She's walking—with his hand still in hers—up the stairs, she only half knows where, until she does: she comes to a little portrait of a Dutch girl sweeping the floor and traces a finger through the painted dust; the girl nods her blurry yellowbrownish face and the frame swings forward, opens into an empty space just twice the length and width of her arms when she stretches them.
The portrait swings shut behind him and now he asks: "What's wrong?"
"All of it," she says, and steps in to kiss him.
It's been weeks now since their scattered patterns of touching fell to a standstill, and she kisses him with the week's fury, the week's stillness breaking between their mouths. She bites his lower lip and his hands clasp her waist, his mouth open against hers. "What is this, Gin?" he whispers harsh into spaces that don't exist between them.
"A promise."
"What of?" His hands coil tight, push her back, his forehead aligning with hers and his eyes staring dead-on into her own.
"Here on out we're going to work." She presses a palm into his cheek, skin warming skin. She's not going to mention names, but he's nodding. "We're going to do things. Big things, all right?"
"Yeah," he says, and he clasps her face in her hands, lips to eyelids that aren't wet any longer (she swears—), limning along her cheek, her nose, until they match back up to her mouth. Voices to voices. Breath to breath.
Crooking one elbow around the back of his neck, she presses against him harder and harder. So much space to fill in, so much time, the ghosts of motion lost still lingering on her skin. His hips jut against hers, his stomach under her hand, the quick gasp he makes against her mouth. One thigh trapped between his. She knots with him—him and the claustrophobic walls around them, hands and joints and breath warming the air.
He pants, "I'm not—"
She stops. "Not what?"
"Not going to go," he says, and then she can't pretend to not be crying, but she thinks if they can just move fast enough, full enough, make each other sweat, that they'll be able to look past the breaking. This is a consummation—she abandons her robe crumpled on the floor, her sweater inching up above her trousers—first.
Sometimes she's afraid she'll go up in flames this year, but (as Neville kneels, pressing his lips to the slice of skin next to her navel, fingers moving in broad strokes) she knows at least there's someone solid (he touches her without any thought that she'll break or burn) who'll live it out no matter what. No matter what, as his arms lace around her waist and her fingers knot hard in his hair.
You're my bloody hero, she thinks with her thigh against his cheek.
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timeasmymeasure
an addiction to hands and feet (2/2) - ginny/neville - r
Date: 2010-11-27 11:46 pm (UTC)The portrait swings shut behind him and now he asks: "What's wrong?"
"All of it," she says, and steps in to kiss him.
It's been weeks now since their scattered patterns of touching fell to a standstill, and she kisses him with the week's fury, the week's stillness breaking between their mouths. She bites his lower lip and his hands clasp her waist, his mouth open against hers. "What is this, Gin?" he whispers harsh into spaces that don't exist between them.
"A promise."
"What of?" His hands coil tight, push her back, his forehead aligning with hers and his eyes staring dead-on into her own.
"Here on out we're going to work." She presses a palm into his cheek, skin warming skin. She's not going to mention names, but he's nodding. "We're going to do things. Big things, all right?"
"Yeah," he says, and he clasps her face in her hands, lips to eyelids that aren't wet any longer (she swears—), limning along her cheek, her nose, until they match back up to her mouth. Voices to voices. Breath to breath.
Crooking one elbow around the back of his neck, she presses against him harder and harder. So much space to fill in, so much time, the ghosts of motion lost still lingering on her skin. His hips jut against hers, his stomach under her hand, the quick gasp he makes against her mouth. One thigh trapped between his. She knots with him—him and the claustrophobic walls around them, hands and joints and breath warming the air.
He pants, "I'm not—"
She stops. "Not what?"
"Not going to go," he says, and then she can't pretend to not be crying, but she thinks if they can just move fast enough, full enough, make each other sweat, that they'll be able to look past the breaking. This is a consummation—she abandons her robe crumpled on the floor, her sweater inching up above her trousers—first.
Sometimes she's afraid she'll go up in flames this year, but (as Neville kneels, pressing his lips to the slice of skin next to her navel, fingers moving in broad strokes) she knows at least there's someone solid (he touches her without any thought that she'll break or burn) who'll live it out no matter what. No matter what, as his arms lace around her waist and her fingers knot hard in his hair.
You're my bloody hero, she thinks with her thigh against his cheek.