Ten years after I began at Hogwarts, Sebastian Sallow is back. And he's Professor Sallow now. He disappeared after the fall of Ranrok and Rookwood, after I lost Professor Fig, and after Ominis and I couldn't keep him from losing himself. But I never...
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"I am very lucky, indeed," Thiago whispers against my lips and pulls me in, his words like the tuning of a symphony orchestra, his breath like the quieting of a great hall in anticipation of a conductor's entrance, and our resulting kiss — deep and tender and passionate — like the roaring applause when the maestro finally steps out onto the stage.
Our well-acquainted tongues clash together — cymbals crashing at the start of a wild mazurka — and we simultaneously inhale through our noses while our bodies tense and relax and tense again within our bond.
Oh my. I will never tire of the way his rascally, nimble fingers lace up through my hair from the back of my neck and grip against the base of my scalp.
"I want—," Thiago starts but becomes too immediately distracted by his own kisses. "I want—" he tries and fails again amidst the wet and sloppy pavane.
With a coiling expression of frustration, he pulls away, "meu deus!" and hisses into my mouth with focus, "I will have you."
It is a command. A statement of intent. It is no request.
His chest heaves while he pants. "I will never allow you to be harmed again, my Omi. Not a single golden hair upon your head." The invigorating, fruity scent and fresh humidity of his breath against the finest hairs along my cheek makes me wonder how it is that he somehow breathes the tropical air of his Brazilian homeland when his feet are firmly planted in the Scottish Highlands.
"I cannot lose you," his voice strains against my skin, embracing me tighter. "I will not lose you again."
Before I can respond, he envelops my lips once more. He's hungry and frantic. "I will keep you safe, meu amor. I swear to you. I will never let you go." His voice breaks and his strong arms and fingers tremble into my back and against my cheeks, whether with vulnerable emotion or the restraint it takes to hold back the passionate hurricane I can sense within him, I cannot tell.
All too happy to be enveloped this way, and gasping for air I can only stammer, "I'm yours," and "I love you."
He whimpers. And I can practically taste his desperation. I open my mouth with the thought to add, 'I trust you with my life' and it occurs to me that it is no longer a hyperbolic or hypothetical sentiment. So, instead, I simply reiterate, "I'm yours," adding, "however you please," with the seedling of impenetrable confidence in the reality that he will always care for and do what's best for me.
A whirlwind ensues unlike any I've ever experienced. The closest phenomenon to this that I can recall might be that of sitting at a quidditch match – the reason I much prefer to participate in them – and focusing my attention within myself to manage the cacophony of cheering and stamping that creates a jostling chaos which rattles me from the bones in my pinkie toes to that squishy point where my neck meets my skull. An abyss of too-much sensation.
