Songfic. Sort of.
Mar. 2nd, 2009 04:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lokifan_importI was about to finish this smut (for the incubus drabble arc) and then my computer took it away from me. I have tried and can’t get it back. I’ll do it again, undoubtedly, but for the moment I am too bitter about those 12 drabbles. *ignores essay she should be writing* So instead:
This is an awesome, if difficult meme I picked up somewhere – not sure where! You put your iPod/Media Player/whatever on shuffle, and pick a pairing. You write a ficlet (or whatever) based on the song that comes up, and you only have as long as the song plays to come up with something and write. Ten songs, ten little fics.
My pairing’s H/D, predictably. The wordcount overall is ~2200.
Overall warnings: angst in Wish You Were Here and The Alamo Is No Place For Dancing, implied dub-con in The March Of Witch Hunters, D/s in Sunday Morning, cross-dressing in You Give Love A Bad Name, ridiculous WW1-era!AU and girl!Harry and girl!Draco in Sister Suffragette, and character death (and depression) in Easy/Lucky/Free.
You’re Timeless To Me
Draco peered into the mirror, his bleary eyes just inches from the glass. Harry rolled his eyes a little; Draco had needed glasses for the past few years, but refused to wear them. He relied instead on charms that needed constant refreshing – but apparently there was only room for one pair of glasses in their relationship. “Stop snorting,” Draco said without turning. “Glasses don’t fit my image at all.”
“Quite right,” Harry agreed complacently, munching a Chocolate Frog. “You’re my blond bimbo.”
“Hmph,” Draco snorted. “You mean I’m the beauty and everyone thinks I’m with your fat arse for the money.”
“When actually it’s me who’s with your balding self for the Malfoy millions.” Draco frowned and reached to stroke his remaining hair down, and Harry relented.
“You look amazing. Very, very sexy.” He went over and wrapped his arms around Draco, pulling his slimmer partner against his body. “You just get sexier, I swear.”
Draco frowned for a moment, and then his face relaxed into a smile, wrinkles fanning out around his grey eyes. He turned to smile at Harry, and their faces were close enough that the astigmatism didn’t matter.
They kissed.
~*~
A Case Of You
It was complicated. Harry was meant for love among the ruins: none more constant in the darkness, but afterwards, when they were putting themselves back together, they mislaid their love somehow. They almost forgot their connection: but that was why it worked. Because it was always almost. That time it was Harry who saved them.
He told everyone that he needed time away, and they nodded respectfully and hugged him goodbye. Then he took Draco’s hand, and they Apparated to a Canadian cabin and spent a month drinking of each other, seeing no one else and somehow not sick of each other. That time, surrounded by snow, was sacred to them. Draco thought sometimes that Harry had replaced the pure blood in his veins, replaced the old beliefs with something new, fizzing sour but lovely in his veins.
The next time, Draco saved them. Harry couldn’t understand, and they were screaming at each other, faces twisted, Harry’s wet. Draco said he couldn’t explain, and he said it with his breath coming hoarse and gasping. “I can’t explain why I need you.”
Because I need you to be unafraid of the darkness. So I can be too.
Harry went to Narcissa, and she said something – Draco didn’t know what. Harry came back and hugged him, his expression set as it had always been before war.
~*~
Wish You Were Here
Harry had gone to another Ministry fundraiser, this one for Scrimgeour’s re-election campaign and Hogwarts scholarships for those orphaned by the war. The second one was more heavily publicised, and the reason Harry could swallow his own attendance; the first was the real reason and they both knew it. Draco hadn’t been able to make himself go: he hated the way they all stared. He and Harry were living in a fish bowl, he knew that, but the politicians and journalists looked like they were deciding whether the goldfish were pretty enough to keep watching or if it was time to get the boiling water and a plate.
Draco swallowed and wished Harry was here.
Eventually he got home, and crawled into bed next to him. Draco felt him, and reached for him sleepily. Harry held on.
An hour later, he woke crying from a dream about Dumbledore – his ghost, shaking his head sadly at Harry in the new golden lobby at the Ministry.
“Am I still Dumbledore’s man?” he choked.
Draco stroked his hair, and knew that Harry had only wanted to make things better, to find solace in change instead of pointless, fruitless cuddles. They had to survive, and he needed Harry to do that.
So he lied. “They could never change that.”
~*~
Somebody Like You
Harry and Draco were sitting on the steps outside Hogwarts, the ancient stone made smooth and comfortable by millions of schoolchildren’s steps. The school was nearly repaired now, the dormitories fixed. That was wonderful, of course, but after the struggle towards friendship, towards each other, they weren’t going to be seperated by common rooms. They sat outside, now the Great Hall wasn’t their sleeping place, and talked.
“I can’t believe it’s nearly finished. Everything we’ve been working on for months.”
“Everything you want,” Draco said, smiling at him.
“Nearly,” Harry agreed, a shadow passing over his face. “What about you – what do you plan to go after when the work’s done?”
Draco shrugged. “I would’ve said redemption – but I think I have it. I’ve forgiven myself for what I did, anyway.”
“Finally,” Harry muttered, grinning at him reassuringly.
“What I really want – is – well. I’d like to fall in love. With a friend I could trust. Somebody fun, who wouldn’t let me – I feel like I’m better. I want to stay like that.” Draco stumbled over his words. He wasn’t sure what he was saying, and it was made worse by the fact that it seemed important.
“Oh?” Harry’s voice, quiet and sure. Draco wanted to be brave like that.
He looked up, took a deep breath, and said, “what I really want is somebody exactly like you.”
“What a coincidence. I was going to say that.”
~*~
March Of The Witch Hunters
The witch-hunt had been gaining momentum since Snape’s funeral. Harry Potter gave an eulogy, trying to tell the world who Snape had truly been. Draco’s father spoke after him, mourning for his old friend – until a woman threw a spell.
The Malfoys ran, but they couldn’t find a safehouse.
So Draco went to Potter, dropped to his knees, and opened his mouth.
His persuasion was enough.
~*~
Sunday Morning
Saturday nights were delicious. Sometimes they’d go to a club, too dark for anyone to recognise them easily, and Harry would stand by the bar and drink. Draco would do a shot, then head to the dancefloor: move against a handsome stranger, lean his head against the wizard and smile. Harry clenched his jaw and tried to control himself, but Draco would keep sparking his temper until it exploded. Then Harry would lead him away with a bruising hand on his arm, and fuck him. Draco loved it.
Or, as with last night, they’d have dinner with Weasley and Mrs Weasley. Draco would snipe politely; nothing obvious, so that things stayed mainly cordial. Just enough that Harry brought out the paddle when they got home, and made Draco thank him for each blow.
Sunday mornings, though; they were for another kind of connection. Draco woke with the musty smell of Harry’s skin in his nose; they were cuddled sweatily together under the duvet. He listened to Harry’s slow breathing, smiling, then woke him with a kiss. Harry had morning breath, but so did Draco, so it was okay.
Then they had slow, sleepy morning sex, Draco’s fingers stroking inside Harry then smoothing over his flanks. Harry stroked Draco’s hair out of his eyes, smiling. “I love it when you have bedhead.”
Draco snarled, laughing, and continued.
~*~
You Give Love A Bad Name
Love saved the world. Love was what he’d always been searching for. Love was all he needed.
Harry was in love, and it wasn’t going well.
Draco smirked at him, then turned away and stalked off through the club. He was dressed up tonight, a corset and heels making his walk even sexier than usual, red varnish bloodying his nails appropriately. He always tore at the skin of Harry’s back when they fucked.
Little bastard.
Harry did as was expected, playing the suitor for Draco’s favours. It was the only way he’d ever get them: Draco hated it when Harry tried for his own power.
Harry stared, mesmerised, and waited for Draco to come, and bestow a kiss. Maybe a fuck, before he left again and found someone else.
Bastard.
~*~
Sister Suffragette
Harriet Potter had known she was asking for trouble when she’d gone along to the meeting. But she believed in what they were doing: political equality! It was a new century, and she was a New Woman. A soldier in petticoats. Harriet had been a Gryffindor, and she wasn’t afraid to join the Suffragettes, rather than her fellow middle-class women among the Suffragists.
The meeting was very exciting. Lots of women declared how they had to fight “militantly!” Harriet was swept up, and she agreed to go to the prison to see an upper-class girl named Carina Malfoy who’d been clapped into irons at a protest.
The Malfoy heiress was rather famous for her attitude: her father didn’t appreciate her screaming at the Wizengamot.
She was very pretty, though. She was sitting in an Azkaban cell, heavy irons wrapped around her delicate wrists. Her beautiful dress was torn, and there was a rip by the bodice.
Harriet and her friend Hermione came over to the bars, and Carina looked up. She smiled, her face smudged with soil, and tried to stand automatically to greet them. The irons were too heavy, and she flushed.
~*~
The Alamo Is No Place For Dancing
“Dear Draco – um. I don’t know how this works, really. There’s probably some sort of etiquette to writing a letter with a Quick Quotes Quill – that’s not quite what it is, by the way, it’s a prototype of George’s so it’ll write what I actually say, but it doesn’t have a name yet – anyway, there’s probably some etiquette with the ‘dear’s and the ‘love Harry’s. But I don’t love you now. And maybe you don’t want etiquette. You’re only out there in Texas to rebel, aren’t you?
I liked Texas. It was so hot. Kind of smothering sometimes, but maybe that was you. Oh – that sounded meaner than I meant it. You know what I mean though. It’s true. Lying around in a bed getting sticky in Texas summers is very hot. You used to lick the sweat off my chest...
I didn’t mean this to get pornographic, so don’t get excited, Draco. This letter is just to warn you. I’m telling my friends what you did. Warning them. I thought you were there to escape, but it was so you could be safe while you planned vengeance. I have to tell them, you – this was about me. Huh.
Don’t worry, don’t panic – don’t run. You didn’t commit any crimes, after all. You just – you just – you just seduced me, yeah I can say it, so you could crush my heart because I testified against your bloody father and you wanted to punish me. But I saw your eyes when he got Kissed and...
Anyway.”
~*~
Easy/Lucky/Free
Harry had looked frightened when he died. Draco could remember the way his face had twisted beneath the soil and blood as he faced Voldemort, before the spell had taken them both together. Tied together to the end; their bond had mattered more than Harry’s bond with Draco.
He’d breathed out, an asthmatic little wheeze, and by the time Draco reached the body – shoving past anyone who tried to stop him, keening like a dying animal – Harry had looked calm, somehow. Maybe just by contrast with Draco’s wailing anguish.
He’d been told off by Aunt Andromeda for that screaming; Gothic, Black, melodramatic pain was not de rigeur any more. Only stately tears, and then calm. They didn’t have the right to mourn for heroes – Draco didn’t, anyway.
He found calm in the end. He’d been numb since the funerals: he hadn’t cried for them, then.
It was ten years since Harry had died. Draco had lived on, was part of society. He didn’t see his old Slytherin friends any more. He was buying produce and helping stimulate the post-war economy; he wasn’t protesting the new laws like Hermione Weasley; he had a son. He was getting along.
He still dreamed of Harry every night.
Harry had been such a survivor, but he’d died then. Died a hero. If Draco had died that night, he would have been a tragic figure, the son who abandoned his father for love and was cut down on the battlefield. Instead he kept living, feeling the beat of his heart as an insufferable weight. Every minute, every day, he thought of Harry. There was no pain now, though. Simply envy.
One day, it would be okay. Draco would join him, and Blaise and Pansy and Greg would join them, and it would be sweet relief.
This is an awesome, if difficult meme I picked up somewhere – not sure where! You put your iPod/Media Player/whatever on shuffle, and pick a pairing. You write a ficlet (or whatever) based on the song that comes up, and you only have as long as the song plays to come up with something and write. Ten songs, ten little fics.
My pairing’s H/D, predictably. The wordcount overall is ~2200.
Overall warnings: angst in Wish You Were Here and The Alamo Is No Place For Dancing, implied dub-con in The March Of Witch Hunters, D/s in Sunday Morning, cross-dressing in You Give Love A Bad Name, ridiculous WW1-era!AU and girl!Harry and girl!Draco in Sister Suffragette, and character death (and depression) in Easy/Lucky/Free.
You’re Timeless To Me
Draco peered into the mirror, his bleary eyes just inches from the glass. Harry rolled his eyes a little; Draco had needed glasses for the past few years, but refused to wear them. He relied instead on charms that needed constant refreshing – but apparently there was only room for one pair of glasses in their relationship. “Stop snorting,” Draco said without turning. “Glasses don’t fit my image at all.”
“Quite right,” Harry agreed complacently, munching a Chocolate Frog. “You’re my blond bimbo.”
“Hmph,” Draco snorted. “You mean I’m the beauty and everyone thinks I’m with your fat arse for the money.”
“When actually it’s me who’s with your balding self for the Malfoy millions.” Draco frowned and reached to stroke his remaining hair down, and Harry relented.
“You look amazing. Very, very sexy.” He went over and wrapped his arms around Draco, pulling his slimmer partner against his body. “You just get sexier, I swear.”
Draco frowned for a moment, and then his face relaxed into a smile, wrinkles fanning out around his grey eyes. He turned to smile at Harry, and their faces were close enough that the astigmatism didn’t matter.
They kissed.
A Case Of You
It was complicated. Harry was meant for love among the ruins: none more constant in the darkness, but afterwards, when they were putting themselves back together, they mislaid their love somehow. They almost forgot their connection: but that was why it worked. Because it was always almost. That time it was Harry who saved them.
He told everyone that he needed time away, and they nodded respectfully and hugged him goodbye. Then he took Draco’s hand, and they Apparated to a Canadian cabin and spent a month drinking of each other, seeing no one else and somehow not sick of each other. That time, surrounded by snow, was sacred to them. Draco thought sometimes that Harry had replaced the pure blood in his veins, replaced the old beliefs with something new, fizzing sour but lovely in his veins.
The next time, Draco saved them. Harry couldn’t understand, and they were screaming at each other, faces twisted, Harry’s wet. Draco said he couldn’t explain, and he said it with his breath coming hoarse and gasping. “I can’t explain why I need you.”
Because I need you to be unafraid of the darkness. So I can be too.
Harry went to Narcissa, and she said something – Draco didn’t know what. Harry came back and hugged him, his expression set as it had always been before war.
Wish You Were Here
Harry had gone to another Ministry fundraiser, this one for Scrimgeour’s re-election campaign and Hogwarts scholarships for those orphaned by the war. The second one was more heavily publicised, and the reason Harry could swallow his own attendance; the first was the real reason and they both knew it. Draco hadn’t been able to make himself go: he hated the way they all stared. He and Harry were living in a fish bowl, he knew that, but the politicians and journalists looked like they were deciding whether the goldfish were pretty enough to keep watching or if it was time to get the boiling water and a plate.
Draco swallowed and wished Harry was here.
Eventually he got home, and crawled into bed next to him. Draco felt him, and reached for him sleepily. Harry held on.
An hour later, he woke crying from a dream about Dumbledore – his ghost, shaking his head sadly at Harry in the new golden lobby at the Ministry.
“Am I still Dumbledore’s man?” he choked.
Draco stroked his hair, and knew that Harry had only wanted to make things better, to find solace in change instead of pointless, fruitless cuddles. They had to survive, and he needed Harry to do that.
So he lied. “They could never change that.”
Somebody Like You
Harry and Draco were sitting on the steps outside Hogwarts, the ancient stone made smooth and comfortable by millions of schoolchildren’s steps. The school was nearly repaired now, the dormitories fixed. That was wonderful, of course, but after the struggle towards friendship, towards each other, they weren’t going to be seperated by common rooms. They sat outside, now the Great Hall wasn’t their sleeping place, and talked.
“I can’t believe it’s nearly finished. Everything we’ve been working on for months.”
“Everything you want,” Draco said, smiling at him.
“Nearly,” Harry agreed, a shadow passing over his face. “What about you – what do you plan to go after when the work’s done?”
Draco shrugged. “I would’ve said redemption – but I think I have it. I’ve forgiven myself for what I did, anyway.”
“Finally,” Harry muttered, grinning at him reassuringly.
“What I really want – is – well. I’d like to fall in love. With a friend I could trust. Somebody fun, who wouldn’t let me – I feel like I’m better. I want to stay like that.” Draco stumbled over his words. He wasn’t sure what he was saying, and it was made worse by the fact that it seemed important.
“Oh?” Harry’s voice, quiet and sure. Draco wanted to be brave like that.
He looked up, took a deep breath, and said, “what I really want is somebody exactly like you.”
“What a coincidence. I was going to say that.”
March Of The Witch Hunters
The witch-hunt had been gaining momentum since Snape’s funeral. Harry Potter gave an eulogy, trying to tell the world who Snape had truly been. Draco’s father spoke after him, mourning for his old friend – until a woman threw a spell.
The Malfoys ran, but they couldn’t find a safehouse.
So Draco went to Potter, dropped to his knees, and opened his mouth.
His persuasion was enough.
Sunday Morning
Saturday nights were delicious. Sometimes they’d go to a club, too dark for anyone to recognise them easily, and Harry would stand by the bar and drink. Draco would do a shot, then head to the dancefloor: move against a handsome stranger, lean his head against the wizard and smile. Harry clenched his jaw and tried to control himself, but Draco would keep sparking his temper until it exploded. Then Harry would lead him away with a bruising hand on his arm, and fuck him. Draco loved it.
Or, as with last night, they’d have dinner with Weasley and Mrs Weasley. Draco would snipe politely; nothing obvious, so that things stayed mainly cordial. Just enough that Harry brought out the paddle when they got home, and made Draco thank him for each blow.
Sunday mornings, though; they were for another kind of connection. Draco woke with the musty smell of Harry’s skin in his nose; they were cuddled sweatily together under the duvet. He listened to Harry’s slow breathing, smiling, then woke him with a kiss. Harry had morning breath, but so did Draco, so it was okay.
Then they had slow, sleepy morning sex, Draco’s fingers stroking inside Harry then smoothing over his flanks. Harry stroked Draco’s hair out of his eyes, smiling. “I love it when you have bedhead.”
Draco snarled, laughing, and continued.
You Give Love A Bad Name
Love saved the world. Love was what he’d always been searching for. Love was all he needed.
Harry was in love, and it wasn’t going well.
Draco smirked at him, then turned away and stalked off through the club. He was dressed up tonight, a corset and heels making his walk even sexier than usual, red varnish bloodying his nails appropriately. He always tore at the skin of Harry’s back when they fucked.
Little bastard.
Harry did as was expected, playing the suitor for Draco’s favours. It was the only way he’d ever get them: Draco hated it when Harry tried for his own power.
Harry stared, mesmerised, and waited for Draco to come, and bestow a kiss. Maybe a fuck, before he left again and found someone else.
Bastard.
Sister Suffragette
Harriet Potter had known she was asking for trouble when she’d gone along to the meeting. But she believed in what they were doing: political equality! It was a new century, and she was a New Woman. A soldier in petticoats. Harriet had been a Gryffindor, and she wasn’t afraid to join the Suffragettes, rather than her fellow middle-class women among the Suffragists.
The meeting was very exciting. Lots of women declared how they had to fight “militantly!” Harriet was swept up, and she agreed to go to the prison to see an upper-class girl named Carina Malfoy who’d been clapped into irons at a protest.
The Malfoy heiress was rather famous for her attitude: her father didn’t appreciate her screaming at the Wizengamot.
She was very pretty, though. She was sitting in an Azkaban cell, heavy irons wrapped around her delicate wrists. Her beautiful dress was torn, and there was a rip by the bodice.
Harriet and her friend Hermione came over to the bars, and Carina looked up. She smiled, her face smudged with soil, and tried to stand automatically to greet them. The irons were too heavy, and she flushed.
The Alamo Is No Place For Dancing
“Dear Draco – um. I don’t know how this works, really. There’s probably some sort of etiquette to writing a letter with a Quick Quotes Quill – that’s not quite what it is, by the way, it’s a prototype of George’s so it’ll write what I actually say, but it doesn’t have a name yet – anyway, there’s probably some etiquette with the ‘dear’s and the ‘love Harry’s. But I don’t love you now. And maybe you don’t want etiquette. You’re only out there in Texas to rebel, aren’t you?
I liked Texas. It was so hot. Kind of smothering sometimes, but maybe that was you. Oh – that sounded meaner than I meant it. You know what I mean though. It’s true. Lying around in a bed getting sticky in Texas summers is very hot. You used to lick the sweat off my chest...
I didn’t mean this to get pornographic, so don’t get excited, Draco. This letter is just to warn you. I’m telling my friends what you did. Warning them. I thought you were there to escape, but it was so you could be safe while you planned vengeance. I have to tell them, you – this was about me. Huh.
Don’t worry, don’t panic – don’t run. You didn’t commit any crimes, after all. You just – you just – you just seduced me, yeah I can say it, so you could crush my heart because I testified against your bloody father and you wanted to punish me. But I saw your eyes when he got Kissed and...
Anyway.”
Easy/Lucky/Free
Harry had looked frightened when he died. Draco could remember the way his face had twisted beneath the soil and blood as he faced Voldemort, before the spell had taken them both together. Tied together to the end; their bond had mattered more than Harry’s bond with Draco.
He’d breathed out, an asthmatic little wheeze, and by the time Draco reached the body – shoving past anyone who tried to stop him, keening like a dying animal – Harry had looked calm, somehow. Maybe just by contrast with Draco’s wailing anguish.
He’d been told off by Aunt Andromeda for that screaming; Gothic, Black, melodramatic pain was not de rigeur any more. Only stately tears, and then calm. They didn’t have the right to mourn for heroes – Draco didn’t, anyway.
He found calm in the end. He’d been numb since the funerals: he hadn’t cried for them, then.
It was ten years since Harry had died. Draco had lived on, was part of society. He didn’t see his old Slytherin friends any more. He was buying produce and helping stimulate the post-war economy; he wasn’t protesting the new laws like Hermione Weasley; he had a son. He was getting along.
He still dreamed of Harry every night.
Harry had been such a survivor, but he’d died then. Died a hero. If Draco had died that night, he would have been a tragic figure, the son who abandoned his father for love and was cut down on the battlefield. Instead he kept living, feeling the beat of his heart as an insufferable weight. Every minute, every day, he thought of Harry. There was no pain now, though. Simply envy.
One day, it would be okay. Draco would join him, and Blaise and Pansy and Greg would join them, and it would be sweet relief.
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no subject
Date: 2009-05-14 08:09 pm (UTC)I loved the blond bimbo and adored Somebody Like You. Sunday Morning was about real love - morning breath and all. Even though I always try explain to myself that they're too pretty to have morning breath. ;) Draco in a corset is SO hot and Jealous!Harry is a favorite of mine.
I admire Suffragettes and found the story fascinating. I tend to avoid death fics but I think you were able to describe what it means to loose someone you truly love. Good work!
no subject
Date: 2009-05-14 09:15 pm (UTC)Heh, I liked the blond bimbo too! And yes, exactly on Sunday Morning. They love each other even with bad breath! *grins* I'm glad you liked Draco in a corset - it's a kink I've definitely come round to. YAY FOR JEALOUS!HARRY. He's so damn hot.
I like Suffragettes too! Although the last adjective I expected for that story was 'fascinating' - it's so silly! I am EXTRA FLATTERED. Thank you so much!