(no subject)
This, friends, is what we call...writing dump.
Title: Not Enough
Type: Slash/Gen
Genre: Angst
Pairing: Severus/Barty
Prompt: history repeats itself
Rating: Hard PG/Light PG-13
Warnings: Minor language, vague discussion of slashiness, angst and thematic elements out the ass, Imperius Curse, Crouch Senior POV
Word Count: 1,613
Summary: Only once has Barty been good enough in his father's eyes.
Disclaimer: Alas, they are not mine, or Barty would have still have his soul.
A/N: Written for the 7spells challenge.
February 21st, 1961: He gets an emergency owl from Winky. It’s a scrawled out message in her barely legible chicken-scratch and nerve-grating bad grammar, but the point still gets across: Demeter’s in labor at Saint Mungo’s and she wants him there. Even though it’s his wife, who’s having his son, this nonsense at work needs to be cleared up before he can get away, no matter what his underlings and superiors tell him. He doesn’t leave for at least three hours…no, more, he soon finds. It’s nearing eleven at night when he makes it to Saint Mungo’s, but the Healers take him to her. The pain-soothing potions and some of the charms have her asleep, but there’s an unmistakable glow on her cheeks; the baby’s asleep in a bassinet…a son, with a mop of already untidy hair. He doesn’t bother the child, only sticks a finger in to check the nametag on his wrist: Bartemius Crouch, Junior.
…She named the baby after him.
Smiling is a rare thing for him, but he can’t help the crinkle that breaks out from his lips and spreads to his entire face.
February 21st, 1975: After years of working until all hours of the night, no one has taught him how to come home at a reasonable hour. Even still, he comes home to find Barty still up, in his mother’s room, staring at her helplessly (she’s only sleeping), with an uneaten sandwich sitting on a plate near him. Why she let him come home will probably never make sense. After all, when Bartemius sent him an owl saying that she’d fallen ill, he made it clear that she would be fine…and he still came home. It’s probably just some stunt for his birthday. Damnable, it is. He’s fourteen, and, speaking of owls, his are next year…he needs to be at school, not simpering over his mother.
Against his better judgment, Bartemius joins Barty in the room; the boy doesn’t even notice…he’s so preoccupied with his mother. Up close, it’s hard to blame him. She’s going to be fine - the Healer who made a house call said so - but she doesn’t look good at all. Her skin is paler than normal (and his), her blonde hair looks listless (his too), and she’s incredibly thin (…he takes after her more than he’s aware; it verges on absurd). Bartemius coughs loudly. That gets his son’s attention, but in the form of a startled jump, and, when he looks up, it’s obvious from the wet cheeks and the red, puffy eyes that he’s been crying. Ridiculous…
“Father…” he whispers, breathing heavily.
“Barty,” he replies calmly. “How is she?”
“B-better, I th-think, it’s…hard t-t-to say.”
“Why is it so hard to say?”
“N-n-not a Healer n-now, am I?”
And he stutters. At least he doesn’t bloody lisp. Still, Bartemius can’t help himself as he leaves, and he hisses, “Nancy boy.”
June 21st, 1976: Somehow, the boy managed to survive his OWLS, even came home confident about the outlook. As some kind of…treat, or something, for being a “good boy,” Demeter let him have some friend over. Bartemius wasn’t even aware that his son had friends. An older boy comes home with The Boy, going into his seventh year while Barty goes into his sixth. He’s taller than Barty, built the same way, and his long, black hair looks like he often shirks washing it in favor of reading. Severus Snape, or that’s how he introduces himself. Name sounds familiar, though Bartemius can’t put his finger on why and where he would have heard it; it’s definitely not an old, pureblood name, that much is certain.
The two of them spend an inordinate amount of time with each other. Any time Bartemius is home to see, he sees them huddled together somewhere, whispering. Sometimes, Severus listens while Barty tells him something about the family home, and sometimes, Barty is the one to listen, giggling and blushing slightly at some suggestion whispered in his ear. Once, Bartemius sees the two of them with Demeter, and he’s sure he hears her tell them to be careful. If he’s anything, Bartemius Crouch is not stupid and, though he has no proof, he has his suspicions, and he hopes they’re wrong.
July 21st, 1978: Barty’s only been home for a month, and he’s already leaving again. This time, Demeter cries and Bartemius has never had as much of an emotional investment in making his son leave.
The boy wants to blame him of course, but it’s his own damn fault for leaving those letters out where people could find them.
“Don’t worry about your father, Barty, he’s just a ridiculous old fool. I wish I could help you. Come see me over Easter break, please; I can’t tell you how much I miss you.”
“You’re not stupid, Barty, and your NEWTs won’t be terrible, I promise. Your father only says that because he doesn’t know you like I do.”
“I miss you, Barty. And I love you. Maybe your bastard father doesn’t, but I love you, and I’d do anything to help you. All you have to do is ask.”
And the lone one to the Snape boy, from Barty…it isn’t finished, but the message is quite clear: “Severus, when can I see you again? I’m in my father’s house and it’s driving me mad, I think he knows and I can’t take not knowing whether he does or not. I hope he doesn’t, and if he does, I don’t know what will happen, or what we’ll have to do. I need you, Severus, I…”
So, his suspicions were right after all. And there’s proof now, and he can hardly just let this stand.
Barty sighs and looks up from the doorway floor, smirking grimly.
“I guess this is good-bye, then,” he scoffs, shaking his head and blinking something out of his eye.
“Barty,” Demeter whimpers. “He’s our son, please, don’t-”
“Mother, it’s fine, really.”
“If you think I want to do this, you’re sorely mistaken.” He moves to look down at his son, then realizes that they’re the same height. When did that happen?
“Then why are you doing it?”
“You can come home if you ever leave the Snape boy.”
“Do you think I asked for this?”
“No, but that shouldn’t keep you from controlling it-”
“I can’t help that he loves me, or that I…feel the same…and it’s not as if-”
He closes the door on his own son. Amidst Demeter’s sobs, he finds himself facing a blunt truth: he doesn’t care.
February 21st, 1982: He’s been back from Azkaban for two months, and, finally, Winky has him strong enough to leave his bed. Despite what he wants, Bartemius keeps him under an Invisibility Cloak at all times. Maybe no one visits anymore, but people still walk by the house, and he’s supposed to be dead, and not metaphorically. But it’s nearing midnight, so he figures it’s safe. He has to see for this part; he has to know for certain. Sighing heavily, the long day at work exits out his mouth and he leans on the kitchen counter for support, feels Winky’s hands tugging supportively on his robes.
“He’s here, right, Winky?”
Barty’s head comes out of nothing across from him. “You don’t have to ask her, you know,” he huffs. “She’s got me bound to her, remember?”
“She’s ridiculously sympathetic to you for reasons I can’t fathom. I have to make sure.”
“Master, Winky is feeling bad for him, yes, but Winky is not breaking her Vows, Winky is being a good girl! And he is being a good boy, Master, very good!”
“…Thank you, Winky, but I think I’ll be the judge of that. Barty, your arm, if you would.”
“…Excuse me?”
“Your arm, Barty. The right one.”
Barty sighs and his arm joins his head; he leaves the sleeve of his robes pulled down and the arm is turned the wrong way. With an unusual amount of care, Bartemius grabs his son’s hand, turns the arm over, and shoves up the sleeve. There it is: proof. The worst kind of proof, and it’s staring him dead-on. The Dark Mark, black against the sun-starved, colorless skin of his son’s inner arm. Just the sight of it makes a lead weight out of his stomach, and bile rises at the remembrance of his deathbed promise to Demeter: she would die for Barty to live, and he would take the boy back as his son. He can’t undo it now, but looking up into Barty’s crazed, harlequin grin, he so desperately wants to.
“You really wanted to believe that I never meant any of it, didn’t you?”
“…Why? How could you do this to your mother and I?”
“Never good enough for you, was I? Always…grades aren’t good enough, no talent at Quidditch, wastes too much time doing things for me…but they didn’t care.”
“Who?”
“Sev and the Dark Lord.”
“Oh no…this again…”
“Sev took me in when you chucked me out, you know. He loved me. On a regular basis, even. And then the Dark Lord…he doesn’t care who you are, as long as you’re faithful. Do what he says, and he loves you. Well, maybe not love, but you get my point.”
“…This isn’t true…”
“Oh, but it is, father. One loved me; the other accepted me. They believed in me like you never did.”
He has his wand pointed at the boy before he can stop himself, and suddenly, the boy’s eyes - his wife’s eyes - go unfocused and his face goes blank. The only sound in the scene is Winky’s sobbing and the “Imperio” that lingers in the air.
Title: Presently Untitled
Type: Het (ZOMFG!)
Genre: Varies...lots of angst, some sexing
Pairing: Walden/Bella
Prompt: A-G
Rating: Gish to Rish
Warnings: Language, vague sexuality, toplessness,
Word Count: 700
Summary: The beginnings of a secret relationship.
Disclaimer: Were they mine, Rodolphus would not be an issue.
A/N: Frist seven drabbles for alphabetdrabble. Because I'm a completely masochistic nutcase, I'm weaving all of them together into a 2,600 word, 26 installment...THING with a plot and everything.
A is for Acumen
“Lake sure is nice this time of year, huh?” he asks, eyebrows arching hopefully. “Sky’s clear, leaves starting to change, squid scaring the first years…”
“Nice, yeah…”
She doesn’t look at him, just the scar on her hand, sometimes the lake, but only when a tentacle comes up. Her hair’s up in a bun, dark escapee locks brushing her neck tantalizingly.
“Why do you think it’s nice?” she mutters.
“Well, it’s nice-looking…” she sits up straight… “clear…” the pins come out…
She lets her hair fall, and his mouth follows suit. And then her stare… she scoffs.
“Good judgment, Walden.”
B is for Bloviate
“My dad’s just living off inheritance, yeah, but my uncle’s got strings to pull at the Ministry. Don’t really need to worry about school, see, except Magical Creatures, since he knows that’s the only place to send me.”
“Oh really. Where is this?”
“Disposal of Dangerous Creatures.”
“I see. Is that what you want?”
“Eh, it’s iffy. It’d be fun, yeah, but I don’t really know, but I would be good at it - remember that one story-”
“Yes, yes, the sodding rabbit. But what do you, Walden Macnair, want? And don’t waste words explaining it.”
With that, he kisses her.
C is for Cicatrix
The first time he takes his shirt off just for her, she runs a lone, long, white finger down the scar she finds there, making the bumpy, pinkish tissue shudder and his lungs snap shut. It’s not long, but he doesn’t breathe again until the hand on his cheek grants permission in a squeeze.
“How’d you get it? And don’t tell me a story.”
“Fell out of a tree when I was six.”
“I see… was there blood?”
“Yeah, but not a lot.”
“Pity.”
She runs her finger down it again, and then her lips, flitting delicately, but shuddering, candle-like.
D is for Dystopia
“Bella, you can’t be serious!”
“I don’t joke.”
“But you and… him?!”
“This isn’t a matter that’s up for discussion. I’m a Black, which means that I, unlike you, have certain standards to live up to-”
“I’m a pureblood!”
“He’s respected.”
“I’m going to work in the Ministry!”
“He has money to burn.”
“Bella… I-”
“I didn’t pick him, but-”
“You’re fifteen! Can’t this wait? Did they have to pick now?”
“I’m marrying Rodolphus, and there’s nothing you can do. It doesn’t mean we’re going to stop, though. Now… knees.”
As he kneels for her, he thinks: I’m in Hell.
E is for Ersatz
He knows he doesn’t mean anything to her, but thinks anyway that she’s just saying that. He knows nothing real can come of this, but when she turns her head and asks to borrow his quill, the syllables fall off and leave him wanting more. Every time she shoves him against the dungeon walls, kissing hungrily and giving him passion Rodolphus won’t ever get, he has to remind himself before it gets too late that this is just for fun. She makes him breathless, but it doesn’t matter.
It’s all a fake relationship, and he, despite himself, still needs it.
F is for Fealty
Like talons, she digs her fingernails into his back and drags them as if on a cigarette. He’s been hurt worse before, but the moan he gives comes from real pain: rejection, being used, the abandoned feeling in the deepest pit of his stomach that sounds like drums and alarum bells… and giving her the satisfaction of hearing is the worst agony. But he’ll suffer it for her.
She takes a long, ghostly finger and draws an invisible line down the black tattoo on the inside of his arm.
“Now, Walden, who is your master? And tell the truth.”
“…You.”
G is for Gravitas
He holds her midnight hair back as she fastens her choker, hands enveloped by tenebrous curls. In the mirror, he takes in their contrast: her dark, saturnine eyes and his wide, green ones; her mordant lips, curled in a perpetual sneer, and his, chapped and waiting for a cigarette; the flirtatious bait of her velvet, snow-covered skin and his, tanned and scarred. Rodolphus looks like he belongs with her, all red hair and pureblood dignity. He doesn’t have to work for his money or his looks. They’re two different dogs, and, for all her dignity, Bella loves teasing the mutt.
Title: Just One
Type: Slash
Genre: Humor/Angst
Pairing: Ari/Jeff
Rating: Hard PG-13
Warnings: Language, talk about sex, Jeff's completely depressing sexual history
Word Count: 583
Summary: One movie can make all the difference.
Disclaimer: Oh hey, wait! These guys ARE mine! Well, But, I'm A Cheerleader isn't, and Natasha Lyonne and Clea Duvall aren't mine either, but...Ari, Jeff, and Erik are. Hah.
“Jeff…are they?”
“Kissing? Totally.”
“Oh my God…”
“Yeah…”
“That’s so hot…”
“Uh huh…”
“Cleeeeeaaaaa…”
“Mhm…”
Watching But I’m A Cheerleader was Erik’s idea, it was his cousin’s movie. I didn’t really want to at first - romantic comedies are chick things, right, and we were thirteen, and it had a picture of some girl in an ugly pink dress on the front - but I’m glad I did now. By that point, I’d admitted that I really liked Ari, but I really wasn’t cool with it. It wasn’t like I had any reason not to be…none of my friends were homophobic, I mean…Todd came out at the end of seventh grade, and no one cared, except maybe his mom, but she got over it when she remembered that his sister could have kids and wanted to. My parents weren’t homophobic - they were and still are ridiculously liberal - and I was pretty sure that, if I came out, they’d still love me (and I was right, as I later found out). But it was…he was my best friend. Erik and Todd and Jake were all really good friends, but Ari was my best friend, and he was a little helter skelter sometimes, and I didn’t want to hurt him.
So I settled with being there for him, I put myself out there and hoped to God maybe he would notice or felt the same or…I’m getting ahead of myself. None of that happened until after watching But I’m A Cheerleader right before ninth grade. See, I thought, before, that I might’ve been gay, and I tried to tell myself I wasn’t because I dated some of the Saint Cecilia’s girls. I lost my virginity in eighth grade, and I really wasn’t ready to, but I had something to prove to myself and I got ahead of myself…I do that a lot. I got the hard on that did it by thinking about Ari, and it was behind one of the greenhouses, against the wall, and the girl was completely clueless…me…I tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter.
Then there was this guy. He wasn’t like a recruiter or anything, but he picked up on me, and then he hit on me, and then he…kind of fucked me. And I really liked it, even if it was a one-time thing done near midnight on the boardwalk around where my parents kept a summerhouse. So I was gay. Well, I am gay. But, if it hadn’t been for that movie, then I might not have been fine with it, ever, unless Ari made the first move, which he wasn’t going to, ever. Ari has desires like everyone else, but he’s controlled like that. It’s enviable, but I’m really bad with temptation. And, if it hadn’t let Erik put in that movie…oh God, it’s hard to say this because I’m supposed to be Mister Self-Confidence Stands Up When His Friends Can’t and Helps Them Out with Their Problems. It’s just that…there was something about watching Clea DuVall go at Natasha Lyonne that told…showed…well, it got the message across that it was okay. Liking Ari was just part of me that I couldn’t help, and there was really no point trying to deny it, unless I wanted an aneurysm, and I didn’t.
So I put myself out there. And I hoped he’d pick up on it. And he didn’t for a while, but…it sounds really stupid and sappy, but I got him in the end, and I’m really happy.
Title: Not Enough
Type: Slash/Gen
Genre: Angst
Pairing: Severus/Barty
Prompt: history repeats itself
Rating: Hard PG/Light PG-13
Warnings: Minor language, vague discussion of slashiness, angst and thematic elements out the ass, Imperius Curse, Crouch Senior POV
Word Count: 1,613
Summary: Only once has Barty been good enough in his father's eyes.
Disclaimer: Alas, they are not mine, or Barty would have still have his soul.
A/N: Written for the 7spells challenge.
February 21st, 1961: He gets an emergency owl from Winky. It’s a scrawled out message in her barely legible chicken-scratch and nerve-grating bad grammar, but the point still gets across: Demeter’s in labor at Saint Mungo’s and she wants him there. Even though it’s his wife, who’s having his son, this nonsense at work needs to be cleared up before he can get away, no matter what his underlings and superiors tell him. He doesn’t leave for at least three hours…no, more, he soon finds. It’s nearing eleven at night when he makes it to Saint Mungo’s, but the Healers take him to her. The pain-soothing potions and some of the charms have her asleep, but there’s an unmistakable glow on her cheeks; the baby’s asleep in a bassinet…a son, with a mop of already untidy hair. He doesn’t bother the child, only sticks a finger in to check the nametag on his wrist: Bartemius Crouch, Junior.
…She named the baby after him.
Smiling is a rare thing for him, but he can’t help the crinkle that breaks out from his lips and spreads to his entire face.
February 21st, 1975: After years of working until all hours of the night, no one has taught him how to come home at a reasonable hour. Even still, he comes home to find Barty still up, in his mother’s room, staring at her helplessly (she’s only sleeping), with an uneaten sandwich sitting on a plate near him. Why she let him come home will probably never make sense. After all, when Bartemius sent him an owl saying that she’d fallen ill, he made it clear that she would be fine…and he still came home. It’s probably just some stunt for his birthday. Damnable, it is. He’s fourteen, and, speaking of owls, his are next year…he needs to be at school, not simpering over his mother.
Against his better judgment, Bartemius joins Barty in the room; the boy doesn’t even notice…he’s so preoccupied with his mother. Up close, it’s hard to blame him. She’s going to be fine - the Healer who made a house call said so - but she doesn’t look good at all. Her skin is paler than normal (and his), her blonde hair looks listless (his too), and she’s incredibly thin (…he takes after her more than he’s aware; it verges on absurd). Bartemius coughs loudly. That gets his son’s attention, but in the form of a startled jump, and, when he looks up, it’s obvious from the wet cheeks and the red, puffy eyes that he’s been crying. Ridiculous…
“Father…” he whispers, breathing heavily.
“Barty,” he replies calmly. “How is she?”
“B-better, I th-think, it’s…hard t-t-to say.”
“Why is it so hard to say?”
“N-n-not a Healer n-now, am I?”
And he stutters. At least he doesn’t bloody lisp. Still, Bartemius can’t help himself as he leaves, and he hisses, “Nancy boy.”
June 21st, 1976: Somehow, the boy managed to survive his OWLS, even came home confident about the outlook. As some kind of…treat, or something, for being a “good boy,” Demeter let him have some friend over. Bartemius wasn’t even aware that his son had friends. An older boy comes home with The Boy, going into his seventh year while Barty goes into his sixth. He’s taller than Barty, built the same way, and his long, black hair looks like he often shirks washing it in favor of reading. Severus Snape, or that’s how he introduces himself. Name sounds familiar, though Bartemius can’t put his finger on why and where he would have heard it; it’s definitely not an old, pureblood name, that much is certain.
The two of them spend an inordinate amount of time with each other. Any time Bartemius is home to see, he sees them huddled together somewhere, whispering. Sometimes, Severus listens while Barty tells him something about the family home, and sometimes, Barty is the one to listen, giggling and blushing slightly at some suggestion whispered in his ear. Once, Bartemius sees the two of them with Demeter, and he’s sure he hears her tell them to be careful. If he’s anything, Bartemius Crouch is not stupid and, though he has no proof, he has his suspicions, and he hopes they’re wrong.
July 21st, 1978: Barty’s only been home for a month, and he’s already leaving again. This time, Demeter cries and Bartemius has never had as much of an emotional investment in making his son leave.
The boy wants to blame him of course, but it’s his own damn fault for leaving those letters out where people could find them.
“Don’t worry about your father, Barty, he’s just a ridiculous old fool. I wish I could help you. Come see me over Easter break, please; I can’t tell you how much I miss you.”
“You’re not stupid, Barty, and your NEWTs won’t be terrible, I promise. Your father only says that because he doesn’t know you like I do.”
“I miss you, Barty. And I love you. Maybe your bastard father doesn’t, but I love you, and I’d do anything to help you. All you have to do is ask.”
And the lone one to the Snape boy, from Barty…it isn’t finished, but the message is quite clear: “Severus, when can I see you again? I’m in my father’s house and it’s driving me mad, I think he knows and I can’t take not knowing whether he does or not. I hope he doesn’t, and if he does, I don’t know what will happen, or what we’ll have to do. I need you, Severus, I…”
So, his suspicions were right after all. And there’s proof now, and he can hardly just let this stand.
Barty sighs and looks up from the doorway floor, smirking grimly.
“I guess this is good-bye, then,” he scoffs, shaking his head and blinking something out of his eye.
“Barty,” Demeter whimpers. “He’s our son, please, don’t-”
“Mother, it’s fine, really.”
“If you think I want to do this, you’re sorely mistaken.” He moves to look down at his son, then realizes that they’re the same height. When did that happen?
“Then why are you doing it?”
“You can come home if you ever leave the Snape boy.”
“Do you think I asked for this?”
“No, but that shouldn’t keep you from controlling it-”
“I can’t help that he loves me, or that I…feel the same…and it’s not as if-”
He closes the door on his own son. Amidst Demeter’s sobs, he finds himself facing a blunt truth: he doesn’t care.
February 21st, 1982: He’s been back from Azkaban for two months, and, finally, Winky has him strong enough to leave his bed. Despite what he wants, Bartemius keeps him under an Invisibility Cloak at all times. Maybe no one visits anymore, but people still walk by the house, and he’s supposed to be dead, and not metaphorically. But it’s nearing midnight, so he figures it’s safe. He has to see for this part; he has to know for certain. Sighing heavily, the long day at work exits out his mouth and he leans on the kitchen counter for support, feels Winky’s hands tugging supportively on his robes.
“He’s here, right, Winky?”
Barty’s head comes out of nothing across from him. “You don’t have to ask her, you know,” he huffs. “She’s got me bound to her, remember?”
“She’s ridiculously sympathetic to you for reasons I can’t fathom. I have to make sure.”
“Master, Winky is feeling bad for him, yes, but Winky is not breaking her Vows, Winky is being a good girl! And he is being a good boy, Master, very good!”
“…Thank you, Winky, but I think I’ll be the judge of that. Barty, your arm, if you would.”
“…Excuse me?”
“Your arm, Barty. The right one.”
Barty sighs and his arm joins his head; he leaves the sleeve of his robes pulled down and the arm is turned the wrong way. With an unusual amount of care, Bartemius grabs his son’s hand, turns the arm over, and shoves up the sleeve. There it is: proof. The worst kind of proof, and it’s staring him dead-on. The Dark Mark, black against the sun-starved, colorless skin of his son’s inner arm. Just the sight of it makes a lead weight out of his stomach, and bile rises at the remembrance of his deathbed promise to Demeter: she would die for Barty to live, and he would take the boy back as his son. He can’t undo it now, but looking up into Barty’s crazed, harlequin grin, he so desperately wants to.
“You really wanted to believe that I never meant any of it, didn’t you?”
“…Why? How could you do this to your mother and I?”
“Never good enough for you, was I? Always…grades aren’t good enough, no talent at Quidditch, wastes too much time doing things for me…but they didn’t care.”
“Who?”
“Sev and the Dark Lord.”
“Oh no…this again…”
“Sev took me in when you chucked me out, you know. He loved me. On a regular basis, even. And then the Dark Lord…he doesn’t care who you are, as long as you’re faithful. Do what he says, and he loves you. Well, maybe not love, but you get my point.”
“…This isn’t true…”
“Oh, but it is, father. One loved me; the other accepted me. They believed in me like you never did.”
He has his wand pointed at the boy before he can stop himself, and suddenly, the boy’s eyes - his wife’s eyes - go unfocused and his face goes blank. The only sound in the scene is Winky’s sobbing and the “Imperio” that lingers in the air.
Title: Presently Untitled
Type: Het (ZOMFG!)
Genre: Varies...lots of angst, some sexing
Pairing: Walden/Bella
Prompt: A-G
Rating: Gish to Rish
Warnings: Language, vague sexuality, toplessness,
Word Count: 700
Summary: The beginnings of a secret relationship.
Disclaimer: Were they mine, Rodolphus would not be an issue.
A/N: Frist seven drabbles for alphabetdrabble. Because I'm a completely masochistic nutcase, I'm weaving all of them together into a 2,600 word, 26 installment...THING with a plot and everything.
A is for Acumen
“Lake sure is nice this time of year, huh?” he asks, eyebrows arching hopefully. “Sky’s clear, leaves starting to change, squid scaring the first years…”
“Nice, yeah…”
She doesn’t look at him, just the scar on her hand, sometimes the lake, but only when a tentacle comes up. Her hair’s up in a bun, dark escapee locks brushing her neck tantalizingly.
“Why do you think it’s nice?” she mutters.
“Well, it’s nice-looking…” she sits up straight… “clear…” the pins come out…
She lets her hair fall, and his mouth follows suit. And then her stare… she scoffs.
“Good judgment, Walden.”
B is for Bloviate
“My dad’s just living off inheritance, yeah, but my uncle’s got strings to pull at the Ministry. Don’t really need to worry about school, see, except Magical Creatures, since he knows that’s the only place to send me.”
“Oh really. Where is this?”
“Disposal of Dangerous Creatures.”
“I see. Is that what you want?”
“Eh, it’s iffy. It’d be fun, yeah, but I don’t really know, but I would be good at it - remember that one story-”
“Yes, yes, the sodding rabbit. But what do you, Walden Macnair, want? And don’t waste words explaining it.”
With that, he kisses her.
C is for Cicatrix
The first time he takes his shirt off just for her, she runs a lone, long, white finger down the scar she finds there, making the bumpy, pinkish tissue shudder and his lungs snap shut. It’s not long, but he doesn’t breathe again until the hand on his cheek grants permission in a squeeze.
“How’d you get it? And don’t tell me a story.”
“Fell out of a tree when I was six.”
“I see… was there blood?”
“Yeah, but not a lot.”
“Pity.”
She runs her finger down it again, and then her lips, flitting delicately, but shuddering, candle-like.
D is for Dystopia
“Bella, you can’t be serious!”
“I don’t joke.”
“But you and… him?!”
“This isn’t a matter that’s up for discussion. I’m a Black, which means that I, unlike you, have certain standards to live up to-”
“I’m a pureblood!”
“He’s respected.”
“I’m going to work in the Ministry!”
“He has money to burn.”
“Bella… I-”
“I didn’t pick him, but-”
“You’re fifteen! Can’t this wait? Did they have to pick now?”
“I’m marrying Rodolphus, and there’s nothing you can do. It doesn’t mean we’re going to stop, though. Now… knees.”
As he kneels for her, he thinks: I’m in Hell.
E is for Ersatz
He knows he doesn’t mean anything to her, but thinks anyway that she’s just saying that. He knows nothing real can come of this, but when she turns her head and asks to borrow his quill, the syllables fall off and leave him wanting more. Every time she shoves him against the dungeon walls, kissing hungrily and giving him passion Rodolphus won’t ever get, he has to remind himself before it gets too late that this is just for fun. She makes him breathless, but it doesn’t matter.
It’s all a fake relationship, and he, despite himself, still needs it.
F is for Fealty
Like talons, she digs her fingernails into his back and drags them as if on a cigarette. He’s been hurt worse before, but the moan he gives comes from real pain: rejection, being used, the abandoned feeling in the deepest pit of his stomach that sounds like drums and alarum bells… and giving her the satisfaction of hearing is the worst agony. But he’ll suffer it for her.
She takes a long, ghostly finger and draws an invisible line down the black tattoo on the inside of his arm.
“Now, Walden, who is your master? And tell the truth.”
“…You.”
G is for Gravitas
He holds her midnight hair back as she fastens her choker, hands enveloped by tenebrous curls. In the mirror, he takes in their contrast: her dark, saturnine eyes and his wide, green ones; her mordant lips, curled in a perpetual sneer, and his, chapped and waiting for a cigarette; the flirtatious bait of her velvet, snow-covered skin and his, tanned and scarred. Rodolphus looks like he belongs with her, all red hair and pureblood dignity. He doesn’t have to work for his money or his looks. They’re two different dogs, and, for all her dignity, Bella loves teasing the mutt.
Title: Just One
Type: Slash
Genre: Humor/Angst
Pairing: Ari/Jeff
Rating: Hard PG-13
Warnings: Language, talk about sex, Jeff's completely depressing sexual history
Word Count: 583
Summary: One movie can make all the difference.
Disclaimer: Oh hey, wait! These guys ARE mine! Well, But, I'm A Cheerleader isn't, and Natasha Lyonne and Clea Duvall aren't mine either, but...Ari, Jeff, and Erik are. Hah.
“Jeff…are they?”
“Kissing? Totally.”
“Oh my God…”
“Yeah…”
“That’s so hot…”
“Uh huh…”
“Cleeeeeaaaaa…”
“Mhm…”
Watching But I’m A Cheerleader was Erik’s idea, it was his cousin’s movie. I didn’t really want to at first - romantic comedies are chick things, right, and we were thirteen, and it had a picture of some girl in an ugly pink dress on the front - but I’m glad I did now. By that point, I’d admitted that I really liked Ari, but I really wasn’t cool with it. It wasn’t like I had any reason not to be…none of my friends were homophobic, I mean…Todd came out at the end of seventh grade, and no one cared, except maybe his mom, but she got over it when she remembered that his sister could have kids and wanted to. My parents weren’t homophobic - they were and still are ridiculously liberal - and I was pretty sure that, if I came out, they’d still love me (and I was right, as I later found out). But it was…he was my best friend. Erik and Todd and Jake were all really good friends, but Ari was my best friend, and he was a little helter skelter sometimes, and I didn’t want to hurt him.
So I settled with being there for him, I put myself out there and hoped to God maybe he would notice or felt the same or…I’m getting ahead of myself. None of that happened until after watching But I’m A Cheerleader right before ninth grade. See, I thought, before, that I might’ve been gay, and I tried to tell myself I wasn’t because I dated some of the Saint Cecilia’s girls. I lost my virginity in eighth grade, and I really wasn’t ready to, but I had something to prove to myself and I got ahead of myself…I do that a lot. I got the hard on that did it by thinking about Ari, and it was behind one of the greenhouses, against the wall, and the girl was completely clueless…me…I tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter.
Then there was this guy. He wasn’t like a recruiter or anything, but he picked up on me, and then he hit on me, and then he…kind of fucked me. And I really liked it, even if it was a one-time thing done near midnight on the boardwalk around where my parents kept a summerhouse. So I was gay. Well, I am gay. But, if it hadn’t been for that movie, then I might not have been fine with it, ever, unless Ari made the first move, which he wasn’t going to, ever. Ari has desires like everyone else, but he’s controlled like that. It’s enviable, but I’m really bad with temptation. And, if it hadn’t let Erik put in that movie…oh God, it’s hard to say this because I’m supposed to be Mister Self-Confidence Stands Up When His Friends Can’t and Helps Them Out with Their Problems. It’s just that…there was something about watching Clea DuVall go at Natasha Lyonne that told…showed…well, it got the message across that it was okay. Liking Ari was just part of me that I couldn’t help, and there was really no point trying to deny it, unless I wanted an aneurysm, and I didn’t.
So I put myself out there. And I hoped he’d pick up on it. And he didn’t for a while, but…it sounds really stupid and sappy, but I got him in the end, and I’m really happy.