Observation
Jun. 10th, 2008 12:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
starrikaTitle: Observation
Fandom: Harry Potter
Claim: smutty_claus (2006); Neville/Ginny, voyeurism
Status: Complete
Rating: R
Summary: Neville's really an eloquent guy when it comes down to it. Observant, too, when it comes to his wife.
Warnings: Strong sexual content.
It’s warmer out than expected, with no clouds in the blue, blue sky to cool our overheated bodies. She lays awake, warm lips pressing against the cool flesh of the peach. One of her hands has strayed into her hair, fingers twisting into the crimson strands as she licks the fuzz off her fruit.
It’s the tongue that always gets me – experimentally moving over the curved flesh, creating pathways for her teeth to follow. The juice runs down her chin as her tongue moves over her pursed lips, savoring the peach’s nectar in the warmth of the burgeoning sun.
-
She plays piano as if she were making love to the instrument – fingers lovingly sliding over yellowed keys, head thrown back as if she were in the throes of ecstasy.
The slit in her robes has ridden higher on her thighs as she sits on the bench, and I can see an expanse of creamy skin above her garters. The black lace is stark against her skin, like the black and white keys of the piano.
-
Her lips are soft and supple, unpainted and contrasting against the women around her with their garish pinks and reds. She needs no adornment – her fiery hair and deep brown eyes garnering all the attention she desires. She is warm and living where these other women are all hard and cold and iron.
She does not need a steel outer shell to protect herself. She can melt anything that stands in her way.
I am a moth to her flame.
-
The dual sensation of cold sweat and warm breath wars across my flesh. She’s blindfolded me – again – teasing me with salty lips and sweet contact.
I can hear her lightly breathing as I anticipate her next movement.
-
When she comes, it is a moan and a sob and every other lovely sound in between. Sometimes, she’ll stumble over my name, jerky breaths hitching as she cries out, “Neville, Neville.”
Her legs clench tight around me as if she will never let me go, hands frantically grasping at bed sheets or grass – whatever she finds herself surrounded by.
We are sweaty and disheveled. I have never seen her more beautiful.
-
It’s intimidating to see her angry, hands flailing and eyes flashing. She’s never been truly angry at me, thank Merlin, but the force of her anger always shocks.
She hates as hard as she loves.
-
Under candlelight, she’s exotic, all Gryffindor reds and golds. I’ve tried to kiss every freckle of her body, over and over, and always fail. “Please, please,” she moans, and I obey.
It’s never a hardship to slide into her tight warmth.
-
When she sings, it’s off key and little husky, but I love it anyway. She’ll dance around the kitchen, cooking in ways that would probably horrify her mum. Or she’ll be reading the paper, lowly singing along.
It’s a little too breathy – I always find myself thinking of her moans and sighs, rather than the words she’s singing. And if she’s wearing the apron she found that says “Kiss the cook,” well, I have to comply.
-
She never closes the door when she takes a bath and I am always halted by the sight – filmy bubbles barely obscuring her pink nipples, one leg hanging over the edge of the tub. Her hands are below, teasing me with the sight.
She sighs as her head falls back, resting against the white porcelain. The messy bun of hair tips precariously on top of her head as her body sinks lower into the steaming water.
I’m already hard before she murmurs my name, knowing I couldn’t help but watch.
-
There is a weeping willow at the edge of our property, overgrown, but so picturesque I can’t trim it as I should.
It helps that she likes to picnic under its boughs, smearing honey across my lips as breeze-blown branches obscure us from view.
I will never cut that tree.
-
In Winter, she likes to lie across the rug by the fire, exchanging the warmth of sweaters for the intrigue of flames. She dresses in silks and satins – tiny slips of things – stretching herself like a cat in all its lazy glory.
Her hands smooth over soft sides, nipples peaked in the ambiguity of cold and arousal.
It is riveting. The play of shadow and light, pleasure and frustration, as the heat builds in her face. She is flushed and so am I.
Biting her lower lip, she moans and arches her back, refusing to look at me even as she says my name. Without consciousness, my fingers lower my zip.
-
I am clumsy at tying her up, knots always coming undone or binding too tight.
I always come undone before we have begun.
-
She brushes her hair every morning as if she were playing Quidditch - rushing to get the tangles out as if she were heading toward the goal.
At night, she is languid, fluid. Brushing her hair becomes the victory glow of a winning game – a heated pleasure that warms her entire body.
-
I remember when I proposed to her, fumbling everything from the question to the ring. She just threw her head back with a laugh, sighing, “Neville, did you really have to ask? Of course I’ll marry you,” as if it was the simplest thing in the world.
I was still searching my pockets for the missing ring as her tongue dipped into my mouth, velvet reassurance of her choice.
-
It’s colder out than I expected, and I can see her shivering into her robe as I pull her close. We forgot blankets back at the house – rushing out to see the meteor shower that was hurriedly announced on the wireless. One of her hands slides into mine, cold fingers lacing between mine.
I blow air onto her fingers as her head slides into the crook of my shoulder, meteors forgotten. Warm lips caress my neck right above the collar of my sweater as she burrows further into my robe.
I’d rather watch her come than stars come down any day.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Claim: smutty_claus (2006); Neville/Ginny, voyeurism
Status: Complete
Rating: R
Summary: Neville's really an eloquent guy when it comes down to it. Observant, too, when it comes to his wife.
Warnings: Strong sexual content.
It’s warmer out than expected, with no clouds in the blue, blue sky to cool our overheated bodies. She lays awake, warm lips pressing against the cool flesh of the peach. One of her hands has strayed into her hair, fingers twisting into the crimson strands as she licks the fuzz off her fruit.
It’s the tongue that always gets me – experimentally moving over the curved flesh, creating pathways for her teeth to follow. The juice runs down her chin as her tongue moves over her pursed lips, savoring the peach’s nectar in the warmth of the burgeoning sun.
-
She plays piano as if she were making love to the instrument – fingers lovingly sliding over yellowed keys, head thrown back as if she were in the throes of ecstasy.
The slit in her robes has ridden higher on her thighs as she sits on the bench, and I can see an expanse of creamy skin above her garters. The black lace is stark against her skin, like the black and white keys of the piano.
-
Her lips are soft and supple, unpainted and contrasting against the women around her with their garish pinks and reds. She needs no adornment – her fiery hair and deep brown eyes garnering all the attention she desires. She is warm and living where these other women are all hard and cold and iron.
She does not need a steel outer shell to protect herself. She can melt anything that stands in her way.
I am a moth to her flame.
-
The dual sensation of cold sweat and warm breath wars across my flesh. She’s blindfolded me – again – teasing me with salty lips and sweet contact.
I can hear her lightly breathing as I anticipate her next movement.
-
When she comes, it is a moan and a sob and every other lovely sound in between. Sometimes, she’ll stumble over my name, jerky breaths hitching as she cries out, “Neville, Neville.”
Her legs clench tight around me as if she will never let me go, hands frantically grasping at bed sheets or grass – whatever she finds herself surrounded by.
We are sweaty and disheveled. I have never seen her more beautiful.
-
It’s intimidating to see her angry, hands flailing and eyes flashing. She’s never been truly angry at me, thank Merlin, but the force of her anger always shocks.
She hates as hard as she loves.
-
Under candlelight, she’s exotic, all Gryffindor reds and golds. I’ve tried to kiss every freckle of her body, over and over, and always fail. “Please, please,” she moans, and I obey.
It’s never a hardship to slide into her tight warmth.
-
When she sings, it’s off key and little husky, but I love it anyway. She’ll dance around the kitchen, cooking in ways that would probably horrify her mum. Or she’ll be reading the paper, lowly singing along.
It’s a little too breathy – I always find myself thinking of her moans and sighs, rather than the words she’s singing. And if she’s wearing the apron she found that says “Kiss the cook,” well, I have to comply.
-
She never closes the door when she takes a bath and I am always halted by the sight – filmy bubbles barely obscuring her pink nipples, one leg hanging over the edge of the tub. Her hands are below, teasing me with the sight.
She sighs as her head falls back, resting against the white porcelain. The messy bun of hair tips precariously on top of her head as her body sinks lower into the steaming water.
I’m already hard before she murmurs my name, knowing I couldn’t help but watch.
-
There is a weeping willow at the edge of our property, overgrown, but so picturesque I can’t trim it as I should.
It helps that she likes to picnic under its boughs, smearing honey across my lips as breeze-blown branches obscure us from view.
I will never cut that tree.
-
In Winter, she likes to lie across the rug by the fire, exchanging the warmth of sweaters for the intrigue of flames. She dresses in silks and satins – tiny slips of things – stretching herself like a cat in all its lazy glory.
Her hands smooth over soft sides, nipples peaked in the ambiguity of cold and arousal.
It is riveting. The play of shadow and light, pleasure and frustration, as the heat builds in her face. She is flushed and so am I.
Biting her lower lip, she moans and arches her back, refusing to look at me even as she says my name. Without consciousness, my fingers lower my zip.
-
I am clumsy at tying her up, knots always coming undone or binding too tight.
I always come undone before we have begun.
-
She brushes her hair every morning as if she were playing Quidditch - rushing to get the tangles out as if she were heading toward the goal.
At night, she is languid, fluid. Brushing her hair becomes the victory glow of a winning game – a heated pleasure that warms her entire body.
-
I remember when I proposed to her, fumbling everything from the question to the ring. She just threw her head back with a laugh, sighing, “Neville, did you really have to ask? Of course I’ll marry you,” as if it was the simplest thing in the world.
I was still searching my pockets for the missing ring as her tongue dipped into my mouth, velvet reassurance of her choice.
-
It’s colder out than I expected, and I can see her shivering into her robe as I pull her close. We forgot blankets back at the house – rushing out to see the meteor shower that was hurriedly announced on the wireless. One of her hands slides into mine, cold fingers lacing between mine.
I blow air onto her fingers as her head slides into the crook of my shoulder, meteors forgotten. Warm lips caress my neck right above the collar of my sweater as she burrows further into my robe.
I’d rather watch her come than stars come down any day.
ginny/Neville
Date: 2009-08-20 10:40 pm (UTC)I can't believe I missed this. I love your Neville stories and don't know how I could have overlooked such a good one. Lovely, sensuous and in character, this was great.
Re: ginny/Neville
Date: 2009-08-21 12:44 am (UTC)