"Tartan in a Tangle"
Autumn, 1957
She's not thinking about him. That's all right, he's not thinking about her, either.
As her legs wrap around his hips, skirt kilting up around her own, she isn't looking at him. He doesn't worry about that, as he's never been much to look at by even his own estimation. He doesn't need her eyes open when she's dragging her fingernails down his back, or when he's kissing her neck hard enough to leave marks.
She makes a noise that sounds like "Shouldn't," but then he's pressing her against the wall of his apartment, and the word sounds more like "More."
She teaches her first class ever tomorrow, he knows, and takes savage pleasure in marking her just this once with his teeth and his tongue, takes pleasure in the knowledge that she will wear a high collar because of him on her first day, even if she'd rather be with someone else. That's all right. He would rather have been alone tonight, had planned on it until Minerva McGonagall had apparated outside his front door with her wand in hand and desperation in her voice.
She had been rather explicit about what she wanted, which was a relief. He never had the time for girls who played games. Of course, that was probably a reason why he hadn't been with a woman in years. He didn't care much. There were more important things in life besides physical gratification.
Still, he wasn't going to object to a little physical gratification when it quite literally showed up on his doorstep.
She had never liked him much, finding his ways unorthodox and his tempers alarming on the few occasions on which they had met. He had always thought of her as a proper little teacher's pet, hand in the air and nose in a book. If she didn't mind using him to get Albus Dumbledore out of her mind, he wouldn't feel guilty for using her body exactly as she wanted.
She was noisier than he had expected, which didn't displease him in the slightest. He had thought she would be a snooty little prig. "Always the quiet ones," he muttered to himself once she was naked, and motioned with his head that she should drape herself over some flat surface.
The bed evidently did not meet with Minerva's approval as she shot the dingy blankets and unstable bedframe the gimlet eye. "Table or floor," he growled as she looked uncertain. When she still did not move, he decided to take matters into his own hands quite literally. Wrapping his large, strong hands around her waist, he hoisted the younger witch onto a sitting position on the table, whipped out his wand, and shortened the table legs until she was at a respectable height.
He hesitated for only a moment, then, egged on by the look of impatience on her face, slid his cock deep inside the witch. He took pleasure in her gasp, liked the fact that it had been a while, because she was squeezing around him like an iron fist. It would have hurt if it hadn't felt so damn good at the same time, he thought in almost a haze as he set out to give the girl the pounding she had sought him for.
Her nails dug into the skin of his back, and he hoped with a vague and irritated thought that she wouldn't leave marks for too long. They'd ask, at the Auror office. Minerva's thighs were clenched around him, her breath hitching, and he spared hardly a thought for her comfort as he thrust fiercely into another person for the first time in five years.
"Al--" she gasped, then choked back the sound. "Alastor!" she finished in a more controlled voice.
Perversely, this only made Moody want to take her harder, to see in part if she would bruise. "Say his name, go ahead," he urged Minerva, reaching between them to pinch one of her nipples. "I know why you're here."
She only met his eyes for a moment, the squeezed them shut and whispered, "Albus."
That was better. He hated liars. Besides, if he knew Albus, the other wizard would rather have been in Minerva's place than Alastor's, but he kept that knowledge to himself. Minerva probably knew anyways--that was probably why she was here.
The witch's legs wrapped more tightly around him, her hands clutching him close, and Alastor knew he wouldn't last much longer, not with the girl clenched like a vice around him as he filled her again and again. He held on doggedly, not wanting to let her leave without at least giving her what she came for, and sank his teeth instead into her neck, drawing a hoarse cry from her lips.
With a spasm of relief, Alastor heard Minerva scream her climax, felt her tighten even further around him, drawing his own orgasm from him in a burst of light and color that left him boneless and unstable, both hands braced on the table for leverage as he pumped a few last, unsteady times into the woman below him.
"Get off of me," she muttered long before he had regained what he considered conscious thought. "Sleep on your filthy bed, if you must sleep. Some of us have work in the morning."
Moody let himself be pushed to the bed as Minerva gathered her clothing with a quick flick of a wand. "Give all my best to Albus," he muttered unconcernedly, which earned him a quick kick in the side, making him laugh and groan at the same time.
"You're an uncouth barbarian," she informed him sternly, giving him what he supposed must be a teacher's look. "I don't know how they took you to be an Auror when you clearly--"
"Don't get your tartan in a tangle," he growled, good humor evaporating the longer she stood in his room. "And don't come back before a month or so. I need to work up the strength."
That comment would have earned him a slap if he hadn't listened to his reflexes and ducked just in time. "There will be no next time," she said curtly. "Goodbye, Moody."
She stormed out of his apartment on the heels of that statement, though he was sure she would have apparated just to make a point if he hadn't put an anti-apparition spell on the place. After she was gone, he stared around the room and grinned slowly, seeing her brassiere still draped over his chair.
There would be a next time, of that he was certain.
