Fic: Remembering Then (Ginny Weasley/Severus Snape)
Title: Remembering Then
For: 7spells
Prompt: #6 as near as snow
Pairings: GW/SS
Rating: R
Length: short
Writers Notes: I guess this is turning into a bit of a series now. No real order to read them in, but once complete the arc of the story will be clear.
Disclaimer: They belong to JK Rowling - I'm merely playing and making no profit
He can smell her on the frigid air that blows through every corner of the house. Can smell the slightly floral, slightly astringent smell of her shampoo on the breeze that finds every crevice in the too thin walls. He can smell her even now that she’s gone.
He stands with hands shoved deep into his robe, fingers curled against the frost and stares with shadowed eyes as leaves race rasping across the floor having found their escape from the weather through an open door. He can feel her here, as near as the snow that waits, hanging in the clouds above, but he knows she is gone.
There is an emptiness now, a hollowness to the winding house that once had the prattle of a family rebounding off of every corner that it made one want to scream for the incessant noise of it all. And as he moves, silent, secretively through the maze of floors and rooms and halls, he’s not sure what he expects to find. At his feet lie the pieces of an abandoned life - every secret laid bare to his scrutiny and yet, he feels he is no closer to knowing her than he ever was.
He turns, eyes seeking, moving, narrowing, as room fades into room and he can almost feel her and he turns and is suddenly grounded in the reality of now when his eyes fall onto the faded quilt.
Hands, once solid and sure, reach out shaking to run almost numb fingers over softened wool and worn corduroy. Tracing stitches and shapes and texture in the half-light of winter, he sits down suddenly surrounded by so much of her.
The bed is small, narrow beneath him and creaks in a tired way, and he rolls, teeth biting into curled fingers as he thinks of pale skin, kissing freckles down thin arms, fingers tracing the fullness of breast, mouth tasting sweat at the edge of collarbone, hips grinding and hair like a veil trailing down chest.
Hands curl into fists, fabric tearing from neighbouring patches, and he fights it, feeling warmth spread in his body as his mind reaches back seeing candle light shine on smooth skin, shadow between the swell of breasts, face turned up and mouth slightly open, arms braced and back arched and nails sharp and limbs twined.
His hands are cold, shocking, finding access to robes and pulling, teasing, stroking himself as he calls to mind the wetslick feel of lips on cock, tongue small and quick and tracing neat little swirls over tip and down, nails sharp and trim and tracing lines down chest and thighs, fingers twisting nipples, tips easing over the pink swell and then down to hold him. Remembers body braced and lowered, warmsmooth and tight and rocking and the hiss of air from clenched teeth, the hitch of breath, the small whine of pleasure, the rhythm between them like waves.
His body arches, back tight as he comes, warm and sticky over his hands and he sees her then, face in candlelight, hair over eyes, lips swollen and cries out but knows she is not there, but near, and is scared, bone deep by the want he feels. He turns, shivering on the bed and closes eyes, and remembers hands, face, lips, skin and waits for the snow.
For: 7spells
Prompt: #6 as near as snow
Pairings: GW/SS
Rating: R
Length: short
Writers Notes: I guess this is turning into a bit of a series now. No real order to read them in, but once complete the arc of the story will be clear.
Disclaimer: They belong to JK Rowling - I'm merely playing and making no profit
He can smell her on the frigid air that blows through every corner of the house. Can smell the slightly floral, slightly astringent smell of her shampoo on the breeze that finds every crevice in the too thin walls. He can smell her even now that she’s gone.
He stands with hands shoved deep into his robe, fingers curled against the frost and stares with shadowed eyes as leaves race rasping across the floor having found their escape from the weather through an open door. He can feel her here, as near as the snow that waits, hanging in the clouds above, but he knows she is gone.
There is an emptiness now, a hollowness to the winding house that once had the prattle of a family rebounding off of every corner that it made one want to scream for the incessant noise of it all. And as he moves, silent, secretively through the maze of floors and rooms and halls, he’s not sure what he expects to find. At his feet lie the pieces of an abandoned life - every secret laid bare to his scrutiny and yet, he feels he is no closer to knowing her than he ever was.
He turns, eyes seeking, moving, narrowing, as room fades into room and he can almost feel her and he turns and is suddenly grounded in the reality of now when his eyes fall onto the faded quilt.
Hands, once solid and sure, reach out shaking to run almost numb fingers over softened wool and worn corduroy. Tracing stitches and shapes and texture in the half-light of winter, he sits down suddenly surrounded by so much of her.
The bed is small, narrow beneath him and creaks in a tired way, and he rolls, teeth biting into curled fingers as he thinks of pale skin, kissing freckles down thin arms, fingers tracing the fullness of breast, mouth tasting sweat at the edge of collarbone, hips grinding and hair like a veil trailing down chest.
Hands curl into fists, fabric tearing from neighbouring patches, and he fights it, feeling warmth spread in his body as his mind reaches back seeing candle light shine on smooth skin, shadow between the swell of breasts, face turned up and mouth slightly open, arms braced and back arched and nails sharp and limbs twined.
His hands are cold, shocking, finding access to robes and pulling, teasing, stroking himself as he calls to mind the wetslick feel of lips on cock, tongue small and quick and tracing neat little swirls over tip and down, nails sharp and trim and tracing lines down chest and thighs, fingers twisting nipples, tips easing over the pink swell and then down to hold him. Remembers body braced and lowered, warmsmooth and tight and rocking and the hiss of air from clenched teeth, the hitch of breath, the small whine of pleasure, the rhythm between them like waves.
His body arches, back tight as he comes, warm and sticky over his hands and he sees her then, face in candlelight, hair over eyes, lips swollen and cries out but knows she is not there, but near, and is scared, bone deep by the want he feels. He turns, shivering on the bed and closes eyes, and remembers hands, face, lips, skin and waits for the snow.