He knows it's a wizarding thing, magic soaps, whatever. He doesn't care.
January afternoon. Mended door she's pinned up against. Shirtless, both of them, breathless and moaning into each other's mouths. His lips on the soft, pale skin of her breast--
Cinnamon.
It's not subtle, either. It's hot on the tip of his tongue, alchemized into something other by the salt of her sweat. It doesn't matter where he kisses, licks, bites her. It's always there, somehow. Curve of her shoulder. Curve of her hip. The tip of her littlest toe.
And at that point he's just getting started.
It's an odd choice for her, he thinks at first, that January afternoon. He's the redhead, of course.
Oh, but then. Then, he hadn't truly known what she was like. He found out.
It was like making love to a fucking flame.
That first Saturday, the first Saturday of the rest of his life, he thinks of it, because of course they've spent every Saturday since then together, in bed if they can manage it, Bernard waking up to a mouth on his cock, Nymphadora writhing below, above, in front, behind, and always the taste of cinnamon on his tongue.
The back of her ear. The nape of her neck. The juncture of her thighs.
Always, faint or overwhelming or merely there.
Gil made cinnamon-raisin bread, one morning early in March. Bernard had to go to his room.
He tastes it when she's nowhere near, and has to distract himself with bombs and babies and Bar and the other thousand things a day he should be thinking of instead of the sound of her moan at the flick of a tongue.
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Date: 2005-04-21 06:06 am (UTC)by
Fandom:
Rated: NC-17-ish
She always tastes of cinnamon.
He knows it's a wizarding thing, magic soaps, whatever. He doesn't care.
January afternoon. Mended door she's pinned up against. Shirtless, both of them, breathless and moaning into each other's mouths. His lips on the soft, pale skin of her breast--
Cinnamon.
It's not subtle, either. It's hot on the tip of his tongue, alchemized into something other by the salt of her sweat. It doesn't matter where he kisses, licks, bites her. It's always there, somehow. Curve of her shoulder. Curve of her hip. The tip of her littlest toe.
And at that point he's just getting started.
It's an odd choice for her, he thinks at first, that January afternoon. He's the redhead, of course.
Oh, but then. Then, he hadn't truly known what she was like. He found out.
It was like making love to a fucking flame.
That first Saturday, the first Saturday of the rest of his life, he thinks of it, because of course they've spent every Saturday since then together, in bed if they can manage it, Bernard waking up to a mouth on his cock, Nymphadora writhing below, above, in front, behind, and always the taste of cinnamon on his tongue.
The back of her ear. The nape of her neck. The juncture of her thighs.
Always, faint or overwhelming or merely there.
Gil made cinnamon-raisin bread, one morning early in March. Bernard had to go to his room.
He tastes it when she's nowhere near, and has to distract himself with bombs and babies and Bar and the other thousand things a day he should be thinking of instead of the sound of her moan at the flick of a tongue.
He should be. But he's not.