Title: Morning After
Rating: PG-13 (Implied sex)
Disclaimer: Any recognizable characters belong to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.
His breath came in slow stretches, washing over my collar bone. One of his arms was under me, his hand in a loose fist between my shoulder blades. The other arms laid on his hips, fingers curled a little. His hips jutted into my stomach and his toes jerked every now and then, bumping into mine. He smelled like sex; like a sweet blend of me and him. The blankets sat at the end of the bed in a crumpled heap, not from last night, but rather the fact that he kicked them off every night.
He closed his mouth and smacked his lips, quietly. I wanted to imagine he was sucking off the last taste of me, maybe he was. The last of the fire crackled to the left of me and he snorted a little, drowning out, if only for a moment, the sounds of the birds outside.
His body was like a rag dolls, limp and slack. I could have pushed him off me with my pinky finger, if the fancy struck me. I ran my hand over his slim back, fingers climbing and falling on the hills of puckered skin, where he had cut himself. I could see glass and wood slashing through his pale body. Blood trickling in rivulets over his curves.
His eyes flickered then shut again and he sighed. My name was barely audible as he breathed it out contentedly. He flexed his hands, both of them stretching out like stars on my body. He slipped back into a blissful sleep and whispered words of pride, power and love. He whispered my name, pet names that he wanted to call me, and words that ran along the definition of love.
When we were in public, he flushed if I grasped his hand. He turned a rosy pink whenever someone mentioned the family we had. Harry slept down the hall and so what if he was straight? That didn't mean we didn't love him. He blushed whenever Molly asked when the wedding was. But here, in the dim heat of the morning after, in the glow of the chilled coals and the comfort of our bedroom, he could love me.
He loved me with all of his heart and soul. Whatever hadn't been destroyed already, he gave. And I suppose, it was for that reason, I forgave his hatred of the homosexual life he led. I guess that's why I could let it go when he shied away from the majority of my love. In the dampness of the morning after I could forgive it all.
A knock on the door and Harry opened it. He sat on the end of the bed and our morning after slipped away until the next time.