Gift Fic for Annafugazzi
Title: Alive
Author: ????
Recipient: annafugazzi
Pairing(s): George Weasley/Angelina Johnson
Word Count: 1,529
Rating: Soft R
Summary: Trying to cope with his twin brother's death and to live again, George Weasley finds an unexpected sparring partner; or better said, she finds him.
Warnings: Graphic depiction of oral sex.
A/N: In spite of my efforts to come up with a longer piece, my usual style prevailed, and here you are: a one-shot! It does, however, incorporate some of your wished elements, so here's hoping you'll get to enjoy it!
I pushed the door behind me till it closed with a great rusty rumble. Usually, it would open and close with as much as a short snap; usually, Fred would try to trick me when we arrived at the shop - either he Apparated on the other side when I thought he was still lagging behind, or he would quickly place a charm on the handle so that it burned my hand. He had a head for mischief, and ate people's nerves for breakfast; just like me.
I held my eyes shut for a while, breathing in and out. My fingers itched. I knew they urged me to move my hand to the place where one of my ears should have been, to touch the hole and remember; every fiber of my body remembered. I thought my arms itched as well, their need a less physical one.
I did die to hug my brother again. What an unhappy twist of phrase.
Fred, he had just died.
I sat on the floor for a long time, trying to think. Memories wouldn't let me - or perhaps I wouldn't let go. Now that everything was peaceful and quiet again, all of us who'd been through a war (the entire Wizarding World, actually) were forced to deal with its consequences. Families have been ruined, people maimed or killed; we had all the three elements in ours. There were plenty of us. We could take it.
Could we? I did wonder. None of my family members was alone in the attempt to patch their lives. My parents had each other; my mother had insisted that I should come and live with them for a while, but I couldn't accept. It would have meant living in our old room, sleeping in my bunk bed surrounded by silence, since there would be no snoring and snorting coming from my brother's dysfunctional breathing system. I had to face the truth: you need not breathe when you're six feet under. It's small wonder that I refused, bringing my mother on the verge of tears.
My siblings seemed to be doing better in life than myself. They all had someone by their side, someone to keep them warm at night and to hold their hand through healing. Even the butthead of a traitor I was loath to call brother (thinking of Fred, I felt like I was insulting him by using that word when referring to Percy) had found a dull, yet helpful girl to ease his pain.
I was left with no option but to turn back to where life was meaningful.
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes - the name coiled around the tongue; moreover, it stuck. Wizard kids everywhere, suddenly waking up from terror and numbness, realized they missed it. Letters started to pile up at the shop's front door, dropped by diligent owls or quick-paced rats. Your pranks gave us hope, one girl wrote; it persuaded me to finally leave my studio upstairs and unlock the shop's door.
I sat on the floor for a long time, reminiscing.
"Didn't your mother tell you not to sit on the floor? You'll get your clothes dirty."
Startled, I realized I must have fallen asleep while processing memories - it tends to happen when you have too many memories to process. Bleary-eyed, I lifted my head and was greeted by a tall, sinewy figure.
"Hullo, Johnson."
Angelina Johnson wasn't surprised by the absence of a warm smile on my face. She probably knew all too well that she was just another thing - person - who reminded me of Fred. I tried to be polite, but failed.
"How did you get in?"
She raised an eyebrow. "This is one of those Hallmark moments when I state the obvious and you're charmed by my wit?"
"How could you know about Hallmark?"
"Actually, how do you know?" She paused briefly, eyeing me wearily. "I'm Half-Blood, Weasley. I -" her voice cracked.
"Not a good name, these days."
"Not really", she agreed.
To my surprise, she sat down on the floor, by my side. Her shoulder brushed mine in the process. We spent a while there, not talking, not checking our watches, and not elbowing each other. She was very quiet; it was unnerving, coming from such a lively person. But then again, I was quiet myself. And if I'm not a lively person, I don't know who else is.
"I can't fly anymore."
Her sudden statement shattered the silence. I flinched out of my half-catatonic state. What she had said made sense - Angelina was supposed to be a Quidditch star - but it took me a long while to understand what she meant; what it truly meant for her.
"Three days after - after the funeral, you know," she said carefully, "I had this very important game; crucial, even. I try to avoid that word since - you know." She wasn't looking at me, so she couldn't see my nod, but I knew she could feel I was empathizing. "So I got up in the morning, washed my eyes… of course they were still rimmed with red; bloodshot. I don't even know."
She turned her head slowly, facing me. I couldn't say if her eyes were bloodshot now, but they were certainly beautiful: dark hazel eyes, bearing a vacant expression.
"Once I was out in the open, I got on the broom to launch myself in the air and greet our supporters. I think I flew, like, ten inches up." Her lips twisted in a sad smile. "I fell; quite ungracefully, too. I tried again, and again. It didn't happen. The coach replaced me, and I was sent home to rest. I…I think I kept resting ever since."
I felt I wasn't very good at sympathizing when I was still figuring out how to collect the shards of my own heart and glue them back together into something of a similar shape and consistence.
Angelina made a move, then. She placed a hand on my knee; a soft touch I could barely feel. Her fingers curled around my kneecap and squeezed gently. It was warm and pleasant, and somehow soothing. Without being able to say anything smart, I thought I'd close my eyes instead.
And then she kissed me.
I didn't make any attempts at figuring out what was going on. There was a lovely woman in my - rather unsecure - arms, the tip of her tongue probing my mouth; she was warm; she was willing. Reason deserted me completely. It was never one of my strong points, anyway. I cupped Angelina's face with shaking fingers and kissed her back.
We forgot where we were. At least I did, so my only assumption is that she did, too. Clothes were removed hastily, landing on the floor in disarray. I straddled her on the same floor - there where everything started - and covered her in kisses from head to toe. I found my way with fingertips and tongue all over her body, curvy and deliciously sweaty as it was.
She paid me in kind. When she pushed me on my back, I was startled; but then she slid and went down on me, her dark hair hiding her face like a dark veil. I didn't think of death, though. I thought of passion, I - oh - I felt passion. Angelina was warm; her lips burned around my shaft. I pulled her towards me and kissed her wildly, my lips cracking. She accommodated herself with my body, and I sank inside her abruptly, in one swift move.
Angelina moaned.
It was such a primal sound that I thought I'd spend myself on the spot. It took a great deal of effort to resist and be patient for her. It paid, in the end: our joint climax was so gripping that I fell flat on my back, eyes staring at the ceiling and not seeing aught but floating dark spots.
"Er, Ang - Johnson. That wasn't supposed to happen."
She shifted by my side, but didn't reply. Her head was nesting under my arm, while my lower body was restrained under her leg.
"At least, it wasn't supposed to happen like that."
She didn't ask me what that meant, and I was glad. I wasn't ready to talk about it; not yet. I turned on my side and fit my body along hers, around her, hugging her from behind and cupping her soft breasts.
I didn't know what this meant. I wasn't sure it did mean anything. I didn't dare ask any of the questions that were already plaguing my conscience; did she think she'd bring Fred's memory back? Or perhaps she thought she could replace him with me? Darkness was threatening to get back at me again - I could feel its cold touch prickling at the edges of my pheromone-sated self.
"I know it's you, George", she muttered sleepily, coiling in my embrace. "It's you I wanted."
Once again, I struggled for a witty reply. Something like, you can't hug bees; they misunderstand. There was a smarter man once who had said it. She wouldn't suspect I was borrowing his fitting words.
Instead, I wrapped myself tighter around her and, for the first time in a while, I felt alive.
Author: ????
Recipient: annafugazzi
Pairing(s): George Weasley/Angelina Johnson
Word Count: 1,529
Rating: Soft R
Summary: Trying to cope with his twin brother's death and to live again, George Weasley finds an unexpected sparring partner; or better said, she finds him.
Warnings: Graphic depiction of oral sex.
A/N: In spite of my efforts to come up with a longer piece, my usual style prevailed, and here you are: a one-shot! It does, however, incorporate some of your wished elements, so here's hoping you'll get to enjoy it!
I pushed the door behind me till it closed with a great rusty rumble. Usually, it would open and close with as much as a short snap; usually, Fred would try to trick me when we arrived at the shop - either he Apparated on the other side when I thought he was still lagging behind, or he would quickly place a charm on the handle so that it burned my hand. He had a head for mischief, and ate people's nerves for breakfast; just like me.
I held my eyes shut for a while, breathing in and out. My fingers itched. I knew they urged me to move my hand to the place where one of my ears should have been, to touch the hole and remember; every fiber of my body remembered. I thought my arms itched as well, their need a less physical one.
I did die to hug my brother again. What an unhappy twist of phrase.
Fred, he had just died.
I sat on the floor for a long time, trying to think. Memories wouldn't let me - or perhaps I wouldn't let go. Now that everything was peaceful and quiet again, all of us who'd been through a war (the entire Wizarding World, actually) were forced to deal with its consequences. Families have been ruined, people maimed or killed; we had all the three elements in ours. There were plenty of us. We could take it.
Could we? I did wonder. None of my family members was alone in the attempt to patch their lives. My parents had each other; my mother had insisted that I should come and live with them for a while, but I couldn't accept. It would have meant living in our old room, sleeping in my bunk bed surrounded by silence, since there would be no snoring and snorting coming from my brother's dysfunctional breathing system. I had to face the truth: you need not breathe when you're six feet under. It's small wonder that I refused, bringing my mother on the verge of tears.
My siblings seemed to be doing better in life than myself. They all had someone by their side, someone to keep them warm at night and to hold their hand through healing. Even the butthead of a traitor I was loath to call brother (thinking of Fred, I felt like I was insulting him by using that word when referring to Percy) had found a dull, yet helpful girl to ease his pain.
I was left with no option but to turn back to where life was meaningful.
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes - the name coiled around the tongue; moreover, it stuck. Wizard kids everywhere, suddenly waking up from terror and numbness, realized they missed it. Letters started to pile up at the shop's front door, dropped by diligent owls or quick-paced rats. Your pranks gave us hope, one girl wrote; it persuaded me to finally leave my studio upstairs and unlock the shop's door.
I sat on the floor for a long time, reminiscing.
"Didn't your mother tell you not to sit on the floor? You'll get your clothes dirty."
Startled, I realized I must have fallen asleep while processing memories - it tends to happen when you have too many memories to process. Bleary-eyed, I lifted my head and was greeted by a tall, sinewy figure.
"Hullo, Johnson."
Angelina Johnson wasn't surprised by the absence of a warm smile on my face. She probably knew all too well that she was just another thing - person - who reminded me of Fred. I tried to be polite, but failed.
"How did you get in?"
She raised an eyebrow. "This is one of those Hallmark moments when I state the obvious and you're charmed by my wit?"
"How could you know about Hallmark?"
"Actually, how do you know?" She paused briefly, eyeing me wearily. "I'm Half-Blood, Weasley. I -" her voice cracked.
"Not a good name, these days."
"Not really", she agreed.
To my surprise, she sat down on the floor, by my side. Her shoulder brushed mine in the process. We spent a while there, not talking, not checking our watches, and not elbowing each other. She was very quiet; it was unnerving, coming from such a lively person. But then again, I was quiet myself. And if I'm not a lively person, I don't know who else is.
"I can't fly anymore."
Her sudden statement shattered the silence. I flinched out of my half-catatonic state. What she had said made sense - Angelina was supposed to be a Quidditch star - but it took me a long while to understand what she meant; what it truly meant for her.
"Three days after - after the funeral, you know," she said carefully, "I had this very important game; crucial, even. I try to avoid that word since - you know." She wasn't looking at me, so she couldn't see my nod, but I knew she could feel I was empathizing. "So I got up in the morning, washed my eyes… of course they were still rimmed with red; bloodshot. I don't even know."
She turned her head slowly, facing me. I couldn't say if her eyes were bloodshot now, but they were certainly beautiful: dark hazel eyes, bearing a vacant expression.
"Once I was out in the open, I got on the broom to launch myself in the air and greet our supporters. I think I flew, like, ten inches up." Her lips twisted in a sad smile. "I fell; quite ungracefully, too. I tried again, and again. It didn't happen. The coach replaced me, and I was sent home to rest. I…I think I kept resting ever since."
I felt I wasn't very good at sympathizing when I was still figuring out how to collect the shards of my own heart and glue them back together into something of a similar shape and consistence.
Angelina made a move, then. She placed a hand on my knee; a soft touch I could barely feel. Her fingers curled around my kneecap and squeezed gently. It was warm and pleasant, and somehow soothing. Without being able to say anything smart, I thought I'd close my eyes instead.
And then she kissed me.
I didn't make any attempts at figuring out what was going on. There was a lovely woman in my - rather unsecure - arms, the tip of her tongue probing my mouth; she was warm; she was willing. Reason deserted me completely. It was never one of my strong points, anyway. I cupped Angelina's face with shaking fingers and kissed her back.
We forgot where we were. At least I did, so my only assumption is that she did, too. Clothes were removed hastily, landing on the floor in disarray. I straddled her on the same floor - there where everything started - and covered her in kisses from head to toe. I found my way with fingertips and tongue all over her body, curvy and deliciously sweaty as it was.
She paid me in kind. When she pushed me on my back, I was startled; but then she slid and went down on me, her dark hair hiding her face like a dark veil. I didn't think of death, though. I thought of passion, I - oh - I felt passion. Angelina was warm; her lips burned around my shaft. I pulled her towards me and kissed her wildly, my lips cracking. She accommodated herself with my body, and I sank inside her abruptly, in one swift move.
Angelina moaned.
It was such a primal sound that I thought I'd spend myself on the spot. It took a great deal of effort to resist and be patient for her. It paid, in the end: our joint climax was so gripping that I fell flat on my back, eyes staring at the ceiling and not seeing aught but floating dark spots.
"Er, Ang - Johnson. That wasn't supposed to happen."
She shifted by my side, but didn't reply. Her head was nesting under my arm, while my lower body was restrained under her leg.
"At least, it wasn't supposed to happen like that."
She didn't ask me what that meant, and I was glad. I wasn't ready to talk about it; not yet. I turned on my side and fit my body along hers, around her, hugging her from behind and cupping her soft breasts.
I didn't know what this meant. I wasn't sure it did mean anything. I didn't dare ask any of the questions that were already plaguing my conscience; did she think she'd bring Fred's memory back? Or perhaps she thought she could replace him with me? Darkness was threatening to get back at me again - I could feel its cold touch prickling at the edges of my pheromone-sated self.
"I know it's you, George", she muttered sleepily, coiling in my embrace. "It's you I wanted."
Once again, I struggled for a witty reply. Something like, you can't hug bees; they misunderstand. There was a smarter man once who had said it. She wouldn't suspect I was borrowing his fitting words.
Instead, I wrapped myself tighter around her and, for the first time in a while, I felt alive.