Atlas
Author: jenadamson
Title: Atlas
Challenge: 61. Post-Hogwarts, #12 Grimmauld Place
Summary: Ginny helps Harry find his way.
Rating: Adult
Genre: Cotton candy fluff
Word Count: 1300
Notes/Warnings: There is smut under the cut, rather vanilla, but smut nonetheless. Many bear hugs to aibhinn for the wonderful beta! *squishes* Feedback is, as always, appreciated.
Atlas
Harry sat near a window and studied the graying daylight. Outside, fat, round snowflakes drifted slowly to earth, covering the ground in a deep layer of white. It looked cold and soft and deceptively beautiful.
The room was dark and cool, the spitting fire his only concession to the oncoming night. He sat upright in an uncomfortable chair a shade darker than blood, one of the few of Sirius’ processions Harry let stay in the house crumbling down around him.
A sharp knock on the kitchen door brought his head away from the tranquil scene out his window, although he made no move to stand. He knew she would come in without an invitation, as she always did, just as he knew she would not stay away when he trapped himself within the walls of his prison. Perhaps he willed it, wanted it, stole away to be with his thoughts and his fears and his guilt in the hope that she would try to take it all from him.
Sometimes, he wondered what would happen to him when she decided to give up completely.
She opened the door, carrying the scent of fresh air and laughter with her. Rapidly melting snowflakes clung to her hair and heavy robes; her freckles stood out in sharp relief against her pale skin, bruising purple in the dying light; her eyes were surrounded by spiky lashes, and they sparkled determinedly at him.
She carried a basketful of food. He remained seated as she breezed through the room with a hello called over her shoulder and began unloading the contents of the basket into the small ice-box. He watched as she bent to open a drawer, the material of her robe stretching across her backside, while she told him about a gathering at the Burrow next week. He knew that she knew he would refuse the invitation.
There would be an argument. There nearly always was. He used to marvel at Ron and Hermione, vicious arguments and passionate kisses, and wonder how the two coexisted. He watched in tense anticipation as Ginny spun toward him now, peeling off her Ministry-issued robes to reveal denim and a tight, faded green pull-over with an ‘H’ embroidered on it.
She sauntered towards him, aiming her wand at the floor lamp next to his chair and bathing the room in a soft golden glow, all the while ignoring his impassive face and chatting about Fleur and Bill’s youngest.
Finally, she stood before him and her expression turned serious. Like a cat, she moved from emotion to emotion without a split second’s warning. He tensed, waiting for what was to come.
Chasing phantoms, she had called it last week, reminding him that Voldemort was gone, demanding that he look around the world outside the Ministry and their stacks of missions and left over criminals.
Single minded to the point of recklessness, she told him now.
It was the same fight every week. Merely different words.
He laughed. For ten years she had held a torch for him, never giving up, and he was the one who was single minded.
She sucked in a deep breath and looked as if Harry had hit her. He knew immediately that he’d gone too far. He stared wearily at her as she licked her lips, and looked away from her dark, angry eyes. “You’re doing an amazing job of rectifying that situation.”
Desperation clawed like a cat, scratching his insides. Maybe, when she turned and walked out the door, maybe that would be the last.
”Wait,” he said, just as she began to move. She paused, looking down at him. She pushed her hair behind her ear. A nervous habit. It made him sweat.
He found he couldn’t quite bring himself to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, staring at a strip of freckled skin above the waistband of her trousers. He reached out a hand, tugging on a belt loop to bring her forward. “I didn’t mean it.”
She stiffly allowed him to pull her towards him, her jaw set stubbornly.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, spanning his hands around her waist and massaging her through the course material of her pull-over. “So sorry,” he murmured, as he kissed her belly. “Sorry,” he whispered, as he hauled her onto his lap. She acquiesced with a sigh, letting her weight settle fully onto his legs. He cupped the back of her head in one hand, seeking out her mouth, which was warm under his, wide and wet. She tasted like butterbeer and something else, something familiar and inviting and rich.
Short blunt fingernails scraped along his neck before slipping into the collar of his shirt, resting there. He shuddered. Her hands were cold, in sharp contrast to the heat coiling within in his chest.
Off went her pull-over, then her shirt, over her head to leave her hair tousled and tangled. He smoothed it with one hand, the other tracing the line of her collarbone before moving slowly down her body. Her eyes slid shut. “Oh,” Ginny breathed as his hand settled upon her bare belly. “Yes.”
He watched her face flush with heat as his hands traced over her curves, mapping her body and relearning every valley and peak. She was curved and lovely in the room’s golden light. Her skin was a long stretch of pale, freckled ivory, and he was always unsurprised to find she tasted like cinnamon, candy-sweet and sharp. His tongue circled a brown-tipped peak and he smiled around her as she sighed and bent backwards, pushing herself fully into him.
Her hands curled on his shoulders, nails scraping against the fabric of his worn T-shirt before frantically tugging it over his head. Ginny settled more fully against him, her heat pressing into his thigh as she rotated her hips in slow circles.
She bent forward. “Harry,” she whispered in his ear as if it were the most important word to her. Shock waves ping-ponged through his body.
“Ginny,” he answered, murmuring against her skin. He pushed her back slightly. He could feel her, wet and hot and ready against him. He cupped both hands around her head and met her eyes. “Ginevra,” he said, as he watched her eyes crinkle. He trailed one fingertip down her body, along her ribs and around her bellybutton, watching her shudder as he traced slow circles along her skin.
When he finally slipped inside, she let out a long shaky breath, and her hips once again picked up their slow rhythm, moving in half circles against him, sending pleasure coiling with every twist and turn, as he caught the cadence and moved inside of her. She sighed. He pressed into her, pulling her weight against him. He needed to feel skin and let his lips fall where they would: on her cheek, her eyelid, her collar bone, her breast.
She tensed around him, the contractions in her belly becoming all but unbearable, and he finally let himself go, feeling her shatter as he pumped and spilled and lost himself completely within the feel of her.
She was warm against him, soft and small and a pillar of strength. He pushed once at her shoulder, to make certain she was real. His heartbeat calmed, and he wrapped his arms completely around her.
“Thank you,” he murmured against her damp hairline. “Thank you for never….” His voice caught in his throat.
She moved away from him. He stared at her. “I’ll never give up on you, Harry, never.” Her voice was soft and steely, her eyes unwavering.
“I just get so lost,” he confessed, feeling something uncoil within him as he hugged her close.
She smiled softly at him and brushed the hair away from his forehead. “Lucky for you,” she said, “I come with a map.”
(end)
Title: Atlas
Challenge: 61. Post-Hogwarts, #12 Grimmauld Place
Summary: Ginny helps Harry find his way.
Rating: Adult
Genre: Cotton candy fluff
Word Count: 1300
Notes/Warnings: There is smut under the cut, rather vanilla, but smut nonetheless. Many bear hugs to aibhinn for the wonderful beta! *squishes* Feedback is, as always, appreciated.
Atlas
Harry sat near a window and studied the graying daylight. Outside, fat, round snowflakes drifted slowly to earth, covering the ground in a deep layer of white. It looked cold and soft and deceptively beautiful.
The room was dark and cool, the spitting fire his only concession to the oncoming night. He sat upright in an uncomfortable chair a shade darker than blood, one of the few of Sirius’ processions Harry let stay in the house crumbling down around him.
A sharp knock on the kitchen door brought his head away from the tranquil scene out his window, although he made no move to stand. He knew she would come in without an invitation, as she always did, just as he knew she would not stay away when he trapped himself within the walls of his prison. Perhaps he willed it, wanted it, stole away to be with his thoughts and his fears and his guilt in the hope that she would try to take it all from him.
Sometimes, he wondered what would happen to him when she decided to give up completely.
She opened the door, carrying the scent of fresh air and laughter with her. Rapidly melting snowflakes clung to her hair and heavy robes; her freckles stood out in sharp relief against her pale skin, bruising purple in the dying light; her eyes were surrounded by spiky lashes, and they sparkled determinedly at him.
She carried a basketful of food. He remained seated as she breezed through the room with a hello called over her shoulder and began unloading the contents of the basket into the small ice-box. He watched as she bent to open a drawer, the material of her robe stretching across her backside, while she told him about a gathering at the Burrow next week. He knew that she knew he would refuse the invitation.
There would be an argument. There nearly always was. He used to marvel at Ron and Hermione, vicious arguments and passionate kisses, and wonder how the two coexisted. He watched in tense anticipation as Ginny spun toward him now, peeling off her Ministry-issued robes to reveal denim and a tight, faded green pull-over with an ‘H’ embroidered on it.
She sauntered towards him, aiming her wand at the floor lamp next to his chair and bathing the room in a soft golden glow, all the while ignoring his impassive face and chatting about Fleur and Bill’s youngest.
Finally, she stood before him and her expression turned serious. Like a cat, she moved from emotion to emotion without a split second’s warning. He tensed, waiting for what was to come.
Chasing phantoms, she had called it last week, reminding him that Voldemort was gone, demanding that he look around the world outside the Ministry and their stacks of missions and left over criminals.
Single minded to the point of recklessness, she told him now.
It was the same fight every week. Merely different words.
He laughed. For ten years she had held a torch for him, never giving up, and he was the one who was single minded.
She sucked in a deep breath and looked as if Harry had hit her. He knew immediately that he’d gone too far. He stared wearily at her as she licked her lips, and looked away from her dark, angry eyes. “You’re doing an amazing job of rectifying that situation.”
Desperation clawed like a cat, scratching his insides. Maybe, when she turned and walked out the door, maybe that would be the last.
”Wait,” he said, just as she began to move. She paused, looking down at him. She pushed her hair behind her ear. A nervous habit. It made him sweat.
He found he couldn’t quite bring himself to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, staring at a strip of freckled skin above the waistband of her trousers. He reached out a hand, tugging on a belt loop to bring her forward. “I didn’t mean it.”
She stiffly allowed him to pull her towards him, her jaw set stubbornly.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, spanning his hands around her waist and massaging her through the course material of her pull-over. “So sorry,” he murmured, as he kissed her belly. “Sorry,” he whispered, as he hauled her onto his lap. She acquiesced with a sigh, letting her weight settle fully onto his legs. He cupped the back of her head in one hand, seeking out her mouth, which was warm under his, wide and wet. She tasted like butterbeer and something else, something familiar and inviting and rich.
Short blunt fingernails scraped along his neck before slipping into the collar of his shirt, resting there. He shuddered. Her hands were cold, in sharp contrast to the heat coiling within in his chest.
Off went her pull-over, then her shirt, over her head to leave her hair tousled and tangled. He smoothed it with one hand, the other tracing the line of her collarbone before moving slowly down her body. Her eyes slid shut. “Oh,” Ginny breathed as his hand settled upon her bare belly. “Yes.”
He watched her face flush with heat as his hands traced over her curves, mapping her body and relearning every valley and peak. She was curved and lovely in the room’s golden light. Her skin was a long stretch of pale, freckled ivory, and he was always unsurprised to find she tasted like cinnamon, candy-sweet and sharp. His tongue circled a brown-tipped peak and he smiled around her as she sighed and bent backwards, pushing herself fully into him.
Her hands curled on his shoulders, nails scraping against the fabric of his worn T-shirt before frantically tugging it over his head. Ginny settled more fully against him, her heat pressing into his thigh as she rotated her hips in slow circles.
She bent forward. “Harry,” she whispered in his ear as if it were the most important word to her. Shock waves ping-ponged through his body.
“Ginny,” he answered, murmuring against her skin. He pushed her back slightly. He could feel her, wet and hot and ready against him. He cupped both hands around her head and met her eyes. “Ginevra,” he said, as he watched her eyes crinkle. He trailed one fingertip down her body, along her ribs and around her bellybutton, watching her shudder as he traced slow circles along her skin.
When he finally slipped inside, she let out a long shaky breath, and her hips once again picked up their slow rhythm, moving in half circles against him, sending pleasure coiling with every twist and turn, as he caught the cadence and moved inside of her. She sighed. He pressed into her, pulling her weight against him. He needed to feel skin and let his lips fall where they would: on her cheek, her eyelid, her collar bone, her breast.
She tensed around him, the contractions in her belly becoming all but unbearable, and he finally let himself go, feeling her shatter as he pumped and spilled and lost himself completely within the feel of her.
She was warm against him, soft and small and a pillar of strength. He pushed once at her shoulder, to make certain she was real. His heartbeat calmed, and he wrapped his arms completely around her.
“Thank you,” he murmured against her damp hairline. “Thank you for never….” His voice caught in his throat.
She moved away from him. He stared at her. “I’ll never give up on you, Harry, never.” Her voice was soft and steely, her eyes unwavering.
“I just get so lost,” he confessed, feeling something uncoil within him as he hugged her close.
She smiled softly at him and brushed the hair away from his forehead. “Lucky for you,” she said, “I come with a map.”
(end)