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The Walking Menace Strikes Again
Topic Started: Apr 8 2010, 07:56 PM (745 Views)
Anne Kerrigan
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Perhaps Anne had been working with children for too long. Had she had a student by the ear, had he threatened to kiss, had she zeroed her glare on his face and told him he dared not, the boy would not have. However, the cartilage pinched between her thumb and index finger did not belong to her student, not even to a boy, well physically. No, it belonged to a very real, very solid man, a man who, though she doubted could hold his promises, could definitely hold his threats.

Or so she learned mere seconds after the challenge had left her mouth, when his lips met hers in a spectacular collision.

Stunned. For a few choice moments, Anne could only stand frozen as the man locked lips with her. And while she remained motionless, she couldn’t help but feel the kiss to her very core, despite how shallow it was. Heat pooled in her stomach as his lips caressed hers, firm, but not forceful, slightly dominating, but not aggressive. It had her wanting to sigh into his mouth, to open her mouth to give him greater access, to remove her hand from his ear to slide to the back of his neck…

And then she did move her hand down his front, to a rippling, sturdy chest, because she had just realized that the absolute ogre who called himself a chivalrous man was the one encouraging this reaction.

At the same moment that alarm registered in her brain, a tiny cough caught her attention.

“Professor?” Her eyes flew open (when had they even closed), panic coloring the amber instantly. “I just had a question about—”

She shoved with all her might against his chest, pushing him off her even as her head whirled around to her student with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. She didn’t know what was worse. Looking at her student, whose cheeks were flaming much as Anne imagined her own to be, or at the man whose steady gaze she could feel upon her hot face.

“S-sorry,” the girl stammered softly, her eyes darting everywhere other than the pair as she backed towards the door like a frightened animal. Crewe. Daniela Crewe, Anne named the skittish girl. One of her best students. She should say something, reassure the girl nothing was happening, that she should stay. Dear Merlin, please stay!

“I’ll just… I’ll come back some other time, then,” she finished, whirling around and practically tripping through the door in her haste. The words to call her back stuck in Anne’s throat, which was rapidly flushing as scarlet as her face. Though now, embarrassment was not the only emotion causing the discoloration.

I’m a professional, damn it! she felt like screaming, as if these words could fix the fact that her student had just caught her kissing another Professor. And then, catching herself calling the insufferable prat a Professor, Anne’s heated gaze zeroed in on him as if he had said the offensive word himself. Paying no heed to the demonic glare she had fixed him with, the new flying instructor opened his smug mouth.

“Straitlaced Professor Kerrigan, caught kissing the dashing new flying instructor already,” he drawled, moving his glittering eyes to lock with Anne’s stare. A wicked grin was already beginning to form.

Scandalous of you…”

Her eyes narrowed to tiny slits.

“Out,” she demanded, finger jerking towards the door, trembling slightly from the fury that was beginning to engulf her. If he didn’t heed her warning, there was no telling what she would do. Never in her life had she been so angry with anyone, never had she conceded defeat, but she couldn’t afford to add “murderer” to her rapidly declining reputation. Nor could she stand to have him around any longer, especially when under all her burgeoning anger, anxiety ate at her for the way her body had responded to his ministrations.

“Get out of my room before I do something so scandalous it will lower your life expectancy.” Her voice was rather calm, all things considered. Her eyes, however, were a turbulent mess of emotions. The thin-lipped frown promised that nothing good would come of remaining.
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Dylan Reilly
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Lethally good looking.

Looks can’t kill. Not literally, at any rate, and certainly not without the aid of an actual weapon of some kind. This was common knowledge.

But if, say, hypothetically, they could kill, then the one Kerrigan leveled on Dylan in the moments following his drawled observation would have been so ferociously lethal it probably wouldn’t have settled for a simple, paltry act of murder alone. Oh no. First it would maim, torture, break bones, dip in boiling oil, set afire, and damn whatever shredded remnants remained to an eternity in the deepest, darkest, most agonizing circle of hell before it even considered finally getting around to something as merciful as death.

And then it would probably do a jig on his grave. Just for kicks.

“Out,” she seethed, thrusting a finger towards the room’s entrance so menacingly he was surprised the door didn’t quiver right off its hinges. He’d seen people throw Unforgiveables with less animosity.

“Get out of my room before I do something so scandalous it will lower your life expectancy.”

Every inch of her had gone taut, mouth a thin slash of white upon features filled with nothing but the utmost contempt. She was serious, alright. Dylan had no doubt of it. But there was a reason why his smile didn’t falter in the silence that followed after, and a reason why he didn’t immediately rush off with his tail between his legs like countless others might’ve done in his place.

He’d fucking gotten to her.

He had. He knew it. You don't get to be a man like Dylan without learning how to see past all the bullshit most people build around themselves. Something was fueling all this rage of hers, something deep down, beneath the cold, prim, proper, professorial layers, something she couldn’t control entirely (and that would drive her mad, wouldn’t it.)

Something that maybe didn’t mind very much at all being kissed by someone as loathsome as he was.

Nothing made people angrier than an unwanted truth.

Not that there wasn’t more than ample reason for her to legitimately hate him (his recent besmirching of what he was sure was a pristine and cherished reputation obviously came to mind), but that kiss

Hell, even he’d felt that one.

Funny, really. He’d had her pegged for an awful snog, too. She had that look about her. Fuck’s sake, it hadn't even been a proper one, either – at least not by Dylan’s standards, anyway. Merlin only knew what that’d be like.

Obviously, he had a moral obligation to find out eventually.

And that was how he finally rose to his feet – with the thrill of a challenge rushing through his veins, a smile that didn’t bode well at all for the future, and a highly questionable interpretation of the word ‘moral’ firing off in his crafty, degenerate mind.

“Right. Guess I’ll be off then.”

He said it idly, like leaving had been his idea all along, and met her fiery gaze with one last smirk before heading for the exit. Just as he was about to pass through the threshold, though, he spun around loosely, unhurried, and walked the rest of the way backwards.

“Save you a seat for tea in the Lounge later, shall I?”

Might’ve been his imagination, but he could have sworn something large and heavy smashed into the wall near his head about a millisecond later. Good thing he was already halfway down the hall by then.

Grinning psychotically.
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