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firewhiskeyficTitle: Believer
Author:lq_traintracks
I am of legal drinking age in my region: I’m of legal drinking age in ANY region.
Pairing(s)/Characters: Ginny (also, Ginny/Pansy)
Challenge: Ginny Weasley, Rogue Bludger (???), Bat-Bogey Hex, Stormy Weather
Summary: Ginny’s a survivor. She’s a believer.
Rating/Warnings: R for some butt fucking y’all. (Also 2nd person.)
Word count: 2,500 (ish)
Author's Notes (if any): I’m not sure what I’ve done here. (Except that Imagine Dragons’ song is responsible for both the title and the idea for this fic. Also, apologies to authors Lauren Groff and Jesmyn Ward for using their last names; they’re just the ones that came to me. ;P <3 )
They always believed in him. Well, not all of them. And not all the time. But mostly. He earned it. He never wanted it. Not like you want this.
His was destiny, prophecy, pain.
Yours is sweat. Blood.
He bled too of course. Everyone you know has bled.
But for you...
It’s six hours on your broom, six days a week. And then it’s more. Sore muscles, swollen tendons, blisters on your palms, callouses decorating the tips of your fingers. You used to practise holding the Quaffle bare-handed, back before your mum could afford the good gloves. No hand-me-downs for you. They all got ruined by the time they got to Ron. Before.
You’ve had to scrap for all of it. The brooms, the shin-guards, the air time, the respect.
You don’t complain. No matter what your brothers say. No matter always being in someone’s shadow: Charlie’s, Harry’s, all of them. You’ve kept your mouth shut. You’ve played.
Nobody gave a shit for a long time, and you can’t blame them. The last thing on your mind sixth year was Quidditch. No longer smearing balm on your blisters, you touched them gently onto the face of a third year who had the gall to talk back to a Carrow. You soothed them onto your own bruises when you couldn’t resist a Bat-Bogey and they came for you, not with wands but fists.
Quidditch would only have been useful then for the brooms. To shove up their arses. To beat them with. To set a bonfire and raze them to the ground.
To light a signal fire and lead them back: Harry, Hermione… Ron. To tell them to either come save you all—or to warn them away. Don’t come back here. It’s hell. Save yourselves.
You thought you’d lost it forever, Quidditch. In the black of night, the cold, all of you clumped together like a pack of dogs for body-heat: Neville, Luna, Dean, Seamus, Parvati, Padma, you… You would dream of it, the shift of the shaft between your thighs, wind wicking your hair from your face, goggles foggy with hard breath and then cleared by the sun. You dreamed it. Until the nightmares came. Until reality came.
You thought you’d lost the joy, the release, of Quidditch.
But you lost George. George. And it crushed you. Worse, her pain, your mum’s. The vacancy where your father’s smile used to reside. Merlin, Fred’s.
Fred’s pain at losing him was like a deep pit in every room, an unlightable darkness. An albatross you all wore.
But then...
Instead of nothing, Quidditch became everthing.
The first time you ppicked up a broom after the war, it was a dusty Comet, the magic half shot to hell. It was perfect. Just you, alone, in a field north of the Burrow. Silence. So much silence after the blasts of magic, the crash of stone, the screams of pain and suffering. His voice in your head.
It was you and the summer sky, waving of heat evaporating as you rose into the curve of the earth, the dizzying limitation: you or gravity, the stratosphere calling like a siren.
And the guilt. The guilt that it still felt good. Effortlessly so. That you could shed it all like a cloak. Even while Harry holed himself up in Grimmauld with that nasty house-elf and baked goods Owled from your mum, a visit from Hermione and Ron, from, of all people, Malfoy. But otherwise dust. Curtains drawn. A closed-in-ness you never could have accepted.
He’s come out of it, of course. A few months and he’s mended enough. No credit to you. You went separate ways before you voiced it. Before the day he left to hunt Horcruxes. Well before if you’re honest. You’ve always like the look of a pair of tits tucked tight into a crisp white shirt, Hogwarts tie slinking down between.
And Harry. Well. You’re under no illusions about what finally coaxed him free of his own anguish. A pureblood git with ‘Death Eater’ stamped on his arm even after his heart’s changed.
You’re all changed. You’re not idiot enough not to get that.
You get it.
You get that everyone survives how they survive.
And your way is—always had been—to fly.
The wind burns your cheeks, the rain like a whip, freezing every cell of flesh that remains uncovered.
Fuck these night games. You think it. But then you redact it. Because it’s bullshit. You love this. The pain of the sleet slapping your face, the burn of your muscles five hours in. Five fucking hours. This is what you live for. This is why you made it. Otherwise you might have held out your arms and invited the AK.
It’s this.
This.
Groff is after you with the Bludger, his Beater bat swinging insolently—and you’ve got the Quaffle clutched to your side like a baby, its weight and importance tucked against your ribs, knuckles aching to hold it as you circle the pitch so wide you almost crash into the bleachers.
A look behind you and it’s not just Groff now, it’s Ward. And they’re batting the Bludger between them like it’s a game. It is a game, a fact you rfrequntly forget. Because it’s war to you. Fucked up as that is, it’s bloody war. It’s Voldemort controlling your mind. It’s your brother’s arm severed off in a forest. It’s the amputation of George. The word ‘bitch’ from your mother’s mouth, some sacrilege that shocks you into belated, guilty respect.
Fuck Groff. Fuck Ward. They think they can best you. It doesn’t even occur to them that they won’t. Harpies be damned, Quidditch is a boys’ game after all. It’s testicle sweat and testosterone.
Fuck. Them.
Fuck all of them.
You eye the distance to the hoops. Jet a glance at your Seeker, within reach. You can have this. You do. Have this. You believe it.
They always believed in him.
You believed in yourself.
Swerve to the right, hard. Thighs clinging, burning. (Five hours. Five bloody hours.) Ward falls off his broom with the force of the turn. Groff just manages. You check quickly. Rodrigez has the Snitch; you can tell by the eruption of the crowd. It’s time.
You draw back. Your left arm. It’s a bad angle. The rain slants hard over your line of sight. The Keeper hovers there like a gargoyle.
Fuck him.
Fuck ALL of them.
You pull back, throw it. It shoots past his save, hits the goal post… spins, the water flying off its battered leather. It banks and falls into the abyss.
The crowd explodes. As powerful as a symphony. As a rock concert.
As winning a war.
Except that that is as quiet, as shocked, as death. This is life. This is blood well spent.
This is lightning exploding the darkness bright.
All your breath leaves your body.
You’re alive.
There’s a fry-up after. At Harry’s.
It makes you happy to see him, to know he was in the stands those five fucking hours. To see Malfoy sticking close. They have matching tattoos, you’ve noticed. Lotuses, you think. Malfoy’s covers his Dark Mark. A flower growing out of shit. If that isn’t poetic as all fuck. Harry’s over his heart. You’ve seen in when you accidentally intruded on the Arrows’ showers, the Harpies having been full.
You didn’t tattoo yourself. You just cut all your hair off. All of you look different. Luna dresses exclusively in camouflage and combat boots; Seamus is frequently in his kilt, Dean by his side in perpetual Muggle-wear. Neville looks like a goddamned underwear model.
You… are shorn. You like the feel of it under your hand, under a woman’s. Under hers.
“Eggs are burnt,” you complain to Harry.
“Are not,” says Draco. They’re not his eggs; they’re Harry’s.
“Harry can fight his own battle,” you say.
“Fuck that,” says Draco, a kiss on Harry’s cheek as he continues to spatula more over-done eggs and bac onto people’s plates.
You don’t argue. Harry’s had enough of making perfect goddamn eggs. Of everything, as far as you’re concerend.
You eat your eggs with the thin layer of brown crust. You’re grateful. Or if not grateful, tolerant.
After. Drinks in hand. Music on the wireless, people lounging. She catches your eye across the drawing room. First time tonight, though you know she was there in the stands. Pansy Parkinson does not sit in Quidditch bleachers for a full game, much less one in the chilling rain… one that lasts five hours. But she’s here. She’s looking at you. And it’s Jane bloody Eyre. Stolen glances amidst a room full of people ignorant of the way your pussy gets wet for her. She lifts a martini glass with three speared olives to her full mouth—amd it makes you fucking thirsty.
Third floor. That’s the best place. You’re not the first if the moans from next door are wizards rather than ghouls. Dean and Seamus, most likely. It’s a quick bang into the wall; they’re like rabbits.
You get her positioned over the foot of the bed. You’ve strapped on: big, purple dildo slick with warm lube and the liberal cream from between her thighs. You push it into her arse.
Thank fuck Pansy Parkinson likes it up the arse. You’ve wanted to do this since you saw her sway it into the Leaky six months ago, a sleek black dress clinging desperately to her curves. Her arse was made for fucking.
A whimpered moan, and you reach around, gathering the new slick, and start going on her clit, slamming your cock into her from behind.
“Oh god, oh god, oh GOD!” she cries.
You grab her supple hips, start yanking her back. It’s a miracle your thighs are up for this. But you’ve always had it in you, that last spell, that Reducto, waiting like Fate at the tip of your wand. That last half hour of flying the pitch. That push, push push, between a beautiful woman’s thighs.
“Shit, Gin, I’m coming,” Pansy breathes. And you wish you could feel it… the convulsions around your intruding cock. You feel it under your fingers through. And that’s, maybe, better. Like reaching the conclusion of Mozart’s concerto for two pianos, the furious tickle under your fingers—when you thought your hands had gone numb from cold and wet and gripping the Quaffle like it was your life.
It’s enough to send you over. And you close your eyes, thrusting into her. Into her.
Into her.
Slouched into couches, the fire dying down. Some slow song drowsing on the Wireless. Three-quarters of the guests gone home. Your body’s aching. Heart tired.
Harry’s in an armchair by the window, Draco perched on the arm, a lazy hand through his hair. You could go to sleep watching the beautiful rhythm of it.
“Chocolate?” Ron asks, holding a box aloft.
“Are those Fred’s?” Harry asks.
“O’course,” is Ron’s answer.
“Then fuck no,” Harry laughs.
You all do. A little bit.
You meet Parkinson’s gaze. She’s on a cushion on the floor, near the fire. Her hair’s messed up.
I did that, you think. When you fisted it.
She’s beautiful.
But you’re not a thing. Not unless fucking six times is a thing. You wonder if you could be. And then you stop wondering. Because you’re not there yet. In a way none of you are. Not even the ones whoi are pretending with al their might.
Still. She’s bloody gorgeous. Just looking at her mouth, your cunt clenches.
The night drags on, safe and cosy. Hermione and Ron retire to one of the second floor bedrooms. Their fingers link as they ascend the stairs.
Malfoy falls asleep in Harry’s lap. The fire dies to embers, a crackling here and there.
You weigh the vertigo of the Floo network with the vulnerability og crashing.
“Let;s go to Dover tomorrow,” Neville says suddenly,
“What?” three different people ask.
“Dover,” Neveille asserts. “Like… the castles, the cliffs… something.”
There’s a silence, a potential. You all look at each other.
“Alright,” Harry says, a shrug waking Draco momonetarly.
“Sure,” says Seamus, barely awake now.
You glance at Pansy. She’s already looking at you. You shrug. “Why not?”
Harry stands, upending Draco. He waves a hand, yawning, and mattresses sprawl across the floor. The fire resurges. “I’m off,” he says. “Dover tomorrow.”
Malfoy will be the one making the coffee, you know. They stumble from the room, arm in arm, steps too heavy on the stairs. A snicker from Harry at something Malfoy;’s said. A full blown laugh at the next.
You look at Pansy across the room.
There’s an empty matress. An inviting pillow.
“I’ll meet you tomorrow,” you say, rising from your chair.
You meet her eyes again before you Floo home. She’s leaned back on her cushion, her dress pooled between her thighs. You imagine lying on top of her, her legs accepting you, her breath warm on your neck.
Maybe in Dover.
“Goodnight,” you say.
You Floo to your flat, the queitof it enveloping you. There’s still a part of you ringing with the thunder of applause. The fiver hours of rain-battered strife. You take it to bed withyou, stripping off your clothes like armour on the way, littering the hall with the remnants of war.
In the bed, you curl up with soft down, with a darkness so sweet you thought you’d never be enfolded in it again. Its cotton wombs you. You breathe in, the vanilla of the sheets, the fresh of rosemary lulling you.
The blood is still shed. The sweat has swirled down the drain. The trauma lives in the back of your mind. He’s there. Here and there. He’s there. He lives. But barely. Like the shrivelled thing for which Harry felt pity. In the folds of a long-withered book.
It’s all there, alive in you. Banked in you. Overpowered by you.
It’s there. And some people may still believe in it. Believe in its sick atrophy. In its delusions.
But not you.
Never you.
Not ever again.
You believe in wind. In the thrust of the broom. In the grip you have, every night, on the Quaffle.
You believe in whatever happens next.
In you.
You believe in you.
Author:
lq_traintracksI am of legal drinking age in my region: I’m of legal drinking age in ANY region.
Pairing(s)/Characters: Ginny (also, Ginny/Pansy)
Challenge: Ginny Weasley, Rogue Bludger (???), Bat-Bogey Hex, Stormy Weather
Summary: Ginny’s a survivor. She’s a believer.
Rating/Warnings: R for some butt fucking y’all. (Also 2nd person.)
Word count: 2,500 (ish)
Author's Notes (if any): I’m not sure what I’ve done here. (Except that Imagine Dragons’ song is responsible for both the title and the idea for this fic. Also, apologies to authors Lauren Groff and Jesmyn Ward for using their last names; they’re just the ones that came to me. ;P <3 )
They always believed in him. Well, not all of them. And not all the time. But mostly. He earned it. He never wanted it. Not like you want this.
His was destiny, prophecy, pain.
Yours is sweat. Blood.
He bled too of course. Everyone you know has bled.
But for you...
It’s six hours on your broom, six days a week. And then it’s more. Sore muscles, swollen tendons, blisters on your palms, callouses decorating the tips of your fingers. You used to practise holding the Quaffle bare-handed, back before your mum could afford the good gloves. No hand-me-downs for you. They all got ruined by the time they got to Ron. Before.
You’ve had to scrap for all of it. The brooms, the shin-guards, the air time, the respect.
You don’t complain. No matter what your brothers say. No matter always being in someone’s shadow: Charlie’s, Harry’s, all of them. You’ve kept your mouth shut. You’ve played.
Nobody gave a shit for a long time, and you can’t blame them. The last thing on your mind sixth year was Quidditch. No longer smearing balm on your blisters, you touched them gently onto the face of a third year who had the gall to talk back to a Carrow. You soothed them onto your own bruises when you couldn’t resist a Bat-Bogey and they came for you, not with wands but fists.
Quidditch would only have been useful then for the brooms. To shove up their arses. To beat them with. To set a bonfire and raze them to the ground.
To light a signal fire and lead them back: Harry, Hermione… Ron. To tell them to either come save you all—or to warn them away. Don’t come back here. It’s hell. Save yourselves.
You thought you’d lost it forever, Quidditch. In the black of night, the cold, all of you clumped together like a pack of dogs for body-heat: Neville, Luna, Dean, Seamus, Parvati, Padma, you… You would dream of it, the shift of the shaft between your thighs, wind wicking your hair from your face, goggles foggy with hard breath and then cleared by the sun. You dreamed it. Until the nightmares came. Until reality came.
You thought you’d lost the joy, the release, of Quidditch.
But you lost George. George. And it crushed you. Worse, her pain, your mum’s. The vacancy where your father’s smile used to reside. Merlin, Fred’s.
Fred’s pain at losing him was like a deep pit in every room, an unlightable darkness. An albatross you all wore.
But then...
Instead of nothing, Quidditch became everthing.
The first time you ppicked up a broom after the war, it was a dusty Comet, the magic half shot to hell. It was perfect. Just you, alone, in a field north of the Burrow. Silence. So much silence after the blasts of magic, the crash of stone, the screams of pain and suffering. His voice in your head.
It was you and the summer sky, waving of heat evaporating as you rose into the curve of the earth, the dizzying limitation: you or gravity, the stratosphere calling like a siren.
And the guilt. The guilt that it still felt good. Effortlessly so. That you could shed it all like a cloak. Even while Harry holed himself up in Grimmauld with that nasty house-elf and baked goods Owled from your mum, a visit from Hermione and Ron, from, of all people, Malfoy. But otherwise dust. Curtains drawn. A closed-in-ness you never could have accepted.
He’s come out of it, of course. A few months and he’s mended enough. No credit to you. You went separate ways before you voiced it. Before the day he left to hunt Horcruxes. Well before if you’re honest. You’ve always like the look of a pair of tits tucked tight into a crisp white shirt, Hogwarts tie slinking down between.
And Harry. Well. You’re under no illusions about what finally coaxed him free of his own anguish. A pureblood git with ‘Death Eater’ stamped on his arm even after his heart’s changed.
You’re all changed. You’re not idiot enough not to get that.
You get it.
You get that everyone survives how they survive.
And your way is—always had been—to fly.
The wind burns your cheeks, the rain like a whip, freezing every cell of flesh that remains uncovered.
Fuck these night games. You think it. But then you redact it. Because it’s bullshit. You love this. The pain of the sleet slapping your face, the burn of your muscles five hours in. Five fucking hours. This is what you live for. This is why you made it. Otherwise you might have held out your arms and invited the AK.
It’s this.
This.
Groff is after you with the Bludger, his Beater bat swinging insolently—and you’ve got the Quaffle clutched to your side like a baby, its weight and importance tucked against your ribs, knuckles aching to hold it as you circle the pitch so wide you almost crash into the bleachers.
A look behind you and it’s not just Groff now, it’s Ward. And they’re batting the Bludger between them like it’s a game. It is a game, a fact you rfrequntly forget. Because it’s war to you. Fucked up as that is, it’s bloody war. It’s Voldemort controlling your mind. It’s your brother’s arm severed off in a forest. It’s the amputation of George. The word ‘bitch’ from your mother’s mouth, some sacrilege that shocks you into belated, guilty respect.
Fuck Groff. Fuck Ward. They think they can best you. It doesn’t even occur to them that they won’t. Harpies be damned, Quidditch is a boys’ game after all. It’s testicle sweat and testosterone.
Fuck. Them.
Fuck all of them.
You eye the distance to the hoops. Jet a glance at your Seeker, within reach. You can have this. You do. Have this. You believe it.
They always believed in him.
You believed in yourself.
Swerve to the right, hard. Thighs clinging, burning. (Five hours. Five bloody hours.) Ward falls off his broom with the force of the turn. Groff just manages. You check quickly. Rodrigez has the Snitch; you can tell by the eruption of the crowd. It’s time.
You draw back. Your left arm. It’s a bad angle. The rain slants hard over your line of sight. The Keeper hovers there like a gargoyle.
Fuck him.
Fuck ALL of them.
You pull back, throw it. It shoots past his save, hits the goal post… spins, the water flying off its battered leather. It banks and falls into the abyss.
The crowd explodes. As powerful as a symphony. As a rock concert.
As winning a war.
Except that that is as quiet, as shocked, as death. This is life. This is blood well spent.
This is lightning exploding the darkness bright.
All your breath leaves your body.
You’re alive.
There’s a fry-up after. At Harry’s.
It makes you happy to see him, to know he was in the stands those five fucking hours. To see Malfoy sticking close. They have matching tattoos, you’ve noticed. Lotuses, you think. Malfoy’s covers his Dark Mark. A flower growing out of shit. If that isn’t poetic as all fuck. Harry’s over his heart. You’ve seen in when you accidentally intruded on the Arrows’ showers, the Harpies having been full.
You didn’t tattoo yourself. You just cut all your hair off. All of you look different. Luna dresses exclusively in camouflage and combat boots; Seamus is frequently in his kilt, Dean by his side in perpetual Muggle-wear. Neville looks like a goddamned underwear model.
You… are shorn. You like the feel of it under your hand, under a woman’s. Under hers.
“Eggs are burnt,” you complain to Harry.
“Are not,” says Draco. They’re not his eggs; they’re Harry’s.
“Harry can fight his own battle,” you say.
“Fuck that,” says Draco, a kiss on Harry’s cheek as he continues to spatula more over-done eggs and bac onto people’s plates.
You don’t argue. Harry’s had enough of making perfect goddamn eggs. Of everything, as far as you’re concerend.
You eat your eggs with the thin layer of brown crust. You’re grateful. Or if not grateful, tolerant.
After. Drinks in hand. Music on the wireless, people lounging. She catches your eye across the drawing room. First time tonight, though you know she was there in the stands. Pansy Parkinson does not sit in Quidditch bleachers for a full game, much less one in the chilling rain… one that lasts five hours. But she’s here. She’s looking at you. And it’s Jane bloody Eyre. Stolen glances amidst a room full of people ignorant of the way your pussy gets wet for her. She lifts a martini glass with three speared olives to her full mouth—amd it makes you fucking thirsty.
Third floor. That’s the best place. You’re not the first if the moans from next door are wizards rather than ghouls. Dean and Seamus, most likely. It’s a quick bang into the wall; they’re like rabbits.
You get her positioned over the foot of the bed. You’ve strapped on: big, purple dildo slick with warm lube and the liberal cream from between her thighs. You push it into her arse.
Thank fuck Pansy Parkinson likes it up the arse. You’ve wanted to do this since you saw her sway it into the Leaky six months ago, a sleek black dress clinging desperately to her curves. Her arse was made for fucking.
A whimpered moan, and you reach around, gathering the new slick, and start going on her clit, slamming your cock into her from behind.
“Oh god, oh god, oh GOD!” she cries.
You grab her supple hips, start yanking her back. It’s a miracle your thighs are up for this. But you’ve always had it in you, that last spell, that Reducto, waiting like Fate at the tip of your wand. That last half hour of flying the pitch. That push, push push, between a beautiful woman’s thighs.
“Shit, Gin, I’m coming,” Pansy breathes. And you wish you could feel it… the convulsions around your intruding cock. You feel it under your fingers through. And that’s, maybe, better. Like reaching the conclusion of Mozart’s concerto for two pianos, the furious tickle under your fingers—when you thought your hands had gone numb from cold and wet and gripping the Quaffle like it was your life.
It’s enough to send you over. And you close your eyes, thrusting into her. Into her.
Into her.
Slouched into couches, the fire dying down. Some slow song drowsing on the Wireless. Three-quarters of the guests gone home. Your body’s aching. Heart tired.
Harry’s in an armchair by the window, Draco perched on the arm, a lazy hand through his hair. You could go to sleep watching the beautiful rhythm of it.
“Chocolate?” Ron asks, holding a box aloft.
“Are those Fred’s?” Harry asks.
“O’course,” is Ron’s answer.
“Then fuck no,” Harry laughs.
You all do. A little bit.
You meet Parkinson’s gaze. She’s on a cushion on the floor, near the fire. Her hair’s messed up.
I did that, you think. When you fisted it.
She’s beautiful.
But you’re not a thing. Not unless fucking six times is a thing. You wonder if you could be. And then you stop wondering. Because you’re not there yet. In a way none of you are. Not even the ones whoi are pretending with al their might.
Still. She’s bloody gorgeous. Just looking at her mouth, your cunt clenches.
The night drags on, safe and cosy. Hermione and Ron retire to one of the second floor bedrooms. Their fingers link as they ascend the stairs.
Malfoy falls asleep in Harry’s lap. The fire dies to embers, a crackling here and there.
You weigh the vertigo of the Floo network with the vulnerability og crashing.
“Let;s go to Dover tomorrow,” Neville says suddenly,
“What?” three different people ask.
“Dover,” Neveille asserts. “Like… the castles, the cliffs… something.”
There’s a silence, a potential. You all look at each other.
“Alright,” Harry says, a shrug waking Draco momonetarly.
“Sure,” says Seamus, barely awake now.
You glance at Pansy. She’s already looking at you. You shrug. “Why not?”
Harry stands, upending Draco. He waves a hand, yawning, and mattresses sprawl across the floor. The fire resurges. “I’m off,” he says. “Dover tomorrow.”
Malfoy will be the one making the coffee, you know. They stumble from the room, arm in arm, steps too heavy on the stairs. A snicker from Harry at something Malfoy;’s said. A full blown laugh at the next.
You look at Pansy across the room.
There’s an empty matress. An inviting pillow.
“I’ll meet you tomorrow,” you say, rising from your chair.
You meet her eyes again before you Floo home. She’s leaned back on her cushion, her dress pooled between her thighs. You imagine lying on top of her, her legs accepting you, her breath warm on your neck.
Maybe in Dover.
“Goodnight,” you say.
You Floo to your flat, the queitof it enveloping you. There’s still a part of you ringing with the thunder of applause. The fiver hours of rain-battered strife. You take it to bed withyou, stripping off your clothes like armour on the way, littering the hall with the remnants of war.
In the bed, you curl up with soft down, with a darkness so sweet you thought you’d never be enfolded in it again. Its cotton wombs you. You breathe in, the vanilla of the sheets, the fresh of rosemary lulling you.
The blood is still shed. The sweat has swirled down the drain. The trauma lives in the back of your mind. He’s there. Here and there. He’s there. He lives. But barely. Like the shrivelled thing for which Harry felt pity. In the folds of a long-withered book.
It’s all there, alive in you. Banked in you. Overpowered by you.
It’s there. And some people may still believe in it. Believe in its sick atrophy. In its delusions.
But not you.
Never you.
Not ever again.
You believe in wind. In the thrust of the broom. In the grip you have, every night, on the Quaffle.
You believe in whatever happens next.
In you.
You believe in you.
no subject
Date: 2018-08-15 12:10 am (UTC)And the poetry of some of the individual lines! is beautiful! I had to read this one three times because I loved the sounds so much:
And I love love love the whole premise of the story, that Ginny's love of, and skill at Quidditch is the thing that heals her to the point where she can function again. That resonated so powerfully for me--not as sports per se, but in the sense that having a passion for something can be such a powerful saving grace in the midst of so much trauma and grief and pain.
and the smut! I didn't expect there to be any, and then when there was it was such a lovely cherry on top! slick with warm lube and the liberal cream from between her thighs. UNF
And I loved the "Let's go to Dover" suggestion for reasons I'm not sure i can articulate except that it's the kind of thing people that age do when they're in a group of friends who are all deeply bonded, and it felt very life-affirming that they were all going to go.
Beautiful fic! Can't wait to see it posted on AO3!
Oh, PS: Neville looks like a goddamned underwear model. LOLLLLLLLLLL I KNOW
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2018-08-15 06:18 am (UTC)I love how Ginny choose to live, to embrace her life and what she wants it to be and fuck them, FUCK THEM ALL. I love how she's grieving but living anyway. How she wants something with Pansy but knows she's not ready. I just love everything about it.
Gorgeous.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2018-08-15 05:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2018-08-16 06:50 pm (UTC)Dark and angsty and yet hopeful. And that line about Ginny reacting to hearling her mother say "bitch" was brilliant! OMG, what it says about their relationship is perfect.
Actually, all the relationship depictions here are brilliant.
Also, Luna in combat boots is now my headcanon. <3
Fabulous job!
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2018-08-17 03:27 pm (UTC)Sooooo, that out of the way, this is gorgeous. I loved the visuals, the visceral feel of Quidditch, of everyone a bit broken around the edges but trying. I love where Ginny and Pansy are in their relationship--still in the unknown really. Marvelously done.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2018-08-17 07:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2018-08-17 08:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2018-08-18 11:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-08-21 07:22 pm (UTC)