Undressing Ginny Weasley
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Ron/Ginny
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
44,415
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Ron/Ginny
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
44,415
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
1
Disclaimer:
I don't own HP, and I make no money from using it to my own depraved ends.
Undressing Ginny Weasley
He starts with her hair.
His fingers are big, but he isn't clumsy. None of them are. They have grace in their blood just as sure as they have fire and humour and nerve. He is careful with her ribbons – silky little blue things – and unties them until they hang kinked from his hands like a waterfall.
Ginny watches her brother drape them across her doorknob as she pulls her plaits apart and smiles when he turns to look at her.
The blush in his cheeks sends affection rushing through her chest, and she wants to cover him with her hair, her skin, her mouth; she wants to pull his head into her lap and sing to him; she wants to tickle him until he kicks her in the ribs by accident and makes her cry, just so he'll have tears to taste. Ron is older than her, bigger than her, stronger than her; but to Ginny he is always six years-old with a curious tongue against her cheek, and she is always five, salty-spiked lashes wetting his freckled face, dissolving back into giggles at the sensation.
He will always be fragile to her, somehow; he will always be a half-step away from disaster.
Ginny shakes her hair loose and brushes a strand against her brother's nose. It wrinkles up at her, and it is the first place her lips touch.
_______________
Her t-shirt is next. It's nothing fussy.
Ginny has six brothers; fussy is pointless. Fussy ends up smeared in dirt and Quidditch-torn; fussy doesn't have room to move; fussy gets an eyeroll from Charlie and your knickers Vanished by Fred. Fussy is buttons and clasps and strangely-hooked fasteners that end up broken in the end, anyway, so Ginny doesn't bother.
She stretches her arms over her head and lets Ron slide it off of her in one easy motion. He is patient with this, and it is the only time this is true of him.
He has their mum's temper, and he has their mum's triggers, too. The first time he pushed all the way inside of her, she'd made a strange noise at the back of her throat, and he'd stopped. Does it hurt? he'd asked, and Ginny said No, not with you. Never with you.
He'd pulled out of her so fast it made her gasp, and he'd asked her, over and over and over, his voice rising into the tenor of panic, Who hurt you?
It had ended in drawn wands, both of them naked and flushed in her bedroom, staring each other down like tigers.
It never made it to hexes, just wet, sloppy, salty sex, and he kept apologizing. All he said when he came was I'm sorry. When she came, all she said was his name.
She has never heard him apologize to anyone else.
_______________
Her bra is as easy as her t-shirt: front-clasp, white, and sturdy-strapped, a tiny bow in the mesh between her breasts. All he needs is his index finger and thumb, and it yields to him as easily as her flesh.
He still looks at her breasts like he's surprised to see them.
Ginny grins as he traces them, weighs them in his palms. She watches his eyebrows – thick but still pale and fine as a baby's – raise with interest at her peaking nipples. It never gets old, she supposes.
"Are you just going to watch?" she asks with amusement.
He answers her with a petulant, "Be nice or I might."
When she brushes herself against the material of his shirt and traces the curves of his ear with one finger, he forgets about teasing her, and shoves his tongue in her mouth.
That never gets old, either.
He tastes like things that Hermione says will rot his teeth. He tastes sweet and rich and warm. He tastes like Christmas and her birthday and the first day of Hogwarts. He tastes like Ron, and she wants to dissolve on his tongue.
Underneath his t-shirt, he is all skin and ribs and heat, and Ginny cannot get him close enough. She is jealous of Fred and George, who seem to inhabit each other. She is jealous of Ron, who can be inside of her. The closest she can get is his mouth, and she pushes in as far as he will let her.
Sometimes, she slips her fingers in between his lips, where he is hot and slick, and tells him to suck. He does, and she resists the urge to ask him to swallow her.
_______________
Her denims used to be his. They hang long on her, over her bare toes. The button is worn from his fingers; he unfastens it with a suitable familiarity.
By now, he is hard, and she can feel him against her thigh. His whole body is hard, really; he is made of angles and sharp lines. It suits him: it changes direction without warning; it is unexpectedly beautiful; it is something like artful abstraction, but with mathematical sense.
He leaves marks by accident. He can't help it; he sticks out everywhere, and she has always bruised easily. Afterwards, they will argue over their wands, and she will push him away and duck and weave like the Chaser she is, trying to avoid the spells that will make them disappear.
You're mental he tells her as he shakes his head, but she likes them. She fingers them when she is alone; she pushes down and makes them change colour. Once, she scratched lines down his back that bled, and he wouldn't let her fix them, either.
He said it made him look tough, and they laughed.
Ginny knows better. He's like one of those Muggle chocolates – he resists the bite and snaps against your teeth, but in the middle he's as wet and warm as sunshine.
_______________
When she is down to her knickers, he stares again.
This moment is always the strangest, the most surreal. If Ron is going to talk himself out of it, it will be now.
Ginny has learned how to stop him.
She hooks a finger under the elastic at the inside of her thigh, presses it inside herself, then paints his lips like a doll.
"Ginny," he says, trying to sound exasperated but failing, his voice hitching, his eyes dark as a dangerous potion. "Ginny," he says, like maybe he's warning her about something, but there is nothing here to hurt her.
When she kisses him again, she smiles against her own taste, and he holds her in place with his big hands as she grinds herself against the straining zip of his denims. She can come like this, and sometimes she does, but that isn't what she wants this time.
She wants him everywhere. She wants his cock inside of her, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers sinking into places she can't reach no matter how hard she tries. Sometimes, she is so empty that she echoes. He fills her up, pours into her, kisses her and fucks her and loves her so hard that it chokes them both.
_______________
(This time, he doesn't apologize. This time, he winds her pretty blue ribbons around her ankles and ties them behind his neck, and when he is done, he kisses down her belly and licks his own come from her body as she arches up into him with that strange, feline grace they share. This is how she likes him best: lovely and lost and way down deep.)
His fingers are big, but he isn't clumsy. None of them are. They have grace in their blood just as sure as they have fire and humour and nerve. He is careful with her ribbons – silky little blue things – and unties them until they hang kinked from his hands like a waterfall.
Ginny watches her brother drape them across her doorknob as she pulls her plaits apart and smiles when he turns to look at her.
The blush in his cheeks sends affection rushing through her chest, and she wants to cover him with her hair, her skin, her mouth; she wants to pull his head into her lap and sing to him; she wants to tickle him until he kicks her in the ribs by accident and makes her cry, just so he'll have tears to taste. Ron is older than her, bigger than her, stronger than her; but to Ginny he is always six years-old with a curious tongue against her cheek, and she is always five, salty-spiked lashes wetting his freckled face, dissolving back into giggles at the sensation.
He will always be fragile to her, somehow; he will always be a half-step away from disaster.
Ginny shakes her hair loose and brushes a strand against her brother's nose. It wrinkles up at her, and it is the first place her lips touch.
Her t-shirt is next. It's nothing fussy.
Ginny has six brothers; fussy is pointless. Fussy ends up smeared in dirt and Quidditch-torn; fussy doesn't have room to move; fussy gets an eyeroll from Charlie and your knickers Vanished by Fred. Fussy is buttons and clasps and strangely-hooked fasteners that end up broken in the end, anyway, so Ginny doesn't bother.
She stretches her arms over her head and lets Ron slide it off of her in one easy motion. He is patient with this, and it is the only time this is true of him.
He has their mum's temper, and he has their mum's triggers, too. The first time he pushed all the way inside of her, she'd made a strange noise at the back of her throat, and he'd stopped. Does it hurt? he'd asked, and Ginny said No, not with you. Never with you.
He'd pulled out of her so fast it made her gasp, and he'd asked her, over and over and over, his voice rising into the tenor of panic, Who hurt you?
It had ended in drawn wands, both of them naked and flushed in her bedroom, staring each other down like tigers.
It never made it to hexes, just wet, sloppy, salty sex, and he kept apologizing. All he said when he came was I'm sorry. When she came, all she said was his name.
She has never heard him apologize to anyone else.
Her bra is as easy as her t-shirt: front-clasp, white, and sturdy-strapped, a tiny bow in the mesh between her breasts. All he needs is his index finger and thumb, and it yields to him as easily as her flesh.
He still looks at her breasts like he's surprised to see them.
Ginny grins as he traces them, weighs them in his palms. She watches his eyebrows – thick but still pale and fine as a baby's – raise with interest at her peaking nipples. It never gets old, she supposes.
"Are you just going to watch?" she asks with amusement.
He answers her with a petulant, "Be nice or I might."
When she brushes herself against the material of his shirt and traces the curves of his ear with one finger, he forgets about teasing her, and shoves his tongue in her mouth.
That never gets old, either.
He tastes like things that Hermione says will rot his teeth. He tastes sweet and rich and warm. He tastes like Christmas and her birthday and the first day of Hogwarts. He tastes like Ron, and she wants to dissolve on his tongue.
Underneath his t-shirt, he is all skin and ribs and heat, and Ginny cannot get him close enough. She is jealous of Fred and George, who seem to inhabit each other. She is jealous of Ron, who can be inside of her. The closest she can get is his mouth, and she pushes in as far as he will let her.
Sometimes, she slips her fingers in between his lips, where he is hot and slick, and tells him to suck. He does, and she resists the urge to ask him to swallow her.
Her denims used to be his. They hang long on her, over her bare toes. The button is worn from his fingers; he unfastens it with a suitable familiarity.
By now, he is hard, and she can feel him against her thigh. His whole body is hard, really; he is made of angles and sharp lines. It suits him: it changes direction without warning; it is unexpectedly beautiful; it is something like artful abstraction, but with mathematical sense.
He leaves marks by accident. He can't help it; he sticks out everywhere, and she has always bruised easily. Afterwards, they will argue over their wands, and she will push him away and duck and weave like the Chaser she is, trying to avoid the spells that will make them disappear.
You're mental he tells her as he shakes his head, but she likes them. She fingers them when she is alone; she pushes down and makes them change colour. Once, she scratched lines down his back that bled, and he wouldn't let her fix them, either.
He said it made him look tough, and they laughed.
Ginny knows better. He's like one of those Muggle chocolates – he resists the bite and snaps against your teeth, but in the middle he's as wet and warm as sunshine.
When she is down to her knickers, he stares again.
This moment is always the strangest, the most surreal. If Ron is going to talk himself out of it, it will be now.
Ginny has learned how to stop him.
She hooks a finger under the elastic at the inside of her thigh, presses it inside herself, then paints his lips like a doll.
"Ginny," he says, trying to sound exasperated but failing, his voice hitching, his eyes dark as a dangerous potion. "Ginny," he says, like maybe he's warning her about something, but there is nothing here to hurt her.
When she kisses him again, she smiles against her own taste, and he holds her in place with his big hands as she grinds herself against the straining zip of his denims. She can come like this, and sometimes she does, but that isn't what she wants this time.
She wants him everywhere. She wants his cock inside of her, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers sinking into places she can't reach no matter how hard she tries. Sometimes, she is so empty that she echoes. He fills her up, pours into her, kisses her and fucks her and loves her so hard that it chokes them both.
(This time, he doesn't apologize. This time, he winds her pretty blue ribbons around her ankles and ties them behind his neck, and when he is done, he kisses down her belly and licks his own come from her body as she arches up into him with that strange, feline grace they share. This is how she likes him best: lovely and lost and way down deep.)