Queerditch Drabbles and a QUESTION!!
I don't think I did any normal pairings this week. Well, the Sirius/Regulus/Remus wasn't so bad, but I made it a very strange relationship! Hugs and love to all of you, and a question:
Many post-war fics depict a world of debauchery and indolence. But how could a society based on toying with slaves/war-trophies and plundering the Ministry/Hogwarts survive? When all is said and done, and the sex starts to bore, how do you think the Dark Lord's post-war world would look?
(Bonus points if you can link to a fic you've written or read that deals with this)
Anyway... back to drabbling.
The theme was "The Black Family"
Kreacher/Dobby - Socks
They left Dobby with Kreacher while they finished doing a thorough renovation of 12 Grimmauld -- "renovation" being almost synonymous to search and destroy. Kreacher, as such, was extremely antsy at every sound, crash, and blood-curdling portrait scream, and the job of placating the wretch had been left to Dobby. Dobby, being quite full of Christmas nog, was content, and since Harry had asked him in person to take on this task, he wasn't at all irritated at the thought of babysitting the grouch. Everytime something screeched, or smashed, and Kreacher jumped, Dobby patted him on the shoulder, and offered his best House Elf smile -- which was, even on the best of days, a little lopsided, on account of a large self-inflicted burn.
"It's all right," he said. "It's still your home, whatever it looks like."
Kreacher twitched and Kreacher scowled, but his worried look was eased, if only by a fraction, by Dobby's patient words. And so the night of destruction renovation ensued, one room at a time, while Dobby and Kreacher sat on the front porch and watched the sky. And all was well until...
"No!!" Kreacher jumped from his seat and Dobby leapt after him, catching him only at the last second by his shoulders.
"What!" cried Dobby. "What is it?" He pricked his elfish ears. Kreacher's were already at full height, and he began to wail. "What is it?" Dobby cried again, shaking Kreacher. "What's wrong!"
"Master's-- M--Master's--"
Dobby looked at him helplessly. Kreacher was twisting to get out of his grip, lurching towards the house, and it was all Dobby could do to hold on to him, in spite of the vicious biting at his fingers.
"Master's what!" Dobby shouted, shoving Kreacher to the ground at last, and squatting on top of him. Kreacher could gnaw on him all he wanted (and he did), but he wouldn't be going anywhere.
Kreacher began to sob, beating at the floor of the short front porch. "Master's trousers! I can hear! They're going to burn up Master's trousers!"
Dobby was fairly certain he knew which Master Kreacher meant. He looked down pityingly at the snarling, spitting, finger-biting creature beneath him. "Oh Kreacher..." he said, and he sighed. Dobby knew the room in question had likely already been decimated. But a House Elf's love of inanimates, especially musky-smelling ones, could not be denied. It was almost genetic.
Kreacher began to wail again. Tenderly -- as tenderly as one could with bleeding fingers -- Dobby placed his hand over Kreacher's mouth. Kreacher bit down, hard, but it stopped the yelling.
Dobby leaned over him, his over-large eyes glistening with tears. It was too late for the trousers, he knew, but ever since he'd been freed he'd found himself taken almost to the point of obsessive compulsion with collecting other garments, and he'd made just such a collection-building excursion to the Master's chambers earlier in the day. In fact, his acquisition was right in his pocket. Smiling, wondering how deep Kreacher's teeth were embedded in his scarred hand flesh, he shifted his other hand and rummaged through his vest.
"I know it's not a pair of trousers," he said, glowing triumphant as he pulled out a small, dark bit of cloth. Kreacher withdrew his teeth and stared, nose twitching, eyes almost hungry at the smell of it. "But ever tried socks?"
*
Phineas/Mrs. Black - Black Widow
He sidled into her portrait frame late at night. She awoke bellowing, and Phineas scowled.
"Cease your hollering, woman. There's none about who'd care to hear."
She stopped, and squinted, and then she stared. "Phineas," she said, slowly, as if it had been a dog's age since she'd last spoke with a civil tongue. "What are you doing about? And in my frame, at that?"
Phineas thinned his old lips, and looked all at once irritable and uncomfortable. "I was sent," he said, crisply, and he leaned into the neighbouring frame to steal a chair. One of his distant relatives yelped, and fell to the portrait floor with a clamour. Phineas sat down and folded his hands in his lap. "Now, woman. I have news."
But Mrs. Black just sneered; it was a natural reaction. "By what right do you call me 'woman' as if I were a commoner?"
"Oh, Gertrude, do shut it. You've been howling like a commoner for months now. Exercise a little decorum, would you?" He scowled at her yellowing skin and her listless eyes, and the faint line of spittle down the side of her cheek. He shuddered. "And as your elder, I've every right."
"Pah," said Mrs. Black, but she did not protest. She did, however, continue to study him with interest. "You've been doing well for yourself, I hear."
Phineas sat straighter and nodded, curtly. "It comes with the territory. One can't afford to look like a..." -- he paused, and glanced pointedly at Mrs. Black's worn clothes -- "...a ward case when one sits behind the chair of Hogwarts Headmaster."
Mrs. Black flushed, first with rage, and then with shame. Shame was a rare colour on her skin. She started to pick at her shirt, and withdrew a handkerchief to dab at her cheeks. "It's been years, Phineas. One gets tired, and lonely."
Phineas sniffed. "I suppose."
Mrs. Black wet her lips and looked at him again, her eyes conveying the flicker of a deeper longing. Phineas's concealed, portrait-bound cock withered, just a little. It was worse than he'd thought; she'd let herself grow desperate. How unbecoming. He stood.
"I should be leaving."
Mrs. Black looked up, and a truly un-Black terror began to show through wrinkles worn in by constant condemnation. It was a tiring, thankless task.
"Phineas--"
"Albus will be expecting me."
Mrs. Black laid a wobbly, yellowed hand over his wrist. He shuddered inwardly at the sweat gathering in the palm of her fatty skin. "But... you'll visit again, won't you? I... I promise I shan't holler again. And I'll clean, too."
Phineas drew his arm away, and tucked his hand in a deep pocket to brush the sweaty residue away. "Mm," he nodded, indistinctly, and he turned to leave, not bothering to inform Mrs. Black of the reason for his visit. He'd come to warn her that her picture frame was to be destroyed the morning after, and that she should flee it immediately, but he hadn't expected such a sight, one that should have shamed any true Black.
He scrubbed his wrist more thoroughly when he returned to his own frame, safe and sound, and comforted himself with the knowledge that she, and the blemish on his line that she represented, would soon be stricken from the record. Some relatives just weren't worth the effort.
*
Sirius/Regulus/Remus - Keeping Secrets
It was dawn, and Regulus was cowering in a corner, shouting. Distantly, Remus could make out words, but he was tired, so tired, and the floor was a warm, welcome hum against his aching body.
"Sirius," he wanted to say. "Sirius, be gentle," but it was out of his hands.
"I'll tell!" Regulus was shouting, pointing at Remus's prone, naked body among the sheets.
"Shut up," said Sirius, advancing, hands balled into fists.
"I'll tell!" Regulus cried, and he flattened himself against the wall. "I'll tell everyone! I'll have you expelled -- both of you!"
"Shut up," Sirius said again, and he was closer now, expression furious.
"I'll tell," Regulus said again, shaking, skin pale and clammy now. He didn't look up; he just stared in fright at Remus. "I'll tell mother what you do with him."
Sirius snapped, and an arm shot out. He boxed Regulus's ears and then grabbed him by the hair, slamming him up against the wall. His own body quickly filled the space between, and Remus, across the room, shut his eyes, wincing. Sirius, no...
But Sirius kissed Regulus anyway, hard, and deep, so that Regulus could only make a small, strangled sound before he had to yield, hands falling trembling-weak at his sides, fingernails digging at the wood of the Shack. And Sirius kept on kissing him, kissing him quiet, until Regulus could barely stand.
And when Sirius withdrew, only the crush of his groin against Regulus's kept the younger on his feet. Regulus moaned, his eyes shut, his cheeks flushed with shame.
"When I say shut up," Sirius said then, his voice dangerously gentle, hands coming to hold Regulus's wrists tight. "I mean it. You hear?"
Remus could almost smell the fear from across the room, and he curled up a little at the taste. He knew Sirius never did things half-way; no matter what Regulus said, he'd be spending the rest of the morning nearly as sore as Remus already was. Remus felt a knot building in his stomach at the thought, but he knew there was no other way, really, if he wanted to stay safe. Regulus was a loose canon; only shame, it seemed, could buy his silence.
He told himself that Regulus wasn't all moans of pain when Sirius took him. He told himself, too, that Sirius was only doing this for Remus's sake.
But when Regulus finally collapsed on the ground, panting and wrought with his own climax, sobbing a little against Sirius, who held him now oh-so-tight, Remus felt the pain burst in his chest, a sharp sense of guilt only his immobility kept at bay, and he raised a hand, weakly, gesturing at them.
Sirius hesitated a moment, his brother cradled in his arms. Perhaps he feared that Remus, weak as he was, would be wrathful. But Remus was too tired for wrath, and too much force had already been exerted within these walls. When at last Sirius complied, and laid the shuddering Regulus between them, caught soft and protected by their combined body heat, it was all Remus could do to bundle his arms around the both of them, and try to lap up the tears.
Many post-war fics depict a world of debauchery and indolence. But how could a society based on toying with slaves/war-trophies and plundering the Ministry/Hogwarts survive? When all is said and done, and the sex starts to bore, how do you think the Dark Lord's post-war world would look?
(Bonus points if you can link to a fic you've written or read that deals with this)
Anyway... back to drabbling.
The theme was "The Black Family"
Kreacher/Dobby - Socks
They left Dobby with Kreacher while they finished doing a thorough renovation of 12 Grimmauld -- "renovation" being almost synonymous to search and destroy. Kreacher, as such, was extremely antsy at every sound, crash, and blood-curdling portrait scream, and the job of placating the wretch had been left to Dobby. Dobby, being quite full of Christmas nog, was content, and since Harry had asked him in person to take on this task, he wasn't at all irritated at the thought of babysitting the grouch. Everytime something screeched, or smashed, and Kreacher jumped, Dobby patted him on the shoulder, and offered his best House Elf smile -- which was, even on the best of days, a little lopsided, on account of a large self-inflicted burn.
"It's all right," he said. "It's still your home, whatever it looks like."
Kreacher twitched and Kreacher scowled, but his worried look was eased, if only by a fraction, by Dobby's patient words. And so the night of destruction renovation ensued, one room at a time, while Dobby and Kreacher sat on the front porch and watched the sky. And all was well until...
"No!!" Kreacher jumped from his seat and Dobby leapt after him, catching him only at the last second by his shoulders.
"What!" cried Dobby. "What is it?" He pricked his elfish ears. Kreacher's were already at full height, and he began to wail. "What is it?" Dobby cried again, shaking Kreacher. "What's wrong!"
"Master's-- M--Master's--"
Dobby looked at him helplessly. Kreacher was twisting to get out of his grip, lurching towards the house, and it was all Dobby could do to hold on to him, in spite of the vicious biting at his fingers.
"Master's what!" Dobby shouted, shoving Kreacher to the ground at last, and squatting on top of him. Kreacher could gnaw on him all he wanted (and he did), but he wouldn't be going anywhere.
Kreacher began to sob, beating at the floor of the short front porch. "Master's trousers! I can hear! They're going to burn up Master's trousers!"
Dobby was fairly certain he knew which Master Kreacher meant. He looked down pityingly at the snarling, spitting, finger-biting creature beneath him. "Oh Kreacher..." he said, and he sighed. Dobby knew the room in question had likely already been decimated. But a House Elf's love of inanimates, especially musky-smelling ones, could not be denied. It was almost genetic.
Kreacher began to wail again. Tenderly -- as tenderly as one could with bleeding fingers -- Dobby placed his hand over Kreacher's mouth. Kreacher bit down, hard, but it stopped the yelling.
Dobby leaned over him, his over-large eyes glistening with tears. It was too late for the trousers, he knew, but ever since he'd been freed he'd found himself taken almost to the point of obsessive compulsion with collecting other garments, and he'd made just such a collection-building excursion to the Master's chambers earlier in the day. In fact, his acquisition was right in his pocket. Smiling, wondering how deep Kreacher's teeth were embedded in his scarred hand flesh, he shifted his other hand and rummaged through his vest.
"I know it's not a pair of trousers," he said, glowing triumphant as he pulled out a small, dark bit of cloth. Kreacher withdrew his teeth and stared, nose twitching, eyes almost hungry at the smell of it. "But ever tried socks?"
*
Phineas/Mrs. Black - Black Widow
He sidled into her portrait frame late at night. She awoke bellowing, and Phineas scowled.
"Cease your hollering, woman. There's none about who'd care to hear."
She stopped, and squinted, and then she stared. "Phineas," she said, slowly, as if it had been a dog's age since she'd last spoke with a civil tongue. "What are you doing about? And in my frame, at that?"
Phineas thinned his old lips, and looked all at once irritable and uncomfortable. "I was sent," he said, crisply, and he leaned into the neighbouring frame to steal a chair. One of his distant relatives yelped, and fell to the portrait floor with a clamour. Phineas sat down and folded his hands in his lap. "Now, woman. I have news."
But Mrs. Black just sneered; it was a natural reaction. "By what right do you call me 'woman' as if I were a commoner?"
"Oh, Gertrude, do shut it. You've been howling like a commoner for months now. Exercise a little decorum, would you?" He scowled at her yellowing skin and her listless eyes, and the faint line of spittle down the side of her cheek. He shuddered. "And as your elder, I've every right."
"Pah," said Mrs. Black, but she did not protest. She did, however, continue to study him with interest. "You've been doing well for yourself, I hear."
Phineas sat straighter and nodded, curtly. "It comes with the territory. One can't afford to look like a..." -- he paused, and glanced pointedly at Mrs. Black's worn clothes -- "...a ward case when one sits behind the chair of Hogwarts Headmaster."
Mrs. Black flushed, first with rage, and then with shame. Shame was a rare colour on her skin. She started to pick at her shirt, and withdrew a handkerchief to dab at her cheeks. "It's been years, Phineas. One gets tired, and lonely."
Phineas sniffed. "I suppose."
Mrs. Black wet her lips and looked at him again, her eyes conveying the flicker of a deeper longing. Phineas's concealed, portrait-bound cock withered, just a little. It was worse than he'd thought; she'd let herself grow desperate. How unbecoming. He stood.
"I should be leaving."
Mrs. Black looked up, and a truly un-Black terror began to show through wrinkles worn in by constant condemnation. It was a tiring, thankless task.
"Phineas--"
"Albus will be expecting me."
Mrs. Black laid a wobbly, yellowed hand over his wrist. He shuddered inwardly at the sweat gathering in the palm of her fatty skin. "But... you'll visit again, won't you? I... I promise I shan't holler again. And I'll clean, too."
Phineas drew his arm away, and tucked his hand in a deep pocket to brush the sweaty residue away. "Mm," he nodded, indistinctly, and he turned to leave, not bothering to inform Mrs. Black of the reason for his visit. He'd come to warn her that her picture frame was to be destroyed the morning after, and that she should flee it immediately, but he hadn't expected such a sight, one that should have shamed any true Black.
He scrubbed his wrist more thoroughly when he returned to his own frame, safe and sound, and comforted himself with the knowledge that she, and the blemish on his line that she represented, would soon be stricken from the record. Some relatives just weren't worth the effort.
*
Sirius/Regulus/Remus - Keeping Secrets
It was dawn, and Regulus was cowering in a corner, shouting. Distantly, Remus could make out words, but he was tired, so tired, and the floor was a warm, welcome hum against his aching body.
"Sirius," he wanted to say. "Sirius, be gentle," but it was out of his hands.
"I'll tell!" Regulus was shouting, pointing at Remus's prone, naked body among the sheets.
"Shut up," said Sirius, advancing, hands balled into fists.
"I'll tell!" Regulus cried, and he flattened himself against the wall. "I'll tell everyone! I'll have you expelled -- both of you!"
"Shut up," Sirius said again, and he was closer now, expression furious.
"I'll tell," Regulus said again, shaking, skin pale and clammy now. He didn't look up; he just stared in fright at Remus. "I'll tell mother what you do with him."
Sirius snapped, and an arm shot out. He boxed Regulus's ears and then grabbed him by the hair, slamming him up against the wall. His own body quickly filled the space between, and Remus, across the room, shut his eyes, wincing. Sirius, no...
But Sirius kissed Regulus anyway, hard, and deep, so that Regulus could only make a small, strangled sound before he had to yield, hands falling trembling-weak at his sides, fingernails digging at the wood of the Shack. And Sirius kept on kissing him, kissing him quiet, until Regulus could barely stand.
And when Sirius withdrew, only the crush of his groin against Regulus's kept the younger on his feet. Regulus moaned, his eyes shut, his cheeks flushed with shame.
"When I say shut up," Sirius said then, his voice dangerously gentle, hands coming to hold Regulus's wrists tight. "I mean it. You hear?"
Remus could almost smell the fear from across the room, and he curled up a little at the taste. He knew Sirius never did things half-way; no matter what Regulus said, he'd be spending the rest of the morning nearly as sore as Remus already was. Remus felt a knot building in his stomach at the thought, but he knew there was no other way, really, if he wanted to stay safe. Regulus was a loose canon; only shame, it seemed, could buy his silence.
He told himself that Regulus wasn't all moans of pain when Sirius took him. He told himself, too, that Sirius was only doing this for Remus's sake.
But when Regulus finally collapsed on the ground, panting and wrought with his own climax, sobbing a little against Sirius, who held him now oh-so-tight, Remus felt the pain burst in his chest, a sharp sense of guilt only his immobility kept at bay, and he raised a hand, weakly, gesturing at them.
Sirius hesitated a moment, his brother cradled in his arms. Perhaps he feared that Remus, weak as he was, would be wrathful. But Remus was too tired for wrath, and too much force had already been exerted within these walls. When at last Sirius complied, and laid the shuddering Regulus between them, caught soft and protected by their combined body heat, it was all Remus could do to bundle his arms around the both of them, and try to lap up the tears.