Title: Watercolor
Summary: Ron is frustrated when he can't paint Hermione properly, and Hermione offers him a solution.
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing.
Warnings: Nudity and sex implications... that's about it.
* A/N * Many thanks to my first ever beta-reader, Courtney, who really helped when I knew something was wrong with a paragraph and couldn't quite put my finger on it.
* * *
I watch intently as the soft bristles seem to guide themselves effortlessly across the bare canvas. They work quickly, but skillfully; making sure that no detail goes untouched. Slowly the subtle curve of her breast and the hollow of her neck begin to form. They seem perfect, lifelike, even. The loose chestnut curls seem as though you could reach out and touch their softness.
Any other person would look at it and say it was beautiful. Any other person would see the black robes hugging her slim waist and the small smile playing across her face and "perfect" would come to mind. Those people don't look properly, though. They don't see the emptiness of it all.
Anyone could paint Hermione's features. Her beauty stands vivid in everyone's mind. Only a truly good painter, though, could actually capture her as a whole in a painting. Her beauty is just a miniscule part of my Hermione. One of the smaller, less important parts.
No, what matters most are the small things; like the way she smiles when she catches my eye and how she subconsciously twirls her hair around her finger when she's concentrating. The way she always manages to get up before me to start breakfast and always wakes me up with a small kiss on my nose. How she comes home after a particularly hard day at the Ministry, drags herself over to the couch and falls asleep in my arms without even getting undressed. It's how she feels so fragile in my grasp, but can be so strong in a crisis, and always insists on setting spiders free instead of killing them.
These are a few of the things that make Hermione truly beautiful. The small things that set her apart from everyone else. Anyone can be beautiful. Anyone can be lovely. Anyone can go about their life having their silky hair or slim figures as the only beautiful thing about themselves. Beauty, though, is not the most beautiful thing about Hermione. The most beautiful part of her is held within.
I try to paint these things into the picture by carefully blending the watercolor. Working with it as a team to show the softness of her skin or the fullness of her lips. I use watercolor because it seems to fit her. The softness and the light feel about it mirrors her. It's hard to control and has a mind of its own, but when you cooperate with it, and learn to compromise a bit, you can create a beautiful picture.
Finally, I finish and step back to admire my work. I see the curves, the tones, the shadow, and yet I am unpleased. I know why, of course. It's because I've failed again to thread the things I love most about her into the painting. I sigh, set down my brush, and venture out in search of Hermione.
At last I find her in the kitchen, perched on a stool sipping a cup of tea as she reads the Daily Prophet. She looks up at me as I enter and flashes me a loving smile. I force a smile back as I sit on the stool next to her. She senses something. "Anything wrong?" she asks me. I shake my head without meeting her gaze and ask if she's finished reading the paper. She ignores my question and asks me again. I sigh as I see that there's no way out of this and tell her what's been bothering me. She smiles and gently squeezes my hand as she tells me what a wonderful painter I am and how everyone admires my work. "No." I say. "I can't paint your complexity with simple brushstrokes on canvas. I can paint the beauty of your eyes or the softness of your curves, but I can't paint what matters most." She gives me a confused look and asks what that is. I simply say "You."
She hesitates a minute until understanding dawns on her face. She slowly leans forward and kisses my cheek. She lingers there and whispers, "Maybe it's not your painting, but the canvas that's not right." She pulls away and smiles at me; a smile tinted with hope, fear, uncertainty, and seductiveness.
I cock my head and ask, "How do you mean?" She blushes and looks at the floor. I'm curious by now, so I tilt her chin up with my finger. "What is it Hermione?" She looks at me thoughtfully, as if judging whether or not I would be interested in what she had planned. She finally seems to decide as she gently takes my hand and leads me through the house to my studio.
I give her a quizzical look as she holds me at arms length, gives me one last playful smile, and reaches around to her backside. I hear a zipping sound and realize that she's undressing. My breath falters as her light sundress slips from her shoulders and falls to the floor to reveal her lush body. "What's this?" I manage to ask. She shows a small hint of a smile and quietly says "Your new canvas."
I look at her incredulously. She can't mean what I think she means. That's not the Hermione I know. The nice, quiet, conservative one. But wait-I smile as I realize that this is just one more part of Hermione that I hadn't yet discovered; and I see that there are probably many more that I'll find out about in the future. I step closer to her very cautiously, scared that if I move too suddenly Hermione will come to her senses and get dressed. I slowly reach to take the clip that keeps her hair in a neat bundle on the top of her head and watch her silky chestnut curls fall around her shoulders. My forehead touches hers and I whisper, "Are you sure?" She merely nods and motions towards my table of brushes. I leave her and make my way over to survey my collection. Large, small, soft, coarse. I finally choose a medium brush with soft bristles and turn back to Hermione. She looks nervous, but determined nonetheless.
I position myself in front of her and take in the gorgeous sight. It really makes me think when I see her like this. Her natural beauty reminds me how beautiful natural can be. Her hair, never dyed in her life, never has hair spray or any kind of styling product in it. She never taints her face with eye shadow or any other form of makeup and has never pierced her skin with the metal of earrings. Her personality is just as natural. Never trying to look better than anyone else and never holding back or quieting her opinions. She laughs whole-heartedly and isn't afraid of people knowing about our love.
I hesitate. I have no idea where to begin. I hold up my brush, waiting for my muse to work her magic. No. something's wrong. Realizing what it is, I lie my brush down in defeat. Hermione sees this and questions me. I step forward and wrap an arm around her waist. I shiver at the amount of warmth her skin gives off and look into her eyes. "One thing an artist knows is to stop when the painting is perfect."
She looks up directly into my eyes for the first time since the kitchen. "You're saying-"
"You're perfect." I whisper. She looks at me with such love and adoration that I feel the flame of my whole existence burst into a roaring fire. Warmth envelops me and I suddenly feel passion flowing throw my veins. I lean downwards to affectionately nuzzle her neck and give it soft kisses. I hear her inhale sharply as I seem to find a sensitive spot and I concentrate there. "Ron." she whispers.
I don't want to stop, though. I continue until I hear her say it again and I reluctantly tear myself away to look at her expression. Her eyes are halfway closed and her mouth is slightly open. So inviting. but I wait. "Ron." She breathes. ".Are you positive?"
I lean inward and kiss her reassuringly. "I've never been more positive in my life." She smiles and kisses me softly as her hands wander up my chest to undo my robe.
* * *
It was beautiful. So tender and loving. Every move said something different; carried a message filled with love. We barely spoke, as our actions spoke louder than our words. By the end we were both so touched by the sensitivity of the whole situation, we were crying. Tears of joy cascaded down our faces as we caressed and soothed each other.
Using our discarded clothing as a temporary bed, we collapsed and I held her, listening to her heartbeat and feeling utterly at peace. Hermione fell asleep almost immediately, while I lay there awake and thinking. I realized something during it all. There was another part of Hermione. It wasn't the daring part that wanted to experiment with watercolor, no, it was something else. I don't know what yet, but it was there; and it comforts me to think that I still have my whole life with Hermione to figure it out.
I listen to her quiet and steady breathing and watch the soft rise and fall of her chest as I hug her tighter to me. My sweet Hermione.
My masterpiece.
Summary: Ron is frustrated when he can't paint Hermione properly, and Hermione offers him a solution.
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing.
Warnings: Nudity and sex implications... that's about it.
* A/N * Many thanks to my first ever beta-reader, Courtney, who really helped when I knew something was wrong with a paragraph and couldn't quite put my finger on it.
* * *
I watch intently as the soft bristles seem to guide themselves effortlessly across the bare canvas. They work quickly, but skillfully; making sure that no detail goes untouched. Slowly the subtle curve of her breast and the hollow of her neck begin to form. They seem perfect, lifelike, even. The loose chestnut curls seem as though you could reach out and touch their softness.
Any other person would look at it and say it was beautiful. Any other person would see the black robes hugging her slim waist and the small smile playing across her face and "perfect" would come to mind. Those people don't look properly, though. They don't see the emptiness of it all.
Anyone could paint Hermione's features. Her beauty stands vivid in everyone's mind. Only a truly good painter, though, could actually capture her as a whole in a painting. Her beauty is just a miniscule part of my Hermione. One of the smaller, less important parts.
No, what matters most are the small things; like the way she smiles when she catches my eye and how she subconsciously twirls her hair around her finger when she's concentrating. The way she always manages to get up before me to start breakfast and always wakes me up with a small kiss on my nose. How she comes home after a particularly hard day at the Ministry, drags herself over to the couch and falls asleep in my arms without even getting undressed. It's how she feels so fragile in my grasp, but can be so strong in a crisis, and always insists on setting spiders free instead of killing them.
These are a few of the things that make Hermione truly beautiful. The small things that set her apart from everyone else. Anyone can be beautiful. Anyone can be lovely. Anyone can go about their life having their silky hair or slim figures as the only beautiful thing about themselves. Beauty, though, is not the most beautiful thing about Hermione. The most beautiful part of her is held within.
I try to paint these things into the picture by carefully blending the watercolor. Working with it as a team to show the softness of her skin or the fullness of her lips. I use watercolor because it seems to fit her. The softness and the light feel about it mirrors her. It's hard to control and has a mind of its own, but when you cooperate with it, and learn to compromise a bit, you can create a beautiful picture.
Finally, I finish and step back to admire my work. I see the curves, the tones, the shadow, and yet I am unpleased. I know why, of course. It's because I've failed again to thread the things I love most about her into the painting. I sigh, set down my brush, and venture out in search of Hermione.
At last I find her in the kitchen, perched on a stool sipping a cup of tea as she reads the Daily Prophet. She looks up at me as I enter and flashes me a loving smile. I force a smile back as I sit on the stool next to her. She senses something. "Anything wrong?" she asks me. I shake my head without meeting her gaze and ask if she's finished reading the paper. She ignores my question and asks me again. I sigh as I see that there's no way out of this and tell her what's been bothering me. She smiles and gently squeezes my hand as she tells me what a wonderful painter I am and how everyone admires my work. "No." I say. "I can't paint your complexity with simple brushstrokes on canvas. I can paint the beauty of your eyes or the softness of your curves, but I can't paint what matters most." She gives me a confused look and asks what that is. I simply say "You."
She hesitates a minute until understanding dawns on her face. She slowly leans forward and kisses my cheek. She lingers there and whispers, "Maybe it's not your painting, but the canvas that's not right." She pulls away and smiles at me; a smile tinted with hope, fear, uncertainty, and seductiveness.
I cock my head and ask, "How do you mean?" She blushes and looks at the floor. I'm curious by now, so I tilt her chin up with my finger. "What is it Hermione?" She looks at me thoughtfully, as if judging whether or not I would be interested in what she had planned. She finally seems to decide as she gently takes my hand and leads me through the house to my studio.
I give her a quizzical look as she holds me at arms length, gives me one last playful smile, and reaches around to her backside. I hear a zipping sound and realize that she's undressing. My breath falters as her light sundress slips from her shoulders and falls to the floor to reveal her lush body. "What's this?" I manage to ask. She shows a small hint of a smile and quietly says "Your new canvas."
I look at her incredulously. She can't mean what I think she means. That's not the Hermione I know. The nice, quiet, conservative one. But wait-I smile as I realize that this is just one more part of Hermione that I hadn't yet discovered; and I see that there are probably many more that I'll find out about in the future. I step closer to her very cautiously, scared that if I move too suddenly Hermione will come to her senses and get dressed. I slowly reach to take the clip that keeps her hair in a neat bundle on the top of her head and watch her silky chestnut curls fall around her shoulders. My forehead touches hers and I whisper, "Are you sure?" She merely nods and motions towards my table of brushes. I leave her and make my way over to survey my collection. Large, small, soft, coarse. I finally choose a medium brush with soft bristles and turn back to Hermione. She looks nervous, but determined nonetheless.
I position myself in front of her and take in the gorgeous sight. It really makes me think when I see her like this. Her natural beauty reminds me how beautiful natural can be. Her hair, never dyed in her life, never has hair spray or any kind of styling product in it. She never taints her face with eye shadow or any other form of makeup and has never pierced her skin with the metal of earrings. Her personality is just as natural. Never trying to look better than anyone else and never holding back or quieting her opinions. She laughs whole-heartedly and isn't afraid of people knowing about our love.
I hesitate. I have no idea where to begin. I hold up my brush, waiting for my muse to work her magic. No. something's wrong. Realizing what it is, I lie my brush down in defeat. Hermione sees this and questions me. I step forward and wrap an arm around her waist. I shiver at the amount of warmth her skin gives off and look into her eyes. "One thing an artist knows is to stop when the painting is perfect."
She looks up directly into my eyes for the first time since the kitchen. "You're saying-"
"You're perfect." I whisper. She looks at me with such love and adoration that I feel the flame of my whole existence burst into a roaring fire. Warmth envelops me and I suddenly feel passion flowing throw my veins. I lean downwards to affectionately nuzzle her neck and give it soft kisses. I hear her inhale sharply as I seem to find a sensitive spot and I concentrate there. "Ron." she whispers.
I don't want to stop, though. I continue until I hear her say it again and I reluctantly tear myself away to look at her expression. Her eyes are halfway closed and her mouth is slightly open. So inviting. but I wait. "Ron." She breathes. ".Are you positive?"
I lean inward and kiss her reassuringly. "I've never been more positive in my life." She smiles and kisses me softly as her hands wander up my chest to undo my robe.
* * *
It was beautiful. So tender and loving. Every move said something different; carried a message filled with love. We barely spoke, as our actions spoke louder than our words. By the end we were both so touched by the sensitivity of the whole situation, we were crying. Tears of joy cascaded down our faces as we caressed and soothed each other.
Using our discarded clothing as a temporary bed, we collapsed and I held her, listening to her heartbeat and feeling utterly at peace. Hermione fell asleep almost immediately, while I lay there awake and thinking. I realized something during it all. There was another part of Hermione. It wasn't the daring part that wanted to experiment with watercolor, no, it was something else. I don't know what yet, but it was there; and it comforts me to think that I still have my whole life with Hermione to figure it out.
I listen to her quiet and steady breathing and watch the soft rise and fall of her chest as I hug her tighter to me. My sweet Hermione.
My masterpiece.