Queerditch Pub
Queerditch pub, round one - wow, I haven't done this in a long time! Three longish drabbles. :-)
Tom/Ginny - "Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies..."
She goes back to the room even though she promised herself that she wouldn't; in the rush of addiction there are always rationales. Ginny thinks up little tricks, ways to delay herself: combing her hair, brushing it in one hundred long, even strokes, brushing her teeth until the toothpaste in the sink is mixed with a hint of blood. None of these work. She goes anyway.
Down, down the stairs, her footsteps echoing in the halls like her heartbeats. He's waiting for her somewhere, though which room she doesn't know this time. She searches for him but he always finds her first, in some dark corner where he waits, silently. When he catches her it's a heady rush in the dark, that spike of fear as his cold hands close on her and he pulls her to his body, lean and completely firm against her.
The air is cold and musty and catches in her lungs, but it's nothing compared to the feverish feeling that comes over her. Heat and a weakness in her limbs, a dull haziness pressing in on her vision. His fingers run deftly through her hair, searching for any tangles; if they're there, he'll pull them out sharply, but tonight she has it smooth, just how he likes it.
Smooth like the stones against her back as he presses her against a wall and hitches up her dress. He never waits for a bed, never even uses the floor, just runs his cool fingers up the insides of her thighs until she twitches and jerks against him. He doesn't ask if she's ready, he knows she always is by the time she arrives, though she suspects it doesn't really matter to him. When he thrusts into her he hisses against her neck, and she gasps, "Tom, Tom" over and over. Never Lord Voldemort, never that enemy. He is a different kind of enemy, more personal and far more dangerous to her.
When he's done, he slumps against her and pulls her robes down. Her head falls back against the wall, and she continues to clutch at his back. "What if next time you call, I don't come back?" she whispers.
He smiles at her. "Don't lie to me."
"I don't lie, only you."
Harry/Hermione/Ron - Only The Good Die Young
"Only the good die young," Harry says. This sentence has absolutely nothing to do with the ongoing conversation, other than fitting the general mood of despair that has infected Hogwarts these last weeks.
"I always hated that saying. It's like, I've been trying to be good my whole life for nothing then?"
"Always trying too hard, Hermione." Ron wraps a curl around his finger, rubs it gently between the pad of his fingers and she nestles down against his shoulder.
"Sometimes I don't want to be good." Harry's voice is flat, his eyes elsewhere. "I don't know if I can keep all this up."
"Don't give up, Harry." Hermione takes him by the collar, pulls him into the warm, interlocking tangle that's her and Ron and now Harry as well. "You know we're always here to help you."
Even Ron strokes Harry's head, a soft gesture, like he's petting a puppy. "There's always room for you here, you know."
Harry wants to burrow in between them, to lose himself in the soft, warm space that's between Ron's lanky body and Hermione's curvier one. One hand of his settles on her hip, the other squeezes Ron's hand, and he just wants to breath them in. This is safe, this is home, or as good as it gets.
"I know. It's just that sometimes, I forget."
Remus/Hermione - Summer move forward and stitch me the fabric of fall /Wrap life in the brilliance of death to humble us all
Summer was fading and the bite of fall was arriving more quickly than ever. It was time to put away her light, summery dresses and get out her robes again. Time to go back to Hogwarts, though not as a student any longer. The years were moving so fast now, even for her, and she was still young. How much faster time must go for those who had lived longer, lost more.
She thought of Remus and summer, of the memory of cottony dresses fluttering against her legs in the warm breeze, of late evening picnics, glasses of wine drunk as the first stars came out, searching for constellations without mentioning words like Sirius, Andromeda. Long hot nights and slow still mornings, dances on the living room rug and trips to the beach (sand and umbrellas, sticky sweet drinks and a photo album they didn't open). Kisses that never happened, hot damp hands she never reached for, words she never said.
Autumn made her think of death, though she used to think it was a cheerful season. The crunching of leaves underfoot, the crisp air, the appearance of jack-o-lanterns on the posts when she rode by Hogsmeade were bleached of their old pleasure. Another summer gone, another chance laid to rest. Once again, she had been a coward.
Bellatrix/Sirius - I believe that lovers should be chained together / and thrown into a fire with their songs and letters
In the night, she fell asleep in front of the fire. He found her there, her dark hair streaming over the sofa arm, her arms and legs thown about loose. There were little bits of ash in her hair and scattered across her clothes, leaving little singed patches. For some reason, Sirius thought of grave dust--he was in a morbid frame of mind. The fire had died some time during the night, leaving the room damp and chill. With her skin unearthly white and cold to the touch, she could have been a corpse. The idea was rather pleasing.
She opened her eyes and caught him staring at her. "What are you thinking, Sirius?"
"You looked eerie in this light. Almost like you were dead."
"Well, you're not rid of me yet." She rose to her feet and caught his face with one hand, kissed him firmly on the mouth in a more-than-cousinly way. "Is that what you came here for?"
"I didn't--I, well." He couldn't say no, and she watched him with that gleam in her eyes, just waiting for the mistake she knew would come.
Remus/Peter - Goodness knows I saw it coming or at least I'll claim I did but in truth I'm lost for words.
"Are you?" There was a question there, but it went unfinished. Peter's fingers brushed against his, but there was a desperation there, a damp-handed, tremulous hope.
Remus looked into his eyes and shook his head slightly. "No." He swallowed hard and cleared his throat.
"No?"
"It was just a mistake," Peter said nervously, his eyes darting to ragged fingernails--he'd failed in quitting again. "No hard feelings?"
"Of course not." Remus put a tentative hand on his shoulder, patted him. "Still friends, just like before."
But it wasn't just like before. There was something, some wedge driven between them. Remus knew that Peter was humiliated, but they didn't talk about; he assumed it would be bad form to bring that up. When, some years later, he changed his mind, it did cause some problems.
"You and Sirius?" Peter asked. Not really a question. They were at a party at James and Lily's new apartment, sharing a corner to smoke out of the way.
"Yes." His lighter wasn't working, but Peter didn't offer him a new one.
"How long have you known. Or maybe I should say, how long haven't I known?"
"It's not like that, Peter. I wasn't hiding it from you intentially, it's just that..."
"Oh no, it's never that."
"Could you give me a light?"
Peter's head jerked up at this. "Oh, yes, right. There you go."
"Thanks." Remus inhaled smoke, bitter and a good scratch in his throat. When he leaned back to exhale, he said, "It wasn't about you, you know. Back when, that one time."
Peter looked at him, and for a moment Remus was afraid there were tears in his eyes. "It's not about that, Remus. Or should I say, it's not just that." He tossed his barely-smoked cigarette to the ground, not bothering to grind it. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find something to drink."
Remus ground out his cigarette as soon as he left.
Sirius/Bellatrix - Just because I'm sorry doesn't mean I didn't enjoy it at the time.
He's going to regret this, and this, and, oh yes, that. That press of her lips against his neck, that roll of her shoulders and flick of her hair (ebony, he wants to call it, something from a fairy tale) as she uncoils. Alabaster outline in the light, supple curves, and she undulates above him.
He doesn't stop her. Everything she does is a shouldn't, so why does he feel like he does, like he wants to inhale her. His hands are on her hips, pulling her down, more, more, more, and there's no room in his mind for no.
Tom/Ginny - "Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies..."
She goes back to the room even though she promised herself that she wouldn't; in the rush of addiction there are always rationales. Ginny thinks up little tricks, ways to delay herself: combing her hair, brushing it in one hundred long, even strokes, brushing her teeth until the toothpaste in the sink is mixed with a hint of blood. None of these work. She goes anyway.
Down, down the stairs, her footsteps echoing in the halls like her heartbeats. He's waiting for her somewhere, though which room she doesn't know this time. She searches for him but he always finds her first, in some dark corner where he waits, silently. When he catches her it's a heady rush in the dark, that spike of fear as his cold hands close on her and he pulls her to his body, lean and completely firm against her.
The air is cold and musty and catches in her lungs, but it's nothing compared to the feverish feeling that comes over her. Heat and a weakness in her limbs, a dull haziness pressing in on her vision. His fingers run deftly through her hair, searching for any tangles; if they're there, he'll pull them out sharply, but tonight she has it smooth, just how he likes it.
Smooth like the stones against her back as he presses her against a wall and hitches up her dress. He never waits for a bed, never even uses the floor, just runs his cool fingers up the insides of her thighs until she twitches and jerks against him. He doesn't ask if she's ready, he knows she always is by the time she arrives, though she suspects it doesn't really matter to him. When he thrusts into her he hisses against her neck, and she gasps, "Tom, Tom" over and over. Never Lord Voldemort, never that enemy. He is a different kind of enemy, more personal and far more dangerous to her.
When he's done, he slumps against her and pulls her robes down. Her head falls back against the wall, and she continues to clutch at his back. "What if next time you call, I don't come back?" she whispers.
He smiles at her. "Don't lie to me."
"I don't lie, only you."
Harry/Hermione/Ron - Only The Good Die Young
"Only the good die young," Harry says. This sentence has absolutely nothing to do with the ongoing conversation, other than fitting the general mood of despair that has infected Hogwarts these last weeks.
"I always hated that saying. It's like, I've been trying to be good my whole life for nothing then?"
"Always trying too hard, Hermione." Ron wraps a curl around his finger, rubs it gently between the pad of his fingers and she nestles down against his shoulder.
"Sometimes I don't want to be good." Harry's voice is flat, his eyes elsewhere. "I don't know if I can keep all this up."
"Don't give up, Harry." Hermione takes him by the collar, pulls him into the warm, interlocking tangle that's her and Ron and now Harry as well. "You know we're always here to help you."
Even Ron strokes Harry's head, a soft gesture, like he's petting a puppy. "There's always room for you here, you know."
Harry wants to burrow in between them, to lose himself in the soft, warm space that's between Ron's lanky body and Hermione's curvier one. One hand of his settles on her hip, the other squeezes Ron's hand, and he just wants to breath them in. This is safe, this is home, or as good as it gets.
"I know. It's just that sometimes, I forget."
Remus/Hermione - Summer move forward and stitch me the fabric of fall /Wrap life in the brilliance of death to humble us all
Summer was fading and the bite of fall was arriving more quickly than ever. It was time to put away her light, summery dresses and get out her robes again. Time to go back to Hogwarts, though not as a student any longer. The years were moving so fast now, even for her, and she was still young. How much faster time must go for those who had lived longer, lost more.
She thought of Remus and summer, of the memory of cottony dresses fluttering against her legs in the warm breeze, of late evening picnics, glasses of wine drunk as the first stars came out, searching for constellations without mentioning words like Sirius, Andromeda. Long hot nights and slow still mornings, dances on the living room rug and trips to the beach (sand and umbrellas, sticky sweet drinks and a photo album they didn't open). Kisses that never happened, hot damp hands she never reached for, words she never said.
Autumn made her think of death, though she used to think it was a cheerful season. The crunching of leaves underfoot, the crisp air, the appearance of jack-o-lanterns on the posts when she rode by Hogsmeade were bleached of their old pleasure. Another summer gone, another chance laid to rest. Once again, she had been a coward.
Bellatrix/Sirius - I believe that lovers should be chained together / and thrown into a fire with their songs and letters
In the night, she fell asleep in front of the fire. He found her there, her dark hair streaming over the sofa arm, her arms and legs thown about loose. There were little bits of ash in her hair and scattered across her clothes, leaving little singed patches. For some reason, Sirius thought of grave dust--he was in a morbid frame of mind. The fire had died some time during the night, leaving the room damp and chill. With her skin unearthly white and cold to the touch, she could have been a corpse. The idea was rather pleasing.
She opened her eyes and caught him staring at her. "What are you thinking, Sirius?"
"You looked eerie in this light. Almost like you were dead."
"Well, you're not rid of me yet." She rose to her feet and caught his face with one hand, kissed him firmly on the mouth in a more-than-cousinly way. "Is that what you came here for?"
"I didn't--I, well." He couldn't say no, and she watched him with that gleam in her eyes, just waiting for the mistake she knew would come.
Remus/Peter - Goodness knows I saw it coming or at least I'll claim I did but in truth I'm lost for words.
"Are you?" There was a question there, but it went unfinished. Peter's fingers brushed against his, but there was a desperation there, a damp-handed, tremulous hope.
Remus looked into his eyes and shook his head slightly. "No." He swallowed hard and cleared his throat.
"No?"
"It was just a mistake," Peter said nervously, his eyes darting to ragged fingernails--he'd failed in quitting again. "No hard feelings?"
"Of course not." Remus put a tentative hand on his shoulder, patted him. "Still friends, just like before."
But it wasn't just like before. There was something, some wedge driven between them. Remus knew that Peter was humiliated, but they didn't talk about; he assumed it would be bad form to bring that up. When, some years later, he changed his mind, it did cause some problems.
"You and Sirius?" Peter asked. Not really a question. They were at a party at James and Lily's new apartment, sharing a corner to smoke out of the way.
"Yes." His lighter wasn't working, but Peter didn't offer him a new one.
"How long have you known. Or maybe I should say, how long haven't I known?"
"It's not like that, Peter. I wasn't hiding it from you intentially, it's just that..."
"Oh no, it's never that."
"Could you give me a light?"
Peter's head jerked up at this. "Oh, yes, right. There you go."
"Thanks." Remus inhaled smoke, bitter and a good scratch in his throat. When he leaned back to exhale, he said, "It wasn't about you, you know. Back when, that one time."
Peter looked at him, and for a moment Remus was afraid there were tears in his eyes. "It's not about that, Remus. Or should I say, it's not just that." He tossed his barely-smoked cigarette to the ground, not bothering to grind it. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find something to drink."
Remus ground out his cigarette as soon as he left.
Sirius/Bellatrix - Just because I'm sorry doesn't mean I didn't enjoy it at the time.
He's going to regret this, and this, and, oh yes, that. That press of her lips against his neck, that roll of her shoulders and flick of her hair (ebony, he wants to call it, something from a fairy tale) as she uncoils. Alabaster outline in the light, supple curves, and she undulates above him.
He doesn't stop her. Everything she does is a shouldn't, so why does he feel like he does, like he wants to inhale her. His hands are on her hips, pulling her down, more, more, more, and there's no room in his mind for no.