lying is the most fun a girl can have
teddy/victoire
"so testosterone boys and harlequin girls, will you dance to his beat and hold a lover close? so i guess we're back to us, cameraman swing the focus. in case i lost my train of thought, where was it that we last left off? let's pick up, pick up."
It's become a ritual, and an enjoyable one at that.
Regularly, it's a boring Monday night, and stars have already unsheathed themselves, and the moon is making its slow rounds about the sky. In other, simpler words, it's late. The clock on the nightstand reads midnight. Victoire's long, silvery blonde hair glimmers in the pale moonlight leaking through the shades. She slides her dress off with a fluidity barely known anymore, and her immoral lover relishes in the moment. She's only imagining it to be him, and not Fred. It doesn't quite make sense, what she's doing, but it doesn't have to – it's exciting. Teddy isn't, however much she wishes him to be. Teddy is eat, work, sleep. She's not.
Sporadically, Mondays aren't boring anymore.
She crawls on the bed to be enveloped by her immoral lover, and the feel of his fingertips sends sparks through her nervous system. But it's not Fred, it's Teddy, because that's who she wants it to be. Victoire falls on her back, pressed down by his weight, and his sheets smell like summertime, and berries. She's a fool, giving him what he wants, but she's getting what she wants, and isn't that what's important? She feels the river made of liquor coursing through her, underneath her ivory skin, and it pushes her forward. Her scant garments are removed with easy and fluidity, and she relishes in the simple moments of entangled limbs, animalistic cries.
"Fuck – Victoire," he whispers, almost breathlessly, and she feels his grip on her waist tighten slightly, and then reel back, to touch her soft body. "You're bloody amazing."
He says it like he loves her, and obviously, he doesn't; it's just something that's said during fiery, impassioned moments. Moments like this. She kisses him with vehemence, in reply, in need – God, could she be any more obscene? The kiss is firm, wet, yielding slightly, with a flick of cool tongue at the end. He tastes like cinnamon, probably from chewing gum, or something of the addicting sort. His skin is soft as she feels him shift slightly, his rough hands skimming her sides.
She feels slick lips and hot breath on her pale neck, and begins to succumb to the lust.
"I love Teddy," she murmurs, without reason. She knows how well he reads her, she knows how it's been imprinted in his brain that she wants him to go on. It's become a weekly ritual, after all. Her smeared eyeliner and rouged lips are traitorous; they give her away to Fred without care.
She knows something. It's buried deep in her heart, behind layers in her mind, and it courses through her body.
She shouldn't be here, tangled in Fred Weasley's sheets. She has somebody, somebody wonderful and loving and caring and sweet and – monotonous. The love sinks through her mind like sand through her fingers, and it never quite reaches her heart. It's just not enough. She often wondered if it was her father's fault – the restlessness, the need for adrenaline and constant excitement. Perhaps it had fallen upon her mother, the lack of glamour, the need for attention.
And that's just what she gets out of all of this, more than anything. Indignity, exhilaration. It's not even the rough, dirty, animalistic fucking – God, no, not even as fantastic as it is. It's the wicked ecstasy that lobs a fork of lightning into her throat, she's being bad, and it feels good. She's doing something everyone she knows would hate her for, and deservedly.
She'd fucking love it. The sneers, and remarks, the everything – it was different, it was exciting – Victoire the Veela, hated.
It's just about five, or so the clock reads, and the slips out of bed quickly and quietly, and into the bathroom. She turns the shower on, and the pipes creak before a stream of hot water is expelling from the head. Her engagement ring shines miserably in the light of the bathroom. She steps into the shower, needing the hot water to lift and scald the scent of berries and infidelity off her skin, to return her to normal.
She Apparates home to a sleeping Teddy, and sneaks into bed furtively, just to close her eyes for a moment – a single moment of normality, sleep – the alarm goes off. Teddy stirs, and then kisses her on the forehead. He wishes her a good morning, and goes to prepare himself for the day. Obliviously. She sighs quietly, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
It's an exhausting, terrible thing to do, and completely unethical in every sense. Something to be hated for.
Though, more enjoyable than anything she's ever experienced.
"so testosterone boys and harlequin girls, will you dance to this beat and hold a lover close?"
A/N: This was written as a second entry for Rosa Clearwater's Staying Up All Night Challenge, and as you can see, Victoire stays up all night. Doing something scandalous. Anyways, I don't own Harry Potter, or the song Lying is the Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off by Panic! at the Disco. Read, enjoy and review please! :)