♥ "She Lacks Ambition" for a_shadow_there ♥
Title: She Lacks Ambition
Rating: NC-17
Possible Spoilers/Warnings: Naughty words, smut
Summary: One of them was born into wealth, power, and fame, has lacked nothing, and is vain to boot. The other has an ambition.
A/N: I owe my beta for a million reasons, especially for her ability to talk me down whenever I threatened to start over and/or throw in the towel. Not only did she stay awake for the eleventh hour, but she put up with my utter inexperience writing anything resembling smut.
She Lacks Ambition
"When ambition ends, happiness begins" - Thomas Merton
She always sat at the bar: dead center, poised on a scuffed leather stool, with an elbow on the counter and her fingers on her face. At a time of night when most of the establishment’s regular clientele had stumbled home drunk or were drowsily nursing Firewhiskey in the darkest booths, she put herself at center stage.
Which, Draco thought, made sense. She probably didn’t know how to to sit silently in a corner. Ginevra Weasley had always lived at the center of the world’s attention.
He went right on wiping mugs when she walked in, waiting until she’d settled herself at the bar, unbuttoned her heavy wool robes, and rested her chin on one hand. Only then did he flip the worn dishcloth over his shoulder and walk toward her.
“What can I get for you?” he asked, bracing one hand against the shiny oak bar, waiting.
She looked over his shoulder at the shelves of alcohol and pursed her lips.
“Firewhiskey,” she said decisively, snapping her hand back to the bar with a snap. “Double, please.”
Draco reached under the bar for a glass, then automatically grabbed the most expensive bottle of Ogden’s, and deftly measured the pour. He pushed it toward her and waited out of habit. He’d danced this bit of choreography before.
She downed the drink in a single gulp and slid it back across the counter. “Another, please,” she asked.
He obeyed. She drank.
Draco lifted the bottle again and poured a third drink. She eyed it carefully-thoughtfully.
“I’ve always thought it would be fun to tend bar,” she said, smiling up at him. “How do you know how much to pour?”
He shrugged. “Practice. And the owner has my head every time I pour a soupcon extra,” he drawled, capping the bottle. Three doubles was the end of the dance, most nights. The glorious Ginevra Weasley would sip this one, look surreptitiously at his arse, prattle on about whatever struck her fancy, and leave with a wink.
She grinned and shoved a stray curl behind her ear. He noticed that it was up in a fraying chignon, and he took in the elegant champagne-colored silk and the delicate amber stones that dangled from her ears. She’d spent the evening at some sort of society event. Perhaps a ball.
“Still, I think pouring drinks would be fun to learn to do,” she said. “Perhaps that will be my new ambition in life. Whatever will they say about that?” She laughed to herself, then took a sip of the whiskey.
Having read the society section last week, in which Rita Skeeter regularly detailed the exploits of her favorite subjects, the “Wild and Wealthy Weasleys,” Draco had an idea of what the world would have to say about Miss Ginny Weasley patronizing a seedy pub like this, much less serving in them.
“What’s your ambition in life, Draco?” she said, catching him off guard. She always caught him off guard when she used his name, even though she’d been doing it for months.
He hid his shock and gave her the smile that had gotten him this job. “To be fabulously wealthy, with millions in Gringotts and a villa in Italy, of course.”
“We should trade lives. I’ll tend bar and you can have my villa,” she said. Her eyes matched the glint in her drink as she swirled it idly. “What do you say?”
He felt the smile fade unwittingly from his face. “Maybe in another life.”
Her eyes caught on his, and she lifted her hand to her face again, skimming her carefully manicured nails across her freckled cheeks. She’d put freckles in vogue, according to the gossip rags. He liked them. He liked more things about Miss Ginevra Weasley than he cared to admit.
“Your family were rich once, weren’t they?” she asked. He heard caution in her voice just then, as though for the first time in her life, she wasn’t sure of the question.
He forgave her.
“Yes. Before the war, when I was a baby. My mother has photographs,” he said without shame.
He felt the words hang heavy in the air for too long and turned to put the Firewhiskey away so he couldn’t watch her eyebrows knit together-couldn’t sense the questions in her head. Suddenly, he felt some sort of bizarre need to defend himself rise in his chest. He could feel the words forming against the roof of his mouth, and he bit them away.
He turned back just in time to watch her slide her arms out of her tailored black cloak. She sighed, slouching against the bar with little regard for the obviously expensive gown.
“I have no ambitions, you know,” she admitted candidly, swallowing the rest of her drink. “I think I’ll have another. Vodka this time, since you’ve gone and put the bottle away.”
He lifted his eyebrows, silently noting her deviation from the usual routine, then reached for the vodka on the top shelf. She was pink around the ears when he turned back, and he realized that she’d been checking out his arse.
He inhaled tentatively as he pulled out the stopper, then asked, “Why don’t you think you’re ambitious? You’ve said yourself that you’re aiming for Minister of Magic, and you have enough charm to get it.”
She cocked an eyebrow as she accepted the shot. “Was that a compliment?”
“Is that what you think, is it?” he asked coolly. “It was a just question and a bit of logic.”
Her eyes twinkled as she slammed back the drink. “Ambition requires wanting, and I have a hard time wanting anything any more.”
“Not even wanting to be happy?”
He watched as her surprise melted into sorrow, and he marveled over her easy vulnerability with him.
“You read Skeeter’s story about my parents, then?”
Draco shrugged. “You only come here when there’s gossip on page six. The first time was after your brother and your father fought at the Ministry gala, and then there was the twins’ scandal with the escorts, and Percy’s corruption trial-”
She raised her hand sharply. “Keep going and you’ll have me drinking until I black out on you.”
He murmured an apology and wrapped his fingers around the neck of the bottle, squeezing the glass in his fist.
“You know what’s funny?” she said, laughing suddenly as she watched him pour more vodka. “Even though you’re a pariah and you work at a bar, I’ll bet your family is happier than mine. We’re all such hot-heads-fighters-but we have nothing to fight but each other.”
She looked at him tentatively, then nudged the empty shot glass in his direction and slapped her hands down with a smack on the hard wood bar.
“Another!” she said with a decidedly altered demeanor. “I come here to forget my problems, not to talk about them.”
“Then forget away,” Draco murmured, measuring the liquor into the cup.
She studied him with a smile. “You know, if I had to want something, I think it would be you.”
“I think you’re drunk,” he said quietly, though a strange butterfly flitted down his throat and settled above his navel.
She gave him a dark look, and he saw authority slip into her eyes. His mother had the same trick: a subtle setting of the jaw, a lift of the brows, and a spark in the eye.
“I know that you want me. You might play the strong, silent bartender, Draco Malfoy, but I know that you’ve dreamed about it.”
Her eyes flashed challengingly, and he leaned forward, bracing his hands on the bartop.
“Dreamed about what?” he retorted softly. “You’re an enigma, Ginny Weasley, the way you drink like you’re hurting and laugh like you’re having the time of your life.”
Her freckles faded as her face flushed with anger, and she lunged across the bar, toppling the vodka. He heard the glass shatter as her lips met his, and startled, he didn’t try to pull away until her fingers were in his hair, holding him tightly. He felt the shock begin to fade as she gently bit his lower lip, and he realized that he was kissing the crazy witch back. The butterflies in his stomach sang resonantly.
She pulled away by no more than an inch, keeping her hands on his head. “Come home with me,” she commanded.
He licked his bruised lip and arched an eyebrow at her, and she tugged on his hair impatiently.
“I’m working-”
“Fuck your work. It’s a crap little pub, it’s four in the goddamn morning, and no one is here but me,” she said, angrily releasing him and grabbing her cloak.
“You’re drunk and I’m on the clock,” he said, unconsciously appraising the young woman in front of him.
The carefully sewn gathers in her gown were rumpled in a way that would make her dressmaker cry bitter tears, and loose waves had found their way out of her chignon, but the look she gave him was far from defeated. “I’ll apologize to your boss, then,” she said, grabbing his forearm.
He felt the sick squeeze of Apparition and landed on his hands and knees on plush carpet.
Ginny had landed on her feet, and now she dropped the heavy wool cloak. It landed with the muffled thud of heavy fabric collapsing on itself as she kicked off her shoes. Draco, still reeling from the unexpected transport, stood shakily.
“What in the name of Merlin’s-” he started angrily. She might have millions in Gringotts, but kidnapping him? The witch was out of her mind. Maybe money did make people insane.
She rolled her eyes. “What? ‘Maybe in another life?’” she parroted. “You can’t tell me you don’t want this,” she said, her voice low. He realized that she was literally backing him into the wall, and he inhaled sharply.
“You’re drunk,” he repeated, grappling with the wild activity in his brain. On one hand, he’d just been unwillingly spirited away, but on the other, Ginevra Weasley was unzipping the most beautiful dress he’d ever seen-and revealing the loveliest pair of breasts he’d ever imagined.
Then she slid her hand over the front of his denim jeans, and nothing made sense anymore.
His head hit the wall as she tangled her fingers in his hair again, yanking him lower as she kicked off first one shoe and then the other. She kissed his neck, her sharp teeth nicking his skin as she released his hair to tug the white cotton of his shirt away, popping buttons as her teeth scraped against his collarbone.
He tentatively put his arms around her waist, resting his forearms along the edge of her shoved-down bodice. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as his fingers found a perch against the small of her back, and he felt the first tell-tale throb course through his cock as she leaned in, dragging the creamy lace of her bra against his bare chest.
“Ginny, I-” he whispered, cutting himself off when she glanced up from his collarbone with flashing eyes.
She’d knotted her fingers back in his hair, and her other hand was now tracing deliciously light patterns over the bare skin of his chest as she sucked his pulse point. He bit his lip as her fingertips meandered lower, skimming over the thick cloth of his jeans and brushing lightly across his ever-harder cock.
As though experimenting, she gave it a gentle squeeze, and he groaned as he felt her individual fingers tighten around him. He wasn’t inexperienced, but it had been long enough that he couldn’t help the low groan. She stepped back, pulling out of the circle his arms formed, and gave him a decisive smirk.
“Undress me, please,” she ordered, and he paused. She always said please.
“Start with the gown.” She frowned when he didn’t move. “Or have you never undressed a girl before?”
He arched his eyebrows. “I have. But never one quite so . . . demanding.”
Ginny smirked, a slow, fierce little smile. “You’ll adjust.”
She stepped away from him, toward the center of the room, and beckoned him with a crooked finger. He obeyed, but glanced around as his head cleared for the first time since his arrival on the carpet.
The room was spacious, and while some designer had probably chosen the rich fabrics and warm colors, it was clearly Ginny’s room. Photos littered the surface of the bureau and stuck out at odd angles from the frame of the dressing table mirror. Her bed was unmade.
“Undress me, Draco,” she said with a light smile, and he felt a tell-tale throb between his legs as she turned slowly, revealing the creamy expanse of her bare back. He stepped toward her, found the zipper hidden among the folds of her gown, and slowly began to pull it down, revealing creamy lace knickers stretched taut over the loveliest bum he’d ever scene.
He paused, distracted, and she wiggled impatiently.
Dropping the zipper, he began to peel the rich fabric away from her body, revealing long, shapely legs. It was well known that Ginny played Quidditch as a hobby, and from his current vantage point, practically on his knees beside her, he could appreciate the subtle muscles as she kicked the gown toward the wardrobe.
She cued him to stand with a gentle tug on his hair and pulled his ear down to her lips. “I’m going to fuck you, Mr. Malfoy,” she whispered. “I might even ruin you.”
The look in her eyes was a familiar one. He should have seen this coming.
She turned suddenly, stepping behind him and yanking his shirt from his body. Her nails traced sharp lines into the muscles of his back, creeping around so he could see the fine red lines rising on his pale skin.
“Look up,” she commanded, and he glanced up and met his own eyes in the mirror of her wardrobe. Her hands traced their lines lower and lower, finally hooking on the edge of his jeans. She nimbly undid the button and stepped back, appraising him.
He wasn’t surprised that she was a tease. Perhaps that’s what she’d been doing all along, from the moment she’d walked into the bar and laid her eyes on his arse.
Perhaps two could play that game.
He turned to face her nonchalantly. “I haven’t made good on your earlier request,” he whispered, enjoying the way she stepped back when he stepped forward. “May I?”
Carefully, he slipped his fingers around her back, unhooking her bra. It fell away in his hands, and she shivered slightly as he dropped it and gently cupped them. They were smaller than he’d expected, but they filled his hands perfectly. Without a sound, he ran his thumb over her right nipple, reveling in the faint breath she took as it hardened under his ministrations.
He repeated the movement on her left, then lowered his head and kissed each one before teasing her with a gentle tongue and harsh teeth. She fluttered in his arms, and her words from earlier flew unbidden into his mind: “If I had to want something. . . .”
Without preamble, he abandoned her breasts and lifted her bodily before she could protest. Her eyes flashed at what she clearly saw as impertinence, but he slid his hand in between their bodies running his fingers over her lacy knickers. She acquiesced with a sigh.
He carried her to the chaise in front of the window, shoving aside the pile of bright dresses that were strewn over it as he used his other arm to guide her back onto the soft cushions.
“You don’t disappoint,” she said with half a laugh, throwing an arm around his neck and tugging him closer. She settled him neatly in-between her legs as she kissed him soundly, holding her thumb against his jawline as she massaged his lower lip with an undeniably practiced tongue.
The zipper on his jeans was suddenly painful, and he knew he needed to either end this game now and seek out a cold shower or play into her hands and finish it.
His hand found the waistband of her knickers easily, and he didn’t even need to break the kiss in order to slide the ivory lacy down her white legs. He had to sit back and lift her knees to completely remove them, and as she settled back on the couch, she grinned.
“Now that you’ve done that, I--”
He didn’t warn her. He’d been with enough girls to know that a thumb and forefinger placed just so against that sensitive little bud would have the desired effect, and as he worked small circles, his other fingers skimmed lightly over her folds.
“Fuck Merlin,” she swore. “I think you’ve done this more than I’d thought you had.”
He didn’t feel the need to comment. Her earlier words played back like there was a strange sort of Wizarding Wireless between his ears: “. . . I think it would be you.”
Her eyes lit brightly as he finally slid in one finger, then two. He curled them experimentally, and she rocked back against the arm of the chaise with a low moan. And for just that second, her indefatigable spirit flagged. She clutched at his leg, digging her nails into his thigh, as he slowly began to slide his fingers in and out of her warm center.
“Stop,” she said suddenly, grabbing his wrist while his fingers were still buried inside her. “I said I was going to fuck you, not the other way ‘round. She slowly pulled his hand away from her body, eyes half closed in pleasure. He, on the other hand, kept his face carefully masked.
She stood above him, glorious and naked, and appraised him slowly.
“Take off the rest.”
She had a slight slouch, he realized, noting the gentle curve of her breasts and the way her stomach rounded toward her spine, straightening just before her hips began to flare out at her waist. She lifted her eyebrows impatiently. He stood. Her request was an awkward one.
He felt her eyes on him again, and just as this had made him defensive earlier that night, it set him on edge now. But he was too far gone; she was too beautiful, his pants were too tight, and her voice sang “want something” in his ears.
He unzipped his denims with a sigh, shoving them down to his ankles. He stepped out, aware that his erection was now obvious against his simple boxers. He removed those just as quickly and moved toward her.
“Wait.” She stepped back, toward the unmade bed. “I want to look at you.”
He swallowed and stepped back. She looked him over carefully, and he crossed his arms and then thought better of it.
She smirked again, the minx, clearly pleased with herself. “I knew you’d be wonderful. A man as beautiful as you-I knew you wouldn’t disappoint.”
A faint voice worried that perhaps he was nothing more than a beautiful man to her. A beautiful, well-endowed man. But she silenced that when she slipped her fingers over the soft, velvety head and down his shaft, gently squeezing at the base. He rocked back, biting his tongue against the moan.
Up and down, she slowly worked his cock until it was harder than he’d ever imagined. Her free hand slid around his waist, and she drew him closer with a gentle squeeze on the arse that she’d been admiring since the beginning.
He wrapped his arms around her again, this time enjoying the closeness. Her rock-hard nipples brushed against his chest, and his cock leaped in her hands. She laughed.
“I’m going to fuck you now, Draco Malfoy,” she said, pushing him backward onto the bed. “And I do think I’m going to enjoy it.”
She was a fiery little sprite, the way she teased him all the way down onto the surface of the wrinkled silk coverlet, continuing to gently massage the soft, throbbing head and somehow deftly removing the last few pins from her hair. The red locks tumbled over her shoulders, resting in languid curls over her breasts as she lifted herself up and slowly eased herself down on top of him.
She fit him like a glove.
They sighed together as he stretched her, and she slowly sank down until she’d taken him completely.
Half of him knew that he’d regret this someday, and the other half-the other half didn’t care. The other half was making love with a beautiful, powerful woman. A woman who told him things that she didn’t tell anyone else. A woman who had a little trick of rocking her hips with a hint of a circle that made him grip the sheets in an effort to keep control.
She moved slowly at first, watching him thoughtfully as she rocked gently one way, and then the other. He groaned as she began to slide up slowly and then take him back in quickly, repeating this torturous pattern until beads of sweat began to form on his brow.
He realized that she was also glowing with the faint sheen of her exertion, and he grabbed her thighs with a bruising hold and began to help her keep up the slow, steady rhythm. She was moaning softly every time she sank back down-every time he filled her-and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. Tension coiled behind his navel as though some part of him was being wound from the inside out.
Releasing her thighs, Draco expertly found that little bundle of pleasure between her legs and began to gently massage it in time with her strokes downward.
“Fuck, Draco,” she whispered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He could feel her inner walls shivering as she sped up slightly, and he worked to keep up. She was undeniably close--and he was too.
“Merlin, Ginny,” he groaned. “Sweet, sweet Merlin.”
She came hard as soon as her name left his lips. She crashed down with a half sob, and he finally let go and filled her completely, allowing fireworks to dance before his eyes. He felt her muscles go taut, as she swore soundly, then felt her go limp just as suddenly, keening softly and shivering as she fell forward to land on his chest. Bright red curls blocked his view, but it didn’t matter; he had no desire to open his eyes.
Ginny rolled sideways, breathing heavily. He missed her presence immediately, but didn’t move. Didn’t even open his eyes.
“I need something that’ll make me feel that alive every day,” she groaned.
He ignored her, content to relive those final moments.
“I need a fag,” she said suddenly, sitting up and yanking the sheet off the bed, a motion that nearly landed Draco on the floor. He stood sullenly as she pulled the silk fabric around her like a cloak and fumbled in her bedside table for a pack of cigs.
The reality of what he’d just done was starting to beat a tattoo in his chest. She’d used him, and she’d been using him all along. She was nothing great and glorious. She was a girl. And for all those villas in Italy, she was lonely and unsure and unhappy.
“Where’d my wand go?” she asked distractedly as he picked his jeans up and pulled them on, stuffing his unwashed boxers in the back pocket. “Oh, I dropped it with my cloak, didn’t I?”
Ginny found her wand and wandered across the room, throwing open the glass door and stepping out onto the balcony. He watched as the tip of her wand flared against the bruised-eye blue sky, bleeding its light into the small glow at the end of her fag. She took her first drag and slouched against the railing, clutching the trailing silk sheet around her breasts.
He stepped out onto the balcony and welcomed the cool air against his bare skin. She wordlessly passed him the cigarette and he took a long drag before he handed it back.
They stood in silence, passing the fag back and forth until it was little more than a stub. Ginny tossed it off the edge of the balcony, and the spark dimmed and died as it fell into the quiet garden below.
“What’s your real ambition, Draco?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the fading stars.
He looked from the sky, to her pale, proud face, and then to the horizon, where the first glimmer of a new day was thinking about stirring.
“To be happy,” he said quietly.
She nodded. “That’s a good one.”
Briefly describe what you'd like to receive in your fic:
The tone/mood of the fic: dark (or darker, at least), atmospheric, something that flips or subverts the usual gender roles/expectations (so, strong women and Ginny on top, if you please). Genre-based, if you can manage it (e.g. film noir, western, sci-fi - whatever takes your fancy) - but it's not mandatory.
An element/line of dialogue/object you would specifically like in your fic: "Is that what you think, is it?"
Preferred rating of the the fic you want: NC-17
Canon or AU? AU (any sort - magical, modern, historical - whatever).
Deal Breakers (anything you don't want?): Pure fluff. A happy ending is fine, but give me an angsty path to get there. Mpreg. Pregnancy at all, actually.
Rating: NC-17
Possible Spoilers/Warnings: Naughty words, smut
Summary: One of them was born into wealth, power, and fame, has lacked nothing, and is vain to boot. The other has an ambition.
A/N: I owe my beta for a million reasons, especially for her ability to talk me down whenever I threatened to start over and/or throw in the towel. Not only did she stay awake for the eleventh hour, but she put up with my utter inexperience writing anything resembling smut.
She Lacks Ambition
"When ambition ends, happiness begins" - Thomas Merton
She always sat at the bar: dead center, poised on a scuffed leather stool, with an elbow on the counter and her fingers on her face. At a time of night when most of the establishment’s regular clientele had stumbled home drunk or were drowsily nursing Firewhiskey in the darkest booths, she put herself at center stage.
Which, Draco thought, made sense. She probably didn’t know how to to sit silently in a corner. Ginevra Weasley had always lived at the center of the world’s attention.
He went right on wiping mugs when she walked in, waiting until she’d settled herself at the bar, unbuttoned her heavy wool robes, and rested her chin on one hand. Only then did he flip the worn dishcloth over his shoulder and walk toward her.
“What can I get for you?” he asked, bracing one hand against the shiny oak bar, waiting.
She looked over his shoulder at the shelves of alcohol and pursed her lips.
“Firewhiskey,” she said decisively, snapping her hand back to the bar with a snap. “Double, please.”
Draco reached under the bar for a glass, then automatically grabbed the most expensive bottle of Ogden’s, and deftly measured the pour. He pushed it toward her and waited out of habit. He’d danced this bit of choreography before.
She downed the drink in a single gulp and slid it back across the counter. “Another, please,” she asked.
He obeyed. She drank.
Draco lifted the bottle again and poured a third drink. She eyed it carefully-thoughtfully.
“I’ve always thought it would be fun to tend bar,” she said, smiling up at him. “How do you know how much to pour?”
He shrugged. “Practice. And the owner has my head every time I pour a soupcon extra,” he drawled, capping the bottle. Three doubles was the end of the dance, most nights. The glorious Ginevra Weasley would sip this one, look surreptitiously at his arse, prattle on about whatever struck her fancy, and leave with a wink.
She grinned and shoved a stray curl behind her ear. He noticed that it was up in a fraying chignon, and he took in the elegant champagne-colored silk and the delicate amber stones that dangled from her ears. She’d spent the evening at some sort of society event. Perhaps a ball.
“Still, I think pouring drinks would be fun to learn to do,” she said. “Perhaps that will be my new ambition in life. Whatever will they say about that?” She laughed to herself, then took a sip of the whiskey.
Having read the society section last week, in which Rita Skeeter regularly detailed the exploits of her favorite subjects, the “Wild and Wealthy Weasleys,” Draco had an idea of what the world would have to say about Miss Ginny Weasley patronizing a seedy pub like this, much less serving in them.
“What’s your ambition in life, Draco?” she said, catching him off guard. She always caught him off guard when she used his name, even though she’d been doing it for months.
He hid his shock and gave her the smile that had gotten him this job. “To be fabulously wealthy, with millions in Gringotts and a villa in Italy, of course.”
“We should trade lives. I’ll tend bar and you can have my villa,” she said. Her eyes matched the glint in her drink as she swirled it idly. “What do you say?”
He felt the smile fade unwittingly from his face. “Maybe in another life.”
Her eyes caught on his, and she lifted her hand to her face again, skimming her carefully manicured nails across her freckled cheeks. She’d put freckles in vogue, according to the gossip rags. He liked them. He liked more things about Miss Ginevra Weasley than he cared to admit.
“Your family were rich once, weren’t they?” she asked. He heard caution in her voice just then, as though for the first time in her life, she wasn’t sure of the question.
He forgave her.
“Yes. Before the war, when I was a baby. My mother has photographs,” he said without shame.
He felt the words hang heavy in the air for too long and turned to put the Firewhiskey away so he couldn’t watch her eyebrows knit together-couldn’t sense the questions in her head. Suddenly, he felt some sort of bizarre need to defend himself rise in his chest. He could feel the words forming against the roof of his mouth, and he bit them away.
He turned back just in time to watch her slide her arms out of her tailored black cloak. She sighed, slouching against the bar with little regard for the obviously expensive gown.
“I have no ambitions, you know,” she admitted candidly, swallowing the rest of her drink. “I think I’ll have another. Vodka this time, since you’ve gone and put the bottle away.”
He lifted his eyebrows, silently noting her deviation from the usual routine, then reached for the vodka on the top shelf. She was pink around the ears when he turned back, and he realized that she’d been checking out his arse.
He inhaled tentatively as he pulled out the stopper, then asked, “Why don’t you think you’re ambitious? You’ve said yourself that you’re aiming for Minister of Magic, and you have enough charm to get it.”
She cocked an eyebrow as she accepted the shot. “Was that a compliment?”
“Is that what you think, is it?” he asked coolly. “It was a just question and a bit of logic.”
Her eyes twinkled as she slammed back the drink. “Ambition requires wanting, and I have a hard time wanting anything any more.”
“Not even wanting to be happy?”
He watched as her surprise melted into sorrow, and he marveled over her easy vulnerability with him.
“You read Skeeter’s story about my parents, then?”
Draco shrugged. “You only come here when there’s gossip on page six. The first time was after your brother and your father fought at the Ministry gala, and then there was the twins’ scandal with the escorts, and Percy’s corruption trial-”
She raised her hand sharply. “Keep going and you’ll have me drinking until I black out on you.”
He murmured an apology and wrapped his fingers around the neck of the bottle, squeezing the glass in his fist.
“You know what’s funny?” she said, laughing suddenly as she watched him pour more vodka. “Even though you’re a pariah and you work at a bar, I’ll bet your family is happier than mine. We’re all such hot-heads-fighters-but we have nothing to fight but each other.”
She looked at him tentatively, then nudged the empty shot glass in his direction and slapped her hands down with a smack on the hard wood bar.
“Another!” she said with a decidedly altered demeanor. “I come here to forget my problems, not to talk about them.”
“Then forget away,” Draco murmured, measuring the liquor into the cup.
She studied him with a smile. “You know, if I had to want something, I think it would be you.”
“I think you’re drunk,” he said quietly, though a strange butterfly flitted down his throat and settled above his navel.
She gave him a dark look, and he saw authority slip into her eyes. His mother had the same trick: a subtle setting of the jaw, a lift of the brows, and a spark in the eye.
“I know that you want me. You might play the strong, silent bartender, Draco Malfoy, but I know that you’ve dreamed about it.”
Her eyes flashed challengingly, and he leaned forward, bracing his hands on the bartop.
“Dreamed about what?” he retorted softly. “You’re an enigma, Ginny Weasley, the way you drink like you’re hurting and laugh like you’re having the time of your life.”
Her freckles faded as her face flushed with anger, and she lunged across the bar, toppling the vodka. He heard the glass shatter as her lips met his, and startled, he didn’t try to pull away until her fingers were in his hair, holding him tightly. He felt the shock begin to fade as she gently bit his lower lip, and he realized that he was kissing the crazy witch back. The butterflies in his stomach sang resonantly.
She pulled away by no more than an inch, keeping her hands on his head. “Come home with me,” she commanded.
He licked his bruised lip and arched an eyebrow at her, and she tugged on his hair impatiently.
“I’m working-”
“Fuck your work. It’s a crap little pub, it’s four in the goddamn morning, and no one is here but me,” she said, angrily releasing him and grabbing her cloak.
“You’re drunk and I’m on the clock,” he said, unconsciously appraising the young woman in front of him.
The carefully sewn gathers in her gown were rumpled in a way that would make her dressmaker cry bitter tears, and loose waves had found their way out of her chignon, but the look she gave him was far from defeated. “I’ll apologize to your boss, then,” she said, grabbing his forearm.
He felt the sick squeeze of Apparition and landed on his hands and knees on plush carpet.
Ginny had landed on her feet, and now she dropped the heavy wool cloak. It landed with the muffled thud of heavy fabric collapsing on itself as she kicked off her shoes. Draco, still reeling from the unexpected transport, stood shakily.
“What in the name of Merlin’s-” he started angrily. She might have millions in Gringotts, but kidnapping him? The witch was out of her mind. Maybe money did make people insane.
She rolled her eyes. “What? ‘Maybe in another life?’” she parroted. “You can’t tell me you don’t want this,” she said, her voice low. He realized that she was literally backing him into the wall, and he inhaled sharply.
“You’re drunk,” he repeated, grappling with the wild activity in his brain. On one hand, he’d just been unwillingly spirited away, but on the other, Ginevra Weasley was unzipping the most beautiful dress he’d ever seen-and revealing the loveliest pair of breasts he’d ever imagined.
Then she slid her hand over the front of his denim jeans, and nothing made sense anymore.
His head hit the wall as she tangled her fingers in his hair again, yanking him lower as she kicked off first one shoe and then the other. She kissed his neck, her sharp teeth nicking his skin as she released his hair to tug the white cotton of his shirt away, popping buttons as her teeth scraped against his collarbone.
He tentatively put his arms around her waist, resting his forearms along the edge of her shoved-down bodice. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as his fingers found a perch against the small of her back, and he felt the first tell-tale throb course through his cock as she leaned in, dragging the creamy lace of her bra against his bare chest.
“Ginny, I-” he whispered, cutting himself off when she glanced up from his collarbone with flashing eyes.
She’d knotted her fingers back in his hair, and her other hand was now tracing deliciously light patterns over the bare skin of his chest as she sucked his pulse point. He bit his lip as her fingertips meandered lower, skimming over the thick cloth of his jeans and brushing lightly across his ever-harder cock.
As though experimenting, she gave it a gentle squeeze, and he groaned as he felt her individual fingers tighten around him. He wasn’t inexperienced, but it had been long enough that he couldn’t help the low groan. She stepped back, pulling out of the circle his arms formed, and gave him a decisive smirk.
“Undress me, please,” she ordered, and he paused. She always said please.
“Start with the gown.” She frowned when he didn’t move. “Or have you never undressed a girl before?”
He arched his eyebrows. “I have. But never one quite so . . . demanding.”
Ginny smirked, a slow, fierce little smile. “You’ll adjust.”
She stepped away from him, toward the center of the room, and beckoned him with a crooked finger. He obeyed, but glanced around as his head cleared for the first time since his arrival on the carpet.
The room was spacious, and while some designer had probably chosen the rich fabrics and warm colors, it was clearly Ginny’s room. Photos littered the surface of the bureau and stuck out at odd angles from the frame of the dressing table mirror. Her bed was unmade.
“Undress me, Draco,” she said with a light smile, and he felt a tell-tale throb between his legs as she turned slowly, revealing the creamy expanse of her bare back. He stepped toward her, found the zipper hidden among the folds of her gown, and slowly began to pull it down, revealing creamy lace knickers stretched taut over the loveliest bum he’d ever scene.
He paused, distracted, and she wiggled impatiently.
Dropping the zipper, he began to peel the rich fabric away from her body, revealing long, shapely legs. It was well known that Ginny played Quidditch as a hobby, and from his current vantage point, practically on his knees beside her, he could appreciate the subtle muscles as she kicked the gown toward the wardrobe.
She cued him to stand with a gentle tug on his hair and pulled his ear down to her lips. “I’m going to fuck you, Mr. Malfoy,” she whispered. “I might even ruin you.”
The look in her eyes was a familiar one. He should have seen this coming.
She turned suddenly, stepping behind him and yanking his shirt from his body. Her nails traced sharp lines into the muscles of his back, creeping around so he could see the fine red lines rising on his pale skin.
“Look up,” she commanded, and he glanced up and met his own eyes in the mirror of her wardrobe. Her hands traced their lines lower and lower, finally hooking on the edge of his jeans. She nimbly undid the button and stepped back, appraising him.
He wasn’t surprised that she was a tease. Perhaps that’s what she’d been doing all along, from the moment she’d walked into the bar and laid her eyes on his arse.
Perhaps two could play that game.
He turned to face her nonchalantly. “I haven’t made good on your earlier request,” he whispered, enjoying the way she stepped back when he stepped forward. “May I?”
Carefully, he slipped his fingers around her back, unhooking her bra. It fell away in his hands, and she shivered slightly as he dropped it and gently cupped them. They were smaller than he’d expected, but they filled his hands perfectly. Without a sound, he ran his thumb over her right nipple, reveling in the faint breath she took as it hardened under his ministrations.
He repeated the movement on her left, then lowered his head and kissed each one before teasing her with a gentle tongue and harsh teeth. She fluttered in his arms, and her words from earlier flew unbidden into his mind: “If I had to want something. . . .”
Without preamble, he abandoned her breasts and lifted her bodily before she could protest. Her eyes flashed at what she clearly saw as impertinence, but he slid his hand in between their bodies running his fingers over her lacy knickers. She acquiesced with a sigh.
He carried her to the chaise in front of the window, shoving aside the pile of bright dresses that were strewn over it as he used his other arm to guide her back onto the soft cushions.
“You don’t disappoint,” she said with half a laugh, throwing an arm around his neck and tugging him closer. She settled him neatly in-between her legs as she kissed him soundly, holding her thumb against his jawline as she massaged his lower lip with an undeniably practiced tongue.
The zipper on his jeans was suddenly painful, and he knew he needed to either end this game now and seek out a cold shower or play into her hands and finish it.
His hand found the waistband of her knickers easily, and he didn’t even need to break the kiss in order to slide the ivory lacy down her white legs. He had to sit back and lift her knees to completely remove them, and as she settled back on the couch, she grinned.
“Now that you’ve done that, I--”
He didn’t warn her. He’d been with enough girls to know that a thumb and forefinger placed just so against that sensitive little bud would have the desired effect, and as he worked small circles, his other fingers skimmed lightly over her folds.
“Fuck Merlin,” she swore. “I think you’ve done this more than I’d thought you had.”
He didn’t feel the need to comment. Her earlier words played back like there was a strange sort of Wizarding Wireless between his ears: “. . . I think it would be you.”
Her eyes lit brightly as he finally slid in one finger, then two. He curled them experimentally, and she rocked back against the arm of the chaise with a low moan. And for just that second, her indefatigable spirit flagged. She clutched at his leg, digging her nails into his thigh, as he slowly began to slide his fingers in and out of her warm center.
“Stop,” she said suddenly, grabbing his wrist while his fingers were still buried inside her. “I said I was going to fuck you, not the other way ‘round. She slowly pulled his hand away from her body, eyes half closed in pleasure. He, on the other hand, kept his face carefully masked.
She stood above him, glorious and naked, and appraised him slowly.
“Take off the rest.”
She had a slight slouch, he realized, noting the gentle curve of her breasts and the way her stomach rounded toward her spine, straightening just before her hips began to flare out at her waist. She lifted her eyebrows impatiently. He stood. Her request was an awkward one.
He felt her eyes on him again, and just as this had made him defensive earlier that night, it set him on edge now. But he was too far gone; she was too beautiful, his pants were too tight, and her voice sang “want something” in his ears.
He unzipped his denims with a sigh, shoving them down to his ankles. He stepped out, aware that his erection was now obvious against his simple boxers. He removed those just as quickly and moved toward her.
“Wait.” She stepped back, toward the unmade bed. “I want to look at you.”
He swallowed and stepped back. She looked him over carefully, and he crossed his arms and then thought better of it.
She smirked again, the minx, clearly pleased with herself. “I knew you’d be wonderful. A man as beautiful as you-I knew you wouldn’t disappoint.”
A faint voice worried that perhaps he was nothing more than a beautiful man to her. A beautiful, well-endowed man. But she silenced that when she slipped her fingers over the soft, velvety head and down his shaft, gently squeezing at the base. He rocked back, biting his tongue against the moan.
Up and down, she slowly worked his cock until it was harder than he’d ever imagined. Her free hand slid around his waist, and she drew him closer with a gentle squeeze on the arse that she’d been admiring since the beginning.
He wrapped his arms around her again, this time enjoying the closeness. Her rock-hard nipples brushed against his chest, and his cock leaped in her hands. She laughed.
“I’m going to fuck you now, Draco Malfoy,” she said, pushing him backward onto the bed. “And I do think I’m going to enjoy it.”
She was a fiery little sprite, the way she teased him all the way down onto the surface of the wrinkled silk coverlet, continuing to gently massage the soft, throbbing head and somehow deftly removing the last few pins from her hair. The red locks tumbled over her shoulders, resting in languid curls over her breasts as she lifted herself up and slowly eased herself down on top of him.
She fit him like a glove.
They sighed together as he stretched her, and she slowly sank down until she’d taken him completely.
Half of him knew that he’d regret this someday, and the other half-the other half didn’t care. The other half was making love with a beautiful, powerful woman. A woman who told him things that she didn’t tell anyone else. A woman who had a little trick of rocking her hips with a hint of a circle that made him grip the sheets in an effort to keep control.
She moved slowly at first, watching him thoughtfully as she rocked gently one way, and then the other. He groaned as she began to slide up slowly and then take him back in quickly, repeating this torturous pattern until beads of sweat began to form on his brow.
He realized that she was also glowing with the faint sheen of her exertion, and he grabbed her thighs with a bruising hold and began to help her keep up the slow, steady rhythm. She was moaning softly every time she sank back down-every time he filled her-and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer. Tension coiled behind his navel as though some part of him was being wound from the inside out.
Releasing her thighs, Draco expertly found that little bundle of pleasure between her legs and began to gently massage it in time with her strokes downward.
“Fuck, Draco,” she whispered. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He could feel her inner walls shivering as she sped up slightly, and he worked to keep up. She was undeniably close--and he was too.
“Merlin, Ginny,” he groaned. “Sweet, sweet Merlin.”
She came hard as soon as her name left his lips. She crashed down with a half sob, and he finally let go and filled her completely, allowing fireworks to dance before his eyes. He felt her muscles go taut, as she swore soundly, then felt her go limp just as suddenly, keening softly and shivering as she fell forward to land on his chest. Bright red curls blocked his view, but it didn’t matter; he had no desire to open his eyes.
Ginny rolled sideways, breathing heavily. He missed her presence immediately, but didn’t move. Didn’t even open his eyes.
“I need something that’ll make me feel that alive every day,” she groaned.
He ignored her, content to relive those final moments.
“I need a fag,” she said suddenly, sitting up and yanking the sheet off the bed, a motion that nearly landed Draco on the floor. He stood sullenly as she pulled the silk fabric around her like a cloak and fumbled in her bedside table for a pack of cigs.
The reality of what he’d just done was starting to beat a tattoo in his chest. She’d used him, and she’d been using him all along. She was nothing great and glorious. She was a girl. And for all those villas in Italy, she was lonely and unsure and unhappy.
“Where’d my wand go?” she asked distractedly as he picked his jeans up and pulled them on, stuffing his unwashed boxers in the back pocket. “Oh, I dropped it with my cloak, didn’t I?”
Ginny found her wand and wandered across the room, throwing open the glass door and stepping out onto the balcony. He watched as the tip of her wand flared against the bruised-eye blue sky, bleeding its light into the small glow at the end of her fag. She took her first drag and slouched against the railing, clutching the trailing silk sheet around her breasts.
He stepped out onto the balcony and welcomed the cool air against his bare skin. She wordlessly passed him the cigarette and he took a long drag before he handed it back.
They stood in silence, passing the fag back and forth until it was little more than a stub. Ginny tossed it off the edge of the balcony, and the spark dimmed and died as it fell into the quiet garden below.
“What’s your real ambition, Draco?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the fading stars.
He looked from the sky, to her pale, proud face, and then to the horizon, where the first glimmer of a new day was thinking about stirring.
“To be happy,” he said quietly.
She nodded. “That’s a good one.”
Briefly describe what you'd like to receive in your fic:
The tone/mood of the fic: dark (or darker, at least), atmospheric, something that flips or subverts the usual gender roles/expectations (so, strong women and Ginny on top, if you please). Genre-based, if you can manage it (e.g. film noir, western, sci-fi - whatever takes your fancy) - but it's not mandatory.
An element/line of dialogue/object you would specifically like in your fic: "Is that what you think, is it?"
Preferred rating of the the fic you want: NC-17
Canon or AU? AU (any sort - magical, modern, historical - whatever).
Deal Breakers (anything you don't want?): Pure fluff. A happy ending is fine, but give me an angsty path to get there. Mpreg. Pregnancy at all, actually.