Candy
She would sit by her tree, quietly, unobtrusively, basking in the shade and cool spring breeze, allowing tendrils of firey hair to blow back from her face as long lashes closed over hazel-green eyes and smooth fingers held tight to one another. She would think, curling her bare toes around stalks of grass and wiggling them, her mind all the while elsewhere, in worlds she hoped nobody would ever discover...nobody except him, of course, since he was the basis of every little world her fragile mind wandered off to during these peaceful moments.
He would be, and was, her peace of mind. Amidst the fighting, sneering, cruel smirks and bruising fingers, he was her piece of mind. She would picture her long fingers running down his bare chest, revelling in his smooth, taut skin, eyes eyeing the quick tense and untense of muscles as his breath came faster. She would graze needy fingertips over his nipples, dipping her daring hands lower and lower into depths she'd only once explored, but still longed for with a need that scared her, threatened to smother all that was good and right in her.
Lips would crush hers, teeth nipping with fierce passion, want and lust apparent with every movement of his hands as they explored all she had to give them. Tongues would dart and duel in the battle for dominance that neither really wanted, but didn't want to give the other besides. Hatred would dissolve into the air, making it thick with their desire, and his hands would lace through her hair, pulling her head back so that her tender neck was his to torment.
And torment he would--every time, he'd torment her so sweetly she'd feel nauseous, nauseous but ever so needy, ever so wanting of more. She wanted to taste him like hot chocolate being dripped onto her tongue, warm caramel leaking down her chin, and the tough, tasty liquorish between her teeth...She wanted so much more than what she settled for during her long days of waiting. She wanted so much more release and satisfaction than what her own thoughts could give her.
She needed him in what was possibly the worse way any one was capable of needing another.
If any one ever found out about her little worlds filled with only one person; him--this is what she would tell them:
He started it.
It couldn't be her fault, after all, only his. She was innocent little Ginny Weasley, surrounded by overprotective tree trunks she called brothers--she couldn't possibly have started something as wonderfully naughty as this.
It's all his fault.
It was, oh how it was, and it had started being his fault that horror-filled night over a year ago...on Valentine's Day.
Ginny'd been doing her job, alright. She was a Prefect and so patrolling the halls late, late at night was her duty and right and there could be absolutely nothing wrong in doing what was your duty and right...
She'd just been out of the Prefect's bathroom and was smelling beautifully like a field of pollen-drenched wildflowers, her hair still uncombed, wet and a deep, cherry red.
Fine, she'd been humming--but quietly, just silently to herself. She'd always felt lonely, especially on those nights when it'd been her turn to patrol the Dungeons, and so she'd sing, not so much as to hear her own voice as to be able to pretend there was some one else down there, in the dark, gloomy depths, with her. She'd never be a pop star, but whatever small potential her voice had echoed throughout the empty, stone walls, reflecting back at her warm, melodic notes that helped the shiver from her wet hair and apprehension disappear somewhat.
She was a bit lost--just a bit--when the sneering, unfriendly Slytherin Prefect had found her, at a crossroads in the vast labyrinth of corridors that together made up the Dungeon.
Weasley?
Malfoy.
Cold voices, cold and unfriendly. They had no liking for each other, so why conceal the obviously mutual dislike?
Lost?
No.
Oh, but she was: she just refused to admit it to the smirking, strangely civilized git towering in front of her. Civilized, here, meaning, not yet having tried to make a stinging stab at her family name, her blazing red hair or hand-me-down clothes.
Just admit it. You're lost.
I am not.
His silver eyes poured deeply into her green ones, and she suppressed a shudder at his prying look. She inhaled deeply, surprised when her nostrils sniffed their first smell of his sharp, masculine scent. Like alcohol, but sweeter. Rum chocolate.
I trust then, that once I leave here tonight and return in the morn, I won't find you frozen to death, huddled in a corner?
You trust.
Her voice sounded strangely heavy, and she took deeper breaths, struggling to obtain a taste of that wonderful rum chocolate on her tongue without having to move any closer to him than she already was.
I don't.
He stepped closer.
Since you're so intent on dying here...
He was close now, very close, and Ginny was engulfed and drunk with his very presence. Rum chocolate...
He pressed in, his chest against hers, his big hands finding her small ones and covering them, bringing them up above her head. She couldn't offer any resistance--didn't want to--she was so caught up in him.
Might I taste the candy before it's all gone?
His words reflected her thoughts, voice deep and thick with something she couldn't identify. His forehead came to rest against hers, his silver eyes, so like the aluminum on Ginny's favorite candy bar, wiped out as he closed them, his straight, aristocratic nose brushing hers.
She could taste his breath, and she kept her eyes open, watching in awe his fluttering eyelashes, her nose working furiously to inhale all of him...Oh, it was all so good, so, so good.
But it wasn't enough.
His soft lips caught hers in a tender kiss, his tongue snaking out to taste her bottom lip and request entry to the depths within. Ginny was like a deer in the headlights--she had no idea how to respond to his gentleness, but she opened her mouth and it felt strangely as if a torrent of warm, sweet caramel chocolate had just gushed into her mouth.
It was sweet, and oh so good. She was really lost now; lost in the dungeons, lost in this kiss, but most of all lost in him.
It wasn't enough, either.
She didn't know how, but in her drunken state she'd been carried off to the Room of Requirement. What they'd required in those moments, apart from each other, was lost on Ginny, but not on her eager companion.
A bed, candles, warm melted chocolate and caramel, all perfect for the long night of sticky, messy, but utterly perfectly satisfying want.
Virginity was forgotten. Ginny didn't care about saving herself for marriage, because for some reason she couldn't fathom, she knew it wouldn't matter either way. This desire was primal and all-consuming; she was out of her right mind.
When she'd woken, he was sleeping, and it was late. It didn't matter, though, because it was a Saturday, and so she'd lain there, perfectly comfortable in his slumbering presence, as she'd been the night before when he was awake and so intensely passionate it had almost burned her to look him in the eyes. She'd lazily ran a finger along his broad shoulder, finding it sticky, and when she'd licked it, it'd had tasted of caramel. She smiled to herself when he rolled over, silver eyes flashing in sweet memory.
Morning.
I'm not frozen to death.
No, miraculously. Right now I have the inkling that you're very warm indeed.
She was, oh how she was. His arm, sticky and sweaty and covered in whatever yummy substance they'd had last night, slung over her, and she was again lost in that lovely rum chocolate smell that was all him.
How did the candy taste?
Very good. I think I should like to taste it more often.
Ginny had giggled as he'd smiled softly.
And she'd left the room hoping he would, indeed, get to taste it more often.
He hadn't. That had been one night and only one night. Ginny didn't know what she'd expected afterwards, but whatever it was, it hadn't been the unsure, tense silences whenever they passed each other in the halls, the obvious discontent she saw in his eyes when ever they settled on her, only to be quickly removed.
She sometimes doubted whether or not he wanted her again, wanted her the way she so longed for him.
So she would sit beneath her tree, quietly, unobtrusively, every single day she could, and hope.
She would pine for him. Her heart would be heavy and set, her eyes closed as she dreamed about their union, and she would make love to him with her mind, hoping that some how he would be doing the same with her, in his mind. She wished on every drop of blood out of her heart, to have him again, if just for one more night, but really, really for the rest of her life.
He was her candy, her sweetness, her pleasurable temptation; something she longed for even after it was gone, the taste still faintly lingering on her tongue, teasing her. And she, though she didn't know for sure, was his candy. A little bit of something forbidden, but something he wanted just as badly as her--needed as if it were vital for survival.
No matter how absurd; candy.
The year had passed so fast, and she found herself on the eve of Valentine's Day, sitting beneath her tree, as usual. Her eyes were shut, her mind, naturally, elsewhere, so she didn't hear the heavy male footsteps march confidently up to her.
Weasley?
She relived the night that had started it all.
Malfoy.
She wasn't thinking, but she didn't care who it was.
Lost?
Her eyes remained shut.
Yes.
There was a moment of silence before the person settled down beside her, a familiar, drunkening smell surrounding her pleasantly.
Where?
Her eyes fluttered open, and she eyed the person next to her. Her lips twitched upwards into a smile as her eyes met silver ones.
In you.
Author's Note: Not the story I'd intended it to be, but nonetheless...R&R.