"Nightswimming"
This is super old. Figured I'd go ahead and archive it here anyway!
Title: Nightswimming
Ship: Draco/Ginny
Rating: R
Summary: They exist in the dark hours. A look into Draco and Ginny's relationship.
They are a private and do not disturb sign on a locked door to a dark room. They are candles guttering low, drowning slowly in hot wax. They are invisibility cloaks and evenings and nights and early hours.
Sometimes they are insistent, roaming hands, back arching off cold stone walls, skirts and pants scratching hot thighs and dragged low over hips. Those times, they are made up of searing mouths and teeth, hair falling over face and pale shoulders, loud gasps muffled and groans stifled. Those times, they are nothing more than a sweaty, urgent mess, intent on achieving a single vanishing point together, lines drawn tight towards each other. Those times end with him having to hold her up while she recovers and comes back down to earth. In turn, he rests his forehead against her shoulder, forcing the air back into his lungs.
Most of the time they are hands fumbling in the dark, kisses missing marks and landing slightly off-target, clothes, hair clips and ties brushed askew. Slipping into his warm lap, curled into him, draped over him when he’s seated, sprawled over his lean body. These times it’s always dark because it’s a hidden alcove, or else a back stairwell no student uses, or the back of the library at dinnertime.
They are strangers after first light, transformed by the day. They are ruthless enemies on the Quidditch pitch, proving that winning is more important than anything else. Bruised arms, winded stomachs, jarred shoulders, flying too close on purpose are all tactics to beat each other because just because they are people craving long nights doesn’t mean they care too much or care less about other things.
***
The note falls into his lap when he sullenly takes out his Potions textbook. He doesn’t change expression but can’t help darting a glance around him. The class is jotting down notes from the board. He unfolds it nimbly, smoothing out the creases as he turns slightly to the side, offering Crabbe his back as he bends over the note.
The familiar handwriting reminds him of her touch ghosting over his skin, and he shivers. He imagines that he can feel her skin, her hand touching the note. The note is succinctly worded, but full of meaning.
He slips the note into his pocket where it burns there into his leg all day, burning into his skin like a mark.
***
When she pushes her sleeves up in Herbology and sees the faint, finger-shaped bruise on her arm, she blushes and yanks her sleeve back down before anyone can see. It’s his fingerprint on her body. It’s not like the bruises they receive on the Quidditch pitch. She sneaks another look at it when no one’s looking, and it looks obvious what it is. If anyone saw, they would know. The bruise is beautiful, art, shaded and tinted with blood pumping behind it. She admires it for a long time in her mind’s eye, remember the moment when he grasped her and pulled her close and tight, breathing into her hair.
***
“I saw you hug Potter,” he says thinly.
“So?”
He envies her carelessness and hates her at the same time. “So I hated it. Don’t do it again.”
“It was just a congratulatory hug. Like hugging my brother.” She smiles. “Don’t be jealous, Draco.”
“Yeah, well.” He attempts to cover his vulnerability. “You were the very devil today.”
Ginny beams at him; it’s a compliment. Then, more seriously, she bids him, “Let’s see the damage.”
He doesn’t look away, keeping his eyes on her face as his hands drop to the hem of his sweater. He tugs it off cleanly, spiking the blond hair slightly from the static. Ginny is on him before he can step forward or say anything, pushing him onto the bed, her small hands on his body.
She tongues the shell of his ear lightly, her hands moving across the flat, slightly concave stomach, pausing to caress a bruise from an elbow thrown out in mid-flight. It has turned to a discolored brown and yellow-green, and she lingers there, her lips running over the wounded skin while he licks at the abrasion on her forearm, angry red scratches from his broom.
***
Ginny and Draco. Draco and Ginny. He whispers their names together when she is asleep, liking the sound. He likes his name; it’s pureblood and unique, speaks of impeccable upbringing and privilege. He thinks, his name sounds good with hers. Draco and Ginny.
Ginny is curled around him like a warm cat. He likes the feel of Ginny’s legs tangled around him. He likes the way her hair spills all over him, the dark auburn tresses on his white pillow, on his pale skin make a nice contrast.
He likes it when she rolls over, dragging the sheets with her so that it always drapes fetchingly over her hips. He likes to lay close to her as his hands stroke her hair, feeling the silk of the texture accompanied by the warmth of her body.
***
They are used to the darkness. Creatures of the night, which is habitual to them, they have become nocturnal and acquired senses like seeing each other clearly in dim light and walking fearlessly into the dark toward one another. In the night, lit only by a tentative candle, their steps closing the distance between are sure.
She uses that talent now to run surefooted through darkened corridors. But he’s stubborn enough, conceited enough to chase after her. He corners her in a stairwell that she should’ve avoided. He’s faster than she is; he has longer legs that can take more steps than she can at one time, and he lunges, dragging her down to the hard stone steps. She twists out of his grasp.
“That hurt!”
Draco ignores this. “What’s wrong with you?”
She ignores him.
“Hey. Hey!” he says angrily, to claim her attention. “What is this about?”
Ginny seethes. “I told you. It’s over. Don’t be sore just because I’m the one to end it.”
“You are behaving like a petty child,” he tells her sternly.
“You’re ashamed of me!” she exclaims. “It’s all very well, secret shags and snogs, but when it comes down to it, you’re just afraid-don’t touch me, Draco! I’m sick of you ignoring me in the halls-can’t even bloody look at you-”
“If that’s what you want!” Draco burst out. “Look-can we go back to the room-or not,” he says hastily at the look on her face. “What do you want from me, Gin?”
“Just-” she begins hotly, but the words that come out aren’t the ones she chose. “Kiss me.”
That she can change moods so quickly makes him hesitant, unsure of where he stands with her, not quite certain she’s not still angry and just baiting him. The uncertainty in him reminds her of the first time.
***
“Ginny?” Draco asked thickly. “Yes?” His voice was rough with indelicate need and feeling, and she loved it.
He had been pressing her deep into the mattress with his kisses when he suddenly tore himself away, backing away. Ginny sat on the edge of his bed, looking at this boy.
It was Saturday, and as always, it was night. The air in the dungeons was crisp, clean, cold. The sheets beneath her were cool against her feverish skin, and, nervous, she stood up also because the way he was looking down at her, the question in his eyes, made an unbearable tension.
Ginny gazed at him, meeting his eyes, wishing she could blink or look away and break the line of vision. His eyes were hot and dark, and his lips were pressed so tightly together that it was a slash of white in his face. He searched her eyes, stilling the movement of their clothed bodies, and the sudden stop wrenched a cry of protest from her.
Draco asked again, “Yes?”
She couldn’t answer, couldn’t unstick her throat and make her tongue work, so she just looked back at him, willing him to continue. She knew he could read her, Draco always saw through her pretended indifference and coolness, Draco always knew exactly what to do to turn her into a sweaty mess and make her short of breath.
He yanked down her soft skirt with one hand, but he pulled down her knickers more gently, rough fingers lingering against her thick and leg, tracing her skin with unknown symbols. He sank to his knees before her, looking up at her, inquiry in his eyes.
Ginny reached out and braced her hands on his shoulders, fingers curling into his shirt as she whispered, “Yes, Draco.”
His face paled, and then he bent his head and removed her skirt and knickers, lifting each foot up and out of the garments. Although his long fingers were nimble and deft in working out the buttons of her shirt-he did not fumble a button at all-he still did not press her. Now that he had his verbal confirmation, he seemed reluctant to rush.
Draco kissed her long and slow. She felt the fevered heat in his body, the urge, but the kiss was chaste compared to the snogging they’d had before in deserted hallways. Ginny closed her eyes.
When she opened her eyes again, he was standing, pulling her towards the bed.
The way their bodies slid against one another was right. He played her body like a maestro, using his knowledge of what pleased her, what elicited a moan, a gasp, his name. She was thrumming beneath his hands, his mouth, the brush of his blond hair against her stomach as he bends his head to kiss her hip bone, drawn tight. He crawled back up, framed her face with his hands. His eyes are dark slate-gray.
She marveled at the tenderness with which he kisses her, just before he slides into her. Her body stiffened in pain even as her eyes were still clouded with desire, and he made sure that the pain was fleeting.
Afterwards, Ginny clung to him and thought to herself that he was right.
***
Draco is waiting outside the Gryffindor locker room, ignoring the rather nasty and suspicious looks directed at him in passing as the players enter to shower and change out their uniforms. Ginny walks by, giving him a startled glance, but she is with her teammates, and so she continues walking.
He mutters, “Finally,” and steps forward, blocking the path of Ron Weasley. He is a paler than usual.
“Good morning, Weasley.” Before the other boy can retort, Draco hurries on, eager to get it over with yet still stalling. “And good game. And…uh. I’m shagging your sister, just to let you know.”
***
“You could have broken it to him a little more gently,” is all that Ginny says later.
They can hear the sounds of students enjoying the noon outside on the grounds; they can hear people passing through the hallways.
The fully-risen sun on Ginny’s bare back is more beautiful than Draco can stand. He shifts closer to her, his palm flat on her warm back and mapping her freckles, feeling his skin tingle in the sunlight.
Title: Nightswimming
Ship: Draco/Ginny
Rating: R
Summary: They exist in the dark hours. A look into Draco and Ginny's relationship.
They are a private and do not disturb sign on a locked door to a dark room. They are candles guttering low, drowning slowly in hot wax. They are invisibility cloaks and evenings and nights and early hours.
Sometimes they are insistent, roaming hands, back arching off cold stone walls, skirts and pants scratching hot thighs and dragged low over hips. Those times, they are made up of searing mouths and teeth, hair falling over face and pale shoulders, loud gasps muffled and groans stifled. Those times, they are nothing more than a sweaty, urgent mess, intent on achieving a single vanishing point together, lines drawn tight towards each other. Those times end with him having to hold her up while she recovers and comes back down to earth. In turn, he rests his forehead against her shoulder, forcing the air back into his lungs.
Most of the time they are hands fumbling in the dark, kisses missing marks and landing slightly off-target, clothes, hair clips and ties brushed askew. Slipping into his warm lap, curled into him, draped over him when he’s seated, sprawled over his lean body. These times it’s always dark because it’s a hidden alcove, or else a back stairwell no student uses, or the back of the library at dinnertime.
They are strangers after first light, transformed by the day. They are ruthless enemies on the Quidditch pitch, proving that winning is more important than anything else. Bruised arms, winded stomachs, jarred shoulders, flying too close on purpose are all tactics to beat each other because just because they are people craving long nights doesn’t mean they care too much or care less about other things.
***
The note falls into his lap when he sullenly takes out his Potions textbook. He doesn’t change expression but can’t help darting a glance around him. The class is jotting down notes from the board. He unfolds it nimbly, smoothing out the creases as he turns slightly to the side, offering Crabbe his back as he bends over the note.
The familiar handwriting reminds him of her touch ghosting over his skin, and he shivers. He imagines that he can feel her skin, her hand touching the note. The note is succinctly worded, but full of meaning.
He slips the note into his pocket where it burns there into his leg all day, burning into his skin like a mark.
***
When she pushes her sleeves up in Herbology and sees the faint, finger-shaped bruise on her arm, she blushes and yanks her sleeve back down before anyone can see. It’s his fingerprint on her body. It’s not like the bruises they receive on the Quidditch pitch. She sneaks another look at it when no one’s looking, and it looks obvious what it is. If anyone saw, they would know. The bruise is beautiful, art, shaded and tinted with blood pumping behind it. She admires it for a long time in her mind’s eye, remember the moment when he grasped her and pulled her close and tight, breathing into her hair.
***
“I saw you hug Potter,” he says thinly.
“So?”
He envies her carelessness and hates her at the same time. “So I hated it. Don’t do it again.”
“It was just a congratulatory hug. Like hugging my brother.” She smiles. “Don’t be jealous, Draco.”
“Yeah, well.” He attempts to cover his vulnerability. “You were the very devil today.”
Ginny beams at him; it’s a compliment. Then, more seriously, she bids him, “Let’s see the damage.”
He doesn’t look away, keeping his eyes on her face as his hands drop to the hem of his sweater. He tugs it off cleanly, spiking the blond hair slightly from the static. Ginny is on him before he can step forward or say anything, pushing him onto the bed, her small hands on his body.
She tongues the shell of his ear lightly, her hands moving across the flat, slightly concave stomach, pausing to caress a bruise from an elbow thrown out in mid-flight. It has turned to a discolored brown and yellow-green, and she lingers there, her lips running over the wounded skin while he licks at the abrasion on her forearm, angry red scratches from his broom.
***
Ginny and Draco. Draco and Ginny. He whispers their names together when she is asleep, liking the sound. He likes his name; it’s pureblood and unique, speaks of impeccable upbringing and privilege. He thinks, his name sounds good with hers. Draco and Ginny.
Ginny is curled around him like a warm cat. He likes the feel of Ginny’s legs tangled around him. He likes the way her hair spills all over him, the dark auburn tresses on his white pillow, on his pale skin make a nice contrast.
He likes it when she rolls over, dragging the sheets with her so that it always drapes fetchingly over her hips. He likes to lay close to her as his hands stroke her hair, feeling the silk of the texture accompanied by the warmth of her body.
***
They are used to the darkness. Creatures of the night, which is habitual to them, they have become nocturnal and acquired senses like seeing each other clearly in dim light and walking fearlessly into the dark toward one another. In the night, lit only by a tentative candle, their steps closing the distance between are sure.
She uses that talent now to run surefooted through darkened corridors. But he’s stubborn enough, conceited enough to chase after her. He corners her in a stairwell that she should’ve avoided. He’s faster than she is; he has longer legs that can take more steps than she can at one time, and he lunges, dragging her down to the hard stone steps. She twists out of his grasp.
“That hurt!”
Draco ignores this. “What’s wrong with you?”
She ignores him.
“Hey. Hey!” he says angrily, to claim her attention. “What is this about?”
Ginny seethes. “I told you. It’s over. Don’t be sore just because I’m the one to end it.”
“You are behaving like a petty child,” he tells her sternly.
“You’re ashamed of me!” she exclaims. “It’s all very well, secret shags and snogs, but when it comes down to it, you’re just afraid-don’t touch me, Draco! I’m sick of you ignoring me in the halls-can’t even bloody look at you-”
“If that’s what you want!” Draco burst out. “Look-can we go back to the room-or not,” he says hastily at the look on her face. “What do you want from me, Gin?”
“Just-” she begins hotly, but the words that come out aren’t the ones she chose. “Kiss me.”
That she can change moods so quickly makes him hesitant, unsure of where he stands with her, not quite certain she’s not still angry and just baiting him. The uncertainty in him reminds her of the first time.
***
“Ginny?” Draco asked thickly. “Yes?” His voice was rough with indelicate need and feeling, and she loved it.
He had been pressing her deep into the mattress with his kisses when he suddenly tore himself away, backing away. Ginny sat on the edge of his bed, looking at this boy.
It was Saturday, and as always, it was night. The air in the dungeons was crisp, clean, cold. The sheets beneath her were cool against her feverish skin, and, nervous, she stood up also because the way he was looking down at her, the question in his eyes, made an unbearable tension.
Ginny gazed at him, meeting his eyes, wishing she could blink or look away and break the line of vision. His eyes were hot and dark, and his lips were pressed so tightly together that it was a slash of white in his face. He searched her eyes, stilling the movement of their clothed bodies, and the sudden stop wrenched a cry of protest from her.
Draco asked again, “Yes?”
She couldn’t answer, couldn’t unstick her throat and make her tongue work, so she just looked back at him, willing him to continue. She knew he could read her, Draco always saw through her pretended indifference and coolness, Draco always knew exactly what to do to turn her into a sweaty mess and make her short of breath.
He yanked down her soft skirt with one hand, but he pulled down her knickers more gently, rough fingers lingering against her thick and leg, tracing her skin with unknown symbols. He sank to his knees before her, looking up at her, inquiry in his eyes.
Ginny reached out and braced her hands on his shoulders, fingers curling into his shirt as she whispered, “Yes, Draco.”
His face paled, and then he bent his head and removed her skirt and knickers, lifting each foot up and out of the garments. Although his long fingers were nimble and deft in working out the buttons of her shirt-he did not fumble a button at all-he still did not press her. Now that he had his verbal confirmation, he seemed reluctant to rush.
Draco kissed her long and slow. She felt the fevered heat in his body, the urge, but the kiss was chaste compared to the snogging they’d had before in deserted hallways. Ginny closed her eyes.
When she opened her eyes again, he was standing, pulling her towards the bed.
The way their bodies slid against one another was right. He played her body like a maestro, using his knowledge of what pleased her, what elicited a moan, a gasp, his name. She was thrumming beneath his hands, his mouth, the brush of his blond hair against her stomach as he bends his head to kiss her hip bone, drawn tight. He crawled back up, framed her face with his hands. His eyes are dark slate-gray.
She marveled at the tenderness with which he kisses her, just before he slides into her. Her body stiffened in pain even as her eyes were still clouded with desire, and he made sure that the pain was fleeting.
Afterwards, Ginny clung to him and thought to herself that he was right.
***
Draco is waiting outside the Gryffindor locker room, ignoring the rather nasty and suspicious looks directed at him in passing as the players enter to shower and change out their uniforms. Ginny walks by, giving him a startled glance, but she is with her teammates, and so she continues walking.
He mutters, “Finally,” and steps forward, blocking the path of Ron Weasley. He is a paler than usual.
“Good morning, Weasley.” Before the other boy can retort, Draco hurries on, eager to get it over with yet still stalling. “And good game. And…uh. I’m shagging your sister, just to let you know.”
***
“You could have broken it to him a little more gently,” is all that Ginny says later.
They can hear the sounds of students enjoying the noon outside on the grounds; they can hear people passing through the hallways.
The fully-risen sun on Ginny’s bare back is more beautiful than Draco can stand. He shifts closer to her, his palm flat on her warm back and mapping her freckles, feeling his skin tingle in the sunlight.