Ten-Minute MoratoriumAuthor: train_tracksCharacters/Pairings:
Ginny/Ron, Ginny/Bill, Bill/Charlie, (off-screen Bill/Fleur, past Harry/Ginny, future Ginny/Neville)Rating:
dysfunction, infidelity, a bad word used against women used by the unreliable narrator against herselfWord Count:
1,080Summary/Description: … she thinks about leaving the past behind, having a normal boyfriend, feeling like someone cherishes her for the right reasons, not because she's solace but because she's power and light and purpose.Author's Notes:
I almost opted out of this month even though 'incest' has sort of become my wheelhouse (LOL. O_o ), but I wrote this at the last minute and was sort of shocked and definitely thrilled to get the sdk
stamp of approval on it when I was really seriously doubting it! (Thank you!!!) Thanks also to elrhiarhodan
for the quick beta! The title and several lines were inspired by Carole Satyamurti's poem, "I Shall Paint My Nails Red".
The third time Ginny does it with Ron, she paints her nails red.
The first and second times are nothing worth going on about. They are fumbling acts of survival between the boy who is never good enough and an invisible girl. They are couplings that resemble wanking in front of a dirty mirror.
They are hormonal pursuits of self-love.
The third time is hardly by "accident" and cannot be written off in the same way.
It doesn't matter that those first times his fingers smelled of her cunt, that her hand knows the girth of his hard prick.
Ginny wants it to count this time.
Something has to.
She walks into his room with her red nails, in a big t-shirt and no knickers. He's sitting on his bed reading about Quidditch players that are always going to be better than he is.
When he sees her, he gulps.
The neck of the t-shirt gapes. She walks up to him, tilts her head, and waits. He grabs her, yanks her close, and sucks on one of her breasts through the cotton. He possesses no finesse, and it's bloody hot as anything. She's wet instantly.
His hand slips between her legs and strokes back and forth over her cunt, one finger wiggling to find her entrance.
Before he can do it, she turns around and lifts the shirt. He's getting his cock out as quickly as he can.
"Spells?" he asks, shaking.
She nods her head. She stole some good ones from Fleur's diary; Ginny is five times fortified against just about anything.
"Merlin, your fanny," Ron breathes as she backs into his prick.
He sinks inside easily, even though he is quite thick. He grasps her hips. She holds onto his legs – his shaking legs – and she backs into him over and over again, fucking herself.
She stares at her red, red nails on her brother's shaking legs, and she goes fast, the friction against her clit like fire magic. It's his come filling her up all warm and sticky that makes her lose control, and she trembles on his lap, moaning like a slag while he whispers, "Ginny, Ginny, Ginny," as though she is summer autumn winter spring.
It happens with Bill after the scratch.
They're all saying that he's fine. He's saying he's fine. "Craving rare meat" and all that.
He's not fine.
She sees the way he looks at her when Fleur isn't around. The slow caress of his gaze down her body.
When he enters her room and sits on the edge of her bed, she pretends not to wake. His hands find her ankles under the hem of her nightdress and close around them in fists.
Ginny expects her legs to be yanked open, for her big brother to mount her in a way Ron never ever would. But instead his hands smooth up her calves, gently parting her, even as she listens to the ragged cadence of his hot breath.
Her dress slips up her thighs, and Ginny holds her breath. She feels his long hair tickling her as he bends down, sniffs at her like a beast, and then starts licking.
She moans and turns her face into her arm, pulling the pillow to her mouth to muffle it. Bill licks her cunt, grunting and growling even while his hands are tender, pulling her down to meet his mouth.
She comes all over his face, and he doesn't even wait for it to be over before he's flipping her onto her stomach, smearing her own juice back between her arse cheeks, positioning himself, and then pushing painfully into her bum.
Except it's a good kind of pain. It burns and tingles, and the feeling of fullness is like nothing she's ever known. He drapes himself over her and ruts hard, and she tilts her arse back for him, nearly keening with pleasure.
He erupts inside of her, and his spunk leaks out and down her legs.
He strokes her hair in his sedation. He breathes, "Fuck, Gin."
He smoothes her dress back down in a way that she would call chaste.
She suspects he'll be back in another month – two or three if he can last, if Fleur's not too sore…
If if if.
Ginny doesn't question that she'll open her thighs for him whenever he asks.
And even when he doesn't.
She's saved the world, and Neville Longbottom keeps asking her out, and she'd like to say yes, but she feels a rather perverse loyalty to her family, to Harry. She turns him down.
They had a long fire-call tonight, and she thinks about leaving the past behind, having a normal boyfriend, feeling like someone cherishes her for the right reasons, not because she's solace but because she's power and light and purpose.
Neville has always seen this about her.
She's walking by Charlie's old room, up the uneven stairs, careful not to creak the loose boards. She's tired. She's exhausted. But the door is carelessly cracked, and she cannot help but peek inside.
Bill is standing and Charlie is kneeling, and everything collides inside her into a crystalline knowing in that instance. She watches Charlie's head bob excitedly, the way his hands move, beseeching, up and down Bill's thighs.
Bill's hand moves over Charlie's head in an unhurried way, and she knows that if there is a beast in him, it is sleeping tonight. He does this because he wants to. Because it is freely offered. Because Charlie's mouth makes him feel like he deserves it, like he's connected to something both primal and safe.
She can't see the sheen in Bill's eyes, but she watches the way his head tilts as he looks at his brother sucking his cock. The entire fabric of the universe is writ in the angle of his head, in the stroke of his hand, in the soft grunts and wet guttural sounds.
She loves them both, and she wants nothing to do with this. She's intruding. She's let them intrude on her. She's invited it with everything she is, because, at the time, wanting and needing was enough.
They've all survived because of each other.
That night, she sits on her bed and removes the red nail polish that has already chipped badly and reminded her she is not invincible.
She strips it off because it is a reversible thing. Everything is.
She strips it off because she has already survived.