"One Line" - Harry/Ginny - Adult
Dear everyone who is not into HP: SORRY. <3
Title: One Line
Author: femmenerd
Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit, don’t sue.
Summary: DH spoilers. He doesn’t really know her, yet.
Author’s Note: Not really a companion piece to that other, very different, H/G fic I posted the other day, but after that I needed some Harry POV. Title from the PJ Harvey song.
Word Count: 800+.
*
She looks like his mother-it’s not like Harry’s failed to notice this. She also looks like his best mate, like the family he wishes were his. He’s known her since he was eleven years old, but always in context, in the background. Until, for a brief blip in his existence, Harry was allowed to playact at being normal. Kisses and Quidditch, the residual scent of her hair on his fingers as he pulled himself off at night, one hand held up to his face and the other ravaging his own cock, her brother snoring in the next bed.
Now Harry realises, embarrassed, she must know him a lot better than he knows her. He certainly doesn’t know how to talk to her; his hands clam up when she’s near like he’s no saviour, no hero, just a boy with a crush.
It’s terrifying.
Ron and Hermione are easier-he’s earned their love. Daily, year after year; in close contact, the hum-drum of friendship and the trials of war. Ginny’s still a mystery. She’s a person. A person he first failed to notice, then tried desperately not to, and finally forced himself to forget. He failed, at that.
It wasn’t just for her own safety that he left her behind. He doesn't know how to tell her though, how to tell her it was for his safety too. He didn’t know what to do with her. Didn’t know her. He still doesn’t, but he wants to.
Want. It’s the verb he’s reduced to in her presence.
In her parents' kitchen, she lashes out, tells Ron what’s what, and Harry wants to rub against her, cheek to cheek, feel the heat of her angry skin. Ginny holds her mother’s hand when they all officially gather to mourn Fred, mouth set in a strong, straight line. She’s swathed in heavy mourning robes, and Harry feels guilty for thinking about her body even then, tiny and wiry under all that black fabric.
He never stopped wanting her, but she knows this, he knows she does. So he circles around her like a sad puppy, at a distance. Staring surreptitiously at the haphazard constellations of freckles on her bare legs, listening for her footsteps when she’s out of sight.
“Are you angry with me?” he finally asks.
“Yes,” she says, confirming his fears. “And no, of course not, no.”
She kisses him, and it’s different than it was before he left. Not the soft sweetness he’s called up from memory ad nauseam. Her tongue is slick and hot against his, urgent and sloppy, her hands stretching the neck of his tee-shirt as she tip-toes to meet his mouth. He picks her up, clutching her arse in his hands like he has permission to do so.
“I want you,” Harry says, shaking because the words mean something specific to him, something almost painful.
“I’ve always wanted you,” she answers. It’s a reproach. An invitation.
“I think we should-” she begins. Licks her lips, feels him up roughly under his jumper. Her hands are small, calloused. Harry’s quaking under her touch, his nipples puckering. “I think we should...fuck.”
And then she doesn’t look like his mother anymore, not like Ron, or the ghost of her other, dead brother. She just looks like Ginny.
She pulls his glasses off and pockets them; he can no longer really see her. It’s an inevitability of snogging if your eyesight isn’t 20-20 but it feels meaningful to him, this time.
“Come with me,” she whispers, and takes him by the hand. Harry lets her lead him stumbling, not to her bedroom but outside into the dark. Down to the wet grass. She straddles him, a blurry form in the moonlight humping his crotch. He closes his eyes and thrusts up, feeling his true nature flood back as he fumbles inexpertly in her knickers with his fingers, as he rolls her over and bites at her neck.
Ginny laughs and spreads her legs, says exultantly, “You’ve come back to me, Harry. You’re mine.”
He doesn’t ask before he nudges himself into her, trousers and boxers only pushed down just enough, her underwear pulled to the side. That would have been redundant.
It’s over quickly, but she doesn’t seem to mind, kissing him wetly as he grows soft inside her. “I want to see,” he pleads uselessly after he pulls out, when he senses her doing something else down there, her breath catching as she finishes herself off. She’s very capable, he thinks, listening to the sounds she elicits from herself, imagining her little fingers sliding over her pink flesh, over his spunk. His prick stiffens again.
“I-I want,” he says.
“Yeah,” she breathes, and pulls him back to her.
He listens to her moans this time, to what she’s trying to tell him. It’s only one thing, this conversation their bodies are having, but it’s a step forward, Harry hopes, towards knowing her.
*
Title: One Line
Author: femmenerd
Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit, don’t sue.
Summary: DH spoilers. He doesn’t really know her, yet.
Author’s Note: Not really a companion piece to that other, very different, H/G fic I posted the other day, but after that I needed some Harry POV. Title from the PJ Harvey song.
Word Count: 800+.
*
She looks like his mother-it’s not like Harry’s failed to notice this. She also looks like his best mate, like the family he wishes were his. He’s known her since he was eleven years old, but always in context, in the background. Until, for a brief blip in his existence, Harry was allowed to playact at being normal. Kisses and Quidditch, the residual scent of her hair on his fingers as he pulled himself off at night, one hand held up to his face and the other ravaging his own cock, her brother snoring in the next bed.
Now Harry realises, embarrassed, she must know him a lot better than he knows her. He certainly doesn’t know how to talk to her; his hands clam up when she’s near like he’s no saviour, no hero, just a boy with a crush.
It’s terrifying.
Ron and Hermione are easier-he’s earned their love. Daily, year after year; in close contact, the hum-drum of friendship and the trials of war. Ginny’s still a mystery. She’s a person. A person he first failed to notice, then tried desperately not to, and finally forced himself to forget. He failed, at that.
It wasn’t just for her own safety that he left her behind. He doesn't know how to tell her though, how to tell her it was for his safety too. He didn’t know what to do with her. Didn’t know her. He still doesn’t, but he wants to.
Want. It’s the verb he’s reduced to in her presence.
In her parents' kitchen, she lashes out, tells Ron what’s what, and Harry wants to rub against her, cheek to cheek, feel the heat of her angry skin. Ginny holds her mother’s hand when they all officially gather to mourn Fred, mouth set in a strong, straight line. She’s swathed in heavy mourning robes, and Harry feels guilty for thinking about her body even then, tiny and wiry under all that black fabric.
He never stopped wanting her, but she knows this, he knows she does. So he circles around her like a sad puppy, at a distance. Staring surreptitiously at the haphazard constellations of freckles on her bare legs, listening for her footsteps when she’s out of sight.
“Are you angry with me?” he finally asks.
“Yes,” she says, confirming his fears. “And no, of course not, no.”
She kisses him, and it’s different than it was before he left. Not the soft sweetness he’s called up from memory ad nauseam. Her tongue is slick and hot against his, urgent and sloppy, her hands stretching the neck of his tee-shirt as she tip-toes to meet his mouth. He picks her up, clutching her arse in his hands like he has permission to do so.
“I want you,” Harry says, shaking because the words mean something specific to him, something almost painful.
“I’ve always wanted you,” she answers. It’s a reproach. An invitation.
“I think we should-” she begins. Licks her lips, feels him up roughly under his jumper. Her hands are small, calloused. Harry’s quaking under her touch, his nipples puckering. “I think we should...fuck.”
And then she doesn’t look like his mother anymore, not like Ron, or the ghost of her other, dead brother. She just looks like Ginny.
She pulls his glasses off and pockets them; he can no longer really see her. It’s an inevitability of snogging if your eyesight isn’t 20-20 but it feels meaningful to him, this time.
“Come with me,” she whispers, and takes him by the hand. Harry lets her lead him stumbling, not to her bedroom but outside into the dark. Down to the wet grass. She straddles him, a blurry form in the moonlight humping his crotch. He closes his eyes and thrusts up, feeling his true nature flood back as he fumbles inexpertly in her knickers with his fingers, as he rolls her over and bites at her neck.
Ginny laughs and spreads her legs, says exultantly, “You’ve come back to me, Harry. You’re mine.”
He doesn’t ask before he nudges himself into her, trousers and boxers only pushed down just enough, her underwear pulled to the side. That would have been redundant.
It’s over quickly, but she doesn’t seem to mind, kissing him wetly as he grows soft inside her. “I want to see,” he pleads uselessly after he pulls out, when he senses her doing something else down there, her breath catching as she finishes herself off. She’s very capable, he thinks, listening to the sounds she elicits from herself, imagining her little fingers sliding over her pink flesh, over his spunk. His prick stiffens again.
“I-I want,” he says.
“Yeah,” she breathes, and pulls him back to her.
He listens to her moans this time, to what she’s trying to tell him. It’s only one thing, this conversation their bodies are having, but it’s a step forward, Harry hopes, towards knowing her.
*