Drabbles
Five "Opposites" Drabbles by Petulantgod from the queerditch_pub. Ratings and warnings vary. Posted at underlucius's request.
Tom Riddle/Albus Dumbledore - Young and Old
Tom has been alone all his life, alone amongst a crowd of orphans, alone in the quiet of his own orderly thoughts. He walks through corridors in his mind, his solitary feet ringing eternally in quiet echoing progression. He is young but he longs to be old, to attain the power of age, the ability to be more than society will allow a boy to be. He is angry at the world, angry at the rulers and the order and the ubiquitous Man. Anarchy, he thinks. Anarchy, upheaval, revolution.
Dumbledore has been alone all his life, alone amongst a crowd of students, alone in the quiet of his own orderly thoughts. He walks through corridors in the castle, the ringing of his feet lost in the pounding rush of students' tread, reminding him that he is an old man and has left behind the hopes and idealism of youth. There is nothing for him but resignation and wisdom now, nothing but to use the years under his hoary beard to parcel out words like gold nuggets to confused and needy youths who will listen intently and take what they like, discarding the rest. Youth, he thinks. It's so wasted on the young, and forbidden to the old.
Yet even life itself cannot forbid to Albus Dumbledore the consolation prize of youth ripe for the plucking, waiting to be devoured in its juicy perfection, a peach with a very bitter pit.
Sirius/Regulus - Blood and Water
They shouldn't, and he knew it. They-should-not, but was too late to know anything once their mouths met, hot and pudding-sticky and chapped-lipped. It was too late to think about the fact that this was wrong and unnatural and disgusting and all those other words their mother hurled at them when she first caught them at it. She couldn't stop them though, not when they were at school again, not when Regulus could find a half-hour before curfew to sneak into a deserted classroom where he knew Sirius would be waiting for him.
Regulus knew it was wrong when he dropped to his knees and scrabbled with eternally nervous fingers at the placket of Sirius' trousers, knew it was wrong to feel the stab of want shoot through his marrow when Sirius' cock bumped against his chin. It was horribly, terribly, filthily wrong when he opened wide and choked it down and even more wrong when he swallowed and licked his lips and stood to share the taste with his brother. His brother, yes, and his whole world.
Filthy.
Wrong.
Dirty.
It was blood that made it wrong, blood only. If he could just-
Regulus bit into Sirius' neck hard, breaking skin and drawing out the ferrous scarlet of their sin, drinking it down and letting it stain his tongue a deeper red, the red of love, of passion, of filth. No water could ever wash them clean.
Sirius/Remus - Drunk and Sober
Sirius carried Remus up the stairs and into his bedroom, smiling at his drunken face, thinking of how much fun he was when he was really drunk, in those few moments before he passed completely out. He'd lost all inhibition and told Sirius so many things, babbling half-coherently about how he loved him, how his smile stole its radiance from the star for which he was named, how he wanted someday to see just how drunk they'd have to be to get around to snogging. Sirius replayed the words in his mind, wondering what would have happenned if he hadn't been sober. He lay Remus in bed and pressed an almost-chaste kiss to his slack lips, gagging a little at the strong scotch scent-taste of his breath, and whispered, "Next time, we're both drinking."
Peter/Severus - Redemption and Betrayal
Both thought that no one loved them, and this was a bond they had. Peter believed he wasn't good enough to love, that any minute the smiles would turn to jeers and the others would pair off with girlfriends or each other and it wouldn't matter to them that they were his world. In the interests of being prudent, Peter decided to expand the boundaries of his world. He sought out the one person he knew would understand his mistrust, who would give his burgeoning sense of ambition the push it needed to spur Peter on from being a chubby-soft tagalong and into an agate-eyed man who could take care of himself. Severus welcomed Peter into his bed and his life, and though he kept it quiet just as Sirius had, Peter got the feeling that this wasn't because he was ashamed of it. No, when Severus said, "This is just between we two," Peter knew it was for a reason. The furthering of ambition was a more comforting reason for deception than the sweeping under the rug of a quick and easy off.
Hermione/Pansy - Pureblood and Mudblood
"You're not worth my time, Granger," Pansy sneered, but her eyes were hollow behind her long, artfully made-up lashes. "I don't know why you're putting yourself out there like that."
Hermione only smiled, her teeth bared slightly, ferally, and she moved toward Pansy slowly. There was no halting the inexorable progression of her footfalls, sure and steady, heels clicking sharply on the marble floor.
"There's a reason I'm not in Ravenclaw," she murmured with a shrug as her arm shot out to bar Pansy's one hope of escape. "Gryffindor bravery, you know. If I had common sense enough not to do this, I'd be in another house. Putting myself out there is a bold move, and I'm betting it will pay off."
"I don't associate with your kind, Mudblood," Pansy spat, trying to ignore the way Hermione's soft skin was pressing against her own now, trying to ignore the heat building in her belly and spreading across her mind like hazy red smoke.
"I'm not asking for association, Parkinson," she breathed against Pansy's skin. "I'm just asking for a fuck."
Tom Riddle/Albus Dumbledore - Young and Old
Tom has been alone all his life, alone amongst a crowd of orphans, alone in the quiet of his own orderly thoughts. He walks through corridors in his mind, his solitary feet ringing eternally in quiet echoing progression. He is young but he longs to be old, to attain the power of age, the ability to be more than society will allow a boy to be. He is angry at the world, angry at the rulers and the order and the ubiquitous Man. Anarchy, he thinks. Anarchy, upheaval, revolution.
Dumbledore has been alone all his life, alone amongst a crowd of students, alone in the quiet of his own orderly thoughts. He walks through corridors in the castle, the ringing of his feet lost in the pounding rush of students' tread, reminding him that he is an old man and has left behind the hopes and idealism of youth. There is nothing for him but resignation and wisdom now, nothing but to use the years under his hoary beard to parcel out words like gold nuggets to confused and needy youths who will listen intently and take what they like, discarding the rest. Youth, he thinks. It's so wasted on the young, and forbidden to the old.
Yet even life itself cannot forbid to Albus Dumbledore the consolation prize of youth ripe for the plucking, waiting to be devoured in its juicy perfection, a peach with a very bitter pit.
Sirius/Regulus - Blood and Water
They shouldn't, and he knew it. They-should-not, but was too late to know anything once their mouths met, hot and pudding-sticky and chapped-lipped. It was too late to think about the fact that this was wrong and unnatural and disgusting and all those other words their mother hurled at them when she first caught them at it. She couldn't stop them though, not when they were at school again, not when Regulus could find a half-hour before curfew to sneak into a deserted classroom where he knew Sirius would be waiting for him.
Regulus knew it was wrong when he dropped to his knees and scrabbled with eternally nervous fingers at the placket of Sirius' trousers, knew it was wrong to feel the stab of want shoot through his marrow when Sirius' cock bumped against his chin. It was horribly, terribly, filthily wrong when he opened wide and choked it down and even more wrong when he swallowed and licked his lips and stood to share the taste with his brother. His brother, yes, and his whole world.
Filthy.
Wrong.
Dirty.
It was blood that made it wrong, blood only. If he could just-
Regulus bit into Sirius' neck hard, breaking skin and drawing out the ferrous scarlet of their sin, drinking it down and letting it stain his tongue a deeper red, the red of love, of passion, of filth. No water could ever wash them clean.
Sirius/Remus - Drunk and Sober
Sirius carried Remus up the stairs and into his bedroom, smiling at his drunken face, thinking of how much fun he was when he was really drunk, in those few moments before he passed completely out. He'd lost all inhibition and told Sirius so many things, babbling half-coherently about how he loved him, how his smile stole its radiance from the star for which he was named, how he wanted someday to see just how drunk they'd have to be to get around to snogging. Sirius replayed the words in his mind, wondering what would have happenned if he hadn't been sober. He lay Remus in bed and pressed an almost-chaste kiss to his slack lips, gagging a little at the strong scotch scent-taste of his breath, and whispered, "Next time, we're both drinking."
Peter/Severus - Redemption and Betrayal
Both thought that no one loved them, and this was a bond they had. Peter believed he wasn't good enough to love, that any minute the smiles would turn to jeers and the others would pair off with girlfriends or each other and it wouldn't matter to them that they were his world. In the interests of being prudent, Peter decided to expand the boundaries of his world. He sought out the one person he knew would understand his mistrust, who would give his burgeoning sense of ambition the push it needed to spur Peter on from being a chubby-soft tagalong and into an agate-eyed man who could take care of himself. Severus welcomed Peter into his bed and his life, and though he kept it quiet just as Sirius had, Peter got the feeling that this wasn't because he was ashamed of it. No, when Severus said, "This is just between we two," Peter knew it was for a reason. The furthering of ambition was a more comforting reason for deception than the sweeping under the rug of a quick and easy off.
Hermione/Pansy - Pureblood and Mudblood
"You're not worth my time, Granger," Pansy sneered, but her eyes were hollow behind her long, artfully made-up lashes. "I don't know why you're putting yourself out there like that."
Hermione only smiled, her teeth bared slightly, ferally, and she moved toward Pansy slowly. There was no halting the inexorable progression of her footfalls, sure and steady, heels clicking sharply on the marble floor.
"There's a reason I'm not in Ravenclaw," she murmured with a shrug as her arm shot out to bar Pansy's one hope of escape. "Gryffindor bravery, you know. If I had common sense enough not to do this, I'd be in another house. Putting myself out there is a bold move, and I'm betting it will pay off."
"I don't associate with your kind, Mudblood," Pansy spat, trying to ignore the way Hermione's soft skin was pressing against her own now, trying to ignore the heat building in her belly and spreading across her mind like hazy red smoke.
"I'm not asking for association, Parkinson," she breathed against Pansy's skin. "I'm just asking for a fuck."