FIC: "And the World Will Be Better for This," Minerva/Moody, R, NO SPOILERS
Title: And the World Will Be Better for This
Author: kethlenda
Pairing: Minerva/Alastor
Rating: R
Warnings: D/s, pegging, scar-kink
Request: "Alastor/Minerva femdom. Pegging. Scar!kink. Set during first war."
Word Count: 1123
Summary: His skin is the record of a hundred battles.
Author's notes: Written for a prompt by stephanometra in the daily_deviant FQF. Rachel, I hope this is close to what you wanted, and I apologize for its brevity and for the schmoop, which came out of nowhere and hijacked the fic. As for the idea of McG and Moody having a past relationship that got 86ed by the war, I think I stole that from snegurochka_lee at some point.
"One man scorned and covered with scars still strove with his last ounce of courage to reach the unreachable stars; and the world will be better for this."
--Cervantes
The first thing Alastor says after settling into one of Minerva's chairs is, "I'm retiring."
"The injuries?" asks Minerva softly, pouring him a cup of tea. The Healers had despaired of him this time, but though he'd left St Mungo's with a wooden leg and an eyepatch, he'd left.
He drinks without stopping to mutter a single spell over the cup. This is trust, she thinks. There is a tickle at the bridge of her nose that she knows means tears if she doesn't get hold of herself.
"No," he says. There is a long pause before he speaks again, then his hand clenches around the handle of the cup, and the rest of the words come out like they hurt worse than the war wounds. "I went back to work today. Seems they changed the Auror procedures while I was out. They want us to use the Unforgivables now."
Minerva drops her teaspoon. "But that's..."
"And they've been chucking people in Azkaban without trials, too. The war Fudge and Crouch are fighting is not the war I mean to fight. What's the bloody point, I ask you, if we're as bad as they are?"
Minerva feels the corners of her mouth turn up in admiration. This is what Minerva loves about Alastor: this inplacable, searing goodness. She has seen enough in her life to know that a handsome face can be a mask, and smooth unblemished skin may be a glamour concealing the scales of a snake. "I think you did the right thing," she says.
"And I can still fight," he continues. "Off the books. With the Order. The Ministry can go to hell."
They sip their wine in silence for a time. Minerva watches Alastor, furtively, unsure of what he needs from her tonight. The friend, or the lover? They'd had something, once, but the war had made a wreck of their plans; what lies between them now, Minerva has no word to describe.
"They wouldn't do this if they'd seen some of the things I have," he says finally. "War's not just strutting about, trying to look tough for the papers." Alastor shakes his head as though hoping some of the memories will tumble out. He reaches down, rummages in his satchel. "Here," he says, gruff as he always is when he bends. He lays the length of leather across Minerva's palms.
She closes her hand around it. The O-ring is cold to the touch. "Are you sure?" It's been some time since they made love in even the most ordinary ways; she hadn't expected he might want to play the rougher games tonight.
"They talked to me like I was an old man today, Minerva. Obsolete. Too bloody antiquated to understand what needs to be done. These are different times, they said, as if I'd never seen hard times before. I...I want..."
I want to feel strong is what Minerva hears, though Alastor does not say it. I want to know I'm still up to it.
"Very well." Minerva rises and buckles the collar around Alastor's neck. She can feel his pulse racing under her hands. "My bedroom. Now," she says, in a voice honed by decades of patrolling the Hogwarts corridors after lights-out.
He obeys; she follows. "Very good," she says. "Now take your clothes off and lie down on the bed. Face-down."
His movements have an awkwardness they've never had before; she worries about the leg but knows she won't do him any favors by fussing over it. He turns to the side as he disrobes. She wonders if he's trying to hide the scars. Minerva has seen most of them before, and he should know (she hopes he knows) they are no defect in her eyes.
She assembles what she needs and slips out of her own clothing. Only a few toys this time; it won't be the drawn-out, deliberate game tonight, but the hard and simple one. Hard and simple as the cock she straps around her waist; hard and simple enough to shake loose the horrors for a time, to pound into his body a love and respect too deep for words.
He shivers at the touch of the cool cream on his heated skin. She takes him from behind, one hand on the mattress to steady her, the other hand entwined in his thick hair.
On his back, there is only one mark. She recalls that it dates to his very first assignment. I let down my guard, he'd once said by way of explanation, and Alastor Moody is not the sort of man who needs a lesson repeated. Minerva bends down to kiss the crests and eddies of flesh as she thrusts. He moans in tandem with her movements, the muscles of his legs and buttocks tight and tense at first, relaxing like a full-body sigh as he sinks into her rhythm. Her hair tumbles from its pins and mingles with his own rough mane, black and dark brown flowing together like shadows. She wonders if either of them will live to be grey.
When she feels his muscles clenching again, his thighs trembling between hers as he approaches orgasm, she pulls out. "Minerva," he says, his voice hoarse.
"Turn over," she says, tossing the toy aside. "I want to see you now."
The skin of Alastor's chest and stomach is the record of a hundred battles. Minerva reads it with her fingers, every ridge and hollow telling its own tale of bravery. Her eyes are damp as she eases herself onto his cock. His eye closes; his mouth opens; nothing comes out but a strangled groan.
She lowers herself to her elbows and rides him slow. She kisses the scars of his face. They taste of salt; his tears or hers, she is not sure.
"Thank you," he says when it's over.
"Anytime," she says.
A few minutes later he is snoring, and this too is evidence of trust: he will allow himself to fall asleep next to no one else. Minerva hopes his dreams will be pleasant, not haunted by blood and screams. It is only when she sees him smile in his sleep that she is satisfied. She curls around him and closes her eyes.
Author: kethlenda
Pairing: Minerva/Alastor
Rating: R
Warnings: D/s, pegging, scar-kink
Request: "Alastor/Minerva femdom. Pegging. Scar!kink. Set during first war."
Word Count: 1123
Summary: His skin is the record of a hundred battles.
Author's notes: Written for a prompt by stephanometra in the daily_deviant FQF. Rachel, I hope this is close to what you wanted, and I apologize for its brevity and for the schmoop, which came out of nowhere and hijacked the fic. As for the idea of McG and Moody having a past relationship that got 86ed by the war, I think I stole that from snegurochka_lee at some point.
"One man scorned and covered with scars still strove with his last ounce of courage to reach the unreachable stars; and the world will be better for this."
--Cervantes
The first thing Alastor says after settling into one of Minerva's chairs is, "I'm retiring."
"The injuries?" asks Minerva softly, pouring him a cup of tea. The Healers had despaired of him this time, but though he'd left St Mungo's with a wooden leg and an eyepatch, he'd left.
He drinks without stopping to mutter a single spell over the cup. This is trust, she thinks. There is a tickle at the bridge of her nose that she knows means tears if she doesn't get hold of herself.
"No," he says. There is a long pause before he speaks again, then his hand clenches around the handle of the cup, and the rest of the words come out like they hurt worse than the war wounds. "I went back to work today. Seems they changed the Auror procedures while I was out. They want us to use the Unforgivables now."
Minerva drops her teaspoon. "But that's..."
"And they've been chucking people in Azkaban without trials, too. The war Fudge and Crouch are fighting is not the war I mean to fight. What's the bloody point, I ask you, if we're as bad as they are?"
Minerva feels the corners of her mouth turn up in admiration. This is what Minerva loves about Alastor: this inplacable, searing goodness. She has seen enough in her life to know that a handsome face can be a mask, and smooth unblemished skin may be a glamour concealing the scales of a snake. "I think you did the right thing," she says.
"And I can still fight," he continues. "Off the books. With the Order. The Ministry can go to hell."
They sip their wine in silence for a time. Minerva watches Alastor, furtively, unsure of what he needs from her tonight. The friend, or the lover? They'd had something, once, but the war had made a wreck of their plans; what lies between them now, Minerva has no word to describe.
"They wouldn't do this if they'd seen some of the things I have," he says finally. "War's not just strutting about, trying to look tough for the papers." Alastor shakes his head as though hoping some of the memories will tumble out. He reaches down, rummages in his satchel. "Here," he says, gruff as he always is when he bends. He lays the length of leather across Minerva's palms.
She closes her hand around it. The O-ring is cold to the touch. "Are you sure?" It's been some time since they made love in even the most ordinary ways; she hadn't expected he might want to play the rougher games tonight.
"They talked to me like I was an old man today, Minerva. Obsolete. Too bloody antiquated to understand what needs to be done. These are different times, they said, as if I'd never seen hard times before. I...I want..."
I want to feel strong is what Minerva hears, though Alastor does not say it. I want to know I'm still up to it.
"Very well." Minerva rises and buckles the collar around Alastor's neck. She can feel his pulse racing under her hands. "My bedroom. Now," she says, in a voice honed by decades of patrolling the Hogwarts corridors after lights-out.
He obeys; she follows. "Very good," she says. "Now take your clothes off and lie down on the bed. Face-down."
His movements have an awkwardness they've never had before; she worries about the leg but knows she won't do him any favors by fussing over it. He turns to the side as he disrobes. She wonders if he's trying to hide the scars. Minerva has seen most of them before, and he should know (she hopes he knows) they are no defect in her eyes.
She assembles what she needs and slips out of her own clothing. Only a few toys this time; it won't be the drawn-out, deliberate game tonight, but the hard and simple one. Hard and simple as the cock she straps around her waist; hard and simple enough to shake loose the horrors for a time, to pound into his body a love and respect too deep for words.
He shivers at the touch of the cool cream on his heated skin. She takes him from behind, one hand on the mattress to steady her, the other hand entwined in his thick hair.
On his back, there is only one mark. She recalls that it dates to his very first assignment. I let down my guard, he'd once said by way of explanation, and Alastor Moody is not the sort of man who needs a lesson repeated. Minerva bends down to kiss the crests and eddies of flesh as she thrusts. He moans in tandem with her movements, the muscles of his legs and buttocks tight and tense at first, relaxing like a full-body sigh as he sinks into her rhythm. Her hair tumbles from its pins and mingles with his own rough mane, black and dark brown flowing together like shadows. She wonders if either of them will live to be grey.
When she feels his muscles clenching again, his thighs trembling between hers as he approaches orgasm, she pulls out. "Minerva," he says, his voice hoarse.
"Turn over," she says, tossing the toy aside. "I want to see you now."
The skin of Alastor's chest and stomach is the record of a hundred battles. Minerva reads it with her fingers, every ridge and hollow telling its own tale of bravery. Her eyes are damp as she eases herself onto his cock. His eye closes; his mouth opens; nothing comes out but a strangled groan.
She lowers herself to her elbows and rides him slow. She kisses the scars of his face. They taste of salt; his tears or hers, she is not sure.
"Thank you," he says when it's over.
"Anytime," she says.
A few minutes later he is snoring, and this too is evidence of trust: he will allow himself to fall asleep next to no one else. Minerva hopes his dreams will be pleasant, not haunted by blood and screams. It is only when she sees him smile in his sleep that she is satisfied. She curls around him and closes her eyes.