Gift for the Community!
Recipient: The Community
Author: slythrngodss
Title: Lucky
Pairing: Victoire/Teddy
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: sexuality
Word Count: 1,031
Summary: He is hers.
Notes: Prompt: It's A Gift! Inspired by the Bruno Mars song Grenade
Victoire looked positively wild as she led her Abraxan through the obstacles set up for this particular contest. Light glinting in her hair turned it into a halo of golden-red flame from the strawberry-blond that it usually was (actually her hair often looked more pink than it did strawberry or blond). As she pulled the winged horse around in a particularly difficult maneuver her face contorted into a snarl and the muscles showed hard in her arms. The veela heritage of Fleur Weasley (ne Delacour) and the slight bit of werewolf in Bill Weasley had melded into something fierce and animalistic in their children. Louis partied his instincts into submission, drowning them in drugs and alcohol until only the urge to mate remained which was just as human as it was animal while Dominique channeled it into her sport, hurling bludgers with inhuman ferocity, but Victoire owned what she was. She flew like her veela ancestors wished she would, with wings and though she had none of her own she was a skilled equestrian. She loved the hunt and preferred her meat rare. She wasn’t just beautiful but sensuous and moved with all the sinuousness of a predator.
Teddy loved her and he loved that he was hers and that she was his but what was most important to both of them was that he was hers. He was the only person who could reconcile the beauty with the girl who would pounce on small animals and eat them raw when no one was around. Teddy only really knew because he could always taste the blood on her lips and smell it on her breath later. He loved her for it. Victoire was the only girl who could reconcile the happy and hardworking (but quiet) boy with the wolf within him that was never fully allowed to emerge, not physically. Still on full moons he’d prowl and growl; he’d snap at her and she would bite him. He loved her for it.
He loved the way she listened to him. Her head would cock at an angle and her eyes would never move from him. She’d watch him hungrily, like he was the center of her world. He loved the way she touched him. Her fingertips would press gently against his skin. Her long nails would skim the surface, tugging gently at the five o’clock shadow that he could make appear and disappear at will and he knew with one twitch those nails could be leaving hard scores in his skin like the ones on his shoulders and arms. The ones that marked him as hers. Teddy loved the way they made love, hard and raw and full of sharp teeth and sharp nails. She would growl and snap and hiss ‘I love you’s’ and ‘you’re mine’s’. Her pupils would dilate into large cat-like slivers and he would know that he was the only thing she saw.
He loved her rages. All the anger and passion, it set her aflame. There was wilderness in her eyes, beastly and pure. He hated what came with it: broken furniture and broken ribs, black eyes and fat lips. It could all be healed with a spell so it could be broken all over again. He hated the way he cowered and he hated the way he always came back for more but as long as she gave him a drop of love a day, she could use him how she liked and he would still love her unconditionally, like Helena loved Demetrius, like Demetrius’ spaniels loved Demetrius. He would sit at her feet and eat her scraps off the floor, if only she would pat his head or scratch him behind the ears and he hated it and he loved her.
He hated the way that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley asked him if he was okay every time that they saw him. He hated the way that Mrs. Weasley made him eat whenever he was over. He hated the way that his godfather always tried to get him to stay the night when he visited. He hated the way that the hair’s on the back of his neck stood up whenever anyone else said her name. He hated the way that he knew she could stand there and watch him burn and he hated the way they both knew how willingly he would burn for her.
He was terrified of what he smelled on her now and what she had yet to tell him. He wondered if she cared and he new that on some level she probably did. It would be instinctual to her, at least for a while: maybe until they were two, hopefully until they were four or five. He was terrified that he wouldn’t be able to leave, not for them. He was terrified that they would turn out like her and terrified that they wouldn’t. He was terrified of being trapped by his heart.
He was perhaps even more terrified of his dreams. He dreamt of slaying her in her sleep and of Azkaban. He dreamt of his grandmother’s disappointed face and of Harry’s. He dreamt of her funeral. He dreamt of killing himself after slaying her, slaying his demon. He dreamt of meeting his parents.
Currently, Teddy wasn’t thinking of any of that. He was thinking of how magnificent his Victoire looked on her flying steed, like some ancient Roman goddess. He wondered what a tableau this would make with a spear flaming in her hand like her halo of hair. He looked forward to their victory celebration, at home, at their flat, because she would win. She always did. He thought about his god-siblings to his left: James, who looked and acted the same as he did when he was seven but with so many differences, Albus and how the media would react when someone turned up with a picture of that kiss he had just snuck Scorpius Malfoy, and Lily, who looked as delicate as her name and had the world wrapped around her finger. Mostly, he thought of his Victoire and how he was hers and how lucky that made him.
Author: slythrngodss
Title: Lucky
Pairing: Victoire/Teddy
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: sexuality
Word Count: 1,031
Summary: He is hers.
Notes: Prompt: It's A Gift! Inspired by the Bruno Mars song Grenade
Victoire looked positively wild as she led her Abraxan through the obstacles set up for this particular contest. Light glinting in her hair turned it into a halo of golden-red flame from the strawberry-blond that it usually was (actually her hair often looked more pink than it did strawberry or blond). As she pulled the winged horse around in a particularly difficult maneuver her face contorted into a snarl and the muscles showed hard in her arms. The veela heritage of Fleur Weasley (ne Delacour) and the slight bit of werewolf in Bill Weasley had melded into something fierce and animalistic in their children. Louis partied his instincts into submission, drowning them in drugs and alcohol until only the urge to mate remained which was just as human as it was animal while Dominique channeled it into her sport, hurling bludgers with inhuman ferocity, but Victoire owned what she was. She flew like her veela ancestors wished she would, with wings and though she had none of her own she was a skilled equestrian. She loved the hunt and preferred her meat rare. She wasn’t just beautiful but sensuous and moved with all the sinuousness of a predator.
Teddy loved her and he loved that he was hers and that she was his but what was most important to both of them was that he was hers. He was the only person who could reconcile the beauty with the girl who would pounce on small animals and eat them raw when no one was around. Teddy only really knew because he could always taste the blood on her lips and smell it on her breath later. He loved her for it. Victoire was the only girl who could reconcile the happy and hardworking (but quiet) boy with the wolf within him that was never fully allowed to emerge, not physically. Still on full moons he’d prowl and growl; he’d snap at her and she would bite him. He loved her for it.
He loved the way she listened to him. Her head would cock at an angle and her eyes would never move from him. She’d watch him hungrily, like he was the center of her world. He loved the way she touched him. Her fingertips would press gently against his skin. Her long nails would skim the surface, tugging gently at the five o’clock shadow that he could make appear and disappear at will and he knew with one twitch those nails could be leaving hard scores in his skin like the ones on his shoulders and arms. The ones that marked him as hers. Teddy loved the way they made love, hard and raw and full of sharp teeth and sharp nails. She would growl and snap and hiss ‘I love you’s’ and ‘you’re mine’s’. Her pupils would dilate into large cat-like slivers and he would know that he was the only thing she saw.
He loved her rages. All the anger and passion, it set her aflame. There was wilderness in her eyes, beastly and pure. He hated what came with it: broken furniture and broken ribs, black eyes and fat lips. It could all be healed with a spell so it could be broken all over again. He hated the way he cowered and he hated the way he always came back for more but as long as she gave him a drop of love a day, she could use him how she liked and he would still love her unconditionally, like Helena loved Demetrius, like Demetrius’ spaniels loved Demetrius. He would sit at her feet and eat her scraps off the floor, if only she would pat his head or scratch him behind the ears and he hated it and he loved her.
He hated the way that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley asked him if he was okay every time that they saw him. He hated the way that Mrs. Weasley made him eat whenever he was over. He hated the way that his godfather always tried to get him to stay the night when he visited. He hated the way that the hair’s on the back of his neck stood up whenever anyone else said her name. He hated the way that he knew she could stand there and watch him burn and he hated the way they both knew how willingly he would burn for her.
He was terrified of what he smelled on her now and what she had yet to tell him. He wondered if she cared and he new that on some level she probably did. It would be instinctual to her, at least for a while: maybe until they were two, hopefully until they were four or five. He was terrified that he wouldn’t be able to leave, not for them. He was terrified that they would turn out like her and terrified that they wouldn’t. He was terrified of being trapped by his heart.
He was perhaps even more terrified of his dreams. He dreamt of slaying her in her sleep and of Azkaban. He dreamt of his grandmother’s disappointed face and of Harry’s. He dreamt of her funeral. He dreamt of killing himself after slaying her, slaying his demon. He dreamt of meeting his parents.
Currently, Teddy wasn’t thinking of any of that. He was thinking of how magnificent his Victoire looked on her flying steed, like some ancient Roman goddess. He wondered what a tableau this would make with a spear flaming in her hand like her halo of hair. He looked forward to their victory celebration, at home, at their flat, because she would win. She always did. He thought about his god-siblings to his left: James, who looked and acted the same as he did when he was seven but with so many differences, Albus and how the media would react when someone turned up with a picture of that kiss he had just snuck Scorpius Malfoy, and Lily, who looked as delicate as her name and had the world wrapped around her finger. Mostly, he thought of his Victoire and how he was hers and how lucky that made him.