Drabbles: HP for Isis
I started writing today with no real intent, but afterwards, when I had completed a drabble, a second, and then a third, I felt certain they were for Isis.
It starts with a hand, a spot of warmth against the cool, uncovered skin of his hip.
This is how it all begins, awareness floating slowly into his brain until he recognizes the warmth and pressure at his back as a body, and the hotter warmth against his bum as someone else's morning erection.
He slides out of bed with all the caution he'd use to sneak away from the Aurors, only to turn around once he's standing to find his only ally in the spot next to his vacated space.
He wishes he would have stayed in that place.
* * *
And this is how it ends.
The Mark on his left arm has disappeared, taking layers of skin with it, the hole as psychological as it is physical. Following his arm down from the scar eventually leads to the silver shackle that now binds his life and soul, and it too is a pressure on his skin.
He raises his hands and wiggles the fingers to prove to himself they're not numb, then follows the flash of silver to his middle finger and instead of cold metal and chilled air, he feels the warmth of each breath against his neck.
* * *
He doesn't like to consider there was a time "Before" the beginning, or that there were moments between the beginning and the end. He would like to remember only waking up one morning to a presence in his bed, one that eventually filled his life. He wants to live only at the end, in the happily ever after they've created.
In the dark of night, his fingers splay against darkness-covered skin, tracing letters in sweat and telling their story, the story of their life. Tells of the beginning, and the end together, without anything in the middle to separate them.
It starts with a hand, a spot of warmth against the cool, uncovered skin of his hip.
This is how it all begins, awareness floating slowly into his brain until he recognizes the warmth and pressure at his back as a body, and the hotter warmth against his bum as someone else's morning erection.
He slides out of bed with all the caution he'd use to sneak away from the Aurors, only to turn around once he's standing to find his only ally in the spot next to his vacated space.
He wishes he would have stayed in that place.
* * *
And this is how it ends.
The Mark on his left arm has disappeared, taking layers of skin with it, the hole as psychological as it is physical. Following his arm down from the scar eventually leads to the silver shackle that now binds his life and soul, and it too is a pressure on his skin.
He raises his hands and wiggles the fingers to prove to himself they're not numb, then follows the flash of silver to his middle finger and instead of cold metal and chilled air, he feels the warmth of each breath against his neck.
* * *
He doesn't like to consider there was a time "Before" the beginning, or that there were moments between the beginning and the end. He would like to remember only waking up one morning to a presence in his bed, one that eventually filled his life. He wants to live only at the end, in the happily ever after they've created.
In the dark of night, his fingers splay against darkness-covered skin, tracing letters in sweat and telling their story, the story of their life. Tells of the beginning, and the end together, without anything in the middle to separate them.