Flawless Imperfection
It was no sooner than the door clicked shut and a silencing charm was placed upon the dark closet that I was pressed up against the wall with a force that I never did seem to expect. She took my lips in hers with a need, a lust, a craving. I kissed her back with the same passion, my hands gripping her shoulder blades through the thin layer of silk that was her uniform. I slipped a knee between her legs, applying sudden pressure that made her gasp into my mouth. I couldn't help but grin slightly as I turned the tables, lifting the girl weightlessly and spinning her around into the wall. We broke our kiss, both breathless, and I knew her porcelain cheeks were flushed pink even though I couldn't see them.
We'd been meeting like this for months, in closets, empty rooms, anywhere we could temporarily claim as our own for half an hour of passion. Yet, each time I left still wanting more, more of her. I could never seem to get enough, and from the looks she gave me during class or when we passed in the halls, I got the feeling that she couldn't get enough of me, either. That look of absolute lust in her cerulean eyes was enough to get me going every single time.
I applied pressure again, but her gasp turned into a moan. I was thankful for the silencing charm, because she never could seem to keep quiet and it would be a shame not to hear her beautiful voice telling me to fuck her harder. I pressed my lips against her neck, following the line her jugular made, pulsing beneath her skin. I could feel her shiver against me, even though her skin was impossibly hot. I traced kisses down her skin as I unbuttoned the front of her dress with ease, stopping to bite down on a spot below her collarbone, on the left side. She gasped, much louder than before, and buckled into me. That seemed to get her every time.
My hands found their way underneath her silk dress, avoiding the place she desperately wanted me to touch, instead trailing fingers across her stomach. Her skin was so soft, rivaling the feel of her outfit, the feeling in my fingertips making me bite down harder on that spot. I knew it would leave a dark purple mark, but she moaned loudly in approval. My hands reached her breasts, and I caressed them through the fabric of her bra.
"Please, move it…" She begged me in breathless French. I obliged, and the moment my fingers touched her nipples, she arched against me. I could tell she was soaked through her lacy underwear when she rode against my bare leg, leaning forward so her mouth was next to my ear as I played with her nipples.
"Fuck me." She murmured, I knew it was more of an order than a request. Taking my earlobe in her teeth, she chewed ever so slightly, tracing kisses down my jaw line as I slipped my hand inside of her underwear, using the other to brace her in case her knees gave out. With each movement my fingers made, her moans grew louder and higher, and the things she whispered to me grew dirtier. Her teeth were on my neck when I hit her spot, and she abruptly bit down, chewing my skin and then attempting to mend it with her tongue. I responded by moving my fingers faster. Unable to do anything to me while experiencing that much ecstasy, she wrapped her arms around my neck and attempted to keep herself upright as I brought her to a climax.
"Fuck, Amelia!" She nearly yelled it as she came, and I cut off whatever she was going to say next by pulling her away from the wall and into my arms for a deep kiss. My fingers moved slower, harder, to ride her through the aftershocks. She shook against me, unable to move for I don't know how long. Finally, when she seemed to be spent, I pulled my hand from her underwear and used it to pull her closer to me. She rested her chin on my shoulder, breathing heavily.
"I love you." It was almost too quiet for me to hear, but I caught it. I smiled. Suddenly, she turned the tables on me like I had on her, spinning my back against the wall once more. It was cold against my flushed skin. Hastily, she began undoing the buttons in my uniform, her lips locked roughly against mine. I knew I would finally be able to answer "I love you, too" when she had me shaking in her arms.
Still, when we were done, I couldn't help but feel a burning in my heart when we were done. She would pull her silvery hair back in a tight bun, as was proper, even though she knew I liked it better down. She would button her uniform up to her neck, covering the mark I'd left on her chest, a reminder of my passion. She would step out of the closet like nothing happened, check and make sure that no one was around, before leaning back in and giving me a quick kiss. She'd smile that beautiful Delacour smile that made their family famous and whisper "I love you" once more. That recipe never failed to melt me. I'd reply, "I love you too, Gabrielle," and she would walk away, leaving me to mend my disheveled appearance in the chilled darkness of the closet. Leaving me for her boyfriend, her friends, her perfect grades and perfect family, not acknowledging me until she wanted me again.
I hated every second of her pretend life, how she morphed herself to fit into the role that everyone wanted her to play. Only I knew her for who she really was, a real person with real ideas and thoughts and passions. Not just a doll for them to stare at and play with.
She hated it, too, every second of her pretend life. She knew she was far from perfect, that she should have far from perfect grades, different friends, and that in her boyfriend's place should be me. But only in the safety of a dark closet or empty room, guarded with a silencing charm would she ever say it out loud. I stroked her soft locks and held her as she sobbed into me, feeling scared and alone. It was a secret that didn't get out much, she told me, that when you become popular by pretending, you could never feel more alone. She would cry until her eyes were red and puffy, and I would kiss them both with a gentleness that no one deserved but her. She'd dug herself so deep into a hole that she didn't know how to get out, and I didn't know how to help her, other than to hold her when she cried and be there for her, even if she wasn't acting like she wanted me, even if it hurt.
"Gabrielle Delacour," I would tell her, strength in my voice, "you are one of the most imperfect people I know, and that is exactly why I love you." She would smile at me, but continue to cry. She couldn't help it. I knew that one day, I would get her out the personal hell she'd pulled graciously on herself.
She would just have to let me.