He Excites Me || Weasleson
The moment the arm went around her, she started to turn, a smile on her face that faded when she saw who it was. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Lucy groaned, pushing at Max’s chest only to find that, yes, those muscles she was feeling coiled around her did actually do something besides make her pulse race. How inconsiderate. “I can’t drink Scotch in the middle of a show, you ass,” she growled.
"Excuse me," a chilly, low voice said, coming to stand beside them. Todd’s dark eyes landed on Max and the way he was standing, the placement of his hand near his wand, was half threat and half challenge. "That’s mine. I’ll ask that you get your hands off."
It was only when she saw them next to one another that she realized it at all. Todd Rosier was a five years her senior, would have been in school with them both, but he was more like Max than she had noticed. Possessive and cold, pureblooded and proud of it. Dark hair, pale skin, but more than any of that was the way they stood. Like the world owed them something, looking at the things around them like it was already theirs.
"Oh for Merlin’s sake, Parkinson, get the hell off me. Todd, love, don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it." Already, though, it was like she wasn’t there. How she hadn’t noticed she had traded a Slytherin prat for the same model made by Ravenclaw she couldn’t figure out, but she wasn’t sure she was going to let that keep on. "I changed my mind. I’ll have that scotch after all, Parkinson."
If there was one thing that truly made the filth in her blood matter maybe a fraction less for a moment, it was this: the girl’s warm body pressed against his, soft curves pressing against him as she struggled against his strength to turn. Amazing. He raised an elegantly curved eyebrow in response, correcting her, “Won’t, not can’t. Error in judgement, I believe.” Her bad taste in beverages did not stop him from loosening his hold on her though, dragging his fingertips along her skin where he had a hand tucked into her waistband and letting it rest lightly on the curve of her hip instead. It was much more satisfying, after all, if he did not have to hold her in place by force like a rabid animal and she leaned into him herself, especially if there was a boyfriend in question watching. And speaking of the boyfriend...
“Hullo, Rosier,” Max returned dryly, barely resisting the sharp urge to roll his eyes. Todd Rosier was a smug son of a bitch if there ever was one; possibly sleazy but the kind that fit well with the standard dinner guests at his parents’ sprawling yet concealed mansion in Kensington. He was the kind of person Parkinson’s associated with – pureblooded, refined and proud of both, the guest who sipped eight-hundred year old Scotch and made subtle digs at those less awe-worthy than themselves. Normally, it would be right up his alley to befriend the fellow and to perhaps even unite in the common goal of taunting the filthy-blooded girl and owning her.
The choice of words bothered Max, however, even if it was nowhere near the annoyance the hand on the wand aroused in him. Unwilling to show either, on the other hand, he merely mentioned so subtly, casually remarking, “The eloquence tutoring you no doubt received in childhood seems to have been wasted, mate. It’s a she; not a that.” Letting a lewd smirk curl a corner of his mouth up, his hand dragged up to briefly drag over her breasts before he finally stepped back. “Believe me, I would know.”
The Weasley girl was ridiculous and Max wasn’t sure entirely why he even bothered to put up with her. The frantic eagerness to be fucked he remembered in her couldn’t possibly be worth the sheer idiocy that she exuded. Love. Fucking hell. Maybe it was a good thing after all that he never gave her the time of day in decent company. He handed her the glass anyway, hoping that at least good quality alcohol might give her a good bit of sense. Or bring out the ravenous slag inside we all know and love, his brain traitorously supplied. Regardless, he nodded his approval and replied, “Good. And see if you can sing something a little less sixteen candles, a little more ‘touch me’.”

















