(no subject)
One of my more recent stories - I seem to write more while at home - perhaps there's something to be said for relaxation.
Title: Angles and Long Limbs
Pairings: HG/SS
Rating: R
Length: short
Disclaimer: They belong to JK Rowling - I'm merely playing and making no profit
She’s all angles and thin limbs. She’s awkward, and lacks grace. She’s opinionated and vicious and fiercely defiant and he hates her with an intensity that scares even himself. And as he follows her movements across the classroom, he can’t help but notice her. It isn’t until he catches her crouched at a table in the library, an ancient tome in her lap that he realizes that he loves her, and he is terrified.
So he hides behind his anger, his fierce determination to destroy the boy who lived, his daytime punishments and thinly veiled cruelty, but at night, he holds his memories to him as he comes in the darkness. Afterwards, he is surprised to find he has been crying, and can’t remember why.
He stalks her, through hidden passages and in shadows. He studies her - the language of her movement and tries not to remember his promises to others. And in his anger, he demands that she and Potter return that evening for detention, and as the class slips from the room, he struggles to control his breathing after he realizes what he’s done.
Potter hates him, and he can feel it radiate from him in waves. He sneers at him as he watches the slow progress he makes in bottling a potion, and almost misses the slightly averted gaze she trains on him. Scared, and hating himself for his cowardice, he lashes out at Potter, making him jump. As the potion spills, and the sound of his shout echoes through the dank hallways, he methodically tells Potter to excuse himself to the infirmary, and retreats into the shadows to watch as he leaves.
And all the while, he feels her eyes on him, and he tries not acknowledge the pounding of his heart. He stays hidden, veiled by shadows until she finishes and approaches him with five stoppered bottles. She reaches out to hand them over and he flinches, and sees that she sees this, and can’t bear the almost imperceptible flash of rage that she struggles to suppress.
And so he makes his decision finally, one hand reaching out to take the proffered bottles, and instead, slaps them aside. And when she doesn’t move, he steps forward and his hands find her waist and he’s pulling her closer, and he’s kissing her and she’s trying to pull away and he’s not letting go and he doesn’t want this to stop but he must and he’s stumbling away from her and trying to hide.
He expects her to run, but she doesn’t. It’s as if she’s frozen in place, hands in fists at her sides, chest heaving. He waits, the few feet between them like a vacuum. And when he reaches out to her again, she doesn’t move. So he does.
She’s like fire beneath his fingers, and as he crushes her lips with his, he can feel the pounding of her heart and struggles to breathe. He watches her face as she sees his room, and smiles as she registers the presence of warmth and comfort. And when he lowers her to the bed, he tries not to notice his fear.
She’s angles and long limbs and beautiful, and as his hand slowly traces the lines of her body, he slowly lets his robes slide to the ground. And when she closes her eyes, her tears glint in the light of the guttering candles and he feels as if he’s falling as he lowers himself on top her.
She is so much smaller than he, all delicate bones and fragile skin and he knows he’s crushing her and somewhere in his mind he doesn’t care. His lips brush hers and when she whimpers, he kisses away her tears and when she reaches out to him it is as if her hands are gripping his flesh to hide her fear. He is scared, and is trembling, and he discovers her wants with an intensity he hasn’t known.
As hands find buttons, he inhales the scent of her as slowly, he reveals her form to his devouring eye. Desire courses through him and it is as if there is fire in his veins. He feels as if a chasm has opened before him and it is too late to turn back. He doesn’t want to turn back. And in the steadily dying light, he watches her face as he slides into her.
He wants to be gentle, remembers gentleness somewhere within him, but as nails rake painfully into flesh, desire is sparked to fire and his thrusts end sharply, deeply and as he fucks her with an intensity that terrifies him, that reveals his deepest weakness, her eyes remain closed.
She is all angles and long limbs, so is he, and he’s thrusting faster now, hips rocking and he feels her tighten around him, warm centre enveloping him and he closes his eyes as he comes, shuddering inside her. And as he rolls off her, she’s staring into the last light of the candles, and she is illuminated in their wan light and her tears make stains in the sheets and the sheen of her sweat seems to glow. There is a draft here, he can feel it, and he can’t seem to let her go, and as he pulls her towards him, she doesn’t resist, and it isn’t until she’s almost asleep that he realizes the name she is whispering is his and that her tears have stopped and that her hands are holding him and that he isn’t afraid anymore.
She’s all angles, and long limbs and beautiful, and when she shows up at his door the next evening, he can only stare as the soft rustle of fabric reaches his ears, and her hands find his robes and she is laughing as his knees go weak and somehow he knows that in this, they are a perfect match.
Title: Angles and Long Limbs
Pairings: HG/SS
Rating: R
Length: short
Disclaimer: They belong to JK Rowling - I'm merely playing and making no profit
She’s all angles and thin limbs. She’s awkward, and lacks grace. She’s opinionated and vicious and fiercely defiant and he hates her with an intensity that scares even himself. And as he follows her movements across the classroom, he can’t help but notice her. It isn’t until he catches her crouched at a table in the library, an ancient tome in her lap that he realizes that he loves her, and he is terrified.
So he hides behind his anger, his fierce determination to destroy the boy who lived, his daytime punishments and thinly veiled cruelty, but at night, he holds his memories to him as he comes in the darkness. Afterwards, he is surprised to find he has been crying, and can’t remember why.
He stalks her, through hidden passages and in shadows. He studies her - the language of her movement and tries not to remember his promises to others. And in his anger, he demands that she and Potter return that evening for detention, and as the class slips from the room, he struggles to control his breathing after he realizes what he’s done.
Potter hates him, and he can feel it radiate from him in waves. He sneers at him as he watches the slow progress he makes in bottling a potion, and almost misses the slightly averted gaze she trains on him. Scared, and hating himself for his cowardice, he lashes out at Potter, making him jump. As the potion spills, and the sound of his shout echoes through the dank hallways, he methodically tells Potter to excuse himself to the infirmary, and retreats into the shadows to watch as he leaves.
And all the while, he feels her eyes on him, and he tries not acknowledge the pounding of his heart. He stays hidden, veiled by shadows until she finishes and approaches him with five stoppered bottles. She reaches out to hand them over and he flinches, and sees that she sees this, and can’t bear the almost imperceptible flash of rage that she struggles to suppress.
And so he makes his decision finally, one hand reaching out to take the proffered bottles, and instead, slaps them aside. And when she doesn’t move, he steps forward and his hands find her waist and he’s pulling her closer, and he’s kissing her and she’s trying to pull away and he’s not letting go and he doesn’t want this to stop but he must and he’s stumbling away from her and trying to hide.
He expects her to run, but she doesn’t. It’s as if she’s frozen in place, hands in fists at her sides, chest heaving. He waits, the few feet between them like a vacuum. And when he reaches out to her again, she doesn’t move. So he does.
She’s like fire beneath his fingers, and as he crushes her lips with his, he can feel the pounding of her heart and struggles to breathe. He watches her face as she sees his room, and smiles as she registers the presence of warmth and comfort. And when he lowers her to the bed, he tries not to notice his fear.
She’s angles and long limbs and beautiful, and as his hand slowly traces the lines of her body, he slowly lets his robes slide to the ground. And when she closes her eyes, her tears glint in the light of the guttering candles and he feels as if he’s falling as he lowers himself on top her.
She is so much smaller than he, all delicate bones and fragile skin and he knows he’s crushing her and somewhere in his mind he doesn’t care. His lips brush hers and when she whimpers, he kisses away her tears and when she reaches out to him it is as if her hands are gripping his flesh to hide her fear. He is scared, and is trembling, and he discovers her wants with an intensity he hasn’t known.
As hands find buttons, he inhales the scent of her as slowly, he reveals her form to his devouring eye. Desire courses through him and it is as if there is fire in his veins. He feels as if a chasm has opened before him and it is too late to turn back. He doesn’t want to turn back. And in the steadily dying light, he watches her face as he slides into her.
He wants to be gentle, remembers gentleness somewhere within him, but as nails rake painfully into flesh, desire is sparked to fire and his thrusts end sharply, deeply and as he fucks her with an intensity that terrifies him, that reveals his deepest weakness, her eyes remain closed.
She is all angles and long limbs, so is he, and he’s thrusting faster now, hips rocking and he feels her tighten around him, warm centre enveloping him and he closes his eyes as he comes, shuddering inside her. And as he rolls off her, she’s staring into the last light of the candles, and she is illuminated in their wan light and her tears make stains in the sheets and the sheen of her sweat seems to glow. There is a draft here, he can feel it, and he can’t seem to let her go, and as he pulls her towards him, she doesn’t resist, and it isn’t until she’s almost asleep that he realizes the name she is whispering is his and that her tears have stopped and that her hands are holding him and that he isn’t afraid anymore.
She’s all angles, and long limbs and beautiful, and when she shows up at his door the next evening, he can only stare as the soft rustle of fabric reaches his ears, and her hands find his robes and she is laughing as his knees go weak and somehow he knows that in this, they are a perfect match.