Fic: Game Time (Hooch/Ivanova)
Title: Game Time
Characters: Rolanda Hooch/Clara Ivanova
Prompts: nonverbal communication
Word Count: 1930
Rating: Hard R (because it's not super explicit but I'm crap at ratings)
Warnings: this is femmeslash for the hp_femsmut International Day of Femslash Challenge
Summary: Set before Harry Potter comes to Hogwarts. Clara Ivanova, a chaser for the Vratsa Vultures, comes to Hogwarts for one of her all too rare visits to the only place she considers home. It would be nice if she could come more often but her career has to come first right now. That's what they decided on. One day she'll come back for good but for now these visits will have to get her through the dark times.
Author’s Note: I chose to use Rolanda as Hooch’s first name because it’s from the Trading Cards and I like the old-fashioned sound of it. I found Ivanova’s first name on the Harry Potter Wiki courtesy of a Famous Wizard Card in the video game. I like that both of their names come from cards.
I watch her flying around the school pitch, her black robes flying out behind her as if they’ve lost their way and are trying in vain to catch up. Even after all these years, she flies as if she needs to prove something. The vertigo that grounded her from professional play seems nonexistent but I can see a hesitancy about her flying. No one else would have noticed. I can’t help but spot the difference because I’ve watched this woman fly for three centuries.
I love Madam Hooch, Hogwart’s Flying Instructor and official Quidditch coach and referee.
Not that I mind dating a professor. She has no press following her around with sizzling flashbulbs, writing half-truths from information gained from desperate sources. The only thing I really need to worry about is whether she’ll have time for me when I can find the time to visit. It hasn’t been often enough lately, but there’s been pressure on me since I didn’t make the Bulgarian National Quidditch team last year. I’m an aging witch still trying to eke out a few more matches with skills I keep honed with razor-fine precision. Not only am I working against the clock, now I’m trying to find something new that will wow a crowd once again.
I sigh as I put aside the worry that’s been gnawing at me. As much as I want her to divert my attention, there’s no way I’m going to cut short her flying time. Even though she has such close proximity to a pitch, her duties keep her occupied for so much of the time she could be honing her own skills that I know are still in there somewhere. So does she if she’s flying with such fire today. Somewhere in her memory is a professional Quidditch player that will never be able to quit flying. Not completely.
I let myself into her office. The rotating password is always something mutual to both of us. It took me three tries this time, but the right group of phrases made me shiver with longing. Geneva, 1929, a tree-line boulevard. It was where we first met and the location of our first kiss. She makes me fall in love all over again when she remembers things like that.
The pins in my hair come out easily and I finger comb it into soft waves that fall to the middle of my back. My coach wants me to cut it off but Ro likes it like this. I notice more gray every time I look in the mirror. Another reason to envy my Rolanda the platinum colour she’s sported since she was a teenager. It compliments those piercing golden eyes that are as keen a hawk.
Thinking about her eyes makes my skin heat up with longing, with anticipation. I shed my restricting clothes as I make my way to the small washroom. The full length mirror shows a body just beginning to soften with age. Breasts that have always sagged but conform to a questing mouth quite nicely. Legs, pale white, that widen at the hips but are long enough to wrap perfectly around the waist of an equally athletic woman. Shoulders spotted and a back dotted with freckles that make a nice map for kisses.
I swing my hair to cover my breasts but quickly decide against it. It seems disgraceful to hide anything from her sight. The inside of my arm grazes my nipple. I shudder. It’s been too long since I’ve seen her, felt her touch on my skin. Longing slices through me. This time my touch is deliberate. I watch myself in the mirror as I trace a pattern around first one nipple and then the other. I bite my lower lip to keep from crying out. The temptation to carry on with this exploration of my body all on my own is too great but I keep my hands where they are as I turn away from the mirror.
“Hurry,” I whisper as if trying to call her off the pitch by force of my will alone. Holding off this first intimate touch may prove to be my undoing..
The stairs up to the tiny setting room and bedroom hold delightful memories. We have a tendency to range in our lovemaking. I run one of my hands over the cool metal of the railing as I remember the way it felt against my back as she bent me over it, molding me into the shape she wanted. My other hand is stroking my rib cage, the calluses from riding a broom for a living rasping along my soft skin. The memories of the times it’s been her hand touching me instead are so strong that I almost forget that I’m the one doing the touching.
At the top of the stairs, I stand still for a moment as I try to separate fantasy from reality. Now I need to decide where I’ll wait to greet her when she finishes her practice. The bed or the couch? Both are equally lovely places that have their own fantastic memories. It depends on the greeting I want to make.
The couch, it is.
No, first the chair. I drop into the sturdy piece of furniture, drape one leg over the arm and let my fingers slide into the wetness at my core. One tightness within me eases while another begins to clench in anticipation. My Rolanda will be here soon. A tear slides down my cheek as I try not to think about all our time apart. One day I will give it all up this constant travel but for now we have to take these moments where they happen.
The circular motion of my fingers still. I let my head drop back onto the chair as I fight for composure. Better to be the charming seductress instead of the urgent virgin. If I don’t slow down, I’ll go up in flames at her first touch and miss out completely on all the fun we could have in our first moments together. This time alone is something I can have at any time.
It’ll be so much better if she’s the one kindling the fire. Her fingers inside me, touching the places that make me squirm and yearn and scream. Her hands smoothing over my skin with a slow deliberateness that borders on pain because all I want to do is have her touching every part of me. Since we have so little time, I want all of her, all at once, every moment I’m here. There is no patience within me when it concerns my Rolanda. I’m ready to jump up, run back to the pitch and scream for her to come back to earth. Why am I alone? The seconds are ticking by and I am without her.
And then she’s there, leaning over my shoulder like a guardian angel come just in time to save me from myself. Her hands run down my arms, the touch I’ve been searching for. Her lips tangle with mine, first in a frenzy of movement and then slower, more methodical as we both realize that the other is real and not just a dream fabricated by desire.
Before I can say anything to welcome her home from practice, she puts her face into the skin of my neck. I feel her breathe my scent in, the move of air tickling my skin. She makes a sound, somewhere between a moan of want and a groan of expectation, and I am lost. I can’t feel any part of my body except where she’s touching.
Her hands slide down to capture my breasts, her broom-roughened skin bringing my skin to life. When she gets to my nipples, I arch my back to give her better access. She follows the same path around my sensitive breasts as I squirm and try to get her to continue on down further. Nothing I do will convince her, not even the nip I give her ear lobe.
Just when I am about to begin begging, she is gone.
Before I realize that she’s walked away from me, she’s between my legs, her mouth where her hands had been. I weave my hands through her short hair so that she doesn’t disappear from me again. Her mouth is where it’s been a thousand times, her hands doing things they’ve done so many times she doesn’t have to ask if I like it because she knows that I do. The strange thing is that no matter of how often I am in this same position, knowing what’s coming next, each time is new when I’m with her. We’re practiced at this seduction but that only means there are no awkward fumbling or murmured apologies.
I throw my head back as she slips a fourth finger into my heat but I don’t make a sound. It would be a release and I want none of that. Not yet, anyway. Her tongue is making a pattern of my skin, a watercolor of what she wants to do to me. A game play, of sorts. I shiver as she stops drawing and begins teasing my skin with her teeth. The first true bite makes me gasp before that spark of pain is fanned into deeper passion. She soothes the spot before moving on, replaying the same actions until I have a line of red marks tracing a pattern along my stomach.
Meanwhile, her fingers within me have begun moving in a different tempo. I try to respond in kind but she presses me back into the confines of the chair so that I can’t provide a counterpoint. When I try to breathe, I find I can’t remember how. All I can do is feel this pulsating beat that my need begins to mirror. It is… all I… know… and then….
I am blind as the screams are ripped out of my throat, pushed up from my core with my Ro’s skilled hands. She changes the pattern again so that my screams begin to fade as the need to explode withdraws. Just as I attempt to open my eyes, the erotic pulse begins again.
Three more times, she demands my body play to her biding. I am not screaming because I’ve lost the ability to make sound. The fire pulses through me but I am unable to do anything about it. All I can do is hold onto the reality of Rolanda and pray that I survive.
Her eyes are the first thing I see when I am able to shake the blindness off at last. There is only a ring of gold around the large pupil now that her demands on my body have stirred the fire within her own.
“Welcome home,” I whisper, stroking her cheek with the palm of my hand. She nuzzles at it, questing for something more. I comply by pushing her away. She slides easily to the floor, her robes floating out around her to make the perfect backdrop for my own explorations. My legs are useless, all the muscles still quivering from my internal combustion, but I am able to drop down beside her before she recovers.
The buttons on her shirt give me some trouble but I soon have her out of her clothes, a map laid out before my questing fingers.
“Enough of sitting this one out.” I lean over her so that my hair feathers against her skin. She shivers, her eyes losing nearly all their gold. “Game time, Rolanda.”
Characters: Rolanda Hooch/Clara Ivanova
Prompts: nonverbal communication
Word Count: 1930
Rating: Hard R (because it's not super explicit but I'm crap at ratings)
Warnings: this is femmeslash for the hp_femsmut International Day of Femslash Challenge
Summary: Set before Harry Potter comes to Hogwarts. Clara Ivanova, a chaser for the Vratsa Vultures, comes to Hogwarts for one of her all too rare visits to the only place she considers home. It would be nice if she could come more often but her career has to come first right now. That's what they decided on. One day she'll come back for good but for now these visits will have to get her through the dark times.
Author’s Note: I chose to use Rolanda as Hooch’s first name because it’s from the Trading Cards and I like the old-fashioned sound of it. I found Ivanova’s first name on the Harry Potter Wiki courtesy of a Famous Wizard Card in the video game. I like that both of their names come from cards.
I watch her flying around the school pitch, her black robes flying out behind her as if they’ve lost their way and are trying in vain to catch up. Even after all these years, she flies as if she needs to prove something. The vertigo that grounded her from professional play seems nonexistent but I can see a hesitancy about her flying. No one else would have noticed. I can’t help but spot the difference because I’ve watched this woman fly for three centuries.
I love Madam Hooch, Hogwart’s Flying Instructor and official Quidditch coach and referee.
Not that I mind dating a professor. She has no press following her around with sizzling flashbulbs, writing half-truths from information gained from desperate sources. The only thing I really need to worry about is whether she’ll have time for me when I can find the time to visit. It hasn’t been often enough lately, but there’s been pressure on me since I didn’t make the Bulgarian National Quidditch team last year. I’m an aging witch still trying to eke out a few more matches with skills I keep honed with razor-fine precision. Not only am I working against the clock, now I’m trying to find something new that will wow a crowd once again.
I sigh as I put aside the worry that’s been gnawing at me. As much as I want her to divert my attention, there’s no way I’m going to cut short her flying time. Even though she has such close proximity to a pitch, her duties keep her occupied for so much of the time she could be honing her own skills that I know are still in there somewhere. So does she if she’s flying with such fire today. Somewhere in her memory is a professional Quidditch player that will never be able to quit flying. Not completely.
I let myself into her office. The rotating password is always something mutual to both of us. It took me three tries this time, but the right group of phrases made me shiver with longing. Geneva, 1929, a tree-line boulevard. It was where we first met and the location of our first kiss. She makes me fall in love all over again when she remembers things like that.
The pins in my hair come out easily and I finger comb it into soft waves that fall to the middle of my back. My coach wants me to cut it off but Ro likes it like this. I notice more gray every time I look in the mirror. Another reason to envy my Rolanda the platinum colour she’s sported since she was a teenager. It compliments those piercing golden eyes that are as keen a hawk.
Thinking about her eyes makes my skin heat up with longing, with anticipation. I shed my restricting clothes as I make my way to the small washroom. The full length mirror shows a body just beginning to soften with age. Breasts that have always sagged but conform to a questing mouth quite nicely. Legs, pale white, that widen at the hips but are long enough to wrap perfectly around the waist of an equally athletic woman. Shoulders spotted and a back dotted with freckles that make a nice map for kisses.
I swing my hair to cover my breasts but quickly decide against it. It seems disgraceful to hide anything from her sight. The inside of my arm grazes my nipple. I shudder. It’s been too long since I’ve seen her, felt her touch on my skin. Longing slices through me. This time my touch is deliberate. I watch myself in the mirror as I trace a pattern around first one nipple and then the other. I bite my lower lip to keep from crying out. The temptation to carry on with this exploration of my body all on my own is too great but I keep my hands where they are as I turn away from the mirror.
“Hurry,” I whisper as if trying to call her off the pitch by force of my will alone. Holding off this first intimate touch may prove to be my undoing..
The stairs up to the tiny setting room and bedroom hold delightful memories. We have a tendency to range in our lovemaking. I run one of my hands over the cool metal of the railing as I remember the way it felt against my back as she bent me over it, molding me into the shape she wanted. My other hand is stroking my rib cage, the calluses from riding a broom for a living rasping along my soft skin. The memories of the times it’s been her hand touching me instead are so strong that I almost forget that I’m the one doing the touching.
At the top of the stairs, I stand still for a moment as I try to separate fantasy from reality. Now I need to decide where I’ll wait to greet her when she finishes her practice. The bed or the couch? Both are equally lovely places that have their own fantastic memories. It depends on the greeting I want to make.
The couch, it is.
No, first the chair. I drop into the sturdy piece of furniture, drape one leg over the arm and let my fingers slide into the wetness at my core. One tightness within me eases while another begins to clench in anticipation. My Rolanda will be here soon. A tear slides down my cheek as I try not to think about all our time apart. One day I will give it all up this constant travel but for now we have to take these moments where they happen.
The circular motion of my fingers still. I let my head drop back onto the chair as I fight for composure. Better to be the charming seductress instead of the urgent virgin. If I don’t slow down, I’ll go up in flames at her first touch and miss out completely on all the fun we could have in our first moments together. This time alone is something I can have at any time.
It’ll be so much better if she’s the one kindling the fire. Her fingers inside me, touching the places that make me squirm and yearn and scream. Her hands smoothing over my skin with a slow deliberateness that borders on pain because all I want to do is have her touching every part of me. Since we have so little time, I want all of her, all at once, every moment I’m here. There is no patience within me when it concerns my Rolanda. I’m ready to jump up, run back to the pitch and scream for her to come back to earth. Why am I alone? The seconds are ticking by and I am without her.
And then she’s there, leaning over my shoulder like a guardian angel come just in time to save me from myself. Her hands run down my arms, the touch I’ve been searching for. Her lips tangle with mine, first in a frenzy of movement and then slower, more methodical as we both realize that the other is real and not just a dream fabricated by desire.
Before I can say anything to welcome her home from practice, she puts her face into the skin of my neck. I feel her breathe my scent in, the move of air tickling my skin. She makes a sound, somewhere between a moan of want and a groan of expectation, and I am lost. I can’t feel any part of my body except where she’s touching.
Her hands slide down to capture my breasts, her broom-roughened skin bringing my skin to life. When she gets to my nipples, I arch my back to give her better access. She follows the same path around my sensitive breasts as I squirm and try to get her to continue on down further. Nothing I do will convince her, not even the nip I give her ear lobe.
Just when I am about to begin begging, she is gone.
Before I realize that she’s walked away from me, she’s between my legs, her mouth where her hands had been. I weave my hands through her short hair so that she doesn’t disappear from me again. Her mouth is where it’s been a thousand times, her hands doing things they’ve done so many times she doesn’t have to ask if I like it because she knows that I do. The strange thing is that no matter of how often I am in this same position, knowing what’s coming next, each time is new when I’m with her. We’re practiced at this seduction but that only means there are no awkward fumbling or murmured apologies.
I throw my head back as she slips a fourth finger into my heat but I don’t make a sound. It would be a release and I want none of that. Not yet, anyway. Her tongue is making a pattern of my skin, a watercolor of what she wants to do to me. A game play, of sorts. I shiver as she stops drawing and begins teasing my skin with her teeth. The first true bite makes me gasp before that spark of pain is fanned into deeper passion. She soothes the spot before moving on, replaying the same actions until I have a line of red marks tracing a pattern along my stomach.
Meanwhile, her fingers within me have begun moving in a different tempo. I try to respond in kind but she presses me back into the confines of the chair so that I can’t provide a counterpoint. When I try to breathe, I find I can’t remember how. All I can do is feel this pulsating beat that my need begins to mirror. It is… all I… know… and then….
I am blind as the screams are ripped out of my throat, pushed up from my core with my Ro’s skilled hands. She changes the pattern again so that my screams begin to fade as the need to explode withdraws. Just as I attempt to open my eyes, the erotic pulse begins again.
Three more times, she demands my body play to her biding. I am not screaming because I’ve lost the ability to make sound. The fire pulses through me but I am unable to do anything about it. All I can do is hold onto the reality of Rolanda and pray that I survive.
Her eyes are the first thing I see when I am able to shake the blindness off at last. There is only a ring of gold around the large pupil now that her demands on my body have stirred the fire within her own.
“Welcome home,” I whisper, stroking her cheek with the palm of my hand. She nuzzles at it, questing for something more. I comply by pushing her away. She slides easily to the floor, her robes floating out around her to make the perfect backdrop for my own explorations. My legs are useless, all the muscles still quivering from my internal combustion, but I am able to drop down beside her before she recovers.
The buttons on her shirt give me some trouble but I soon have her out of her clothes, a map laid out before my questing fingers.
“Enough of sitting this one out.” I lean over her so that my hair feathers against her skin. She shivers, her eyes losing nearly all their gold. “Game time, Rolanda.”