"I'm sorry," he says, pressing his lips to her now-bare throat; Padme can barely hear him, his voice overshadowed by the beating of her heart.
"I haven't ever -- with a woman, I mean , well, you know, " he mumbles, uncharacteristically shy, and she crinkles her fingers around his curly blond hair, fingers the padawn braid and stops there, wondering for one panic-induced second what they're doing, but then his lips find the place between her neck and her collarbone, and she gasps, as if all the air has gone out of her.
"Oh, Ani, you can learn quick enough," she murmurs, and closes her eyes as his fingers roam across her shoulders, mapping out forbidden territory.
"Can you imagine how much easier it would be to work in the kitchens if they had walk-in refrigerators instead of all those iceboxes?" "Aw, Hermione, not S.P.E.W. again?" he asks, but without much hope. "Plus, if we can make Hogwarts compatible with basic electricity we might work our way up to computers," she adds, and Harry grins.
He could never forget to write; the words pulse through his head at all times, begging for an outlet. Nor can he forget Angelica, the oldest of the Schuylers, able to work all the wonders he can, but with a single look. (Mine, my, me) he remembers, how she laid her claim on him from the start, and he answers (my dearest).
Petyr Baelish is no poet. He is a clerk, and he writes like a clerk; meticulously, each sentence a mathematical process totalling to an inevitable conclusion. Dearest Sansa, he writes, ending the letter Thinking of you with great affection, because he is a clerk and a cynic, and he cannot admit love.
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"I haven't ever -- with a woman, I mean , well, you know, " he mumbles, uncharacteristically shy, and she crinkles her fingers around his curly blond hair, fingers the padawn braid and stops there, wondering for one panic-induced second what they're doing, but then his lips find the place between her neck and her collarbone, and she gasps, as if all the air has gone out of her.
"Oh, Ani, you can learn quick enough," she murmurs, and closes her eyes as his fingers roam across her shoulders, mapping out forbidden territory.
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"Aw, Hermione, not S.P.E.W. again?" he asks, but without much hope.
"Plus, if we can make Hogwarts compatible with basic electricity we might work our way up to computers," she adds, and Harry grins.
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(Mine, my, me) he remembers, how she laid her claim on him from the start, and he answers (my dearest).
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He is a clerk, and he writes like a clerk; meticulously, each sentence a mathematical process totalling to an inevitable conclusion. Dearest Sansa, he writes, ending the letter Thinking of you with great affection, because he is a clerk and a cynic, and he cannot admit love.
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