*~*~ Midnight Musings *~*~
[Until Further Notice]
Litt
Disclaimer: Sadly, I still do not own the cannon. Sadder still, I do not own this idea.
Summary: Her skin was softer than his was.
AN: An attempt at the challenge 'Vi gave me for the continuation of "The Storm". Fairly short as I wrote it at four in the morning right before the video shoot when I should have been getting my flute tuned up and my uniform together. I finished it though, proud of myself, before my ride got there; I edited a little once we got home, though it is safe to say it is not at its best. Nor its longest. I was sweaty and buzzing on Crunk, who can blame me?
Again, aforementioned people have reiterated the fact that I am sick for "enduring" this ship, but I just smiled.
---
Her skin was softer than his was.
As he ran his fingers across her stomach, tracing freckles and watching for laughs, he wondered what he'd expected. He'd known girls were different, he had thought of this several times, but maybe he was unconsciously over exaggerating just for the sake of justification, because he knew it was wrong. She was not supposed to feel so good to him, she should be the one thing he could not and should not touch, so if he were to accidentally bump shoulders one day, he should not be shocked by the electrical burning and soft bruise. He should think nothing of it other than it feels like any other persons skin, it feels like mine.
Maybe because it was his first time actually seeing a girl, albeit it was only her stomach and bare legs and a borrowed pair of boxers. Either way, he was transfixed.
From the dip above the ribs, to the curve where her hips met her waist, he explored them all like the unknown territory they were. She just watched him with sea-green eyes, biting her lip in absent contemplation and sometimes to hold a laugh down. He had told her several times she had changed and that her eyes were the most visible of the said changes, but he had not noticed she was growing up then either, so now they only complimented the rest of her. She had accepted this the night he'd pointed it out in the mirror they were sharing while brushing their teeth, but every day after that she no longer acknowledges the fact. "They've always been this color, you just never noticed."
Maybe, he mused as he moved to face her.
The view of her so comfortable on his bed was strangely—strange now.
She eyed him suspiciously, clearly thinking he'd planned some sort of spectacular speech or tackle her in a tickling spree. He hadn't had that in mind.
When she made a move to sit up, curly hair lifting from the pillow in red rivulets to alight at her back, he shook his head and she stopped, confused, only supported by her elbows. Instead, he moved. He hoped he wasn't too heavy, but then again, they weren't touching so his weight wasn't a problem. She looked at him, smile gone, but her eyes were still soft, if not a little cold.
Continuing his "tickling" now, he noticed she didn't laugh. And when he slipped his hand higher than her ribs, she did not punch his lights out as he'd always thought she would. She did not reprimand him when he eased the tank off and she did not stop him when he gaped. She was, if possible, even softer here, much more sensitive and far more curvier all together. He'd heard from Fred and George but he did not want to know what they'd say if he told them who exactly he'd fallen for.
And when he leaned in to kiss her, she returned it. It was then that he realized it was a dream, but it did not interrupt, it only served as a motivating thought. He could do whatever he wanted here, she'd never know, and he could not be guilty about it. She gasped at something he did but he no longer had control of his hands, he had not expected that noise and was just as surprised as she. Her eyes were wide now and every time she made to say something he'd smother it with a kiss.
The boxers were gone soon too, both pairs, and he would only recall a lightning strike of color later on when he woke next to his sister, whose red hair bled over the pillow. She'd look over at him quizzically, ask him what was wrong, tell him he was hogging the blankets, and tell him talked in his sleep. He would be too scared too shaken to say anything or offer the blanket he was using.
Unlike the Ginny of his dreams, this one would never let that happen.
This thought however did not allow room for much comfort in his already crowded bed. She sat up, hair streaked in the sun, and to his horror stretched. He looked away.
"Ron ?"
She smiled dreamily at him from over her shoulder and he felt then that the morning sun was shining just for him. Its light was golden now and, after the dark rainy conditions, welcoming and warm.
It had been a while, but Ron now had the time to just look at his sister; other times there had been too many things to do, not enough time, or he told himself she would always be there when he was available for leisure time. But she wasn't. They had their own lives now, and days such as this rarely happened. He could not help but marvel at the dimple that rarely appeared on her left cheek, the freckles that did not in fact disappear, strange eyes that keep changing. In the morning light, her sun streaked hair was run through with gold, her eyes tinged a sea green. She was looking at him with them now, green and dark blue, and it seemed to have been so long because she seemed so different now. He was reminded of a feeling he had once when staring directly into a strangers eyes, but that was wrong and this seemed almost gentle.
His room seemed a complete mess now in the light, it seemed a shame she had to see it this way. Ron felt if she got up he'd clear a path for her, but as long as she stayed right here, next to him, they could ignore the discarded robes and chess pieces. Somehow, it seemed not enough though; his little sister was meant to go places. She was better than he and all his brothers combined: she had been a princess once, deserved the finest of things.
A grinning seven year old, whose room was fluffy quilts and unicorns, but only liked it because it was hers, not because it was pink. The shaky twelve year old who was different all of a sudden and delicate, that no one could touch and Ron could only guess why. The fourteen year old who got extra shopping opportunities but rarely took them, having discovered how to do her own clothes, much more preferring a comfortable ("yet cute") pair of trousers and sweater to a dress any day. All those times she'd seemed so untouchable, so much more regal than they, with her gentle boisterousness that was so familiar it seemed as if she really were his twin but reminded you she was not.
Presently, he wondered if maybe he was still her prince.
[Until Further Notice]
Litt
Disclaimer: Sadly, I still do not own the cannon. Sadder still, I do not own this idea.
Summary: Her skin was softer than his was.
AN: An attempt at the challenge 'Vi gave me for the continuation of "The Storm". Fairly short as I wrote it at four in the morning right before the video shoot when I should have been getting my flute tuned up and my uniform together. I finished it though, proud of myself, before my ride got there; I edited a little once we got home, though it is safe to say it is not at its best. Nor its longest. I was sweaty and buzzing on Crunk, who can blame me?
Again, aforementioned people have reiterated the fact that I am sick for "enduring" this ship, but I just smiled.
---
Her skin was softer than his was.
As he ran his fingers across her stomach, tracing freckles and watching for laughs, he wondered what he'd expected. He'd known girls were different, he had thought of this several times, but maybe he was unconsciously over exaggerating just for the sake of justification, because he knew it was wrong. She was not supposed to feel so good to him, she should be the one thing he could not and should not touch, so if he were to accidentally bump shoulders one day, he should not be shocked by the electrical burning and soft bruise. He should think nothing of it other than it feels like any other persons skin, it feels like mine.
Maybe because it was his first time actually seeing a girl, albeit it was only her stomach and bare legs and a borrowed pair of boxers. Either way, he was transfixed.
From the dip above the ribs, to the curve where her hips met her waist, he explored them all like the unknown territory they were. She just watched him with sea-green eyes, biting her lip in absent contemplation and sometimes to hold a laugh down. He had told her several times she had changed and that her eyes were the most visible of the said changes, but he had not noticed she was growing up then either, so now they only complimented the rest of her. She had accepted this the night he'd pointed it out in the mirror they were sharing while brushing their teeth, but every day after that she no longer acknowledges the fact. "They've always been this color, you just never noticed."
Maybe, he mused as he moved to face her.
The view of her so comfortable on his bed was strangely—strange now.
She eyed him suspiciously, clearly thinking he'd planned some sort of spectacular speech or tackle her in a tickling spree. He hadn't had that in mind.
When she made a move to sit up, curly hair lifting from the pillow in red rivulets to alight at her back, he shook his head and she stopped, confused, only supported by her elbows. Instead, he moved. He hoped he wasn't too heavy, but then again, they weren't touching so his weight wasn't a problem. She looked at him, smile gone, but her eyes were still soft, if not a little cold.
Continuing his "tickling" now, he noticed she didn't laugh. And when he slipped his hand higher than her ribs, she did not punch his lights out as he'd always thought she would. She did not reprimand him when he eased the tank off and she did not stop him when he gaped. She was, if possible, even softer here, much more sensitive and far more curvier all together. He'd heard from Fred and George but he did not want to know what they'd say if he told them who exactly he'd fallen for.
And when he leaned in to kiss her, she returned it. It was then that he realized it was a dream, but it did not interrupt, it only served as a motivating thought. He could do whatever he wanted here, she'd never know, and he could not be guilty about it. She gasped at something he did but he no longer had control of his hands, he had not expected that noise and was just as surprised as she. Her eyes were wide now and every time she made to say something he'd smother it with a kiss.
The boxers were gone soon too, both pairs, and he would only recall a lightning strike of color later on when he woke next to his sister, whose red hair bled over the pillow. She'd look over at him quizzically, ask him what was wrong, tell him he was hogging the blankets, and tell him talked in his sleep. He would be too scared too shaken to say anything or offer the blanket he was using.
Unlike the Ginny of his dreams, this one would never let that happen.
This thought however did not allow room for much comfort in his already crowded bed. She sat up, hair streaked in the sun, and to his horror stretched. He looked away.
"Ron ?"
She smiled dreamily at him from over her shoulder and he felt then that the morning sun was shining just for him. Its light was golden now and, after the dark rainy conditions, welcoming and warm.
It had been a while, but Ron now had the time to just look at his sister; other times there had been too many things to do, not enough time, or he told himself she would always be there when he was available for leisure time. But she wasn't. They had their own lives now, and days such as this rarely happened. He could not help but marvel at the dimple that rarely appeared on her left cheek, the freckles that did not in fact disappear, strange eyes that keep changing. In the morning light, her sun streaked hair was run through with gold, her eyes tinged a sea green. She was looking at him with them now, green and dark blue, and it seemed to have been so long because she seemed so different now. He was reminded of a feeling he had once when staring directly into a strangers eyes, but that was wrong and this seemed almost gentle.
His room seemed a complete mess now in the light, it seemed a shame she had to see it this way. Ron felt if she got up he'd clear a path for her, but as long as she stayed right here, next to him, they could ignore the discarded robes and chess pieces. Somehow, it seemed not enough though; his little sister was meant to go places. She was better than he and all his brothers combined: she had been a princess once, deserved the finest of things.
A grinning seven year old, whose room was fluffy quilts and unicorns, but only liked it because it was hers, not because it was pink. The shaky twelve year old who was different all of a sudden and delicate, that no one could touch and Ron could only guess why. The fourteen year old who got extra shopping opportunities but rarely took them, having discovered how to do her own clothes, much more preferring a comfortable ("yet cute") pair of trousers and sweater to a dress any day. All those times she'd seemed so untouchable, so much more regal than they, with her gentle boisterousness that was so familiar it seemed as if she really were his twin but reminded you she was not.
Presently, he wondered if maybe he was still her prince.