(no subject)
A/M fic for redcandle17! And whoever else wants it :P
Title: Clash or Complement
Author: Me
Ship: A/M
Rating: Soft R, because I don't really do smut
Premise/Scenario: Post-game sex
She had always known intuitively that they were the type to either be deadly enemies or closer than blood. They were just alike and just different enough to complement or clash, and usually it was a clash due to circumstances.
It was third year when both of them joined the team that they realized-- Flint had assigned him to cover her, and it was in Slytherin tradition that he did so, turning sharp, cold eyes to her proud thirteen-autumns beauty and the stubborn lift of her chin. He elbowed her in the ribs and she aimed a kick at the tail of his broomstick as she zoomed past, and their blood roared through their veins with a sweet tingle of adrenaline. And then, after Gryffindor had won, the new Seeker catching the Snitch after almost falling off his broom, and it was afterwards that she flounced out of the locker room, her nose in the air, making sure to whip him across the face with her ponytail as she stalked past. He smelled a whiff of hazelnut and cinnamon and barely restrained his temptation to yank her back by her hair.
It was fifth year when they both made it to the Quidditch final, and the prior day, a few of her housemates and a few of his housemates had all but started brawling in the middle of the hallway. She should have been scared of what she would face the next day-- but it was a heady sort of excitement instead, which she could only partially attribute to Gryffindor fearlessness. When they took to the air, it was dirty and rough and fierce as always, her graceful figure cutting off his path like a rose attached to an arrow, his beautiful hands reaching out in counterpoint, fighting back. At one point, when he reached out, his fingers closed around her wrist, almost unseating her, and she felt as though the world stilled around them for the moment as she stared into narrowed blue eyes. The shrill whistle cut off her frantic thoughts, and she flew off in the other direction.
This time when she stalked past him, victorious, he did pull her back. And then she wasn't sure how it happened, because one moment she was glaring at him, hand clenching into a fist, and the next moment her hand was loosening again, his wrapped around her wrist even as one of her legs looped around his waist, their lips moving together with the fire of clashing but the perfect harmony of complement. Neither of them spoke a word, and she dizzily thought to herself that she didn't know a poker-faced Slytherin prat could kiss like that...
She returned to her Common Room with swollen lips and a secretive sort of smile, exultant over their win and pleasantly surprised that her ribs didn't ache any more from being fouled in the game.
~*~
When they were both Quidditch captains, it was almost tradition now, and it was their last year. She had won again, but this victory tasted bitter as three members of her team were suspended indefinitely. This time, when everyone but her had emerged from the locker room, he muttered a curse under his breath, unwarded the door, and strode in as though he had every single right to be there.
He found her sitting on the bench by the loo wearing nothing but her knickers, her face in her hands, and she only flinched briefly when he approached her and pulled her hands away from her face. Their eyes met, and she wasn't surprised to see him. "This is the last one," she muttered through her tears, and didn't bother to cover herself up as she stood. "I didn't win."
"Neither did I," he said, and it might've been one of the first civil things they'd ever said to each other. It was certainly the first time that he had seen her crying, because no amount of brawling and Bludgers could ever defeat her. For a moment, he almost loathed Malfoy for bringing this down upon her and breaking her, and this time, when he took her in his arms, he was almost gentle, roughened fingers sliding down her bare back as she shook and raged and clung to him, salt tears sliding from her cheeks to his chest. This time, it was she who kissed him and not the other way around. It wasn't full of fire this time, and he was shocked to find that her defeat hurt more than any of her victories.
But his body reacted to it just like any red-blooded male would, being wrapped arms-and-legs around by a girl whose lips tasted sweet like chocolate and salty like tears in the rare moment of complement. And she knew and realized and he let her take the lead. "This is it," she whispered as she all but ripped the green outer robe of his Quidditch kit off his body. "This is the last time we're enemies."
"You don't have to, you know," he muttered before he could stop himself, even as his hands roamed all over her skin and hers unfastened his trousers.
"It's been building to this point, though, hasn't it?" she asked, removing the last of his clothing even as he slid her knickers down. She sank down onto him before he could reply, and as though galvanized into action by the feeling of their bodies, connected, the image of her sprawled over him, he sat up suddenly, pulling their bodies closer and kissing her hard. Neither of them had to think about what to do or pretend to be experiencing more pleasure than they really were, and when she fell over the edge, she screamed his name, her head arching back, her hair tickling his forearms as he held her close, burying his own face in her neck as he joined her. Theirs was a peculiar relationship-- love or hate or both but never neither.
And because it had all led up to this and they couldn't be enemies any more, he carried her, brown arms and legs still wrapped around him, towards the showers, and they made love two more times before they left the locker room.
~*~
It was the end of the year before he got all of his memories back, and when he ran into her on the train, she looked up at him, not knowing what to expect. Strangely, she found that she'd rather he hate her than be indifferent altogether. At least it would be something she knew how to handle.
She had almost turned away from the unblinking stare of his icy blue eyes when his hand closed around her wrist. "Johnson," his voice was gritty.
"Montague," she returned, keeping her voice equally abrupt. "You've been out of it... let me go."
"Not on your life," his face held a sneer. "You haven't answered any of my questions yet."
"What questions?" she snapped, feeling unaccountably angry. For one day, she had almost thought him better than the sneering, arrogant Slytherin rival that she faced on the pitch. "You didn't ask any."
"Hate or love? Clash or complement?" His tone was abrupt, but something in his gaze made her pause. "It has to be one of them, at least, for the two of us."
She paused, and he continued, advancing forward even as she took a few steps back, and then they were in an empty compartment and he kicked the door shut behind them. "I thought that it would be the least I could do, considering our... history... to give you a choice."
"Liar," she hissed, striding up to him and landing a crisp slap across his cheek. "Since when was anything a choice between us? You know it as much as I do that I've no reason to feel the way I do about you any more than you've any reason to try to break a few of my limbs out on the pitch."
"We've all every reason, just not obvious ones," he contradicted her, not bothering about the sting in his cheek as he grabbed both of her wrists. "And you need to answer my question."
"I liked it better when you called me Angelina... that time in the locker room," she told him, her eyes glinting puckishly for a moment before she none-too-gently yanked him down for a kiss. "And I TOLD you that we'd never be enemies again."
And after that, they never were.
Title: Clash or Complement
Author: Me
Ship: A/M
Rating: Soft R, because I don't really do smut
Premise/Scenario: Post-game sex
She had always known intuitively that they were the type to either be deadly enemies or closer than blood. They were just alike and just different enough to complement or clash, and usually it was a clash due to circumstances.
It was third year when both of them joined the team that they realized-- Flint had assigned him to cover her, and it was in Slytherin tradition that he did so, turning sharp, cold eyes to her proud thirteen-autumns beauty and the stubborn lift of her chin. He elbowed her in the ribs and she aimed a kick at the tail of his broomstick as she zoomed past, and their blood roared through their veins with a sweet tingle of adrenaline. And then, after Gryffindor had won, the new Seeker catching the Snitch after almost falling off his broom, and it was afterwards that she flounced out of the locker room, her nose in the air, making sure to whip him across the face with her ponytail as she stalked past. He smelled a whiff of hazelnut and cinnamon and barely restrained his temptation to yank her back by her hair.
It was fifth year when they both made it to the Quidditch final, and the prior day, a few of her housemates and a few of his housemates had all but started brawling in the middle of the hallway. She should have been scared of what she would face the next day-- but it was a heady sort of excitement instead, which she could only partially attribute to Gryffindor fearlessness. When they took to the air, it was dirty and rough and fierce as always, her graceful figure cutting off his path like a rose attached to an arrow, his beautiful hands reaching out in counterpoint, fighting back. At one point, when he reached out, his fingers closed around her wrist, almost unseating her, and she felt as though the world stilled around them for the moment as she stared into narrowed blue eyes. The shrill whistle cut off her frantic thoughts, and she flew off in the other direction.
This time when she stalked past him, victorious, he did pull her back. And then she wasn't sure how it happened, because one moment she was glaring at him, hand clenching into a fist, and the next moment her hand was loosening again, his wrapped around her wrist even as one of her legs looped around his waist, their lips moving together with the fire of clashing but the perfect harmony of complement. Neither of them spoke a word, and she dizzily thought to herself that she didn't know a poker-faced Slytherin prat could kiss like that...
She returned to her Common Room with swollen lips and a secretive sort of smile, exultant over their win and pleasantly surprised that her ribs didn't ache any more from being fouled in the game.
~*~
When they were both Quidditch captains, it was almost tradition now, and it was their last year. She had won again, but this victory tasted bitter as three members of her team were suspended indefinitely. This time, when everyone but her had emerged from the locker room, he muttered a curse under his breath, unwarded the door, and strode in as though he had every single right to be there.
He found her sitting on the bench by the loo wearing nothing but her knickers, her face in her hands, and she only flinched briefly when he approached her and pulled her hands away from her face. Their eyes met, and she wasn't surprised to see him. "This is the last one," she muttered through her tears, and didn't bother to cover herself up as she stood. "I didn't win."
"Neither did I," he said, and it might've been one of the first civil things they'd ever said to each other. It was certainly the first time that he had seen her crying, because no amount of brawling and Bludgers could ever defeat her. For a moment, he almost loathed Malfoy for bringing this down upon her and breaking her, and this time, when he took her in his arms, he was almost gentle, roughened fingers sliding down her bare back as she shook and raged and clung to him, salt tears sliding from her cheeks to his chest. This time, it was she who kissed him and not the other way around. It wasn't full of fire this time, and he was shocked to find that her defeat hurt more than any of her victories.
But his body reacted to it just like any red-blooded male would, being wrapped arms-and-legs around by a girl whose lips tasted sweet like chocolate and salty like tears in the rare moment of complement. And she knew and realized and he let her take the lead. "This is it," she whispered as she all but ripped the green outer robe of his Quidditch kit off his body. "This is the last time we're enemies."
"You don't have to, you know," he muttered before he could stop himself, even as his hands roamed all over her skin and hers unfastened his trousers.
"It's been building to this point, though, hasn't it?" she asked, removing the last of his clothing even as he slid her knickers down. She sank down onto him before he could reply, and as though galvanized into action by the feeling of their bodies, connected, the image of her sprawled over him, he sat up suddenly, pulling their bodies closer and kissing her hard. Neither of them had to think about what to do or pretend to be experiencing more pleasure than they really were, and when she fell over the edge, she screamed his name, her head arching back, her hair tickling his forearms as he held her close, burying his own face in her neck as he joined her. Theirs was a peculiar relationship-- love or hate or both but never neither.
And because it had all led up to this and they couldn't be enemies any more, he carried her, brown arms and legs still wrapped around him, towards the showers, and they made love two more times before they left the locker room.
~*~
It was the end of the year before he got all of his memories back, and when he ran into her on the train, she looked up at him, not knowing what to expect. Strangely, she found that she'd rather he hate her than be indifferent altogether. At least it would be something she knew how to handle.
She had almost turned away from the unblinking stare of his icy blue eyes when his hand closed around her wrist. "Johnson," his voice was gritty.
"Montague," she returned, keeping her voice equally abrupt. "You've been out of it... let me go."
"Not on your life," his face held a sneer. "You haven't answered any of my questions yet."
"What questions?" she snapped, feeling unaccountably angry. For one day, she had almost thought him better than the sneering, arrogant Slytherin rival that she faced on the pitch. "You didn't ask any."
"Hate or love? Clash or complement?" His tone was abrupt, but something in his gaze made her pause. "It has to be one of them, at least, for the two of us."
She paused, and he continued, advancing forward even as she took a few steps back, and then they were in an empty compartment and he kicked the door shut behind them. "I thought that it would be the least I could do, considering our... history... to give you a choice."
"Liar," she hissed, striding up to him and landing a crisp slap across his cheek. "Since when was anything a choice between us? You know it as much as I do that I've no reason to feel the way I do about you any more than you've any reason to try to break a few of my limbs out on the pitch."
"We've all every reason, just not obvious ones," he contradicted her, not bothering about the sting in his cheek as he grabbed both of her wrists. "And you need to answer my question."
"I liked it better when you called me Angelina... that time in the locker room," she told him, her eyes glinting puckishly for a moment before she none-too-gently yanked him down for a kiss. "And I TOLD you that we'd never be enemies again."
And after that, they never were.