AN: Thanks to everyone who read (and special thanks to those who reviewed) my first fic! Warning: This one is quite different than the last.
My Tongue Will Taste of Gin and Malicious Intent
She has fiery red hair that reaches a little passed her slender shoulders. Her slight frame seems to fit flawlessly with his lean stature. With a mischievous brown stare, a toned figure, and lips that can pout for days, she's the epitome of natural beauty. She speaks in a smooth, silky voice that calms him during the worst of times, yet invigorates him when she emits signature squeaks of excitement or her enthrallingly throaty laugh. She likes to hold his broom-calloused hand, kiss the divide of his hair where the strands stand of their own accord, and take endless walks around the lake that houses a giant squid and once echoed of the Dementors rattled breaths. She whispers quiet notions of love when it's dark and they're a pile of satisfied hormones and sweaty bodies. She's perfect - made for him, even - but Harry Potter just can't seem to love Ginny Weasley back.
"Harry," a groan breaks through the suddenly hot air. When not otherwise occupied, two pairs of lips issue heavy panting and the occasional approving hum.
Harry stays silent, choosing instead to convey his gratitude through the tiniest of nips, licks, and sucks on the neck below kissable rosy lips and deliciously flushed cheeks. The room spins too fast on an abruptly titled axis, a wandering hand between his weak legs and the swimming effect of too-many-to-count shots, the burn of alcohol still evident on his tongue. Buckles on belts, buttons on coats, and even a double-knotted lace on a dirty sneaker turn into tiny battles with unsteady hands that result in half-clothed bodies, drunk on each other, passion, and gin. Lips and fingers travel to any exposed skin available - yearning for the inevitable.
They fuck against the flower-printed wall of some random room that they'll likely never be able to find again in the dimly lit, sleep-silent castle. He can't catch his breath, every huff expelling from his aching lungs in sporadic bursts that sound like strangled cries of both forgotten misery and suddenly awakened lust. Watery green eyes roll upwards, underneath his hooded eyelids. His legs tremble with intoxicating overexertion and the added weight of the pliant body he thrusts into with uncontrollable erratic motions now. He's close - he knows, feeling the familiar overwhelming sensation of impending release all the way down to his toes - but he begs into empty humid air for just a little more time. Harry desperately doesn't want this to end.
"Love you, Harry," comes the reply from the happily sated figure entwined cozily with Harry on the surprisingly comfortable floor of the already-forgotten den.
"Love you too, Hermione."
Maybe Harry simply doesn't want to love Ginny back.