"Secret Love is All Consuming" Ginny/Pansy, R
Another HP girlslash drabble (I DO write other things. Just, umm, in my secret happy place). Please comment, blah blah.
Title: Secret Love is All-Consuming
Pairing: Ginny/Pansy
Rating: R (bad language, sex)
Word Count: 199
Notes: Written for the sortinghatdrabs challenge "Pansy/Ginny, 199 words, Dazzle Me". I've altered it a little from the version I submitted to the challenge. It's better now. I would like to say now that the word limit and prompt really made it hard for me.
Summary: Ginny tries so hard to be in love.
Sometimes when you’re lying in bed, you think over this Parkinson thing, and your heart sinks.
You try to make the best of it, you go over the recent - the recent what, exactly? Events? Instalments? Meetings? That sounds more significant than it ever manages to be.
So you settle for thinking over the recent fucks, and tick them off in your mind. Last Thursday she came down to the Quidditch changing rooms and you sucked each other off. It was raining and she smelled like grass. On Sunday you saw her twice in the corridors, but she shook her head ever so slightly, and you felt - nothing. This Tuesday you did go to her dormitory, and slept there most of the night, it’s true. She gave you a hickey and, when you saw it the next morning, you laughed.
And after going through them, you try to make yourself care. You try to be in love, or at least in lust, desperate, passionate, obsessed. You try so hard, night after night.
"Please," you plead to the insouciant night air, "dazzle me. Dazzle me." But all you can see is black and grey, and you can’t even picture her face.
Title: Secret Love is All-Consuming
Pairing: Ginny/Pansy
Rating: R (bad language, sex)
Word Count: 199
Notes: Written for the sortinghatdrabs challenge "Pansy/Ginny, 199 words, Dazzle Me". I've altered it a little from the version I submitted to the challenge. It's better now. I would like to say now that the word limit and prompt really made it hard for me.
Summary: Ginny tries so hard to be in love.
Sometimes when you’re lying in bed, you think over this Parkinson thing, and your heart sinks.
You try to make the best of it, you go over the recent - the recent what, exactly? Events? Instalments? Meetings? That sounds more significant than it ever manages to be.
So you settle for thinking over the recent fucks, and tick them off in your mind. Last Thursday she came down to the Quidditch changing rooms and you sucked each other off. It was raining and she smelled like grass. On Sunday you saw her twice in the corridors, but she shook her head ever so slightly, and you felt - nothing. This Tuesday you did go to her dormitory, and slept there most of the night, it’s true. She gave you a hickey and, when you saw it the next morning, you laughed.
And after going through them, you try to make yourself care. You try to be in love, or at least in lust, desperate, passionate, obsessed. You try so hard, night after night.
"Please," you plead to the insouciant night air, "dazzle me. Dazzle me." But all you can see is black and grey, and you can’t even picture her face.