A/N: This was turned into a oneshot from two chapters of life itself (one of my fics that can only be read on my Ao3 profile), with all plot elements removed so it's spoiler free - just good old smut with lots of feelings :)

She closes the door after us, turns the lock twice. Her back pressed into the whitewashed wood, her eyes burn with something raw, like pain and passion twisting violently against each other.

Her eyes burn with something raw as she pushes her long, ginger hair back, fingers twiddling the strands over the crown of her head.

"Ginny -"

I start but immediately she growls, "Later, Harry," and crashes her body into mine, her legs weaved around my torso as we collide, roll onto the hardwood floor. We catch fire.

"Fuck those," she grunts and yanks my crooked glasses off, places them on the floor, at a safer distance.

Her shirt comes off next, her fingers already pushing up my battered shirt as I pull off her bra. She's pressing into me, straddling me, her breath hot on my neck as she leans in to open my shirt. Her skirt bunches up and I feel her moving on top of me, warm and hungry as I am.

Her face is a blur of freckles and fierce looks without my glasses, her long hair caressing my chest as she bites and kisses at my shoulders, at my neck, slants her mouth over mine and I grip her, hold her there with my arms wrapped around her.

Her knees scrape against the floor as she presses into me again, the feel of her breasts on my skin sending jolts of pleasure up my spine. I haven't felt her skin in so long, I've yearned for it every night and now I have the luxury of feeling it beneath my fingertips as I trace them down her back, feel her nipples graze against my chest as she arches, lips hot and gliding over mine.

Ginny grasps for my wrist, pulls my hand to her breast as she rocks back, her hands gripping my hair as my mouth covers her nipple, tongue flicking it and she moans my name.

"Harry."

"Fuck," I groan and I lift her up, blindly step towards the desk, her thighs rubbing against the bruised flesh at my waist.

One arm under her, I feel the oaken desk with my palm and gently place her onto it, a blur of red hair with the sea painted behind her. I slide one hand under her skirt, knead lightly at her thigh, feel it full and soft and warm. I part her legs then, drop to my knees in front of her, feel the flesh I've held, taste it with my tongue. Her hands twist through my hair again.

I nudge her knickers aside enough for my tongue to reach her centre, let it travel slowly through the moist and heat right there. Ginny moans throatily, opens her legs wider as she leans back, her elbows pressing against the surface of the desk. I feel and lick and eat her with insatiable, primal hunger, her bare, freckled thighs abraded by the rough knots in my beard.

I push my tongue deeper as my index finger slides under her knickers, searching for her clit; I feel it, flick it, press gently on it as my tongue rolls over her walls, her lips and back inside her.

She tastes heavenly, like flowers and warm honey mixed in my mouth, delicious in the sounds she makes, in the way she shivers as I go in rougher, starved for her.

"You," she moans, pulling my hair a little harder and I press on my heels, lift up, pull my trousers and boxers off. She extends an arm towards me and I let her wrap it around my shoulders as I step closer to her, drag her skirt farther up her thighs, drag her knickers down. They're wet inside my palm, as wet as she is when I position myself between her legs, draw my breath for a moment before I thrust in.

We both let out a husky, satisfied breath, our mouths tasting each other as I start to move. Her teeth sink into my bottom lip, her palm on my upper back leaving red marks of nails in its wake. I thrust further, hear the faint sound of flesh connecting with flesh.

Through the blur, I can make out her head leaning back, her spine arching as I build a fast rhythm, both of us too hungry, too aroused to want it otherwise.

"Harder, Harry," she moans, the nails in my flesh digging deeper.

I press on my heels and push harder, knees banging into the desk, hands sliding under her to pull her closer and she calls my name again, golden ring grazing the oaken wood. Ginny's arms lock around my neck, her breasts flush against my chest and I take them in my hands, knead them as I drive back inside her, as hard as my body allows me. Her mouth is warm as it closes over my shoulder and she bites lightly, moans into my skin.

I push her flat onto the desk, curl her legs against my torso, her calves against my shoulders. I plunge deeply into her and she grabs tightly at a wooden corner, her face scrunched and her eyes shut.

"Yes, faster," she pants, one hand on the crown of her head, wound through the tousled locks there. Her own wedding band glistens golden as it tangles messily with the ginger in her hair.

Her moans increase with every thrust, with every squeeze of her breasts and I can feel her fully, hot like fire around me. The sea explodes into raging, angry waves and her muscles clamp; her stomach taut, she takes me with her.

"More," she says, gasping for air, her eyes covered by her arm.

My knees buckle but I grin, ready to give her more, to give her everything.

We go through it again with the same lust, with the same angry hunger - it's no gentle love that we are after, but an outlet for all the fear, all the despair, all the hurt that we have felt for all these weeks. We lose ourselves into each other to forget and to forgive, we pound our flesh together, grip and bite and claw as I am pressing her into the desk, lift her and roll her with her back to me as she screams my name.

My mouth covers the constellations on her back, the ones I know in my mind's eye, one hand steady on her stomach as I flex her knee with the other one, deepen the angle, wedding band warming as it brushes her soft skin. The waves break against the shore to our hungry rhythm, erratic and almost violent with the hardness of each thrust.

I slide my hand between her legs, hips diving forward, faster. She gasps when my wedding ring caresses her flushed skin, disappearing into her with my fingers, desperate to please her. Again, she arches her back into me, my fingers rub her, bridge of my palm against her womb.

"Harry, I'm there," Ginny moans, shivering, her head turned, seeking my lips.

The sea spills onto the shore. It's over and there's air inside my head and none inside my lungs - I'm panting hard, holding on to her, holding her tightly in my arms.

Ginny turns to kiss me again, long and deep and tender, slides down and comes back up holding my glasses. I feel their cold rims brush over my temples.

"Here," Ginny smiles, tired, as her face comes into focus. I watch her thirstily, briefly thinking that I'll never tire of her blazing look and impish mouth, of those taunting freckles all across her cheeks. I see the sea painted a dark blue behind her.

"I - just want to see something," I mumble and lift her by her waist.

"What - Harry!" she squeals, but doesn't resist. I place her gently back onto the desk and take three steps backwards. I watch her.

"Only for a bit," I say before she can protest. She shakes her head.

Her bare shoulders, a blush building up her chest, over her neck. Her long, red hair cascading down her back with the sun dancing in it; her thighs, full and wet, and the raging sea behind her.

"You're so beautiful," I whisper.

And even though she pretends to scowl, there's a tinge of pink rising on her cheeks that makes me smile, makes me forget about the millions of needles stinging at my muscles, the wounds and bruises and the heartache. I drink in the image of her, unapologetic and insatiable. I love her.

Ginny, she's the only real thing.

My heart twists as I get high on her, and I take her into my arms again, savour the feeling of her skin touching mine. She presses her cheek against mine and we fall onto her bed, between the sheets.

Ginny kisses me deeply, tongue slipping in between my lips, brushing over my tongue. Her hand slides between our bodies, fingers curling along me and she strokes, feels with her thumb, pumps me with her fist and then she rolls us over, straddles me. Her thighs are still wet as they bracket my hips and she lowers herself on top of me, my name on her lips as she goes deeper.

I let her ride me the way she wants, the way she needs it: a little rough, a little hungry, ginger hair gathered in messy tendrils at the back of her head, her fist gripping them tightly as the other hand is spread just above her stomach. The wedding ring glows golden against her freckled skin and I want to take her hand and kiss her, thank her for keeping it there, for not parting with it after I've parted with them.

But I sit where I am, sit between those sheets that smell like her, and let her take all that she wants. Her eyes closed, her mouth slightly agape, working her way up and down and over me; she's beautiful.

My hands fall on her hips, thumb brushing over her stomach lightly - not yet flat, but of a woman who'd carried a child, fed him with her love. My child, something I could never fully repay her for.

I help her increase the rhythm and she throws her head back, moaning, her mother's breasts bouncing, full and perfect on her chest. I knead them with my hands as she rides me faster, harder, feel the nipples underneath my thumb, feel them wet and warm. I push on my elbows, rest my head against her chest, kiss her breasts, flick my tongue over her nipples, meet her thrust for thrust.

Soon, she comes again, gripping my hair.

We fall between the sheets and I kiss every little freckle on her face - thus losing myself into her blazing eyes forever.