(Untitled)

[freakedwithjet]

Date: Friday, August 25, 2000
Time: Mid-afternoon
Place: The entrance to Knockturn Alley
Characters Involved: Marcus Flint, Pansy Parkinson, invitation only
Rating: R for language and suggestive material

Comments

[flint_ferocia]

-Cough - Hack-
Marcus braced a nearby windowsill as he hacked up a lung, and what ever else was inside his throat that was scratching like a cat in heat. But it was his own fault. Marcus wasn’t one for tobacco. Though what else could he do? He had tried a few old places he use to score at, and none of them seemed to be in business now. What the hell was going on? It was unheard of! Marcus couldn’t even find a pot to piss in

[freakedwithjet]

What the fuck?!One minute Pansy was idly browsing tattoo styles, the next she was being pushed up against the window. The street wasn't overly busy for a Friday afternoon and Pansy scowled and was about to turn and ask whoever was shoving her in her most colourful language if they ever minded what they were doing, when she felt the brush of fingers where no fingers should be and she knew then that they did mind. Very much

[flint_ferocia]

The moment only lasted a second, and the act itself was just as fast, but Marcus’ mind processed everything much quicker than a studied observation. The sense of touch was all there was, and that’s all he concerned himself with. The way a slender back was pressed against his shoulder, how he hunched down to press his cheek against the back of her head, adding a smell of fragranced strands of dark hair into the moment. And his right arm wrapped around a sleek form, with fingers crushing tender, round skin, almost in a hug. The fingers on his left hand felt soft fabric of skirts, and even softer skin, where they crept conspicuously forth. Every touch implanted themselves into his memory, forever labeled as ‘good’. This was a frozen experience, but it lasted only a second. Then sharpness cut through the ecstasy

[freakedwithjet]

That voice. oh God, that voice.

And now that she knew the voice, knew the owner of those hands, she recognised the ...professional way he had shoved her into the window and the way her body had "fallen" into his hands. It was a bit more polished than the last time she had been a victim to it, but the technique was the same as in her second year.

Pansy was no longer twelve, and just a few moments ago she had been congratulating herself of that fact. But somehow, now that she knew it was Flint, she felt as though she had regressed into that child (for she had been a child, though she may have been beginning to look womanly) being groped for the first time by strange, unwelcome hands in darkened corners. She felt frozen, and perhaps her stillness was being taken for acquiesence because Flint nipped at her neck and mentioned business.

Business!? He thought she, Pansy Parkinson, was a whoreHer elbow clearly hadn't worked and her attmpts to twist her arm out of his grasp were unsuccessful too, so instead she used the third weapon in