Fic: Blindsided | Marcus Flint/Ginny Weasley | PG
Title: Blindsided
Characters: Marcus Flint/Ginny Weasley
Words: 359
Rating: PG
Summary: Marcus can't keep his head in the game.
Author's Note: So, I signed up for sortinghatdrabs this past week and then completely forgot about it. This was submitted at the very last minute, meaning I was still tweaking it at 11:58pm on Monday. >> << But those stolen moments apparently paid off because I won! \o/ I'll throw the banner in here when they're ready.
Flint hurt. His muscles and joints were tired and aching; he felt as heavy as lead. Every fiber of his being screamed for rest and ice. Beads of sweat trailed down his face, tickling and pricking, making him all the more aware of his sodden Quidditch robes. And his need for a shower.
Six hours and counting on the pitch.
He was miserable.
Only a deep, abiding stubbornness kept him in the sky. He narrowed his focus to one specific goal: Beat the Weasley. Those three words tightened his grip on his broom, sharpened his mind, and urged the Quaffle past the Harpies' Keeper.
Ten points to Appleby by Flint! He must be knackered, mates, but its hard to tell with an arm like that! And now Weasley takes the Quaffle-
Growling, Marcus whipped his broom around and streaked towards the opposite end of the pitch, trailing the ginger chit that had been matching him goal for goal all day.
If he could take satisfaction from anything about this game, it was that Ginny Weasley was looking as horrible as he felt. Swinging in front of her as a crude defense, he took in his opponents face. Her red hair simultaneously frizzed, defying gravity and charms, while clinging damply to her own sweat streaked face. Her expression was grimly set, her pink lips pressed thin, her jaw clenched, and eyebrows furrowed.
A small voice in the corner of Marcus' mind, noted that she was rather alluring this way, looking as if she'd like nothing more than a hippogryff to fly through the pitch and knock him to the ground.
He pushed it aside. Victory was more important than his opponent's possession of tits. Merlin, the whole opposing team had them. Weasley wasn't special in any regard. Especially in that department.
Unfortunately, while adamantly not thinking about Weasley's womanly bits or lack thereof, Marcus Flint failed to notice the Bludger speeding towards his head.
He did notice that the shocked expression on Weasley's face as he toppled off his broom and towards the ground wasn't nearly as pleased as he expected it to be.
Oddly, this made him feel better about the situation as he recovered in St. Mungo's.
Characters: Marcus Flint/Ginny Weasley
Words: 359
Rating: PG
Summary: Marcus can't keep his head in the game.
Author's Note: So, I signed up for sortinghatdrabs this past week and then completely forgot about it. This was submitted at the very last minute, meaning I was still tweaking it at 11:58pm on Monday. >> << But those stolen moments apparently paid off because I won! \o/ I'll throw the banner in here when they're ready.
Flint hurt. His muscles and joints were tired and aching; he felt as heavy as lead. Every fiber of his being screamed for rest and ice. Beads of sweat trailed down his face, tickling and pricking, making him all the more aware of his sodden Quidditch robes. And his need for a shower.
Six hours and counting on the pitch.
He was miserable.
Only a deep, abiding stubbornness kept him in the sky. He narrowed his focus to one specific goal: Beat the Weasley. Those three words tightened his grip on his broom, sharpened his mind, and urged the Quaffle past the Harpies' Keeper.
Ten points to Appleby by Flint! He must be knackered, mates, but its hard to tell with an arm like that! And now Weasley takes the Quaffle-
Growling, Marcus whipped his broom around and streaked towards the opposite end of the pitch, trailing the ginger chit that had been matching him goal for goal all day.
If he could take satisfaction from anything about this game, it was that Ginny Weasley was looking as horrible as he felt. Swinging in front of her as a crude defense, he took in his opponents face. Her red hair simultaneously frizzed, defying gravity and charms, while clinging damply to her own sweat streaked face. Her expression was grimly set, her pink lips pressed thin, her jaw clenched, and eyebrows furrowed.
A small voice in the corner of Marcus' mind, noted that she was rather alluring this way, looking as if she'd like nothing more than a hippogryff to fly through the pitch and knock him to the ground.
He pushed it aside. Victory was more important than his opponent's possession of tits. Merlin, the whole opposing team had them. Weasley wasn't special in any regard. Especially in that department.
Unfortunately, while adamantly not thinking about Weasley's womanly bits or lack thereof, Marcus Flint failed to notice the Bludger speeding towards his head.
He did notice that the shocked expression on Weasley's face as he toppled off his broom and towards the ground wasn't nearly as pleased as he expected it to be.
Oddly, this made him feel better about the situation as he recovered in St. Mungo's.