A/N: Was supposed to be a longer one-shot, but then refused to go longer than this. So…a really non-explicit PWP? Damn writer's block!
Later, when he thinks of her, he will link think of autumn, and the golden leaves gently dropping onto the sidewalks and the smell of the air that seemed to say—'Winter is coming!' and a fleeting glimpse of her hair disappearing around a corner. They are like pictures, there is nothing kinetic in the way he only remembers them…as photographs, almost. But it has, after all, been a long time.
He used to watch her in class, not obviously, but discreetly…he wonders, later, what she must have thought of him. And if she had ever thought of him. He had vague impressions of himself as a teenager—sullen, withdrawn, hollow-eyed. He had equally vague impressions of her—hair like fire, the curve of her neck as it became her ear, the swell of her breast under the cream-coloured wool of the uniform sweater.
He sees beauty in many things—well, he used to, now he can barely see—not clearly beautiful. She was not one of them…her beauty was like red silk in the light of a fire.
They must have made an odd pair—him, quiet and unremarkable, and her, every teenage boy's dream.
He does remember the first time he touched her body, but only in flashes-the feel of his hand against the fullness of her breast, stroking her taut nipples and tonguing them, her hand splayed against his back; the moans she made as he lowered his head to lick her nipples and went further down. Frantic, rushed movements—he needed this, now-and the feeling that he was on fire. Entering her was like entering the core of the earth or a furnace. And how strange it was, how slippery it felt inside her. Their breaths hitched, he cupped the perfect roundness of her backside, drawing them closer, gasping. The glorious sensation of her bare nipples rubbing against his chest, the friction. Hot puffs of air against his neck, and one—last—thrust, and he was left complete and gasping rash declarations of love into her hair.