Well. This is something completely new to me. I know a lot of people will flame me for this, but to be honest, Rose/James is like the only incest that has really interested me. Also, this might not be my best piece of writing - I'm sick with the stomach flu and decided to write a stream-of-consciousness piece where it just.. goes. So I do apologize. Part of me isn't even expecting reviews for this - I've only really seen one English Rose/James fic. But yeah, I decided to be adventurous. You can flame me if you want, but I'd like to hear your thoughts.
PAIRING: Rose/James .. obviously.
RATING: T - simply for safety.
DISCLAIMER: Not JK Rowling. Sorry.
So please do read it and review. - Holly.
Red.
A few things flit into his mind when he thinks of the colour red - passion, love, hate, anger, heat, flames, fire, Rose. Rose Weasley. Rose Weasley. Rose Weasley. No matter how many times, or in how many different tones, he says, thinks, sings her name, it always comes out beautifully. Beautifully, in the kind of sick, twisted, completely wrong way that wraps around his insides like a bad growth of Devils' Snare.
He shouldn't want her. No, this burdening desire should not be able to consume him. It should not be able to swallow him whole, have him begging for a breath. The very idea of her should not smother him, should not pull him under the surface. That damn smile should not be able to make him fall to his knees.
But all of it does, and even though he finds himself slamming his fists against the walls in anger, he cannot bring himself to hate her for it.
It's not her fault, after all. How could she possibly control the way her fiery curls flick around her face so endearingly, practically calling him to brush them from her cheek. How could she possibly stop her enchanting sapphire eyes from sparkling every time she laughed. Oh yes, she had reduced to poor boy to cliches. She had reduced him to a walking disaster.
He couldn't remember when he'd first seen her like he did now. Perhaps it was the summer of her sixteenth birthday, when they'd shared the bottle of firewhiskey under her favourite oak tree in the garden. Perhaps it had been when she was thirteen, and he'd found her bawling her poor heart out on the cold stairs due to that arrogant sod, Scorpius Malfoy. Perhaps it had always been there, he just hadn't noticed.
It wasn't as if he could stop noticing now, however.
How he had found himself pinned against the Quidditch locker room wall, his lips frantically searching for hers, he had no idea. It was all for "practice", she had claimed, and she had smiled, making it impossible to say no. She was awful like that - manipulative without knowing so - and when she'd suggested that they simply use each other, it was as if all his Christmases had come at once.
It had started out awkward, her soft inexperienced lips pressing against his. It had felt wrong - oh so, wrong - yet, once again, he was pulled into the cliche that it actually felt right. How wrong does something have to be for it to be right anyway? It hadn't taken him long to capture her lips tenderly, all the pent up longing pouring agonizingly into one kiss.
Everything about her was wrong. The feel of her soft skin under his fingertips, the way she smirked against his lips after earning some form of muffled growl, her scent - Oh Merlin, the way she smelled! Of cherry blossom, vanilla and a million other wonderful things, he racked up in his head. That was the best thing about her - he could get lost in her scent for days.
Every so often, the screaming voice of reason would enter his mind, shrieking how this was bad, so very bad. She was his cousin. She was his baby cousin. The little girl he'd threatened to beat up boys for if they ever bullied her, the girl he used to push in the mud to make her cry. Yet, he'd done it all from love. It was just that love had seemed to grow.
He didn't think she was aware of it - Merlin's no. If she knew, she would be as disgusted by him as he was. But now she wasn't - it was simply practice, after all.
How had they ended up like this? His breath hitched in his chest as she pushed herself up to wrap her legs around his waist, her hips resting against hers as her tongue mercilessly assaulted his mouth, flicking and tasting. How could she not see what she was doing to him? One hand came to rest beneath her thigh, supporting her, as the other tangled wildly in her red - oh for the love of Merlin, red - hair.
She was torturing him. He just knew it. The way she nipped playfully against him bottom lip, earning herself yet another groan. The way her fingers pressed against his pulse points, tapping gently as if playing with his accelerated heart beats. The way she was oh-so good at what she was doing. Merlin, she had to know what she was doing to him!
And, as soon as it had started, it was over. With a gentle nip to his pulse point, she herself down his body, almost causing his hips to buck involuntarily, and she smiled at him.
"Same time tomorrow?" she murmured, biting her lip in such a way it took all of him not to push her against the wall and ravish her all over again.
His green eyes stared at her. Tomorrow? No. His conscience was screaming no. This was wrong. So unbelievably wrong. So twisted, so sick, so unnatural. Yet, how could anything about the red-haired angel in front of him be wrong?
"Tomorrow," he whispered, sinking back against the wall in defeat. Her hypnotic smile widened as she slipped out into the darkness of the Hogwarts grounds, leaving her poor, messed in the head cousin to sit in his sin.
For, James Potter knew, Rose Weasley was literally going to be the end of him.