Confessions of a Player : Elijah. What compels a player to play? Why risk so much? Why lie? Read Elijah's blog here! Read Blog. #VeryReal. Playing The Player. By: blank canvas of me. "Here's the game, Percy. We date. We hold hands. The first person that falls in love with the other. Play a little game of hot and cold! Be talkative and friendly for a couple of days and then disappear. A player man would love the attention, and. Playing The Player : Moving Beyond ABC Poker To Dominate Your Opponents [ Ed Miller] on Amazon.com. *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Ask any poker.
+ - Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten . DISCLAIMER: Didn't, Don't, and Won't own Harry Potter franchise, and have wept openly at the idea that I cannot make a living writing this stuff. SUMMARY: Marriage Law Fic. I know, I know, I can hear the groans and the expected cliches and really, I do not aim to disappoint in terms of the cliche count. I just happen to like Marriage Law fics, because it gives me something to play with.
The Playing The Player trope as used in popular culture. The above quote from Ken Levine describes the standard relationship between a Video Game and said.
). A/N: So I realize the potential issue of starting an entirely new story while I have several that I'm currently working on, but I'm the type of person that works extremely well when I'm not putting my full concentration on one project. I've gotten bored before and I don't want that to happen again! So for those of you who are waiting to see what happens next in The Wolf and Little Red or How to Make a Bad Idea Worse. not to fear! They will be updated soon.
READ AND REVIEW. Chapter One: A Bad Day. Hermione Granger, age 21, best friend of the Great Harry Potter and protégée of the late Albus Dumbledore, had a sinking suspicion that it was going to be a bad day. When the light had streamed through the curtains that fateful morning, Hermione hadn't thought anything of it, choosing to simply groan and roll over to bury her head in the relative darkness of her pillows. She realized quickly, however, that there was an obstacle in her path. Her sleepiness informed her that it was, indeed, something solid, and after a minute she realized that it was another human being.
A decidedly naked human being. Comprehension started to dawn on her as she ran through the events of the night before, not daring to turn and look at her companion until she had regained some semblance of her wits. She just wished that the infernally tone-deaf orchestra in her head would stop playing Bizet's Carmen against her frontal lobe. The night before was something of a blur.
It had been someone's engagement party – there had been so many in recent months that she had stopped worrying about particulars like who and where – and afterwards she had been dragged out to some random pub with what remained of her single female friends. She had consumed more than her fair share of alcohol – most likely trying to ignore Lavender and Parvati's incessant complaining about their single status – and so the rest of the evening faded into a fuzziness from which she was sure she wouldn't recover. Hermione next went to the task of figuring out just exactly where she was and who she was with. Once establishing that the figure next to her was, in fact, male – a not-altogether foregone conclusion in her experience – she looked around the room to figure out which man it was. The delicious ache between her legs could only have been caused by one of two people and when she saw the navy-blue and golden insignia of a quidditch team banner, she settled back into the pillows, praising herself on her detective work. "Are you done trying to figure out where you are yet?". Hermione smiled slightly.
He knew her too well. "Didn't take me as long as last time. "Considering the amount of restricted substances you were on last time. I was impressed you remembered your own name, let alone recognized my bedroom. Her paramour had turned over to look at her and she smiled as she gazed into his twinkling brown eyes.
Oliver Wood, reserve player for Puddlemere United, had been – for lack of a better term – her 'fall-back fuck' whenever she was too shit-faced to go back to Grimmauld Place. The arrangement had been going on for almost three years and though it wasn't as often as it had been in the 'old days' right after her graduation, they still appreciated the relationship.
No feelings, no emotions, no strings. Just sex. "Perhaps you can fill me in on how I got here? Last night is a little vague," she said, stretching out her body and loving the compliance of her muscles.
He laid his hand affectionately on her flat stomach, running his fingertips over her skin. "I'm not entirely sure what happened.
All I know if you showed up at my door wearing some ridiculously-short skirt at two in the morning completely pissed and demanding that I ravish you. Which I did.
Twice. She didn't miss his smirk as his fingers trailed up her sternum. Looking at him in mock indignation, she swatted his hand away from her body and put her hands on her hips, knowing fully how absurd she looked, being completely naked. "Oliver Wood, how dare you take advantage of my drunken stupor! You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself!". "Absolutely," he said, the Scottish accent rolling his words around deliciously as he put his hands behind his head.
"Thoroughly ashamed. "Well, thanks for taking me in. I'd thank you for the sex too, but I don't really remember it. "You enjoyed it," he said simply.
She rolled her eyes. "Arrogant prat," she mumbled, and he smirked again.
Sliding out of bed, she set about trying to locate all of her articles of clothing. Arching an eyebrow at her grinning lover, she gingerly removed her bra from the ceiling fan above the bed. His eyes twinkled.
"Don't look at me, love," he said. "That was all your doing. You were in the mood for a little strip tease last night, and I was just an innocent bystander to your wicked wiles.
Shaking her head and silently telling herself that avoiding alcohol might do her some good for a little while, she slipped on her 'ridiculously short skirt' – a little black leather number that Ginny had brought back from a vacation in Las Vegas – and continued the search and rescue of her shirt and shoes. "Are you going to be alright getting home? I'd offer to escort you, but I have practice in an hour," Oliver asked as he watched Hermione dive under the duvet to retrieve her t-shirt. "I think I'll be alright," she said, her voice muffled slightly as she resurfaced, pulling on the white baby tee. Oliver arched an eyebrow.
"'Mione, love, you do realize you're in Dorset in October, don't you?" he asked, slightly amused. "Oh. Yes.
Well, in that case, perhaps you should gallantly offer me some type of warm clothing?". He motioned absently with his hand to the chest of drawers in the corner. "Second drawer. She rolled her eyes but remained silent as she found an over-sized Puddlemere United pullover. Pulling it over her body, she started to fix her hair before her eyes caught the time. She let out a small gasp.
"Shit! Is it really almost 10?". Oliver frowned slightly. Sweeping over to her confused lover, she kissed him swiftly on the lips. "Thanks, Wood. See you later!". And she ran out without another word. Sirius Black grumbled as he felt the dead weight of a sleeping hand on his back.
His head ached slightly, but that wasn't new these days. He had once again consumed too much firewhiskey the night before and had ended up in bed with another good-looking vapid blonde slag. At least, he hoped it was a good-looking vapid blond slag. Feeling the hand on his back start to caress his muscles in a decidedly feminine fashion, he groaned slightly, rolling away from her body so he was on his back and draping his arm over his eyes, trying to hide the sun. "You have to go," he said, going to his standard one-night-stand brush-off, his voice slightly muffled by the skin of his arm. "I'm expecting people for brunch.
"Excuse me?" the nameless female conquest said, sounding slightly put out. "I'm expecting guests," he repeated.
Sirius paused. Rubbing his eyes with his hands, he glanced around.
The room was powder pink. Right. Slight miscalculation there. "Sorry," he mumbled before yawning and stretching, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed. "I suppose you'll be leaving then?".
The voice was very cold. Sirius chanced a glance at her and saw her scowling. He couldn't help the small smirk that crossed his lips as he turned away from her.
He still had it. He vaguely remembered her as the best-looking – and least accommodating – of all the girls at the pub the night before. She was a tall glass of Veela-infused water and he, Sirius Black, had tapped that all night long. "Sorry, love," he said easily as he slid on his jeans. "But I wasn't lying when I said I was expecting company. Only, you know, at my house.
She pouted slightly and he tried to refrain from rolling his eyes. He never led girls to believe that he was more than a one-night stand. He hated it when the morning came and they had built him into some gothic hero that needed saving via their love and affection. It annoyed him. "Will I see you again?" she asked softly. He glanced out of the window.
Gray skies, bit of a gusty wind. His canine senses told him there was salt on the air. He was by the coast. He vaguely remembered Fred and George mentioning Dover the night before as they drunkenly apparated from pub to pub.
Or was it Dorset. Either way, it was sufficiently far enough away from London that he wouldn't run the risk of seeing her ever again. "It's possible," Sirius said noncommittally as he pulled his t-shirt over his head, ignoring the fact that it was inside-out. Locating his boots, he slipped them on before grabbing his leather jacket and throwing the woman his trademark sexy smile. "Good-bye, love," he said huskily, throwing her a wink.
"It was a fantastic night. And without another word, he left the room. Hermione landed unsteadily on the top step of Grimmauld Place, her balance faltering slightly due to her heels.
She hated apparating in heels, but the late hour insisted on the drastic measure. She felt a brief, intense dislike for Kingsley Shackelbolt for deciding that Order meetings needed to be at 10 AM on Sunday mornings. Even though she understood that with Voldemort back in hiding - and the Death Eaters poised to take over the Ministry any day now - it was imperative that the Order meet at times when everyone was available, it didn't stop her from quietly griping about it cutting into her social life. She had just straightened up when she felt someone apparate right behind her. Losing the fragile balance she had maintained on the top step of the hidden property, Hermione felt herself and her companion fall forward into the door. She cringed as whoever was behind her instinctively grabbed her hips to keep his or her balance, long fingers digging into the fresh bruises of the rough sex the night before. Disentangling herself from what she had now assumed to be a male body, she turned to give her would-be assailant an earful.
She paused, however, as a pair of mischievous gray-green eyes grinned at her, shielded boyishly by shaggy black locks and roguish good-looks that meant only one thing: she had collided with the master of the house, one Sirius Black. He smirked at her outfit. "Nice skirt, Granger. "A little less grabby with the hands there next time, Black," she warned, smoothing out her skirt and swatting his hands away from her hips. He rolled his eyes.
"A thousand apologies, Miss Granger," he drawled sarcastically. "I didn't expect another passerby in the mid-morning walk of shame. "I'm not doing the walk of shame. I was with Wood. What's your excuse?". "Don't need one.
I'm just meeting everyone's expectations of my low moral character. She rolled her eyes but said nothing as she opened the door and let them both in. "So…how much did you have to drink last night that you ended up spending the night in Dorset?" he asked as they deposited their jackets carelessly on the banister and headed toward the kitchen. "Somewhere between 'too much' and 'temporary invincibility'," she replied. "Oh yeah.
I've been there. They entered the kitchen where the majority of the Order had already congregated. A slight hush fell as they silently walked past the disapproving whispers around the table and headed straight for the coffee pot. Hermione turned with her mug first, catching their eyes.
They all turned away. "Nice of you to join us, Miss Granger," the snarky voice of Severus Snape said silkily.
She gave a sardonic smile. "I always aim to please you, Severus ," she replied, knowing that her status as his former student allowed her to greet him informally and knowing that putting it into practice drove him crazy. She caught Lupin looking at her, and felt herself blush slightly as he cocked an amused eyebrow at her outfit.
As one of her two initial suspects for the actions the night before, Lupin had seen that skirt already, though it hadn't stayed on long after he had seen it. Hermione couldn't help but feel slightly heated as he let his gaze fall lingeringly on her long, toned legs in her ridiculously high heels. Lupin was the only one who could make her feel so deliciously primal.
"Um…Hermione," Kingsley said, clearing his throat in an attempt at forced calm. "You…er…haven't seen the paper today, have you?". Harry and Ron made room for her at the table and she gave them both thankful looks as she sat, cupping her mug as it warmed her chilled body. Sitting across from her, Lupin silently slid her a copy of the Daily Prophet.