Summary: Freckled fingers threaded through pale blonde hair, pulling him closer to her. Rose Weasley wanted Scorpius Malfoy as close to her as possible.

Notes: This drabble is written for the Squick Fic challenge at sorting_hat on lj. The challenge was this: "Fairly simple, a fic of the length of your choice, from 100 words up to 1000+.
The only rule is that is has to include either a pairing you hate, or some sort of weird squicky thing. (Squick noun something that "grosses one out"; something of a displeasurable nature.)" Scorpius/Rose is a pairing I loathe.

Freckled fingers threaded through pale blonde hair, pulling him closer to her. Rose Weasley wanted Scorpius Malfoy as close to her as possible. At fifteen, she was convinced this brooding Gryffindor-whose-family-was-convinced-he-should-have-been-a-Slytherin was the love of her life. He set her body aflame with desires she'd never known before in her life. Before discovering the taste of his lips, her greatest ambition had been, quite simply, to surpass her mother in everything she had done. It would not have been enough for her to be at the top of each of her courses, for her to be satisfied she had to be the top of every course offered at Hogwarts, to make the highest scores seen since the schools inception, to get an O in every subject on her OWLs and on her NEWTs.

Yet, here she was bent backwards over a desk in one of the least frequented corners of the Hogwarts library with Scorpius pressing her into her revision notes with the weight of his body on hers and OWLs only weeks away. This was crunch time; she should have been spending every waking hour not spent in class (or at meals) studying. Instead, she was spending every waking moment (in class, out of class, at meals) thinking of Scorpius Malfoy's soft, fine hair, his steel blue eyes, the taste of his mouth, the feel of his hands under her jumper, and the scratch of his wool trousers against her thighs. The thought of him drove her mad—almost as mad as the actual feel of him with her.

Their fathers would be furious. Her mother would be disappointed. His mother would have another glass of expensive chardonnay. The parental outrage, for her, would be horrible; disappointing her parents was unacceptable and utterly unbearable. As his teeth gently pulled at her bottom lip, she suspected that it might actually be the point for him. She hoped, oh-so-desperately hoped, that it was not the case, that he was as in love with her as she fancied herself in love with him.