Fic: Practice (Ron/Ginny)
To: crazylittleme
From: nightfalltwen


Title: Practice
Author: nightfalltwen (fic journal)
Recipient's name: crazylittleme
Rating: NC17
Pairing(s): Ron/Ginny
Warnings: Light very temporary bondage, incest.
Author's notes: I hope you like it. I tried to include both requests but the characters didn't cooperate.

***

It's only practice.

Ginny, almost twelve, sits on Ron's bed with her legs crossed beneath her and knees digging into the Cannons blanket that is half falling off the mattress onto the floor. On his wall poster, the team seeker flies around near her elbow waving prettily from his broom right where the corner of the paper curls up from the tack holding it up. Ginny hates this poster. She thinks all the players need good haircuts.

Ron, thirteen, sits across from her. He flicks his finger against the poster on the wall. The Seeker makes a face and turns his broom to chase the snitch somewhere off the edge of the paper. Ron is glad he's gone. He doesn't need the distraction.

The door is locked. Mum has gone to get some things from the market in the village and they only have a few minutes before she gets home. Ginny shifts nervously on the mattress and pretends to fluff her hair. She then proceeds to bite her thumbnail. She's worried this will change something. But she's not quite sure what.

"You're making me feel bad." Ron says, eyeing her.

Ginny drops her hand to her lap. "Sorry."

"If you don't want to . . . " He offers her an escape.

But Ginny wants to. She wants to know and she's pretty sure he wants to know too. It makes sense that they just test it out between the two of them. Make sure they have the process down and understood.

She shakes her head. "No. I'm fine." She smiles. "It's just for practice."

He gives her a lopsided grin and leans forward. A skeptical look falters across his face. "You're not going to tell anyone, are you?" He doesn't give her a chance to answer, but somewhere in the back of his head he knows that she won't tell. There wouldn't be a reason for it.

Ginny is Ron's first kiss, her tasting of lemons and him tasting of tiger-tail ice cream from the village. They bump noses and bump foreheads and Ron's hands stay firmly on his thighs because he's not going to touch her. This is for information. Technique. So it only makes sense for her to be his second, third and fourth kiss as well. And so on. And so forth.

It's only practice after all.

By the end of the summer, Ron and Ginny feel confident in their knowledge. Ron's sure he's not too sloppy. Ginny has to be wrong about the tongue thing because she made that little squeak once and it was a good sound. Not to mention finally sussing out which way they were to tilt their heads so they didn't bonk together.

Ginny is glad to have Ron and he is glad to have her. There's no one else who he could have asked to help him.

*

It's only practice.

Ginny, not yet sixteen, sits on the edge of the prefect tub, legs dangling in the water. Her hair is curling up and starting to frizz from the steam of the room. The mermaid sleeps on from the safety of her painting, which Ginny finds utterly amazing because she and Ron are not discussing things in hushed tones.

"If you don't touch them, you're never going to know what to do when Hermione finally lets you put those hands up her shirt, you great git." Six years of school and she wonders if her brother will actually learn one day that Hermione doesn't want him the way he wants her, but she doesn't point that out to him. She thinks hope is something everyone needs.

Ginny undoes the last button on her blouse; it hangs open, fabric clinging to her curves.

Ron shoots a glare at her comment about Hermione, but finally relents. When she shrugs off the blouse, he can't help but stare. It's the first time he's seen her without a shirt on since before she started to develop. Breasts. His baby sister has breasts. Pert and freckled, tipped with dusky pink nipples. They aren't like the breasts he's seen in George's Playwizard mag. She is quite a bit smaller than the witches that winked back from the glossy pages, but in a way they seem just right.

Dry-mouthed, he reaches a hand out and a drop of water falls from his thumb, hitting her. For a moment the bead of water just sits there, sparkling as though it had found exactly where it wanted to be. Then it starts to slip down between her breasts, leaving a tiny streak across her skin.

He touches her then, cups her breast in his hand, testing out the weight of it. First the left, then the right. He wonders briefly about breasts, about their purpose and how they grow. All of these things he doesn't really understand, but there is the opportunity for some deep thinking on the subject and he'll dwell on it later. For now he is content to explore.

She makes a little sound, like a gasp when his fingers twitch over her nipples. To his surprise -- he didn't know they did this -- the nipples get harder. Like little rocks beneath the rough pads of his fingertips. He looks up at her face. Her eyes are half closed and her lips are parted; he can see the tip of her tongue pushing at the edge of her teeth. His movements are making her react. More importantly, the expression, the bliss on her face is making him react.

This is very important. This is where it changes.

Ron isn't thinking with the big brain anymore. He's newly seventeen and it's no surprise, really. Standing waist deep in the water of the Prefect bath with her knees on either side of his waist, he leans forward and takes Ginny's left nipple into his mouth. He doesn't know much about eckeltricity but there is a jolt that spirals down his spine and below the water. A soft moan echoes in the bathroom. Ginny squirms and threads her fingers into his hair, her heels find their way to the small of his back, pulling him a bit closer. Ron hisses a protest around her breast, his hips against the tile to cause some uncomfortable pressure.

"Not so tight," he whispers, muffled.

Ginny tries to understand where the fire has suddenly come from. She doesn't know why her skin is burning and why she can't seem to decide whether she wants him to stop because the sensation is too much or continue because the sensation isn't enough. His lips move to the right side of her body, the tip of his tongue flicking slowly across her skin and a Quidditch-roughened hand slides across the newly abandoned breast. She stills his fingers with hers. He lets go of her nipple, the nub of flesh pulling from his lips with a soft pop.

She wants to show him something.

"Just for practice," she murmurs and presses his hand to the milk-white skin of her inner thigh, higher and higher until his fingers nudge against the damp fabric between her thighs. Ron meets her eyes and she can feel his laboured breath against her skin and when Ginny guides his fingers under the elastic of her knickers to slide over her slick flesh, he stops. Stops breathing, stops focussing, stops moving. He just stops.

She shows him how deep he can go and the kinds of sounds she will make when his thumb finds that hard little bump and her body squeezes his digits, squeezes and pulls and it's wrong and right and terrible and wonderful and oh, oh, oh, oh.

His head falls down to her shoulder and she cradles it against her, breathing in tandem with him.

*

"You don't look at me like you used to." Ginny sits back to back with Ron so she can feel him breathe.

Ron pulls at blades of grass, pinching them beneath his fingernails. Green stains mark his hands. He still remembers the night in the Prefect's bath those few months ago. He can still feel her slick heat on his fingers, lips and tongue and the delicious way she shook beneath his touch. He remembers how it made his heart pound and how he wanted to keep touching her and exploring her there in the bath forever and ever.

It shouldn't mean so much. He shouldn't want . . .

Summer is nearly at an end. Her sixteenth birthday has come and gone. She will be going back to school and he will be leaving with Harry and Hermione to search for the last of the Horcruxes. He knows that this might be the end of everything. She hasn't said as much but he's certain she thinks the same thing.

"It's different now," he says.

"It's not." Ginny pushes herself up off the ground and moves around to stand in front of him. "It was only practice."

She turns and walks barefooted back to the house; her sundress ripples around her thighs.

*

Ron tosses on his bed, unable to sleep in the summer-heated darkness of his bedroom. He throws the orange Cannon's blanket onto the floor and lies spread eagle on the sheets, fabric clinging to his skin. He hears her moving down the corridor, her steps so distinct from the heavy thumps of his Dad or the tired shuffle of his Mum. The door pushes open and he doesn't lift his head. He waits. Expectant.

"I don't mean to push." She whispers. The mattress sags near his feet, the lace hem of her nightgown tickling his ankle.

"Do you know how hard this is?" He stares at the mottled ceiling, shadows fluttering across a long crack in the plaster. Ginny curls up beside him, arm over his chest, a gentle kiss upon his shoulder.

She knows.

So she makes it easy for him. Ribbons encircle his wrists. They're blue and have little yellow ducks marching along the length of them. He remembers those ribbons from when she was four, duck bows at the ends of her long plaits. He'll never be able to look at these ribbons the same way again as they drag his arms above his head, tying tight enough to keep him still but loose enough that he won't get hurt. A quick spell to the door and to the plaster of the walls makes the room soundproof. Ron knows the spell, he's used it before when he wanked and didn't want Mum to find out. The room feels cotton-thick, even the air.

Ginny pulls off her nightgown. Not that she had to. The threadbare fabric was barely a whisper on her body. But she does it anyway and, perching naked beside him, slides her hand down his stomach and into his shorts, cool fingers wrapping around his hardening cock.

He jumps. Cold fingers will do that.

"I've never done this before," she murmurs; her hand begins to move.

"I hope to hell you haven't," Ron squeaks in an undignified manner, but he still wonders where she's learned it.

And that.

Oh god . . .

He lifts his head too look, her lips around the head of his cock, and he can feel, feel with every nerve ending in his body, the tip of her tongue reaching out to him, tasting him, driving him bloody insane. And he's seventeen. It doesn't take much. A few strokes and the gentle -- why is she being so gentle? -- sucking of her mouth and the top of his skull is about to break apart.

"Ginny." He tries to warn her. "Gins . . . Gin. . . I'm . . . I'm . . . " But it all escapes his lips in a garbled mess of syllables and near-shouting, his back arching against the mattress all taut and shaking.

Ginny makes a gurgled sound, swallowing most, but turns her head away too quickly and feels come hit her hair in spots. She feels badly for Ron, she didn't want him to be embarrassed. Her eyes search out his but find a dazed expression. He's not drifted back to earth just yet. She smiles and presses a soft kiss to his stomach, her fingertips drawing lazy lines up and down the skin of his half-hard cock.

Ron catches his breath. "Untie me Gins . . . you shouldn't . . . It shouldn't just be me."

For the first time in many years Ginny listens to him and does what he says, mostly due to the hungry look he is giving her, but somewhat due to the reasoning that she never listens to him any other time so just this once she'll let him win. Though she doesn't think she will lose in the long run. She plucks the knots and the duck ribbons end up on the floor at the head of the bed. He doesn't spare a moment and Ginny finds herself beneath him.

He kisses her nose, her lips, the hollow of her throat and each nipple. It's gentle and caring and suddenly Ginny realises that they're making love. She never pictured it like this. She wanted the lips against her bellybutton to be someone . . . Harry maybe? But someone that she was in love with. Ron couldn't ever be that person for her. And yet . . .

She's never thought about being with someone else. Not like this.

Ron's hands move her legs apart and she feels the warmth of his breath against the soft skin of her inner thighs. And when his mouth, oh . . . his mouth. Ginny arches her back, head pushing into the thin pillow and fingers fisting in the sheets on either side of her hips. She didn't know it could be like this. The night in the bath wasn't like this. That was good. This is extraordinary. She can hear every beat of her heart as it thumps, fa-wump, ba-bump, duh-dump. She pictures he can feel her pulse and is timing the swipes of his tongue with her heart-rate. Up, down, up-down, down-up. She gasps and pinches her eyes shut.

The tip of his tongue circles her clit and from out of nowhere, which seems silly because she's almost certain she knew that they were resting on her knees to hold her legs apart before. . . in any case . . . his finger slides against her flesh, circling her entrance before slipping inside. She's pushed her own fingers in and out of herself before, but this is completely different. He pushes deeper.

"More," she hears herself asking.

Ron lifts his head, eyes dark and lips shiny. His finger wriggles a bit and she catches a impish glint in his expression. His voice is deep, a thrum that stirs inside her stomach. "How much more?"

The words don't come from her lips. As much as she tries they stick in the back of her throat. She reaches down and cups her hands under his jaw with a soft tug to pull him up and on top of her. No struggle. No hesitation and his hips fit absolutely perfectly against hers. There's a moment just before everything happens where she wants to say what she's feeling, tell him she loves him just before they carry on, but he presses inside, his cock sliding easily into her, maidenhead gone years earlier to preteen exploration that she has never mentioned to anyone else.

Ron drops a kiss on her shoulder and waits. He was told once by Fred or George or Seamus or someone that a girl needs a bit of time to adjust on their first time. So he waits and listens to her little noises. How long should he wait? Does he need to ask? What is she doing with her muscles?

"Ron," Ginny hisses, her hands curling around his waist to grip his backside. "Don't lie there like a dead fish."

He meets her eyes and shoots off a mock glare, opening his mouth to retort, but she rolls her hips up against him and his eyes cross. Guess she didn't need much time.

He starts to move, awkward at first; they don't seem to move quite in sync with each other. Finally he just grabs her hips and holds her down to keep her from helping. Which she wasn't. He presses her into the mattress, thrusting deeper, his movements making the bed frame protest loudly. There will be marks on her hips when this is over. She's always bruised so easily. The push and pull of his body against hers is like nothing he's ever experienced. So different from when she slid her fingers over him or even the scant minutes before when she toyed with him using her mouth. It's hotter, wetter, more wonderful.

Ginny squirms. She wants to pull her knees up, curl her legs around him, she wants to do something besides just letting him fuck her, drive her downward. Her fingers leave his arse and walk around his ribs until they climb up the flat expanse of his chest. She pinches his nipples between her thumbs and forefingers, heart jumping at the gasp that he makes. Then something changes. This pressure building inside. She wonders if he's filling her up with air each time he pushes inside and very nearly giggles at the idea that her womb is blowing up like a balloon. His hand releases her hip and slides over her thigh, pulling her leg up a bit higher, changing angles, and Ginny doesn't feel like giggling anymore.

"Oh God…" Neither one of them is sure who said that.

Ginny grabs his hand and manages to wedge it between their bodies, his fingers guided back to that little nub that made her sob with pleasure before.

"Ron, touch me."

He tries. His hand is twisted and he can only manage to flick the knuckle of his middle finger against her. But it does the trick and soon she's nearly writhing, her eyes pinched shut and lips parted and Ron has never seen anything so beautiful as the cluster of freckles that are gathered between her breasts.

Ginny comes first and the sheer intensity of it catches her so off guard that she screams, giving the charms in the walls a workout. Every nerve ending, every synapse in her body is alive and she bucks against him with spasms. She can feel the edges of the world and likes to think she can feel how everything is connected to something else.

With a throaty shout he explodes within her, thrusting and coming and shaking all at once. He pushes deep and holds her tight against him until it's over. Gasping for oxygen and kissing her and wanting it to last forever.

Both their eyes are closed. The sounds now are the two of them. The buh-dump of their hearts and the inhalation and exhalation of breath. This is more than practice and more than love and more than a secret relationship. They'll think about those things in the morning when the world comes in to tear them apart with harsh reality.

For now, it is just for them.

And it's perfect.

***

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