And, two more teenyfics.
That's the five I said I'd do, but you never know; I might end up doing more if the annoying fic continues to mock me.
Harry/Sirius, the marks we bear, PG13ish, angsty, 485 words, for piratesword
Harry sits carefully, his back against the uneven stone of the arch.
He does this a lot.
It's one of the advantages of being The Fucking Hero Who Fucking Lived Again Even Though Way Too Fucking Many People Died Helping. The Ministry pretty much lets him do whatever the hell he wants, and of late, what he wants is to talk to Sirius and as there is no grave, this is the place.
Of course, he doesn't actually know what to say.
Or, he does, except he's eighteen, and if he has the vocabulary and the concepts and the troubled images and everything, that doesn't make the words come any easier.
So he sits.
A lot of times, he finds himself tracing the scar on his forehead. It's tender, these days, the new scarring overlaying the old and still healing, thicker and more prominent than before it split open at the end.
What he wants to say has a lot to do with scars, with damage that can't heal, with limitations that are necessary and chafe and bring unfocused frustration that could be useful, harnessed, but instead is just another way to break a man. What he wants to say is that he knows. What he wants to say is that it's unfair that they should have been able to help each other …not heal, because that's never going to happen, but learn to get along.
He's thought about simple leaning a little to the left. He has no doubt that once part of him passed through the veil, the rest of him would be pulled along. Then they could not learn to get along together.
He won't do that. No matter how much he hates the papers and the posters and the idiots that try to shove their hands down his pants (seriously--what the fuck? Are they hoping to touch magical penis sweat? What?), and no matter how much none of it was his idea, he can't be irresponsible enough to make that the example he has no choice but to make.
But he's considered it.
Finally, he draws his knees up close and extends his arms over them, elbows straight, fingers picking at each other, and mutters, "Yeah, I know," before he pushes up to leave.
It's probably messed up that he'll go home and imagine the answer, imagine the understanding and sympathy and connection, and he'll shove his own hand down his pants because it's the only relationship he can imagine having, the only sort of equal ground.
He doesn't know exactly what he's hoping to touch either, though he's reasonably clear on his sweaty balls holding no particular magic, but he supposes probably tomorrow he'll be back.
He sort of hopes someone at some point gives him a reason to hope this doesn't have to be how he feels forever, but right now, he can't think what that might be.
Hermione/Viktor, delayed gratification, 500 words, quite porny, for inell
"I have wait, it is all day," Viktor complained. "I am man dying of thirst, while you are there with water, only you are not allow smallest taste."
"Patience," Hermione said primly, "is a virtue." She put the final touches on her work and turned. "Well? What do you think?"
"Is beautiful, but I am watch all this time, and also is beautiful before it is have…" Viktor gestured, his waving fingers encompassing all the fripperies. "Now, I am taste?"
"Before supper?"
"Yes, before supper! I now two hours I am here!"
"I think not." Hermione brushed past him and bent to take the roast out of the oven.
Viktor groaned. "Hermione! I am very patient, but you are bend, so, with stockings, with breast pushing up at top of front, with lacy item which I am not have English word for only except oh fuck, I am not wait more."
"I thought I was in charge of the evening?"
"You are in charge, yes. My cock is have very many responding, which all are from commanding of your body, which is say, with very clear statement, to have attention."
"And my words are saying that first, we should have supper." She carried the roast to the table and set it down between the bread and the vegetables, then turned. "Of course, any formal meal does have appetizers. Are you suggesting I might have forgotten that?"
"I am not think, you forget anything. I think you are make deliberate plan to cause that I explode of desperate."
"And you think a small taste would make you less desperate?" She stood in front of him, feet apart, eyebrow arched.
"I am think, small taste is probably cause to skip, right for dessert. I am also, however, not object for this."
Hermione smiled. "And so, we wait. After supper." She sat down and reached for the vegetables.
Viktor sat painfully in the other chair, adjusting his trousers, and took a slice of bread. She was trying to kill him, obviously.
She arched a brow at him, and he adjusted himself again and slipped off his shoes. His legs were longer, and if she was going to torture him, he wasn't going to take it lying down. He pushed his toes between her thighs with a grin.
She calmly kept chewing her food, but the tension in her legs was gratifying, and when his toes found the slit in her knickers, she stopped chewing.
Three bites later, she declared supper delayed and stood.
For an instant, he was afraid she was angry, but that was only until she waved open his flies and straddled him, sinking down onto his needy cock through that same slit.
He chuckled. "I still am claim taste, after supper," he said against her throat. "Is still to look forward to, after you are fuck self hard on my dick and we soak these silly knickers."
She whined and moved faster as he dug his fingers into her arse.
Harry/Sirius, the marks we bear, PG13ish, angsty, 485 words, for piratesword
Harry sits carefully, his back against the uneven stone of the arch.
He does this a lot.
It's one of the advantages of being The Fucking Hero Who Fucking Lived Again Even Though Way Too Fucking Many People Died Helping. The Ministry pretty much lets him do whatever the hell he wants, and of late, what he wants is to talk to Sirius and as there is no grave, this is the place.
Of course, he doesn't actually know what to say.
Or, he does, except he's eighteen, and if he has the vocabulary and the concepts and the troubled images and everything, that doesn't make the words come any easier.
So he sits.
A lot of times, he finds himself tracing the scar on his forehead. It's tender, these days, the new scarring overlaying the old and still healing, thicker and more prominent than before it split open at the end.
What he wants to say has a lot to do with scars, with damage that can't heal, with limitations that are necessary and chafe and bring unfocused frustration that could be useful, harnessed, but instead is just another way to break a man. What he wants to say is that he knows. What he wants to say is that it's unfair that they should have been able to help each other …not heal, because that's never going to happen, but learn to get along.
He's thought about simple leaning a little to the left. He has no doubt that once part of him passed through the veil, the rest of him would be pulled along. Then they could not learn to get along together.
He won't do that. No matter how much he hates the papers and the posters and the idiots that try to shove their hands down his pants (seriously--what the fuck? Are they hoping to touch magical penis sweat? What?), and no matter how much none of it was his idea, he can't be irresponsible enough to make that the example he has no choice but to make.
But he's considered it.
Finally, he draws his knees up close and extends his arms over them, elbows straight, fingers picking at each other, and mutters, "Yeah, I know," before he pushes up to leave.
It's probably messed up that he'll go home and imagine the answer, imagine the understanding and sympathy and connection, and he'll shove his own hand down his pants because it's the only relationship he can imagine having, the only sort of equal ground.
He doesn't know exactly what he's hoping to touch either, though he's reasonably clear on his sweaty balls holding no particular magic, but he supposes probably tomorrow he'll be back.
He sort of hopes someone at some point gives him a reason to hope this doesn't have to be how he feels forever, but right now, he can't think what that might be.
Hermione/Viktor, delayed gratification, 500 words, quite porny, for inell
"I have wait, it is all day," Viktor complained. "I am man dying of thirst, while you are there with water, only you are not allow smallest taste."
"Patience," Hermione said primly, "is a virtue." She put the final touches on her work and turned. "Well? What do you think?"
"Is beautiful, but I am watch all this time, and also is beautiful before it is have…" Viktor gestured, his waving fingers encompassing all the fripperies. "Now, I am taste?"
"Before supper?"
"Yes, before supper! I now two hours I am here!"
"I think not." Hermione brushed past him and bent to take the roast out of the oven.
Viktor groaned. "Hermione! I am very patient, but you are bend, so, with stockings, with breast pushing up at top of front, with lacy item which I am not have English word for only except oh fuck, I am not wait more."
"I thought I was in charge of the evening?"
"You are in charge, yes. My cock is have very many responding, which all are from commanding of your body, which is say, with very clear statement, to have attention."
"And my words are saying that first, we should have supper." She carried the roast to the table and set it down between the bread and the vegetables, then turned. "Of course, any formal meal does have appetizers. Are you suggesting I might have forgotten that?"
"I am not think, you forget anything. I think you are make deliberate plan to cause that I explode of desperate."
"And you think a small taste would make you less desperate?" She stood in front of him, feet apart, eyebrow arched.
"I am think, small taste is probably cause to skip, right for dessert. I am also, however, not object for this."
Hermione smiled. "And so, we wait. After supper." She sat down and reached for the vegetables.
Viktor sat painfully in the other chair, adjusting his trousers, and took a slice of bread. She was trying to kill him, obviously.
She arched a brow at him, and he adjusted himself again and slipped off his shoes. His legs were longer, and if she was going to torture him, he wasn't going to take it lying down. He pushed his toes between her thighs with a grin.
She calmly kept chewing her food, but the tension in her legs was gratifying, and when his toes found the slit in her knickers, she stopped chewing.
Three bites later, she declared supper delayed and stood.
For an instant, he was afraid she was angry, but that was only until she waved open his flies and straddled him, sinking down onto his needy cock through that same slit.
He chuckled. "I still am claim taste, after supper," he said against her throat. "Is still to look forward to, after you are fuck self hard on my dick and we soak these silly knickers."
She whined and moved faster as he dug his fingers into her arse.