Title: To Feel

Summary: Pansy likes to know that she exists. Ron/Pansy.

Author's notes: In my mind, this spawns from Several Miles from the Sun. But, in truth, they have nothing to do with each other.

Warning: Unbetaed, because I'm lazy, yeah.

Rating: M/R, to be safe.

Time-setting: Post-HBP, with spoilers.

P.S.: For my Ron, because she annoys.

-!-

"The greatest art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain."

–Lord Byron.

-!-

She likes to know that she exists. She likes to believe that she counts for something. She pretends that she is doing a greater good when she knocks on his door, brushing the tears from her face, trying to get her hair to look lively.

She likes the look in his eye. It's pleasure and surprise and a promise of making her feel.

She likes it when the air is knocked out of her as she is pushed into the wall. His lips are all over her neck, and his hands are trying to get rid of her shirt and skirt. He tugs and pulls and on the occasion bites her, but he never leaves a bruise.

Sometimes she wishes he would. Sometimes she would like to be at her house, glance in the mirror, and see a purple spot on her skin. It would remind her that she's alive and that she is needed and that she means something to someone.

She likes it when he forces her body to meld into his. She likes feeling him against her skin, and the way he seems addicted to her. He spreads her legs, and touches her, and she loves the way her body feels like it's on fire and she just might spontaneously combust.

"I need you," she moans, and she's carried to the bedroom.

"I wasn't expecting you," he says, but it doesn't seem like he cares as he continues sucking on her skin, his fingers touching between her legs.

"Draco's execution is today," she whispers sadly.

His eyes widen slightly, his facial expressions soften, and all of a sudden he's in her, thrusting in hard strokes.

It hurts and it burns and she keeps moaning, because she doesn't want it to stop. She counts the freckles on his face, the chimes of the clock, and the old scratch marks on his back.

She loves that last second as it ends for her and then a few more when it ends for him. He lies on top of her, catching his breath, and she knows he's grinning into the crook of her neck.

"Thank you," she whispers, touching his hair, pulling it slightly.

"Any time, Parkinson," he answers back, and he gives her neck one soft kiss before pulling away. "Spending the night?"

"Please," she says.

His eyes widen slightly in surprise. He always offers and she never accepts. She only comes to be reminded, she only comes to feel. He knows and he gives her what she wants, no questions asked.

"I don't want to be alone any more," she whispers, curling herself against him.

"You're never alone," he says, and he holds her close, breathing in her scent.

Pansy smiles, but she knows he can't see it. She knows he thinks she uses him, but in truth she believes it's much more than that.

"I think I might love you," she says, not aware she's saying it out loud.

He smiles and clutches her tightly.

Ronald, she thinks, trying out the name, Ronald Weasley and Pansy Parkinson. She likes it the way it feels.