Fic: Nerve (Ron/Ginny, R, 1 of 2)
I wrote Ron/Ginny. *laughs* At least -some- of you might like that, if the writing itself were good. It's just been one of those days. Anyway. Seriously, seriously tell me if it doesn't work (and well, `how' would be good, but eh). No, really. Well, if you read it :>
Disclaimer: not mine.
Warning: Incest. R. Ron/Ginny.
-nerve-
It is blinding, when the moment comes; maybe that's just because you can't see anything. You can only go by feel, so you reach across the small space between you and you -touch- him. He doesn't breathe, just -looks- at you like he's never seen you before. You can feel it. You have been very very still, and very silent. No one may hear. None of them will know.
It is dark, and his eyes gleam at you impossibly. In the summer, his pupils are dilated all the time, huge and black, like they could swallow you. This summer it's different, because you keep looking anyway.
Your throat is so dry, and you think his eyes would frighten you if you did not know them as well as you do. He sits down, his breath the only sound in the room, because you are holding yours.
The bed squeaks loudly, and you breathe out.
His eyes are still gleaming, and his fingers reaching, they must've been, because right then they begin touching. Just a brush, the tiniest sensation of soft dryness sliding across your thigh. You feel it because you couldn't not. Your nightgown isn't really there, but his eyes are.
You are thirteen. Thirteen.
You'd looked yourself in the mirror, and you've seen the bony ridges of your hips, and the way your hair goes all the way down across your nipples if you brush it forward. It hides your eyes that way. Your stomach had become a bit curved as the summer wore on, but your knees are still bony, and so is the rest of you. You felt impatient, looking so closely. No one had touched you, and maybe no one ever will. No one will even look at you.
You had to start now. Something had to change. You remember mum saying something about how boys and girls always grow at night. You'd thought that was funny, like maybe your body didn't want you to catch it, like maybe you wouldn't turn into someone else if you were -watching-. Someone taller and more feminine, just different. And you want to be different.
He's shaking.
You notice this, but you don't think about it. You can't seem to look at him anymore, so you close your eyes just when you hear his breath catch. Maybe it's because your hand had moved all those seconds ago, slipping down his chest to his stomach, while you were trying to distinguish his pupils from the darkness surrounding you both.
Your finger had brushed his nipple slightly. You don't think about it, just keep going, but you can still feel it poking a bit against the pad of your ring finger, the one you wear his birthday gift on. His nipple had been so small and hard, so unlike yours, which is always puckered and large and awfully brown.
You're thinking about your nipples and his, together. And it's a ridiculous sort of comparison for a lot of reasons, and normally you'd just giggle, but that seems wrong right now. It would all fall apart if you started to giggle, especially about -that-.
He'd given the ring to you so simply, just thrust it in your hand unwrapped. He'd grinned and said that it was better than what Fred and George had gotten you, wasn't it. And it was. But this was going to be better yet.
You are thirteen now.
He laughs like he's embarrassed, except he pushes you down on your bed, and it doesn't feel like your bed at all. You're all prickly with something that reminds you of pain, except it's not. You don't know what it is, but you think maybe he does. He's only a year older but he keeps talking about all the things he's done, and you think he doesn't tell you everything.
It doesn't matter, because you'll make him show you.
He's buried his cold nose in your shoulder, and he's just laying on top of you now, shaking. He's heavy and you feel your breath coming unevenly, almost like you're drowning, but there's nothing to drown in except him. You're already so much alike, it seems like there isn't a lot of room to be closer together, but there is. You don't want to move him yet.
"Ginny," he groans, and you flinch. Why did he have to say your name? You're not Ginny. You're not his sister now, doesn't he see that? What is wrong with him?
You don't answer, and he's panting, his hands fisting at your sides, pulling at your nightgown. You wonder if he's just going to lie there until he smothers you. This wouldn't be worth it, then.
It is so sudden, when he slips a leg in between yours, balancing on his knees like he'd done this before. He doesn't call your name anymore, but it's not like you can forget. He smells like Ron, how could you have ever missed that even for a second? He smells more familiar than anyone except maybe your mother. Right now, he's squeezing your forearm almost painfully, but you think you like it. As long as he doesn't -talk-, you like it.
You feel a bit breathless, but he's not crushing you anymore. You arch against him without thinking, feeling the softness of your covers beneath you, the crinkle of your hair tickling your cheeks, the warm wet place where his mouth is, against your neck.
"Sosoftsosoft," he mutters, rubbing at your arm. You forget to hate it, the way he -speaks- without asking, the way he -smells-, because he's pushing against you a little, just a little. You don't know what it is, but it feels like you're falling in place.
Is this what you've been waiting for? You think maybe, maybe, and you bite your lip as hard as you can. Your chest feels tight, like something is going to burst out of it painfully, splatter all across you both. It won't hurt though, you know that.
He's never going to look at you like that anymore. He can't seem to lift his head, so heavy there against your shoulder, but his hand is moving, brushing past your hips and getting closer to the heated place between you. Your legs had fallen open somehow, and you're shaking too, waiting. You're just waiting for it.
You can feel the tensing of his thighs against yours, the way his muscles are moving. He's quite still, but really he's as restless as you are. What is he waiting for? You frown, wishing you understood. You know you wanted this, still want this, you have to -know-, but even though it's happening, you don't know anything. He's poking you with something hard and almost familiar but not, gently pulsating against your leg.
That's his body, you think dazedly. Ron....
You think you know what it is, but you can't even think it at the same time. You can feel the familiar sensation of trickling warmth becoming liquid between your legs, and you're impatient, beyond nervousness. It's too late for that, but no matter what, you can't -say- it. Not -again-.
Maybe if he did something else....
And then the heel of his palm is flush against you, -pushing-, and you gasp so loud it feels like a scream. He exhales raggedly. You know he's nervous too. You didn't really think he knew all that stuff, you just wanted....
Trying to concentrate beyond the clenching inside you, but it's too difficult and you give up.
You push against him harder, arching into the warm hand slowly moving against you. You're tingling all over, and down there you're virtually a drum. Your heart is beating in your throat so fast you think you'll have to swallow it soon and then--
He -stops-, wheezing wetly against your skin, and his hips jerk frantically a few times. You're in a daze and not thinking clearly, but even so you could've sworn there was more to it. He just mutters something and shimmies down the length of you, rubbing against you everywhere and it's really-really-nice and maybe you can forget how hollow and uncomfortably poised you feel. He -is- so very warm and his mouth is-- his mouth is unbelievable, and your eyes fly open as your back arches under him.
You don't know what this -is- and maybe you don't need to, maybe there could be no words for the feel of his mouth through the damp cotton still stretched around your breasts, thin and soaked where his tongue had made it cling, and he just keeps -going-.
Your body bows and flexes beneath his in strange ways all without your consent, and you think you might be crying, because something warm has just trickled down the side of your nose and your eyes are burning, but it's indescribeable, like everything you didn't know you wanted.
You think he might be crying too; no, you know he is. Suddenly, you're scared. You can't keep it up: the pretending. He's heavy on top of you just like he'd been at first, but now it feels -different-, wonderful and frightening and different, and now you can lift your arms to wrap around him and hope it's all right. Hope it's not too different, but you won't think about that yet.
His head is pillowed on your breasts, but they're not much of a pillow. You know he can probably feel your ribs beneath him, the heavy pounding of your heart under all the skin and bone, the way it sounds, which is probably different than it had ever sounded before. Maybe he can feel the way your skin seems liquid, the way it's buzzing, stretched too tight across your too-long body, the way it seems to want to melt right off you so that you're so naked you're nothing like him anymore.
"I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryGinnyOhGodI'msorry," mumbles the boy on top of you, and you realize you couldn't have stopped it. There's really nothing you could've done to change who you are to him or to anyone, and it's all hopeless and....
You're so -empty- and wired tight, it's like you can feel that electricity your father talks about with such excitement, that thing that is supposed to give power to Muggle things; it's like you can feel it racing up and down inside you with nowhere to go. You can feel it in your -teeth-. You clench them tighter, but it doesn't help.
Maybe it's not electricity though. Maybe it's -magic-.
Your night-shirt is all wet across your chest and his nose is digging into the side of your left breast but you feel almost elated, like it's a beginning of something. Maybe you're powerful and new; a new Ginny.
His mouth-- Ron's mouth-- is moving, but he's not saying anything anymore.
With a start, you realize he's -kissing- you, kissing all around your chest and lower and to the side, just kissing you like you're a baby or a woman and neither of you know which, but it doesn't quite matter right this moment.
You're not going to tell him it's all right, so you just brush the damp hair from his forehead. Hair just like yours and your brothers' and your mother's. You're really so close, your sex is the only thing that separates you, and you're glad of it.
Ron stops kissing you quite suddenly, almost like he'd forgotten he did it to start with. You know how this started, even if he doesn't.
He snuffles against the shallow valley between your breasts, sighing. You suppose this is it.
He's laid beside you for several minutes, tucked against you in the tiny space between you and the edge of the bed, and you lie awake thinking he'll fall off if you move. His eyelashes flutter the littlest bit against the bare skin of your arm, like tiny moths, not really a part of him. The belief that this isn't really -you- and really -him- had ebbed away completely, and somewhere along the line it had become Ron, your brother, beginning to doze next to you because you couldn't fall asleep.
That sparking beneath your skin follows you into your dreams.
Ron wakes up and leaves unnoticed; you're still lost in the dream where you like this new, grown-up you. Your hand finds its way lower, your ring finger stealing all the way in: just how you wanted it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Disclaimer: not mine.
Warning: Incest. R. Ron/Ginny.
-nerve-
It is blinding, when the moment comes; maybe that's just because you can't see anything. You can only go by feel, so you reach across the small space between you and you -touch- him. He doesn't breathe, just -looks- at you like he's never seen you before. You can feel it. You have been very very still, and very silent. No one may hear. None of them will know.
It is dark, and his eyes gleam at you impossibly. In the summer, his pupils are dilated all the time, huge and black, like they could swallow you. This summer it's different, because you keep looking anyway.
Your throat is so dry, and you think his eyes would frighten you if you did not know them as well as you do. He sits down, his breath the only sound in the room, because you are holding yours.
The bed squeaks loudly, and you breathe out.
His eyes are still gleaming, and his fingers reaching, they must've been, because right then they begin touching. Just a brush, the tiniest sensation of soft dryness sliding across your thigh. You feel it because you couldn't not. Your nightgown isn't really there, but his eyes are.
You are thirteen. Thirteen.
You'd looked yourself in the mirror, and you've seen the bony ridges of your hips, and the way your hair goes all the way down across your nipples if you brush it forward. It hides your eyes that way. Your stomach had become a bit curved as the summer wore on, but your knees are still bony, and so is the rest of you. You felt impatient, looking so closely. No one had touched you, and maybe no one ever will. No one will even look at you.
You had to start now. Something had to change. You remember mum saying something about how boys and girls always grow at night. You'd thought that was funny, like maybe your body didn't want you to catch it, like maybe you wouldn't turn into someone else if you were -watching-. Someone taller and more feminine, just different. And you want to be different.
He's shaking.
You notice this, but you don't think about it. You can't seem to look at him anymore, so you close your eyes just when you hear his breath catch. Maybe it's because your hand had moved all those seconds ago, slipping down his chest to his stomach, while you were trying to distinguish his pupils from the darkness surrounding you both.
Your finger had brushed his nipple slightly. You don't think about it, just keep going, but you can still feel it poking a bit against the pad of your ring finger, the one you wear his birthday gift on. His nipple had been so small and hard, so unlike yours, which is always puckered and large and awfully brown.
You're thinking about your nipples and his, together. And it's a ridiculous sort of comparison for a lot of reasons, and normally you'd just giggle, but that seems wrong right now. It would all fall apart if you started to giggle, especially about -that-.
He'd given the ring to you so simply, just thrust it in your hand unwrapped. He'd grinned and said that it was better than what Fred and George had gotten you, wasn't it. And it was. But this was going to be better yet.
You are thirteen now.
He laughs like he's embarrassed, except he pushes you down on your bed, and it doesn't feel like your bed at all. You're all prickly with something that reminds you of pain, except it's not. You don't know what it is, but you think maybe he does. He's only a year older but he keeps talking about all the things he's done, and you think he doesn't tell you everything.
It doesn't matter, because you'll make him show you.
He's buried his cold nose in your shoulder, and he's just laying on top of you now, shaking. He's heavy and you feel your breath coming unevenly, almost like you're drowning, but there's nothing to drown in except him. You're already so much alike, it seems like there isn't a lot of room to be closer together, but there is. You don't want to move him yet.
"Ginny," he groans, and you flinch. Why did he have to say your name? You're not Ginny. You're not his sister now, doesn't he see that? What is wrong with him?
You don't answer, and he's panting, his hands fisting at your sides, pulling at your nightgown. You wonder if he's just going to lie there until he smothers you. This wouldn't be worth it, then.
It is so sudden, when he slips a leg in between yours, balancing on his knees like he'd done this before. He doesn't call your name anymore, but it's not like you can forget. He smells like Ron, how could you have ever missed that even for a second? He smells more familiar than anyone except maybe your mother. Right now, he's squeezing your forearm almost painfully, but you think you like it. As long as he doesn't -talk-, you like it.
You feel a bit breathless, but he's not crushing you anymore. You arch against him without thinking, feeling the softness of your covers beneath you, the crinkle of your hair tickling your cheeks, the warm wet place where his mouth is, against your neck.
"Sosoftsosoft," he mutters, rubbing at your arm. You forget to hate it, the way he -speaks- without asking, the way he -smells-, because he's pushing against you a little, just a little. You don't know what it is, but it feels like you're falling in place.
Is this what you've been waiting for? You think maybe, maybe, and you bite your lip as hard as you can. Your chest feels tight, like something is going to burst out of it painfully, splatter all across you both. It won't hurt though, you know that.
He's never going to look at you like that anymore. He can't seem to lift his head, so heavy there against your shoulder, but his hand is moving, brushing past your hips and getting closer to the heated place between you. Your legs had fallen open somehow, and you're shaking too, waiting. You're just waiting for it.
You can feel the tensing of his thighs against yours, the way his muscles are moving. He's quite still, but really he's as restless as you are. What is he waiting for? You frown, wishing you understood. You know you wanted this, still want this, you have to -know-, but even though it's happening, you don't know anything. He's poking you with something hard and almost familiar but not, gently pulsating against your leg.
That's his body, you think dazedly. Ron....
You think you know what it is, but you can't even think it at the same time. You can feel the familiar sensation of trickling warmth becoming liquid between your legs, and you're impatient, beyond nervousness. It's too late for that, but no matter what, you can't -say- it. Not -again-.
Maybe if he did something else....
And then the heel of his palm is flush against you, -pushing-, and you gasp so loud it feels like a scream. He exhales raggedly. You know he's nervous too. You didn't really think he knew all that stuff, you just wanted....
Trying to concentrate beyond the clenching inside you, but it's too difficult and you give up.
You push against him harder, arching into the warm hand slowly moving against you. You're tingling all over, and down there you're virtually a drum. Your heart is beating in your throat so fast you think you'll have to swallow it soon and then--
He -stops-, wheezing wetly against your skin, and his hips jerk frantically a few times. You're in a daze and not thinking clearly, but even so you could've sworn there was more to it. He just mutters something and shimmies down the length of you, rubbing against you everywhere and it's really-really-nice and maybe you can forget how hollow and uncomfortably poised you feel. He -is- so very warm and his mouth is-- his mouth is unbelievable, and your eyes fly open as your back arches under him.
You don't know what this -is- and maybe you don't need to, maybe there could be no words for the feel of his mouth through the damp cotton still stretched around your breasts, thin and soaked where his tongue had made it cling, and he just keeps -going-.
Your body bows and flexes beneath his in strange ways all without your consent, and you think you might be crying, because something warm has just trickled down the side of your nose and your eyes are burning, but it's indescribeable, like everything you didn't know you wanted.
You think he might be crying too; no, you know he is. Suddenly, you're scared. You can't keep it up: the pretending. He's heavy on top of you just like he'd been at first, but now it feels -different-, wonderful and frightening and different, and now you can lift your arms to wrap around him and hope it's all right. Hope it's not too different, but you won't think about that yet.
His head is pillowed on your breasts, but they're not much of a pillow. You know he can probably feel your ribs beneath him, the heavy pounding of your heart under all the skin and bone, the way it sounds, which is probably different than it had ever sounded before. Maybe he can feel the way your skin seems liquid, the way it's buzzing, stretched too tight across your too-long body, the way it seems to want to melt right off you so that you're so naked you're nothing like him anymore.
"I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryGinnyOhGodI'msorry," mumbles the boy on top of you, and you realize you couldn't have stopped it. There's really nothing you could've done to change who you are to him or to anyone, and it's all hopeless and....
You're so -empty- and wired tight, it's like you can feel that electricity your father talks about with such excitement, that thing that is supposed to give power to Muggle things; it's like you can feel it racing up and down inside you with nowhere to go. You can feel it in your -teeth-. You clench them tighter, but it doesn't help.
Maybe it's not electricity though. Maybe it's -magic-.
Your night-shirt is all wet across your chest and his nose is digging into the side of your left breast but you feel almost elated, like it's a beginning of something. Maybe you're powerful and new; a new Ginny.
His mouth-- Ron's mouth-- is moving, but he's not saying anything anymore.
With a start, you realize he's -kissing- you, kissing all around your chest and lower and to the side, just kissing you like you're a baby or a woman and neither of you know which, but it doesn't quite matter right this moment.
You're not going to tell him it's all right, so you just brush the damp hair from his forehead. Hair just like yours and your brothers' and your mother's. You're really so close, your sex is the only thing that separates you, and you're glad of it.
Ron stops kissing you quite suddenly, almost like he'd forgotten he did it to start with. You know how this started, even if he doesn't.
He snuffles against the shallow valley between your breasts, sighing. You suppose this is it.
He's laid beside you for several minutes, tucked against you in the tiny space between you and the edge of the bed, and you lie awake thinking he'll fall off if you move. His eyelashes flutter the littlest bit against the bare skin of your arm, like tiny moths, not really a part of him. The belief that this isn't really -you- and really -him- had ebbed away completely, and somewhere along the line it had become Ron, your brother, beginning to doze next to you because you couldn't fall asleep.
That sparking beneath your skin follows you into your dreams.
Ron wakes up and leaves unnoticed; you're still lost in the dream where you like this new, grown-up you. Your hand finds its way lower, your ring finger stealing all the way in: just how you wanted it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~