Summary: He was a painter, she could tell just by his hands- the way they moved around his wand and held his quills. And, she admitted, she wanted him to paint on her. She wanted to be his masterpiece.
Disclaimer: I only own the plot. This is an old story, definitely AU at some point. I am Keeperofthemoon (my account was deleted), this is MY story. Anyway, that's all.
He was a painter, she could tell just by his hands. The fingers were long and elegant and she wondered how they would feel running along her skin. A shudder went through her body but she continued to watch him.
She watched him for months.
He held his quill lightly, as if it were dirt itself. She saw that his hands were pale, like the rest of his body, but seemed a little more rough- as if they actually did some work. A small smile came across her lips.
When he waved his wand to perform magic, it was always with boredom, his mind wanting to be elsewhere instead of doing whatever he was doing. He wanted to paint.
She knew they weren't suppose to speak, much less look at each other, like she had been doing with him- staring at his hands, longing for them to touch her. Finally, when she had been in the library, he simply sat down at her table.
No talking, just a simple glance before he took out some parchment and began writing. It was then that she allowed herself to look at something other then his fingers, his hands. His tie was tied tight, looking as though it could do some harm to his neck, but didn't. He wore no vest and she vaguely wondered when he had taken the time to take the thing off.
It was obvious he just got back from class.
His blonde hair was still gelled back and her hands itched to touch it, to feel its softness. She remembered her brothers saying he looked like a rat and, when she had first seen him, she believed it.
Now, though, he looked like a man. If he hadn't been writing, she would see that he did have a slightly pointy chin and nose but it made him look so much more powerful. Stormy, gray eyes and thin, pink lips- she wondered whether anyone else had ever kissed those thin lips of his.
But it all went back to his hands- she knew he had to be a painter. And she wanted him to paint her, to paint on her body. Ginny wanted to be his masterpiece.
Perhaps she had stared too long or she had made a sound, most likely a moan, for he had looked up. His blonde eyebrows were raised in amusement and she felt a flush creep up her neck.
She shouldn't be looking at him; she shouldn't be this close to him. Ginny had cursed him before, had made him hurt, as he had her. His nails, rather long they were, had scratched her face in her fourth year when she went for the D.A.'s wands. If she felt around her cheek, she could feel the light scars from his nails.
Ginny wondered if he knew that she was marked. She was his, he drew blood and she had felt his anger and she wanted him.
"Paint me." She whispered and he tilted his head slightly, as though a dog.
And he didn't ask any questions, only smirked slightly and stood. Unsure of what to do, Ginny followed and they both walked out of the library, together, and into an abandoned room. Paintings hung on the wall, strange paintings, but they made her stomach burn and her heart pound.
He worked in this room. Her fingers lightly touched all the sketch books, the pieces of paper abandoned on some old desks. Brown eyes took in some of the drawings, light lines that soon became something more. A person.
Ginny grinned lightly, looking at the body of the girl. Did she really hunch? Her hair was tumbling out of her weak bun, a quill the only thing that had been holding her hair in place. Tie was loose around her neck, skirt riding up her thighs slightly from years of use, shirt missing some buttons- her eyes in the picture were staring straight at her.
A small smile was curled on her lips in the picture, as one was now, and her chin rested on her hand. She had been so obvious.
When she had turned around, she found him sitting at the teacher's desk, his hand and a pencil moving along some sort of paper.
"You've drawn me before." Ginny whispered.
"And now I'm going to paint you." He responded.
Slowly, she took a seat at one of the desks, moving some of the papers.
"What do you want me to do?" She questioned.
"Do what you do best." He drawled slowly, his eyes flickering up to meet her own. "Watch me."
And, so, she watched him. Ginny imprinted his figure in her brain, his small smile that was so secret, the way how you couldn't tell when his forehead and hair line emerged.
Hours went by and Ginny vaguely realized she was missing her classes, as was he. But she knew she'd rather be here then there, where she would simply wish she was watching him, studying him. His hands seduced her and she began yearn for them.
She knew he knew.
"Come here." He muttered as he placed the sketch of her on the table, flipped over so she couldn't see.
"I thought you were going to paint me?"
"I am." He growled softly, leaning back in the seat and watching as she approached the desk. "I will."
"What do you want me to do?" Ginny questioned lamely.
"Look at me." And before she knew it, he had leaned up and pressed his thin lips to her own and she shuddered.
"Touch me." Ginny ordered and he lifted his hands to her face.
The tips of his fingers touched where he scratched her and she could feel the smirk on his lips. Both his hands explored her body, never going as far as she would have liked but enough to keep her happy.
And she touched his soft hair and moaned softly.
When she entered the room the next day, she found that he was already in the room. He didn't seem surprised when he heard her enter but she was. A large canvas sat in the room and he was already walking over to it.
"I want to be your masterpiece." She spoke and he stopped in his tracks, turning around to look at her.
"But you're already a masterpiece." He smiled, almost a sad smile, before pointing his finger to a desk.
Ginny sat down, a smile coming to her lips easily, and she watched him as he slowly began to paint her. Somehow, she could still see his hands but, soon, she found herself staring at his eyes. Blue sparks were mixed with the gray, so masked but so revealing.
She bit her lip to keep a sigh from coming out.
Soon, when she came, she began to look at his sketches. He never let her look at the painting.
Almost all the sketches, and she was flattered, consisted of her. There was only one which didn't and it was one of two dragons. But, somehow, she thought that, maybe, it did have her in it.
"The Golden Trio has yet to pound me to the ground." He drawled that day, his gray eyes flickering to her brown.
No, gray eyes with blue sparkles.
"Yes, I know." Ginny smiled. "They have yet to know you're painting me."
He seemed amused as he dipped the paintbrush into some paint.
"What are you going to do with this painting when I'm finished?" He questioned, not looking at her.
Ginny was surprised- he was giving the painting to her?
"Allow the artist to keep it." She responded easily.
A smile tugged at his lips.
He worked on it when he had anytime, skipping Care of Magical Creatures, as the Golden Trio reported to her. Of course, they didn't know that what he was working on was her painting- the painting of her that was his, actually. It was a surprise, to her, how, only a week later, it was finished.
"You want to see it, then?" He asked, his one hand touching the small of her back and pushing her towards the covered canvas.
He took off the sheet and Ginny gave a gasp.
Unlike she thought, he had painted the first sketch of her she had seen. Everything was blended in, the background (which would be the library) was dark. Red, black, and brown contrasted to make a strange color but it kept the focus on her. Her red hair was bright, seeming to shine in invisible sunlight.
Her top teeth were gnawing on her bottom lip, but her lips formed a smile. Cheeks were flushed, her tie undone, sleeves rolled up, buttons missing- her skirt was riding up her thighs and she could see a glimpse of purple knickers. Ginny flushed at the thought that he had seen her knickers. The tops of her knee high socks could be seen.
But it was her eyes that caught her. She didn't usually stare at her eyes in the mirror but she found herself quite attached to them in this painting. Gold swirled in with the brown and they seemed to reveal her feelings- but how could he possibly remember them? Embarrassment, longing, lust, joy, fear were all seen.
"If you used your old sketch, then why did you have me here?" Ginny questioned, turning to the man.
"Because I wanted you here." He responded simply, looking at her.
Ginny felt herself swallow slightly as her eyes darted from his own to his lips.
"I want to be your masterpiece." She whispered.
"You're a masterpiece already." He muttered before his lips captured her own.
"I want you to paint on my body." Ginny ran her hands down his arms.
"I'd ruin you."
"You'd perfect me." Ginny whispered.
"That would ruin you."
He found himself sketching her more often then not. Never before had he sketched before but she had caught his eyes and- he needed to. She sat so innocently but she had a passion in her he had never seen before. Draco had marked her in his fifth year, cutting the skin of her face with his long nails, and she was his.
He was hers and he never realized it.
A painting of her that took out all of his energy became the first of many. Ginny wanted to be his masterpiece but she already was one.
Authors Note: It's old but I like it. One-Shot