(no subject)
Title: Black Eye
Type: Gen, with implied slash.
Genre: *shrugs*
Characters: Terry/Anthony (no appearance from the latter), Blaise Zabini
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, violence, discussion of slash.
Prompts: "That's one link between us." from No Exit and Three Other Plays by Jean Paul Sartre; specifically, it's from "No Exit."
Word Count: 963
Summary:
Disclaimer: All are JKR's. These incarnations of Terry and Anthony are being used by me and Chelsea/unrulygarden for the Aguamenti RPG; Terry is her character.
A/N: Written for this week's AWDT prompt.
Blowing a stray, raven lock out of his face, Terry saunters around the corner, all tomcat style and long since perfected swagger. He has his head held high as always, but, tonight, as he waits outside Flitwick’s classroom, it’s for more than just knowing that he Looks Good and people Want him. While not necessarily untrue, it just has no bearings tonight. Besides, should his appointment decide to show his face in the Charms corridor outside class ever again, it’s the truth about both of them, a fact which Terry’s loath to admit. Not that he’d rather be undesirable, but if that self-important, Pureblood-elitist snot, Blaise Zabini, would undergo a demotion from “scorching hot” to “tepid,” he wouldn’t mind a bit.
He’ll allow himself to forget that he’s a Pureblood tonight. It usually doesn’t matter, but when dealing with trash like Zabini, it suddenly becomes an issue. Entirely the Slytherin’s fault, Terry reminds himself. Not his fault at all. Even he has to admit that the boy’s an attractive male specimen - from the cheekbones, to the lips, to the constantly-bedroom-even-if-he-hasn’t-been-in-one eyes… he’s unquestionably mesmeric, his heat undeniably tropical.
Straight to the nitty-gritty heart of the matter: Zabini is fucking hot, and being in his presence is a powder keg for every straight lass and fancy lad in Hogwarts. Regrettably, Terry has to include himself in this group, though he handles himself better than the rest of them - a lovely side effect of being equally, nay more, covetable - and he must admit that, as a corollary to this rule, he never expected that he’d have to include Anthony in the list of “mercilessly charmed, beguiled, or otherwise seduced out of their skirt/trousers by Blaise Zabini.”
Luckily for Terry, a certain presence sweeps around the corner and sashays towards him right as his inner monologue turns tedious.
“Boot,” he drawls with a slight laugh.
“Zabini.” Terry’s quite fond of his voice, and it’s still sexy when he’s angry; it just lacks the subtle, seductive tones.
“You needed me for something?”
“Just to speak to you. Briefly, I hope.”
“Now, now, Terry, play nicely. Put the claws away and maybe-”
“I’m not interested in any of your bloody techniques, got it? I didn’t come here to be seduced.”
“Then why come at all?”
He cocks an eyebrow, sticks out a hip, and licks his lips like it’s enticing. It probably would be, were there not a bigger purpose at hand and if their attire weren’t so similar. Sure, everyone wears the same uniform, but, here, in the realm of specifics, the only difference is the tie. Blue and bronze, green and silver… aside from that, everything from the two undone buttons, rolled up sleeves, and exposed collarbones is the same. Skin-tone isn’t, nor are hair, the eyes, and the general personality, but those are all overlookable, really.
“Because you, my serpentine friend, have transgressed in the worst way.”
“I do a lot of sinning, love. Remind me: which one will we be discussing?”
“It has a name, you know: Anthony Goldstein.”
Zabini laughs easily. He’s probably too used to this sort of confrontation - boys about their girlfriends, girls about their girlfriends, girls about their boyfriends, and boys about their boyfriends, and every single one of them has likely fallen prey to that glint in his eyes. Every, single one until Terry, that is. He knows these tricks. Fuck, he uses them himself on a regular basis. Better yet, he knows that it’s all an act.
“That’s one link between us, isn’t it?” Zabini purred. “Cute boy, if a little neurotic.”
“Which is precisely why you shouldn’t have touched him,” Terry hisses; he’s well aware that his lip is curling into a disgusted sneer, but he’s further aware that he’s powerless against it.
“I didn’t see a sign on him saying, ‘do not touch the Prefect; he is being saved’.”
“That doesn’t make him yours to touch, especially not when he tells you ‘no’.”
“If he said, ‘no,’ I didn’t hear it.”
“Obviously not.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you’re an oblivious dolt when subject to lust, aren’t you?”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Decent point, but hardly relevant. You had your way with Anthony, and-”
“All we did was snog, love! And, at that, I did all the work! He just caved under my… magic fingers. What’s all this matter to you, anyway?”
He’s risking accidental seduction on either end, but it’s a chance that must be taken: without warning, Terry closes the space between them, shoving Zabini up against the wall and staring up into his hot chocolate, bedroom eyes. Their hips touch, but he’ll deny the shiver it sends up him until later, when he can work off whatever needs to be worked off. To accentuate his point, he pins Zabini with two hands on two shoulders.
“I’d say it matters quite a bit when one of my roommates comes in, frantic, screaming his head off about how you tried to rape him.” Now, Terry lets his voice be seductive. It’s amazing how much sex and death threats can coincide.
“Still none of your bloody business-”
“The boy’s mine.”
“…What?”
“The boy,” Terry hisses. “Is mine. He belongs to me.”
“Ah hah! Eureka indeed, here it is! The dark side of Terry Boot…”
“Not dark, just protective.”
Terry shoves himself off and sets down the corridor, his scowl still deeply lined in his otherwise perfect face. Momentarily, he turns back to glare.
“And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from Anthony.”
“Not to worry,” Zabini scoffs, “he got boring after one time anyway.”
Though the punch he gives makes his knuckles sore, Terry ignores the pain and heads back to North Tower, leaving Zabini to deal his black eye in private.
Type: Gen, with implied slash.
Genre: *shrugs*
Characters: Terry/Anthony (no appearance from the latter), Blaise Zabini
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, violence, discussion of slash.
Prompts: "That's one link between us." from No Exit and Three Other Plays by Jean Paul Sartre; specifically, it's from "No Exit."
Word Count: 963
Summary:
Disclaimer: All are JKR's. These incarnations of Terry and Anthony are being used by me and Chelsea/unrulygarden for the Aguamenti RPG; Terry is her character.
A/N: Written for this week's AWDT prompt.
Blowing a stray, raven lock out of his face, Terry saunters around the corner, all tomcat style and long since perfected swagger. He has his head held high as always, but, tonight, as he waits outside Flitwick’s classroom, it’s for more than just knowing that he Looks Good and people Want him. While not necessarily untrue, it just has no bearings tonight. Besides, should his appointment decide to show his face in the Charms corridor outside class ever again, it’s the truth about both of them, a fact which Terry’s loath to admit. Not that he’d rather be undesirable, but if that self-important, Pureblood-elitist snot, Blaise Zabini, would undergo a demotion from “scorching hot” to “tepid,” he wouldn’t mind a bit.
He’ll allow himself to forget that he’s a Pureblood tonight. It usually doesn’t matter, but when dealing with trash like Zabini, it suddenly becomes an issue. Entirely the Slytherin’s fault, Terry reminds himself. Not his fault at all. Even he has to admit that the boy’s an attractive male specimen - from the cheekbones, to the lips, to the constantly-bedroom-even-if-he-hasn’t-been-in-one eyes… he’s unquestionably mesmeric, his heat undeniably tropical.
Straight to the nitty-gritty heart of the matter: Zabini is fucking hot, and being in his presence is a powder keg for every straight lass and fancy lad in Hogwarts. Regrettably, Terry has to include himself in this group, though he handles himself better than the rest of them - a lovely side effect of being equally, nay more, covetable - and he must admit that, as a corollary to this rule, he never expected that he’d have to include Anthony in the list of “mercilessly charmed, beguiled, or otherwise seduced out of their skirt/trousers by Blaise Zabini.”
Luckily for Terry, a certain presence sweeps around the corner and sashays towards him right as his inner monologue turns tedious.
“Boot,” he drawls with a slight laugh.
“Zabini.” Terry’s quite fond of his voice, and it’s still sexy when he’s angry; it just lacks the subtle, seductive tones.
“You needed me for something?”
“Just to speak to you. Briefly, I hope.”
“Now, now, Terry, play nicely. Put the claws away and maybe-”
“I’m not interested in any of your bloody techniques, got it? I didn’t come here to be seduced.”
“Then why come at all?”
He cocks an eyebrow, sticks out a hip, and licks his lips like it’s enticing. It probably would be, were there not a bigger purpose at hand and if their attire weren’t so similar. Sure, everyone wears the same uniform, but, here, in the realm of specifics, the only difference is the tie. Blue and bronze, green and silver… aside from that, everything from the two undone buttons, rolled up sleeves, and exposed collarbones is the same. Skin-tone isn’t, nor are hair, the eyes, and the general personality, but those are all overlookable, really.
“Because you, my serpentine friend, have transgressed in the worst way.”
“I do a lot of sinning, love. Remind me: which one will we be discussing?”
“It has a name, you know: Anthony Goldstein.”
Zabini laughs easily. He’s probably too used to this sort of confrontation - boys about their girlfriends, girls about their girlfriends, girls about their boyfriends, and boys about their boyfriends, and every single one of them has likely fallen prey to that glint in his eyes. Every, single one until Terry, that is. He knows these tricks. Fuck, he uses them himself on a regular basis. Better yet, he knows that it’s all an act.
“That’s one link between us, isn’t it?” Zabini purred. “Cute boy, if a little neurotic.”
“Which is precisely why you shouldn’t have touched him,” Terry hisses; he’s well aware that his lip is curling into a disgusted sneer, but he’s further aware that he’s powerless against it.
“I didn’t see a sign on him saying, ‘do not touch the Prefect; he is being saved’.”
“That doesn’t make him yours to touch, especially not when he tells you ‘no’.”
“If he said, ‘no,’ I didn’t hear it.”
“Obviously not.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you’re an oblivious dolt when subject to lust, aren’t you?”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Decent point, but hardly relevant. You had your way with Anthony, and-”
“All we did was snog, love! And, at that, I did all the work! He just caved under my… magic fingers. What’s all this matter to you, anyway?”
He’s risking accidental seduction on either end, but it’s a chance that must be taken: without warning, Terry closes the space between them, shoving Zabini up against the wall and staring up into his hot chocolate, bedroom eyes. Their hips touch, but he’ll deny the shiver it sends up him until later, when he can work off whatever needs to be worked off. To accentuate his point, he pins Zabini with two hands on two shoulders.
“I’d say it matters quite a bit when one of my roommates comes in, frantic, screaming his head off about how you tried to rape him.” Now, Terry lets his voice be seductive. It’s amazing how much sex and death threats can coincide.
“Still none of your bloody business-”
“The boy’s mine.”
“…What?”
“The boy,” Terry hisses. “Is mine. He belongs to me.”
“Ah hah! Eureka indeed, here it is! The dark side of Terry Boot…”
“Not dark, just protective.”
Terry shoves himself off and sets down the corridor, his scowl still deeply lined in his otherwise perfect face. Momentarily, he turns back to glare.
“And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from Anthony.”
“Not to worry,” Zabini scoffs, “he got boring after one time anyway.”
Though the punch he gives makes his knuckles sore, Terry ignores the pain and heads back to North Tower, leaving Zabini to deal his black eye in private.