the loss of warmth and contact. He was aware of sticky wetness in and on his trouser, but that was fine. Really, it was perfect, because he could smell Hermione on him and himself on Hermione, and it made a gleefully happy part of him think markedtakenpossessed.
Still buzzed from the evening's alcohol and orgasm, Bill had to chuckle at a vague memory of Remus' advice.
"Well, that's one way to relieve tension."
Her head cocked to the side, Hermione just looked at Bill for a moment. He had the oddest feeling, as if she were mentally going through facts, considering data, predicting possible outcomes. Then she smiled and held out her hand.
"Come to bed. I'm sure we can find another outlet for your aggression."