Strings of Pearls and Copper Curls
Having this one-up on him seems to please her, but perhaps she is easily pleased.
She likes it when he is spooned up behind her, mouth right on her ear so she can hear every one of his pants and soft pleading exclamations. It's so hot she can barely stand it when he slides a strong, long-fingered hand between her knees and lifts up one of her legs, edging one of his own between her thighs, so he can move faster, invade deeper, like she begs him to in little whimpers.
She likes feeling protected, feeling him wrapped around her like that even as he splits her in two, likes feeling the skinny line of his chest and stomach against her back, even likes his other hand fisting itself up in her hair. It's almost like she's sitting in his lap, only it's twisted, it's tilted. He always cums inside her, his seed filling her in spurts that are strong and hot like defiance, one by one, and everything is Strings of pearls and copper curls and dewy peach skin…
Being in his bed is what she likes best, where the sheets are heavy flannel and the smell of him is all around her, and the bed is old but sturdy and doesn't squeak as much as hers, they've discovered. Everything she leaves behind in his room, he keeps, tucked away in the box his dress robes are kept in, under his bed.
An opal barrette, a broken brassiere that has a tiny pink bow attached to it by a mere thread, one little blue hair ribbon lost when he took down her braids, a folded-up slip of parchment that slid out of her pocket (which was just a list of books to read, but told him what she liked). These, along with the lingering smell of soapy skin and honeysuckle between his sheets, are evidence he can't bear to get rid of.
Sometimes he takes her in her room, though, and he likes to watch in her vanity mirror, watch his hands disappear underneath her blouse, watch her try not to watch as he fumbles with a zipper, watches; her blush in embarrassment when she makes little noises.
He likes to see her be dirty in her own surroundings, likes to watch her slide off her yellow knickers from beneath her skirt using her thumbs, likes to watch her hands scrabble at stuffed animals and lacy pillows when he lays her back against her duvet and nudges his nose under her clothes. They almost never undress completely, because his locking spells are faulty and the twins forget to knock; their hands will slide under clothing instead of removing it, will unbutton halfway instead of peel off.
Her under things are endless sources of fascination. They're little girls' things, not what one could see on mannequins in store windows or in sultry winking underwear adverts in the Prophet. Filmy white undershirts with tiny pink roses made of ribbons on the collar.
Powder blue brassieres whose adjustable straps loosen without provocation and slide down her shoulder. Half-slips with lace which cause him to stare when she sits down for breakfast, peeking shyly out from under pleat. Mum won't buy the more risqué pieces, but all her unmentionables are bought brand-new, unlike everyone else's. He suspects his own shorts were once worn by Charlie.
(She likes the red plaid ones.)
The last time she got new underclothes, she made him sit on her bed and, colouring and smiling, had a fashion show.
There are layers to these unmentionables, the undershirt and slip like an innocent, lacy summer sundress, which in a slow torture somehow make it off her torso and bunch up around her waist before he yanks her with a grin onto his lap. The silk of her underwear makes her slide cooly against the heated strain of his cock in his pants, and he coos softly at her nape, hands sliding up her rib cage and over painfully soft satin to feel her heart thrum through her flesh.
Her hand flutters up his arm, the other grasping his leg beneath hers. He likes her heartbeat, so jittery and strong against his palm. Echoing it is his own heart, racing from the moment she had beckoned him to her room. That is it. Not another moment is wasted, and she squeals as he picks her up and twists around to pin her on her tummy on her bed, one leg doubled up against her and the other with its foot planted on the carpet, steadying her.
To warn her; what is coming, he grasps her hips by the bunched-up slip and presses his pelvis against her, hearing her gasp as the unforgiving heat finds a home against the damp crotch of her panties. She drops to her elbows, trembling. With an artful hitching of fingers, he drags the knickers down around her thighs, where they are strung like webbing.
The image of her with her two small plaits pulled back into a white ribbon that settles like a snowdrift on top of her mane of waves and her half-slip fluttering around her arse makes it difficult to hold back. Still fully dressed, he moves one hand (with a complete lack of coordination) to undo his trousers.
When she hears the zipper, she squeaks his name longingly, and it turns into a whine at the very end. It's like a hot knife through butter, and they are both astonished; he falls to one hand, the other digging its fingers into her hipbone. Her face is hidden in an old ragged stuffed sheep that plays "Mary Had A Little Lamb" because of the music box sewn in its stomach, so he can't see her scrunched-up face.
He longs for her eyes on his, so before he does anything else, he pushes her over onto her side and plants one knee on the bed, climbing over her halfway. Her thigh curls around his clothed waist, and he falls in to press his mouth on hers wetly; her arm has curled around the lamb, whose button eyes stare at him as wide as hers do.
Oh, yes. Her bed squeaks. So does; she…
But she is so warm and wet and clingy like his hand can't be, and seems to love it when gasps her name and pulls back almost straight, hips roiling, and grabs her by the ankle so he; can kiss it. It is the leg her knickers have ended up hanging from, caught around her knee. Her hazed red smile melts away almost instantly, though, as she cums twisting her belly-button up into the air and clinging to the lamb.
Pulsing with the purest form of energy in the universe all lit up. Between his own muted moans he notices that her mouth seems to form the R, O, and N to his name all at once. How he wants - desperately - for this to be okay, but it suddenly feels bigger than something he can control, a supernova of scary feelings. She clutches the lamb 'round the middle with her eyes wide as if in fear, and he tries to soothe it away with his mouth. Tinkly notes of "Mary Had A Little Lamb" are making his rhythm disjointed.
Yes, it must be that, it can't be - not yet (whose fleece was white as snow)...
He always cums inside her…
A tumble of limbs and they are lying across her bed flat and disconnected, and he is against her breast, frosting it with droplets of moisture while her fingertips stroke his spine. He doesn't realize she's put her knickers on his head like a cap until a few minutes later, and then he tickles her mercilessly for it, until she is gurgling with infectious laughter under him and trying to writhe away.
He likes moments like these best, he thinks. When she is flushed and limp and unguarded, with curls springing up from her head and her laugh big and boisterous... She never laughs like that for anyone else.
When he leaves later, she is dressed and her hair combed, but that certain smell has permeated the room and she is panther-lazy, picking up the soiled underwear off her floor and sending it to her hamper with a Banishing Charm; she doesn't even notice her new pair is missing, dreamy from too many good-bye kisses next to her door to count.
She finally realizes it right in the middle of dinner and drops her fork with a loud clatter, and he bursts out laughing and gets scolded for laughing at his sister's clumsiness; His eyes laugh for him. (If you want them back, you'll have to come and get them.)
Smiling down at her food for the rest of dinner, she reflects that she likes his room best anyway, where his clothes lay out for her to try on and Pig hoots at them enthusiastically when she plants her hand in the middle of his chest and pushes him into his desk chair, eager to one-up him though it makes her blush because he watches her every movement.
She looks so triumphant when she manages to swallow as much she can and he can’t do anything but grasp the arms of his chair in utter desperation. It's so hot she can barely stand it when he has to stutter her name (I'm going - Gin - I'm -) and try pull; her away through her lips protest and her tongue licks, and she ends up getting what she wants, her eyes squeezed shut as she gulps.
It's not funny when she wipes her mouth on his slacks and steals from his room clutching his favourite Cannons hat before he has any bones to chase after her with. He decides he's going to chase after her, catch her around the waist, and haul her back to his room and lecture her using his hands until she's all red ribbons and cream-coloured velvet and crying.
She likes that.
The end