Touch (Ginny/Draco)
Title: Touch
Author: Tonya (tigerlily1998@hotmail.com)
Disclaimer: I own absolutely, positively nothing. All characters belong to the uber talented JK Rowling.
Pairing: Ginny/Draco
Rating: PG
Feedback: Feedback is my crack, please support my habit! :-)
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The first time she let him touch her, she blamed it on a lapse in judgment.
Both assigned to a detention of trophy polishing (he for acting up in McGonagall’s class and she for being late to Snape’s), they spent the majority of the night bickering and insulting each other. She called him a self-important mindless git. He called her and her family the worst insult to the wizarding world he had ever laid eyes on. Wands were drawn, and threats were thrown.
But then in a flash, something changed.
He grabbed her wand-free wrist and yanked her body towards his. She should have cursed him right then, but she didn’t. Instead, she let him kiss her. Not some sweet kiss like the ones she had shared with her former interests. No, this kiss had only one emotion behind it-unadulterated want. So she let him kiss her, and she let him touch her.
The second time she let him touch her, she blamed it on hormones.
They both needed some form of release, and their new situation offered just that. When they met in the Room of Requirement, the rules did not need to be spoken. This wasn’t about liking each other. In fact, their hatred of each other had seemed to have only grown since their first encounter. This was simply about a hormonal surge that needed to be sated, even if it meant snogging a mortal enemy in an empty classroom. With the rules of the game understood by both sides, she let him kiss her, and she let him touch her.
The third time she let him touch her, she blamed it on boredom.
When she received the owl post during lunch in the Great Hall, she planned to ignore the message inside. She knew who it was from, and she knew what he wanted, but she was putting her foot down. No matter how good it felt when his lips were pressed against hers, when his hand wrapped around the nape of her neck (claiming her as his only in those intense moments), she knew it was the epitome of bad ideas. She knew that it was unnatural, that it needed to end.
But that night, as she found herself staring blankly at her Transfiguration book, all the logic she had convinced herself of earlier in the day disappeared. She gathered her books, giving the impression of studying in the library, but instead, she stepped into the empty classroom where he waited for her. She dropped her bag near the door as he approached.
No words were exchanged; they never were. One of the rules.
He grabbed her roughly like he always did; these embraces were never about being gentle. But she didn’t care about gentleness tonight. So she let him kiss her, and she let him touch her.
The fourth time she let him touch her, she blamed it on the stress of her upcoming O.W.L. exams.
She couldn’t believe the amount of studying the year seemed to bring onto her doorstep. She had heard the horror stories from her brothers over the years, but she had always assumed that had been exaggerating matters like they always had a tendency to do. She learned quickly (and unfortunately) that they had been telling the truth about the fifth year and the headaches that came with it.
Every night of the past week, she had been up until ungodly hours. Finishing papers. Catching up on reading. Practicing charms and spells. By the time Friday arrived, her mind could no longer endure another night of vanishing mice or memorizing the ingredients that went into a typical sleeping potion.
So she met him.
Not because she wanted to see him, but rather because during their sessions, she didn’t have to think. She only had to act.
So she showed up at her usual time, like some form of internal clockwork, and he had smirked silently at her as she shut the door. And in her need to relieve her bottled up stress of the past week, she let him kiss her, and she let him touch her.
The fifth time she let him touch her, she blamed it on a need to prove herself.
She hated when they all assumed that they knew her, knew what made her tick. Ron assumed that she still fancied Harry, and much to her displeasure and slight embarrassment, he had taken it upon himself to make them a couple. Hermione assumed that she didn’t care enough about her studies simply because she enjoyed a good prank every once and a while, assuming that she had fully embraced Fred and George’s stance on academia. And Harry still assumed that she was too young, too inexperienced, to become involved in the trio’s misadventures. He apparently failed to remember that not only was she was simply a year younger than all three of them, but also just a year prior, she had fought alongside them during his raid of the Department of Ministry.
They all assumed, but none of them knew.
Not that *he* knew anything about her either (or she of him), but at least he never claimed to know the inner workings of the youngest Weasley.
So that night, she went to him out of spite. And as her body pressed against his and his tongue slipped past her lips, she felt nothing but satisfaction that she was proving all their so-called knowledge about her wrong. So she let him kiss her, and she let him touch her.
The sixth time she let him touch her, she blamed it on an unnatural obsession.
She had no reason to be here tonight. Every other time, she had at least had some sort of excuse for meeting him. Tonight, she had nothing, and yet, she was still here. And that frightened her, but she didn’t tell him that. She didn’t tell him anything. She simply let him pull her to him and kiss her.
But something was different, if only slightly. And she couldn’t tell if it was on her part, his, or both.
The kisses weren’t as aggressive. The embrace wasn’t as hard. The feel of his hands wasn’t as assaulting to her body.
Something was off, but she didn’t say anything. It was, after all, one of the rules. So she ignored this new feeling; and she let him kiss her, and she let him touch her.
The seventh time she let him touch her, she blamed it on a need to understand.
Words still weren’t exchanged when they laid eyes on each other. She almost said something about their last encounter, but when he stepped up to her and his gray eyes locked on hers, she pushed that thought aside again. No point in breaking the rules now.
He grabbed her much gentler than he had ever done before, but neither of them said anything about this very noticeable change between them. He wrapped his hand around the nape of her neck (claiming her as he always did) and kissed her deeply. And in that moment, she found the understanding she had come here tonight to gain. And in that moment, she knew that tonight would be it.
Tonight began a turning point that neither were prepared for or even wanted to admit. To themselves and definitely not to each other. So she made the decision for them.
Tonight would be it.
No more rendezvous. No more kisses. No more touches. Nothing.
So she let him kiss her, and she let him touch her.
Author: Tonya (tigerlily1998@hotmail.com)
Disclaimer: I own absolutely, positively nothing. All characters belong to the uber talented JK Rowling.
Pairing: Ginny/Draco
Rating: PG
Feedback: Feedback is my crack, please support my habit! :-)
----------
The first time she let him touch her, she blamed it on a lapse in judgment.
Both assigned to a detention of trophy polishing (he for acting up in McGonagall’s class and she for being late to Snape’s), they spent the majority of the night bickering and insulting each other. She called him a self-important mindless git. He called her and her family the worst insult to the wizarding world he had ever laid eyes on. Wands were drawn, and threats were thrown.
But then in a flash, something changed.
He grabbed her wand-free wrist and yanked her body towards his. She should have cursed him right then, but she didn’t. Instead, she let him kiss her. Not some sweet kiss like the ones she had shared with her former interests. No, this kiss had only one emotion behind it-unadulterated want. So she let him kiss her, and she let him touch her.
The second time she let him touch her, she blamed it on hormones.
They both needed some form of release, and their new situation offered just that. When they met in the Room of Requirement, the rules did not need to be spoken. This wasn’t about liking each other. In fact, their hatred of each other had seemed to have only grown since their first encounter. This was simply about a hormonal surge that needed to be sated, even if it meant snogging a mortal enemy in an empty classroom. With the rules of the game understood by both sides, she let him kiss her, and she let him touch her.
The third time she let him touch her, she blamed it on boredom.
When she received the owl post during lunch in the Great Hall, she planned to ignore the message inside. She knew who it was from, and she knew what he wanted, but she was putting her foot down. No matter how good it felt when his lips were pressed against hers, when his hand wrapped around the nape of her neck (claiming her as his only in those intense moments), she knew it was the epitome of bad ideas. She knew that it was unnatural, that it needed to end.
But that night, as she found herself staring blankly at her Transfiguration book, all the logic she had convinced herself of earlier in the day disappeared. She gathered her books, giving the impression of studying in the library, but instead, she stepped into the empty classroom where he waited for her. She dropped her bag near the door as he approached.
No words were exchanged; they never were. One of the rules.
He grabbed her roughly like he always did; these embraces were never about being gentle. But she didn’t care about gentleness tonight. So she let him kiss her, and she let him touch her.
The fourth time she let him touch her, she blamed it on the stress of her upcoming O.W.L. exams.
She couldn’t believe the amount of studying the year seemed to bring onto her doorstep. She had heard the horror stories from her brothers over the years, but she had always assumed that had been exaggerating matters like they always had a tendency to do. She learned quickly (and unfortunately) that they had been telling the truth about the fifth year and the headaches that came with it.
Every night of the past week, she had been up until ungodly hours. Finishing papers. Catching up on reading. Practicing charms and spells. By the time Friday arrived, her mind could no longer endure another night of vanishing mice or memorizing the ingredients that went into a typical sleeping potion.
So she met him.
Not because she wanted to see him, but rather because during their sessions, she didn’t have to think. She only had to act.
So she showed up at her usual time, like some form of internal clockwork, and he had smirked silently at her as she shut the door. And in her need to relieve her bottled up stress of the past week, she let him kiss her, and she let him touch her.
The fifth time she let him touch her, she blamed it on a need to prove herself.
She hated when they all assumed that they knew her, knew what made her tick. Ron assumed that she still fancied Harry, and much to her displeasure and slight embarrassment, he had taken it upon himself to make them a couple. Hermione assumed that she didn’t care enough about her studies simply because she enjoyed a good prank every once and a while, assuming that she had fully embraced Fred and George’s stance on academia. And Harry still assumed that she was too young, too inexperienced, to become involved in the trio’s misadventures. He apparently failed to remember that not only was she was simply a year younger than all three of them, but also just a year prior, she had fought alongside them during his raid of the Department of Ministry.
They all assumed, but none of them knew.
Not that *he* knew anything about her either (or she of him), but at least he never claimed to know the inner workings of the youngest Weasley.
So that night, she went to him out of spite. And as her body pressed against his and his tongue slipped past her lips, she felt nothing but satisfaction that she was proving all their so-called knowledge about her wrong. So she let him kiss her, and she let him touch her.
The sixth time she let him touch her, she blamed it on an unnatural obsession.
She had no reason to be here tonight. Every other time, she had at least had some sort of excuse for meeting him. Tonight, she had nothing, and yet, she was still here. And that frightened her, but she didn’t tell him that. She didn’t tell him anything. She simply let him pull her to him and kiss her.
But something was different, if only slightly. And she couldn’t tell if it was on her part, his, or both.
The kisses weren’t as aggressive. The embrace wasn’t as hard. The feel of his hands wasn’t as assaulting to her body.
Something was off, but she didn’t say anything. It was, after all, one of the rules. So she ignored this new feeling; and she let him kiss her, and she let him touch her.
The seventh time she let him touch her, she blamed it on a need to understand.
Words still weren’t exchanged when they laid eyes on each other. She almost said something about their last encounter, but when he stepped up to her and his gray eyes locked on hers, she pushed that thought aside again. No point in breaking the rules now.
He grabbed her much gentler than he had ever done before, but neither of them said anything about this very noticeable change between them. He wrapped his hand around the nape of her neck (claiming her as he always did) and kissed her deeply. And in that moment, she found the understanding she had come here tonight to gain. And in that moment, she knew that tonight would be it.
Tonight began a turning point that neither were prepared for or even wanted to admit. To themselves and definitely not to each other. So she made the decision for them.
Tonight would be it.
No more rendezvous. No more kisses. No more touches. Nothing.
So she let him kiss her, and she let him touch her.