(no subject)
I wanted to get in gear, writingwise, for the afternoon, and I didn't want to start any new RP threads. Combine this with listening to She Wants Revenge, and -- well, you get drabbles you never asked for. These are inspired by ... lord, way too many IRC sessions of people talking shit about Lezard. *g*
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Drabble 1. Lezard/Turlough
"You didn't really think I insist Amaranth wear a ball gag every time we couple, did you?"
He stood with his back to the bed, infuriatingly distant, infuriatingly unreachable. Sideways, bound, Turlough lay upon that bed powerless to do anything but glare. The floor was perpendicular to Lezard. The floor was to the right, the ceiling to the left. Everything sideways. The only ambient sounds were Turlough's own breathing, loud in his ears, and the soughing of fluid through the pipes of the arcane machinery in the corner. There was something alive in that machine, and Lezard had not deigned to explain what or why. Not yet sentient, was all he had said; not a witness. I'll cast a screen in front of it, if another presence embarrasses you, darling. Darling, he'd said, as though speaking to Amaranth, who had nothing against exhibitionism -- and perhaps that should've been Turlough's first clue that the polyjuice wasn't fooling Lezard.
It had taken much less than an hour, whatever Lezard and the nymph usually did, but it had required elaborate preparation of the nymph's body. Washing. Inspection. A dusting of powder, an application of scented oil, ablutions that the mage performed upon the nymph's body as diligently as any act of worship. Throughout it all, the only articles of clothing Lezard removed were his cloak and his gloves. He did not seem to mind getting wet. He insisted on touching without being touched.
And then, when surely Amaranth must be immaculate, when surely the main event could be expected to begin -- then, Lezard had brought out the restraints. "Your favorite," he said, smiling; apparently Amaranth never objected, apparently this was customary.
Which was how they ended up this way, Turlough in Amaranth's form on the bed, unable to speak or to attack. He could have rolled off the bed, at the cost of what dignity remained, but why?
And Lezard was speaking again. "Amaranth needs none of these things. She is perfectly clean, part of her inherent nature as a cereal nymph. She owns her own set of restraints, which she prefers, and I like to hear the sounds she makes. It's your voice I do not wish to hear. How many minutes, do you think, until your glamour wears off?" A pause, an odd cough. "And then ... what will I do with you?"
Another long pause. "What am I supposed to do with you?" the mage asked, more of himself than of Turlough. And for the first time in this whole bizarre encounter, he sounded -- angry.
___
Drabble 2. Lezard/younger!Snape
"I'm not your imaginary friend," the brown-haired boy insisted.
"There's no such place as Midgard, or Flenceburg. The most famous wizard is not some woman named Lorenta, it's Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of my school. There's no such place as Valhalla except in mythology and folktales. And there is no way you can do the things you say you can do." Severus rattled off the list of his reasons, eyes shut tight against the once-welcome visitor. "I don't believe in you. I made you up when I was lonely, and I don't need you any more."
The brown-haired boy laughed. It was no longer a comforting sound. "You made up my name?"
"That's why it's such a preposterous name. Lezard Valeth. Like a fairy-tale name."
"You never had any use for fairy tales," said the brown-haired boy. "You were always too old for those stories, even when you were young. You and I are alike in that too. Those books are only good as quarries for what's true in them. The Deathly Hallows, for instance, hmm? The Philosopher's Stone? I'm still looking for the Philosopher's Stone, here in Midgard, and one day soon I'll find it, you know."
Severus resisted the temptation to plug his ears with his fingers. It would be childish, and the imaginary boy would laugh at him, if he did that. "Go away. I have a real life now. I'm going to have a patron, and be a potions master."
"I will be a greater patron than any old man your world can offer," the boy insisted. Boy, really, still; though he and Severus were both sixteen now -- Severus sixteen, anyway, and the other boy at least that old. "And I will have more wealth than any of them, too. Forget Slytherin; what other friends do you need? I can travel between dimensions already, and soon I'll be able to bring you back with me..."
"You're imaginary," Severus snapped. "Enough!"
The voice was silent for a moment, and behind screwed-shut eyelids Severus wondered if that had done the trick, banished the illusion. This time there was not even the laughter he'd grown half to love, half to dread.
Instead -- a weight tugged the pillow his head rested on, a soft clove-scented breath stirred his lank hair. Lips brushed Severus' ear.
"Can an imaginary friend do this?"
___
Drabble 3. Lezard/Olympia
"I'm too old for you. Go away, kid."
"You're not too old for Beowulf," Lezard pointed out, pouting.
"That's because Beowulf specializes in MILFs. Seriously, go away before I sic some runic hoodoo on your bony ass."
"Oh, him again." Mention of runes could only mean one person. "What could you possibly see in Wednesday? He is too old for you."
"None of your business. Old people like to spend time with other old people." Olympia's smirk had nothing to do with Lezard's whining. It was only that his remark reminded her of some uncharitable thoughts she'd recently had regarding Wednesday's anatomy. Ugh, old man nipples. Droopy.
Lezard had begun to pace the narrow dorm room. It would figure he would come to Olympia's room in person to press his pointless suit. "Let me give you the life you deserve. You could have so much more. I see in you the beauty you know you possess, without need for adornment or disguise. I delight in your hunched back, your brittle frame, your every abnormality!"
Olympia actually let herself consider this for a moment. The kid wasn't half-bad, if you liked 'em tall and skinny. He probably didn't have a whole lot of experience, but that meant he could be trained. And it was true, she wasn't likely to find many men who didn't need her to polyjuice into Amaranth before they'd be willing to touch her the way she liked.
"I'll give you a try," she said, grudgingly. "On one condition."
"Name your desire and I shall grant it happily!" cried Lezard, unable to believe his sudden turn of fortune.
"You have to have a really open mind."
"An open mind? It pains me to think you do not already believe me open-minded!"
"A really open mind. Because I'm a package deal. You get me ... and Beowulf. At the same time. Take it or leave it, kiddo."
The fact that she'd made Beowulf into her rune-bound loveslave was something Olympia'd meant to keep secret, but the loss of secrecy was worth the absolutely priceless look on Lezard's face. The young mage looked like nothing so much as a fish who'd just been hauled out of Beowulf's beloved lake.
"You and Beowulf ... at the same ... That would be, ah, a logistical challenge. Allow me to think on the matter."
"You do that," said Oly. "Think long and hard. Beowulf isn't too good at knowing when to let go."
Lezard was gone with such alacrity, Oly fancied she could see puffs of dust rising off the clean-scrubbed stone floor in his wake, and that even though he'd left on foot like a normal human being. She laughed so hard she began to wonder if there were a wizarding equivalent of Depends undergarments, because damned if she wasn't going to piss her pants laughing. When the danger of incontinence had passed, she tottered over to her desk. Time for some more runework.
___
Drabble 1. Lezard/Turlough
"You didn't really think I insist Amaranth wear a ball gag every time we couple, did you?"
He stood with his back to the bed, infuriatingly distant, infuriatingly unreachable. Sideways, bound, Turlough lay upon that bed powerless to do anything but glare. The floor was perpendicular to Lezard. The floor was to the right, the ceiling to the left. Everything sideways. The only ambient sounds were Turlough's own breathing, loud in his ears, and the soughing of fluid through the pipes of the arcane machinery in the corner. There was something alive in that machine, and Lezard had not deigned to explain what or why. Not yet sentient, was all he had said; not a witness. I'll cast a screen in front of it, if another presence embarrasses you, darling. Darling, he'd said, as though speaking to Amaranth, who had nothing against exhibitionism -- and perhaps that should've been Turlough's first clue that the polyjuice wasn't fooling Lezard.
It had taken much less than an hour, whatever Lezard and the nymph usually did, but it had required elaborate preparation of the nymph's body. Washing. Inspection. A dusting of powder, an application of scented oil, ablutions that the mage performed upon the nymph's body as diligently as any act of worship. Throughout it all, the only articles of clothing Lezard removed were his cloak and his gloves. He did not seem to mind getting wet. He insisted on touching without being touched.
And then, when surely Amaranth must be immaculate, when surely the main event could be expected to begin -- then, Lezard had brought out the restraints. "Your favorite," he said, smiling; apparently Amaranth never objected, apparently this was customary.
Which was how they ended up this way, Turlough in Amaranth's form on the bed, unable to speak or to attack. He could have rolled off the bed, at the cost of what dignity remained, but why?
And Lezard was speaking again. "Amaranth needs none of these things. She is perfectly clean, part of her inherent nature as a cereal nymph. She owns her own set of restraints, which she prefers, and I like to hear the sounds she makes. It's your voice I do not wish to hear. How many minutes, do you think, until your glamour wears off?" A pause, an odd cough. "And then ... what will I do with you?"
Another long pause. "What am I supposed to do with you?" the mage asked, more of himself than of Turlough. And for the first time in this whole bizarre encounter, he sounded -- angry.
___
Drabble 2. Lezard/younger!Snape
"I'm not your imaginary friend," the brown-haired boy insisted.
"There's no such place as Midgard, or Flenceburg. The most famous wizard is not some woman named Lorenta, it's Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of my school. There's no such place as Valhalla except in mythology and folktales. And there is no way you can do the things you say you can do." Severus rattled off the list of his reasons, eyes shut tight against the once-welcome visitor. "I don't believe in you. I made you up when I was lonely, and I don't need you any more."
The brown-haired boy laughed. It was no longer a comforting sound. "You made up my name?"
"That's why it's such a preposterous name. Lezard Valeth. Like a fairy-tale name."
"You never had any use for fairy tales," said the brown-haired boy. "You were always too old for those stories, even when you were young. You and I are alike in that too. Those books are only good as quarries for what's true in them. The Deathly Hallows, for instance, hmm? The Philosopher's Stone? I'm still looking for the Philosopher's Stone, here in Midgard, and one day soon I'll find it, you know."
Severus resisted the temptation to plug his ears with his fingers. It would be childish, and the imaginary boy would laugh at him, if he did that. "Go away. I have a real life now. I'm going to have a patron, and be a potions master."
"I will be a greater patron than any old man your world can offer," the boy insisted. Boy, really, still; though he and Severus were both sixteen now -- Severus sixteen, anyway, and the other boy at least that old. "And I will have more wealth than any of them, too. Forget Slytherin; what other friends do you need? I can travel between dimensions already, and soon I'll be able to bring you back with me..."
"You're imaginary," Severus snapped. "Enough!"
The voice was silent for a moment, and behind screwed-shut eyelids Severus wondered if that had done the trick, banished the illusion. This time there was not even the laughter he'd grown half to love, half to dread.
Instead -- a weight tugged the pillow his head rested on, a soft clove-scented breath stirred his lank hair. Lips brushed Severus' ear.
"Can an imaginary friend do this?"
___
Drabble 3. Lezard/Olympia
"I'm too old for you. Go away, kid."
"You're not too old for Beowulf," Lezard pointed out, pouting.
"That's because Beowulf specializes in MILFs. Seriously, go away before I sic some runic hoodoo on your bony ass."
"Oh, him again." Mention of runes could only mean one person. "What could you possibly see in Wednesday? He is too old for you."
"None of your business. Old people like to spend time with other old people." Olympia's smirk had nothing to do with Lezard's whining. It was only that his remark reminded her of some uncharitable thoughts she'd recently had regarding Wednesday's anatomy. Ugh, old man nipples. Droopy.
Lezard had begun to pace the narrow dorm room. It would figure he would come to Olympia's room in person to press his pointless suit. "Let me give you the life you deserve. You could have so much more. I see in you the beauty you know you possess, without need for adornment or disguise. I delight in your hunched back, your brittle frame, your every abnormality!"
Olympia actually let herself consider this for a moment. The kid wasn't half-bad, if you liked 'em tall and skinny. He probably didn't have a whole lot of experience, but that meant he could be trained. And it was true, she wasn't likely to find many men who didn't need her to polyjuice into Amaranth before they'd be willing to touch her the way she liked.
"I'll give you a try," she said, grudgingly. "On one condition."
"Name your desire and I shall grant it happily!" cried Lezard, unable to believe his sudden turn of fortune.
"You have to have a really open mind."
"An open mind? It pains me to think you do not already believe me open-minded!"
"A really open mind. Because I'm a package deal. You get me ... and Beowulf. At the same time. Take it or leave it, kiddo."
The fact that she'd made Beowulf into her rune-bound loveslave was something Olympia'd meant to keep secret, but the loss of secrecy was worth the absolutely priceless look on Lezard's face. The young mage looked like nothing so much as a fish who'd just been hauled out of Beowulf's beloved lake.
"You and Beowulf ... at the same ... That would be, ah, a logistical challenge. Allow me to think on the matter."
"You do that," said Oly. "Think long and hard. Beowulf isn't too good at knowing when to let go."
Lezard was gone with such alacrity, Oly fancied she could see puffs of dust rising off the clean-scrubbed stone floor in his wake, and that even though he'd left on foot like a normal human being. She laughed so hard she began to wonder if there were a wizarding equivalent of Depends undergarments, because damned if she wasn't going to piss her pants laughing. When the danger of incontinence had passed, she tottered over to her desk. Time for some more runework.