TITLE: Focus
AUTHOR: Aviatrix
PAIRING: Colin/Ginny
SUMMARY: Colin's been taking pictures of her all day.
RATING: PG-13
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, they're Rowling's. No harm or foul intended.
A/N: Gee, my second fic with a gun. I harbor a secret love for them and their metaphors. This fic was inspired by Susan Sontag's book On Photography, and written for a challenge made by Liebling.
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Ginny. Rhymes with 'skinny' and 'ninny', and she's neither of those things, and all the ways in which she isn't make Colin feel funny inside.
The inside of the curtain surrounding his bed is covered in photographs of her. Candid distance shots and close-ups: hands, lips, legs, hair. He's taken a few portraits of her, but she smiles differently when she knows she's being watched.
He's long since figured out how to magic away anybody else accidentally caught in the shot.
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Colin had been invited to Ginny's birthday party last year. He'd gotten there early, the first guest and way before Ginny had emerged.
(Girls take longer than boys to ready themselves, and Colin knows vaguely what it is they do: comb, primp, examine, replace. These are some of the things he has never seen Ginny do, and he occasionally imagines what pictures of these rituals would look like.)
Arthur Weasley, remembering somehow Colin's obsession, had enthusiastically dragged him into the house and shown off his collection of Muggle cameras.
Colin wasn't really listening; he figeted and bounced on the balls of his feet, looking around him. Something caught his eye, on a high shelf.
Arthur noticed him staring, and took it down and handed to him. "It's a Muggle weapon, called a... a foot gun, or - no, no, that isn't right...a hand gun, I believe. Yes, that's it. A hand gun. It's not loaded, of course, perfectly safe."
Colin nodded and stroked the cold metal of the gun.
"You point the end - no, the other end - at whatever it is you're aiming for, and pull this little lever here, and it shoots a little piece of metal out, very fast. It's amazing, really; I took a look inside and it's quite ingenious. All sorts of... gears and things."
"Mmm," Colin said distractedly. He pulled the trigger back, held it, and let it go.
The faint clicks sent shivers down his spine.
x
She wore a pale green dress and a talking party hat, and she smiled at him exactly five times. She touched his hand twice, and thanked him once.
He took a lot of pictures that day.
x
He has a recurring dream, one of those dreams that leaves you sticky and breathless.
It goes like this:
It's an ornate room, antiques jumbling against the gold-leaf wallpaper. There's a dark green velvet couch, and she's sprawled over it, naked, all fire-bright hair and pale skin.
He's there, taking her picture, over and over again, the shutter snapping and clicking and he can feel himself getting hard. There are an infinite amount of angles, and he will get every last one.
She's smiling the way she does when she thinks no one's looking.
x
The camera is cool and smooth and impersonal, and she's none of those things, and when he runs a finger gently across his pictures of all the ways she isn't, a faint but sure flicker of possessiveness flickers through him.
AUTHOR: Aviatrix
PAIRING: Colin/Ginny
SUMMARY: Colin's been taking pictures of her all day.
RATING: PG-13
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, they're Rowling's. No harm or foul intended.
A/N: Gee, my second fic with a gun. I harbor a secret love for them and their metaphors. This fic was inspired by Susan Sontag's book On Photography, and written for a challenge made by Liebling.
x
x
x
x
Ginny. Rhymes with 'skinny' and 'ninny', and she's neither of those things, and all the ways in which she isn't make Colin feel funny inside.
The inside of the curtain surrounding his bed is covered in photographs of her. Candid distance shots and close-ups: hands, lips, legs, hair. He's taken a few portraits of her, but she smiles differently when she knows she's being watched.
He's long since figured out how to magic away anybody else accidentally caught in the shot.
x
Colin had been invited to Ginny's birthday party last year. He'd gotten there early, the first guest and way before Ginny had emerged.
(Girls take longer than boys to ready themselves, and Colin knows vaguely what it is they do: comb, primp, examine, replace. These are some of the things he has never seen Ginny do, and he occasionally imagines what pictures of these rituals would look like.)
Arthur Weasley, remembering somehow Colin's obsession, had enthusiastically dragged him into the house and shown off his collection of Muggle cameras.
Colin wasn't really listening; he figeted and bounced on the balls of his feet, looking around him. Something caught his eye, on a high shelf.
Arthur noticed him staring, and took it down and handed to him. "It's a Muggle weapon, called a... a foot gun, or - no, no, that isn't right...a hand gun, I believe. Yes, that's it. A hand gun. It's not loaded, of course, perfectly safe."
Colin nodded and stroked the cold metal of the gun.
"You point the end - no, the other end - at whatever it is you're aiming for, and pull this little lever here, and it shoots a little piece of metal out, very fast. It's amazing, really; I took a look inside and it's quite ingenious. All sorts of... gears and things."
"Mmm," Colin said distractedly. He pulled the trigger back, held it, and let it go.
The faint clicks sent shivers down his spine.
x
She wore a pale green dress and a talking party hat, and she smiled at him exactly five times. She touched his hand twice, and thanked him once.
He took a lot of pictures that day.
x
He has a recurring dream, one of those dreams that leaves you sticky and breathless.
It goes like this:
It's an ornate room, antiques jumbling against the gold-leaf wallpaper. There's a dark green velvet couch, and she's sprawled over it, naked, all fire-bright hair and pale skin.
He's there, taking her picture, over and over again, the shutter snapping and clicking and he can feel himself getting hard. There are an infinite amount of angles, and he will get every last one.
She's smiling the way she does when she thinks no one's looking.
x
The camera is cool and smooth and impersonal, and she's none of those things, and when he runs a finger gently across his pictures of all the ways she isn't, a faint but sure flicker of possessiveness flickers through him.