(no subject)
redcandle17 is EBIL. But we all knew that, right?
Title: Less Hate and More Love
Author: Me
Rating: PG-13/soft R
Notes: Inspired by redcandle17's commissioned pic. redcandle17 is EBIL. That is all.
There was something even more exhilarating than their rivalry when they were like this. Proper and perfect Head Girl Angelina Johnson, whose posture was flawless and whose hair was never out of place... stretched like a sleek, agile cat, her shirt carelessly tied over her navel and her bright Gryffindor tie knotted around her forehead.
Standing close enough to her that she could feel how warm and smooth his skin actually was through the open halves of his uniform shirt was the one person she was meant to hate. But there was no animosity in his ice-blue gaze as he watched her fiddling with the ends of his tie.
Angelina was standing only because of determination and years of athleticism. Two long bouts of sex in the shower after a three hour Quidditch game, and she wasn't completely sure if the wetness dripping down her thigh at a slow trickle was the water, her, or him. Sure, he would have hoisted her up and carried her as though she weighed nothing if she'd asked, but that would just be humiliating, wouldn't it?
"What are you looking at?" she asked finally, breaking the post-coital silence a bit rudely.
"That's a very interesting way of wearing your tie," he remarked, long, tapering fingers sliding through her damp braids to fiddle with the ends of the strip of red and gold. "And it's really too bad that you can't wear your shirt like that in class."
That incited a blush and a feminine little smile despite her best efforts.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she said teasingly, looping his tie around his neck. "Give you something to fantasize about, hmm?"
"Such filthy thoughts," he shook his head, raising an eyebrow at her and smirking. "Why in the world would I need to do that when I have the real thing?"
"You're awfully secure about my position in your life," she remarked, an uneasy sort of feeling rising in her chest. It wasn't dismay at his unusually audacious statement, and perhaps that was WHY she felt uneasy. It was downright cocky of him to assume that they were anything, wasn't it?
"Of course I am," he replied evenly. And he was, and she knew why-- and it wasn't supposed to be something that he could be secure about.
"Cocky Slytherin bastard."
"Reckless Gryffindor twit."
But the insults carried no venom, not now, because they were both exhausted and giddy and after two and a half hours and a love bite marring the slightly tanned skin at the crook of his neck and shoulder, it didn't seem to matter so much that she'd stolen a victory away from him and he'd elbowed her in the ribs hard enough to bruise during the game. He'd kissed along the darkening bruise until all she felt was boneless, liquid heat and not pain as she blindly tugged his head towards her breasts.
"Do you think we'd be doing this if we weren't rivals?" she asked, sliding her fingers idly along the length of his tie. Her bare arm brushed against the skin of his stomach, and like any and all of their touches, sparks dragged along his skin in the wake of her touch. And as though it were the most natural thing in the world, he laid his hand on her shoulder and pulled her close.
"No," he replied, and she wasn't sure if she was disappointed at the response. She shouldn't have been.
"We would have been friends," he said mockingly. "Teammates, even. People who talk about the weather and classes and Quidditch and so on. I would have hexed blokes who broke your heart and you would criticize my taste in women. Eventually, much later than now, we would have gotten drunk one night and shagged until dawn and not remembered a bit of it. And then we would never have spoken of it again and you would have ended up with the Weasley git and I would have been expected to stand up at your wedding and dance with you once for the sake of our friendship."
She winced at his tone. "You've put a lot of thought into this," she remarked neutrally, her voice clipped. "And I suppose you think that I would have been around to be a bridesmaid at your wedding with Susannah Caligo and babysit the little Slytherin brats you're sure to have with her, never ogle your arse while sober, and generally remain chipper and chirpy around you."
He shuddered at that mental image-- because Angelina wasn't chipper and chirpy, and he loved that about her. She felt deeply-- both her happiness and her sorrow, and she never dissembled. Even now, looking dishevelled and beautiful and uncharacteristically undone with her knotted shirt and the tie around her forehead, she was true and real. His. The passion and intensity that rested within her was something that he alone was privy to-- no one else had ever been graced with the sight of her less than cool and collected-- no one else had seen her burst into flame in his arms.
"I'm glad we hate each other then," he finally said, cupping her dark cheeks with surprising gentleness. "I'd never love you if we hadn't hated each other first."
She understood, strangely, and closed the distance between them. The game might have been hard and fierce-- the sex afterwards even more so, but the kiss that they now shared was slow and soothing and almost tender.
She supposed that it was only somewhat natural that as the time progressed and they had more and more encounters, with each time there was less hate and more love.
Title: Less Hate and More Love
Author: Me
Rating: PG-13/soft R
Notes: Inspired by redcandle17's commissioned pic. redcandle17 is EBIL. That is all.
There was something even more exhilarating than their rivalry when they were like this. Proper and perfect Head Girl Angelina Johnson, whose posture was flawless and whose hair was never out of place... stretched like a sleek, agile cat, her shirt carelessly tied over her navel and her bright Gryffindor tie knotted around her forehead.
Standing close enough to her that she could feel how warm and smooth his skin actually was through the open halves of his uniform shirt was the one person she was meant to hate. But there was no animosity in his ice-blue gaze as he watched her fiddling with the ends of his tie.
Angelina was standing only because of determination and years of athleticism. Two long bouts of sex in the shower after a three hour Quidditch game, and she wasn't completely sure if the wetness dripping down her thigh at a slow trickle was the water, her, or him. Sure, he would have hoisted her up and carried her as though she weighed nothing if she'd asked, but that would just be humiliating, wouldn't it?
"What are you looking at?" she asked finally, breaking the post-coital silence a bit rudely.
"That's a very interesting way of wearing your tie," he remarked, long, tapering fingers sliding through her damp braids to fiddle with the ends of the strip of red and gold. "And it's really too bad that you can't wear your shirt like that in class."
That incited a blush and a feminine little smile despite her best efforts.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she said teasingly, looping his tie around his neck. "Give you something to fantasize about, hmm?"
"Such filthy thoughts," he shook his head, raising an eyebrow at her and smirking. "Why in the world would I need to do that when I have the real thing?"
"You're awfully secure about my position in your life," she remarked, an uneasy sort of feeling rising in her chest. It wasn't dismay at his unusually audacious statement, and perhaps that was WHY she felt uneasy. It was downright cocky of him to assume that they were anything, wasn't it?
"Of course I am," he replied evenly. And he was, and she knew why-- and it wasn't supposed to be something that he could be secure about.
"Cocky Slytherin bastard."
"Reckless Gryffindor twit."
But the insults carried no venom, not now, because they were both exhausted and giddy and after two and a half hours and a love bite marring the slightly tanned skin at the crook of his neck and shoulder, it didn't seem to matter so much that she'd stolen a victory away from him and he'd elbowed her in the ribs hard enough to bruise during the game. He'd kissed along the darkening bruise until all she felt was boneless, liquid heat and not pain as she blindly tugged his head towards her breasts.
"Do you think we'd be doing this if we weren't rivals?" she asked, sliding her fingers idly along the length of his tie. Her bare arm brushed against the skin of his stomach, and like any and all of their touches, sparks dragged along his skin in the wake of her touch. And as though it were the most natural thing in the world, he laid his hand on her shoulder and pulled her close.
"No," he replied, and she wasn't sure if she was disappointed at the response. She shouldn't have been.
"We would have been friends," he said mockingly. "Teammates, even. People who talk about the weather and classes and Quidditch and so on. I would have hexed blokes who broke your heart and you would criticize my taste in women. Eventually, much later than now, we would have gotten drunk one night and shagged until dawn and not remembered a bit of it. And then we would never have spoken of it again and you would have ended up with the Weasley git and I would have been expected to stand up at your wedding and dance with you once for the sake of our friendship."
She winced at his tone. "You've put a lot of thought into this," she remarked neutrally, her voice clipped. "And I suppose you think that I would have been around to be a bridesmaid at your wedding with Susannah Caligo and babysit the little Slytherin brats you're sure to have with her, never ogle your arse while sober, and generally remain chipper and chirpy around you."
He shuddered at that mental image-- because Angelina wasn't chipper and chirpy, and he loved that about her. She felt deeply-- both her happiness and her sorrow, and she never dissembled. Even now, looking dishevelled and beautiful and uncharacteristically undone with her knotted shirt and the tie around her forehead, she was true and real. His. The passion and intensity that rested within her was something that he alone was privy to-- no one else had ever been graced with the sight of her less than cool and collected-- no one else had seen her burst into flame in his arms.
"I'm glad we hate each other then," he finally said, cupping her dark cheeks with surprising gentleness. "I'd never love you if we hadn't hated each other first."
She understood, strangely, and closed the distance between them. The game might have been hard and fierce-- the sex afterwards even more so, but the kiss that they now shared was slow and soothing and almost tender.
She supposed that it was only somewhat natural that as the time progressed and they had more and more encounters, with each time there was less hate and more love.