Mine (фемслэш)

Ginny doesn’t protest, doesn’t push—five years later, she’s still ravenous for scraps, for crumbs. She allows herself to be dragged along, forgoing her spark and her will to rebel. She’s tired of fighting, tired of finding herself entangled in wars.
For now, she just wants to enjoy the supple silk of Fleur’s skin, the warm whispers of her voice dripping in her ear, the liquid ecstasy of her mouth on her body, on her lips. She revels in knowing that she is Fleur’s and no one else’s, in the guttural r’s that roll off her tongue when she holds Ginny tight and says, “You’re mine.”