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hp_goldenage2021-03-06 10:57 am
hpgoldenage_mod) wrote in hp_goldenage2021-03-06 10:57 am
Entry tags:
Salt and Pepper Fest: Chasing the Sun
Title: Chasing the Sun
Author:![[archiveofourown.org profile]](https://p.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/-/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
sdk
Characters/Pairings: Ginny/Pansy, Ginny/Harry
Rating: R/Mature
Word Count: ~1500
Content/Warning(s): Infidelity/Adultery, Angst
Summary/Prompt: They don't touch like this. Not when they are themselves again, weathered with age, buried under the weight of regrets... the roads not taken. They don't touch anytime it's real.
A/N: Thanks so much to P and T for the beta! <3
Read at AO3 or below:
Ginny can't relax. The bed is too soft. The curtains too sheer, the light of the moon too bright against her eyes. A spread of black hair fans out on the pillow next to her, slowly peppering with grey. A glamour charm wearing off. Hers probably is as well, fine lines etching back around her eyes, her mouth. Her tits will be sagging a bit. The muscles of her arms and legs, finely honed from years on the broom, softening again from years of retirement.
It's a sad joke, the game they play. Pretending to be young. Like maybe this way, it doesn't count as an affair. Ginny takes herself back to a time when she was free and life before her was full of possibilities. She grabs that thrill of youth in both of her hands and what does she do with it?
She fucks Pansy Parkinson.
Ginny curls to her side. It's nearly half one. She never allows herself to stay this late. She's begging to be caught. But still, she makes no move to get up, instead stares at the line of Pansy's back, exposed from the sheets pushed down to her hips. Pansy always runs hot at night.
Ginny slides her palm across the space between them but stops short before she reaches Pansy's back. They don't touch like this. Not when they are themselves again, weathered with age, buried under the weight of regrets... the roads not taken. They don't touch anytime it's real.
"Are you staying?" Pansy's question surprises her. Ginny assumed she'd already fallen into slumber, but her voice is resoundingly clear with no trace of sleep. It also betrays nothing of how she wishes Ginny to answer. Yes or no. Is it all the same to her? Ginny knows Pansy's taste, the way she clenches her thighs when she trembles into her orgasm, how she worries her bottom lip with her teeth when she tries to stifle her moans.
But in this, Ginny is lost.
"I shouldn't."
And yet Ginny stays in the bed as the ache in her body returns, for no glamour can ever make youth real, and stares at Pansy's back for a silent hour. Eventually, she slips from the bed, dresses quietly in the corner, and flicks her wand at the ceiling fan to turn it on as she heads to the door.
With her hand on the knob, Ginny turns back to the bed. Pansy sighs in quiet contentment with the cool breeze glancing over her skin. It would be so easy to go back, spell the curtains dark and her side of the bed a little more firm. Press her palm against Pansy's warm back. Bury her face there.
Think about the consequences later... if ever.
Ginny takes a breath, turns, and shuts the door behind her.
Harry's in the kitchen when Ginny arrives home. She hears him puttering around, mugs clanking together. A late cuppa is her guess. Herbal tea, she hopes, or else it'll be a long night of trying to sleep with him tossing and turning next to her.
She puts her outer robes on the hook by the door and glances in the mirror. Her hand automatically reaches for her wand, a spell to fix her mussed hair at the ready, but she stops herself. Leaves her wand in its holster. Then she takes both her hands and messes up her hair further.
Fearful eyes meet her in the mirror. Her heart thumps faster, anxiety tightening her chest. She clenches her hands by her side until her jaw stiffens in resolve. Before she can talk herself out of it, she strides into the kitchen just in time for the kettle's whistle.
"Gin." Harry's eyes wrinkle in surprise. "I thought you might have stayed at the office."
Working late is a common excuse for her, though she usually makes it home before midnight. The Daily Prophet wants her gone; Harry knows this. Wants someone more youthful to take her place running the sports desk, but Ginny has too much seniority to sack without cause. That's why she puts in so many late hours, or so she tells Harry. It is true, but Ginny doesn't need to put this much overtime in to stave off another forced retirement.
Ginny often wonders if Pansy feels the same pressure, as a friendly drink at her desk after putting the weekend edition to bed is what started this whole thing. Pansy had invited her to a club aimed at witches and wizards less than half their age. Ginny had begged off, not wanting to feel like a doddering old mum with a bunch of kids, until Pansy had said, "We can always pretend. That's what magic is for, right? At least for tonight."
Ginny thinks of that night and heat rushes to her cheeks, a thrill skipping in her heart. But Harry hasn't noticed. He's busy grabbing another mug from the cupboard and pouring Ginny tea that she didn't ask for but would have said yes to had he enquired. They've been together so long, he doesn't need to ask. That familiarity should bring Ginny comfort; it sours her instead.
They sit at the small kitchen table, once stuffed with three kids who've all grown and left and started lives of their own. The youth that Ginny chases. She stares at her husband, his grey-streaked hair somehow still ruffled and boyish, even as he's grown only more distinguished with age. His smile makes him look twenty years younger, or more, she thinks, though it's been a while since she's seen it directed at her. Too long. He must notice it too.
"I wasn't working," Ginny manages to say. She meets his eyes over his mug of tea and waits for him to ask.
He doesn't.
Shouldn't he ask?
He breaks her gaze and ruffles through the Daily Prophet at the table, the morning edition, and only replies with a half-interested, "Oh?"
Shouldn't a husband want to know where his wife was until the wee hours of the morning? Irritation streaks through Ginny's body, fast and hot, the temper that comes so easily to her, that's caused so many shouting matches between them over the years. The rows, the fights… but they've settled down, haven't they? In these last few years, it's all become quite routine… Breakfast. Work. The nights spent together in front of the Muggle telly Harry had installed ten years ago once Hermione had finally figured out how to make electricity and magic work together instead of sparking and flaming out in a fury whenever the two would meet. The occasional Quidditch match. The family dinners. There really is nothing left to fight about.
Except this.
"Don't you want to know? Where I was? What I was doing?"
Harry sets down the paper. He folds it carefully. He pushes his tea aside. There is nothing between them now except for her hands wrapped around her own mug, squeezing it tightly.
"Do you want to tell me?"
It's been a while since she's felt the weight of his full attention. But she knows him so well, knows every facet of his face, every flicker in his expression. Cold comfort. She could say yes and blow everything up, both of their lives. He'd let her if that's what she wanted. She could say no, and he'd never ask her again.
While she sits in her indecision, he stands, puts his mug in the sink, tosses the paper in the bin.
"I'm going to bed," he says, but he pauses behind her on his way out of the kitchen. Lays a hand on her shoulder, his palm a light but warm weight. "We can talk tomorrow if you want."
He doesn't wait for her to answer.
When her tea has long gone cold and the dusky light of new morning filters through the window, Ginny makes her way upstairs. She steps into their bedroom, the darkened curtains keeping the light at bay. She strips down and lies on her side of the bed, cradled by the firm mattress. She pulls the covers up, curls on her side, and stares at her husband's back.
She could touch him if she wanted. Press her face to his warm skin. Forget about the thrill of something new. Sink into this familiar, irritating comfort.
He'd let her. It's the easy answer.
Ginny slides her hand close, palm flat on the bed. An urge erupts through her like a spike of hot lava. Push. Jump. Let them both careen into the mouth of the volcano, see if they can find that charge of heat under the dormant cold rock.
But fear creeps in like a chilled mist against her skin. She stays frozen, her hand fixed on the bed between them.
The sun climbs. Harry stirs. He'll wake soon. And Ginny will have to choose.
Author:
Characters/Pairings: Ginny/Pansy, Ginny/Harry
Rating: R/Mature
Word Count: ~1500
Content/Warning(s): Infidelity/Adultery, Angst
Summary/Prompt: They don't touch like this. Not when they are themselves again, weathered with age, buried under the weight of regrets... the roads not taken. They don't touch anytime it's real.
A/N: Thanks so much to P and T for the beta! <3
Read at AO3 or below:
Ginny can't relax. The bed is too soft. The curtains too sheer, the light of the moon too bright against her eyes. A spread of black hair fans out on the pillow next to her, slowly peppering with grey. A glamour charm wearing off. Hers probably is as well, fine lines etching back around her eyes, her mouth. Her tits will be sagging a bit. The muscles of her arms and legs, finely honed from years on the broom, softening again from years of retirement.
It's a sad joke, the game they play. Pretending to be young. Like maybe this way, it doesn't count as an affair. Ginny takes herself back to a time when she was free and life before her was full of possibilities. She grabs that thrill of youth in both of her hands and what does she do with it?
She fucks Pansy Parkinson.
Ginny curls to her side. It's nearly half one. She never allows herself to stay this late. She's begging to be caught. But still, she makes no move to get up, instead stares at the line of Pansy's back, exposed from the sheets pushed down to her hips. Pansy always runs hot at night.
Ginny slides her palm across the space between them but stops short before she reaches Pansy's back. They don't touch like this. Not when they are themselves again, weathered with age, buried under the weight of regrets... the roads not taken. They don't touch anytime it's real.
"Are you staying?" Pansy's question surprises her. Ginny assumed she'd already fallen into slumber, but her voice is resoundingly clear with no trace of sleep. It also betrays nothing of how she wishes Ginny to answer. Yes or no. Is it all the same to her? Ginny knows Pansy's taste, the way she clenches her thighs when she trembles into her orgasm, how she worries her bottom lip with her teeth when she tries to stifle her moans.
But in this, Ginny is lost.
"I shouldn't."
And yet Ginny stays in the bed as the ache in her body returns, for no glamour can ever make youth real, and stares at Pansy's back for a silent hour. Eventually, she slips from the bed, dresses quietly in the corner, and flicks her wand at the ceiling fan to turn it on as she heads to the door.
With her hand on the knob, Ginny turns back to the bed. Pansy sighs in quiet contentment with the cool breeze glancing over her skin. It would be so easy to go back, spell the curtains dark and her side of the bed a little more firm. Press her palm against Pansy's warm back. Bury her face there.
Think about the consequences later... if ever.
Ginny takes a breath, turns, and shuts the door behind her.
Harry's in the kitchen when Ginny arrives home. She hears him puttering around, mugs clanking together. A late cuppa is her guess. Herbal tea, she hopes, or else it'll be a long night of trying to sleep with him tossing and turning next to her.
She puts her outer robes on the hook by the door and glances in the mirror. Her hand automatically reaches for her wand, a spell to fix her mussed hair at the ready, but she stops herself. Leaves her wand in its holster. Then she takes both her hands and messes up her hair further.
Fearful eyes meet her in the mirror. Her heart thumps faster, anxiety tightening her chest. She clenches her hands by her side until her jaw stiffens in resolve. Before she can talk herself out of it, she strides into the kitchen just in time for the kettle's whistle.
"Gin." Harry's eyes wrinkle in surprise. "I thought you might have stayed at the office."
Working late is a common excuse for her, though she usually makes it home before midnight. The Daily Prophet wants her gone; Harry knows this. Wants someone more youthful to take her place running the sports desk, but Ginny has too much seniority to sack without cause. That's why she puts in so many late hours, or so she tells Harry. It is true, but Ginny doesn't need to put this much overtime in to stave off another forced retirement.
Ginny often wonders if Pansy feels the same pressure, as a friendly drink at her desk after putting the weekend edition to bed is what started this whole thing. Pansy had invited her to a club aimed at witches and wizards less than half their age. Ginny had begged off, not wanting to feel like a doddering old mum with a bunch of kids, until Pansy had said, "We can always pretend. That's what magic is for, right? At least for tonight."
Ginny thinks of that night and heat rushes to her cheeks, a thrill skipping in her heart. But Harry hasn't noticed. He's busy grabbing another mug from the cupboard and pouring Ginny tea that she didn't ask for but would have said yes to had he enquired. They've been together so long, he doesn't need to ask. That familiarity should bring Ginny comfort; it sours her instead.
They sit at the small kitchen table, once stuffed with three kids who've all grown and left and started lives of their own. The youth that Ginny chases. She stares at her husband, his grey-streaked hair somehow still ruffled and boyish, even as he's grown only more distinguished with age. His smile makes him look twenty years younger, or more, she thinks, though it's been a while since she's seen it directed at her. Too long. He must notice it too.
"I wasn't working," Ginny manages to say. She meets his eyes over his mug of tea and waits for him to ask.
He doesn't.
Shouldn't he ask?
He breaks her gaze and ruffles through the Daily Prophet at the table, the morning edition, and only replies with a half-interested, "Oh?"
Shouldn't a husband want to know where his wife was until the wee hours of the morning? Irritation streaks through Ginny's body, fast and hot, the temper that comes so easily to her, that's caused so many shouting matches between them over the years. The rows, the fights… but they've settled down, haven't they? In these last few years, it's all become quite routine… Breakfast. Work. The nights spent together in front of the Muggle telly Harry had installed ten years ago once Hermione had finally figured out how to make electricity and magic work together instead of sparking and flaming out in a fury whenever the two would meet. The occasional Quidditch match. The family dinners. There really is nothing left to fight about.
Except this.
"Don't you want to know? Where I was? What I was doing?"
Harry sets down the paper. He folds it carefully. He pushes his tea aside. There is nothing between them now except for her hands wrapped around her own mug, squeezing it tightly.
"Do you want to tell me?"
It's been a while since she's felt the weight of his full attention. But she knows him so well, knows every facet of his face, every flicker in his expression. Cold comfort. She could say yes and blow everything up, both of their lives. He'd let her if that's what she wanted. She could say no, and he'd never ask her again.
While she sits in her indecision, he stands, puts his mug in the sink, tosses the paper in the bin.
"I'm going to bed," he says, but he pauses behind her on his way out of the kitchen. Lays a hand on her shoulder, his palm a light but warm weight. "We can talk tomorrow if you want."
He doesn't wait for her to answer.
When her tea has long gone cold and the dusky light of new morning filters through the window, Ginny makes her way upstairs. She steps into their bedroom, the darkened curtains keeping the light at bay. She strips down and lies on her side of the bed, cradled by the firm mattress. She pulls the covers up, curls on her side, and stares at her husband's back.
She could touch him if she wanted. Press her face to his warm skin. Forget about the thrill of something new. Sink into this familiar, irritating comfort.
He'd let her. It's the easy answer.
Ginny slides her hand close, palm flat on the bed. An urge erupts through her like a spike of hot lava. Push. Jump. Let them both careen into the mouth of the volcano, see if they can find that charge of heat under the dormant cold rock.
But fear creeps in like a chilled mist against her skin. She stays frozen, her hand fixed on the bed between them.
The sun climbs. Harry stirs. He'll wake soon. And Ginny will have to choose.
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The understated, spare tone and images are perfect for a story in which so much is said by being unsaid. You capture the regrets and tensions of age so well: the hurry of the younger world to push older people out, the sense of roads-never-taken, of still being the same as you've always been, and yet so much is different. All the details of aging are spot-on. I understand exactly how Ginny feels, exactly how things stand with Harry. He and Pansy are well-characterized, as is Ginny herself.
They don't touch like this. Not when they are themselves again, weathered with age, buried under the weight of regrets... the roads not taken. They don't touch anytime it's real.
Great line.
They've been together so long, he doesn't need to ask. That familiarity should bring Ginny comfort; it sours her instead.
So telling.
Great job; I really enjoyed this.
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