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midnightdiddleIn a totally not subtle, nor cool way of thumbing my nose at everyone in the world, a Harry Potter drabble.
And not any Harry Potter.
Oh, no. Of course not. What's the point of writing if I don't damn my soul?
It's Student!Sirius/Teacher!McGonagall. Why, goodbye there, Mister Soul!
Sirius is a teenage boy, and as such, he has, well, thoughts. And yearnings. For breasts. Teacher/student (or would that be student/teacher?), questionable morality, possible issues on age of consent. Yup. <3
The Best Things in Life
Transfigurations, in Sirius's opinion, is the best class in school. Not subject, never subject, 'cause truth be told, Sirius really quite hates the subject of transfigurations. His teapots never turn out quite right, and he's loads better in Potions, or even Arithmancy. Transfigurations, though, is taught by McGonagall, and McGonagall is, in Sirius's opinion, the best teacher to get.
Though, of course, Sirius's opinions aren't always, well, moral things.
Sirius is a teenage boy, and teenage boys, as a rule, have the brainpower to think about one topic at a time, and one topic only. And teenage boys, as a rule, tend to think about girls (or boys), and what they, being teenage boys, can do to said girls (or boys). And, sometimes when Sirius is lying on his bed, staring up at the drapes covering his bed, girls aren't so much girls as women. And, well, McGonagall is a woman.
Sorta.
She's mostly a teacher, because she's been a teacher all of Sirius's years at Hogwarts. It's a rather new thing, for her to become a woman as well as a teacher.
But. Well. She is. Because when she's bending over his desk, criticizing his teapot with the polk-a-dots that look suspiciously like a turtle's shell, she has, well--
Breasts.
So he stares, and jumps when she slams his turtle-turned-teapot on the desk and asks, "Are you quite alright, Mister Black?"
"Fine, thank you," he says, meeker than he'd like, and he can hear James and Remus snickering behind him. Bastards. McGonagall gives him a look, he tells himself not to stare, and pointedly looks down. Except down is where her hips are, too, and really, he's trying, he really is, to pay attention to the lesson, but, well, it's not his fault, not really, and--
"Mister Black," McGonagall snaps, "if this lesson is so uninteresting, perhaps you'd prefer to spend your time in detention."
Sirius opens his mouth, thinks better of it, bites his tongue, and sinks lower into his seat as James' snickers grow louder.
x
"Professor?" he calls in through her office doorway, trying to lean around the edge without actually falling into the room.
McGonagall is sitting at her desk, surrounded by scrolls of parchment, and she waves him in with her quill. Sirius sneaks in, slides into the chair McGonagall points at with the tip of the quill, and waits, holding onto the edge of the chair with his hands.
"Mister Black," McGonagall asks, "is there some reason my class seems to be so difficult for you? Perhaps a problem with my teaching methods?"
"No!" Sirius says too quickly, and his palms feel all sweaty against the wood of the chair. He scrubs his hands on his trousers, tries again. "Umm, no, that's not it. I think your class is brilliant, really, and, umm--"
"Is that so?" McGonagall looks up, lips pursed, and she taps the quill against her chin, tip of the feathers brushing her mouth. Sirius swallows, nods. "Then why, Mister Black," she asks, "are you having so much trouble paying attention."
"It's, well," and Sirius, for the life of him, can't even imagine telling McGonagall that frankly, he's really quite taken with her, in the teenage boy way, which mostly involved a good amount of wet dreams and some frantic wanking in the bathroom stalls, his trousers shoved down to his knees. So he swallows again, rubs his sweaty palms, and says, "fuck it."
"Mister Black," McGonagall begins to say, face stern and eyebrows in a knot, and Sirius jumps up, trips around the desk. He distantly feels the edge of the desk dig into his hip, thinks, that's going to bruise, and kisses McGonagall with all the spirit a teenage boy with hormones the size of a small dragon can manage.
Which is, to say, quite a bit.
And it's good. Better than Sirius imagined. It's-- God, and he's touching her, his hands are-- He thinks one is near her waist, and he's pretty sure he's got his other hand on her breast, and he very well might come in his pants any second, but that's alright, because he's touching a living, breathing woman. And not any living, breathing woman. McGonagall.
He's about two seconds away from rubbing himself against her until he comes when she catches his hands (and dear God, she's touching him, forget two seconds, he's going to come, because her fingers are warm, and strong, and they're wrapped around his wrists, and if they could only wrap around his dick) and pulls his hands away from her breast. And her arse.
She says something, and he can't hear it, but he can see her mouth move, lips wet from spit (his spit, and that thought's about the best thought Sirius has had all year). He tries to lean in to kiss her again, gets close enough to feel her breath, almost get his tongue in her mouth (so close, so close), and she pushes him away, holds him at a distance.
"Mister Black, if you're quite finished?"
And, to his shame and, deep inside somewhere, utter joy, he is. His pants feel wet and sticky, and he's really hoping that there aren't any spots on the front of his trousers. He tries to speak, realizes he's panting, and nods instead.
"Very well, then," McGonagall says, and she licks her lips, and Sirius thinks, oh, God, oh. "I won't bother explaining to you our positions, because I'm sure it's quite clear to you what they are. I will, however, be happy to inform you that I'm old enough to be your grandmother and, quite frankly, have little interest in clandestine arrangements with a child." She stresses the word clandestine, her tongue nearly clicking through the syllables, and Sirius almost chokes on his hope.
"Then not clandestine, then?"
"No," McGonagall says, as though Sirius is a rather slow and stupid student. Sirius swallows, bites back his disappointment. "I prefer arrangements, clandestine or otherwise, with adults."
"'course," Sirius says, tries to put as much bravado in the word as he can. McGonagall's hands are still around his wrists, but now they feel not so much as something he wants as something he wants but will never have. He tries to pull away, and McGonagall frowns, tightening her hands.
"Are you always going to be sixteen, Mister Black?" McGonagall asks, and her voice sounds as though she's running out of patience. Sirius swallows again, mumbles a "no," and stares at the floor.
"Then I'll see you when you're an adult." McGonagall lets go of Sirius's hands, already turning to pick up her quill. "You can finish your detention on your own. Copy out the last two chapters we discussed in class and hand it in during next class. That will be all, Mister Black."
Sirius stares at the floor, then stares at McGonagall, then stares at the floor for a moment longer, somehow very confused. He looks up when McGonagall clucks her tongue, and finds her looking at him with a tired look on her face.
"Is there anything else, Mister Black?"
"Er, no, nothing," he says, stumbling backwards. "Just, uh, the last two chapters?"
"Unless you'd prefer to copy out three chapters, then yes," she says, looking back at the parchment spread over the desk. Sirius opens his mouth, closes it, then shakes his head, bumping into the door.
"No, thank you, Professor, I-- Er, that is, I--"
"Goodnight, Mister Black," McGonagall says, and Sirius falls out of the room with the distinctive feeling that his pants are cold and sticky, his hip is bruised, and McGonagall is laughing at him.
Things, he decides, couldn't get better.
And, well, Time-Lord mindsex. Because.
Omega, Rassilon, and thepride sex before the fall. Omega/Rassilon, mentionings of mindsex, and, well.
Before the Fall
Omega's half-asleep when Rassilon comes home, because it's been a long two weeks, and time eventually bunches up until even he needs to close his eyes. He's somewhere between a dream and reality when Rassilon slips into his mind, smooth and silky and slick, in and down and around.
Omega's thinking of getting up, but then there's a twist, right there, inside, and the thought of moving is one that becomes particularly foreign. Rassilon's still in his head, pushing and pulling and prodding, in little ways that make Omega bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut. It's sometime between the first touch and the twentieth that the bed beneath Omega shifts, a weight on the far side.
"I'm home," Rassilon says, and his hands feel almost as good on Omega's body, or maybe better. Omega blinks, bright spots in his eyes, and rolls over, closer to Rassilon. Rassilon smells of sweat and smoke, burnt electricity, and his hands are fumbling on Omega's skin.
"I noticed," Omega says after a try or two, eyeing Rassilon's shirt. It's a little stained, like rust, or maybe blood, but Rassilon's hot and thick and alive, and Omega can't worry about everything, not when Rassilon's in and out and around him. "I thought-- The war?"
"It's fine," Rassilon says, twining a little closer, legs twisted around Omega's. "How goes your little experiment?"
"Almost--" Omega breaks off, spends a long moment just touching, then leans his head against Rassilon's shoulder, shuddering. "Almost ready."
"Good," Rassilon says, and he feels almost oily, pleased and fed in Omega's mind. "Good."
It should be noted that![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dragon_bite is to blame. She, like, goads me into abandoning my moral scruples. And then she like, seduces me with the thought of Time Lord mindsex. 'cause they touch minds.
Obviously, the English are better than every other people on the world. Obviously.
And not any Harry Potter.
Oh, no. Of course not. What's the point of writing if I don't damn my soul?
It's Student!Sirius/Teacher!McGonagall. Why, goodbye there, Mister Soul!
Sirius is a teenage boy, and as such, he has, well, thoughts. And yearnings. For breasts. Teacher/student (or would that be student/teacher?), questionable morality, possible issues on age of consent. Yup. <3
The Best Things in Life
Transfigurations, in Sirius's opinion, is the best class in school. Not subject, never subject, 'cause truth be told, Sirius really quite hates the subject of transfigurations. His teapots never turn out quite right, and he's loads better in Potions, or even Arithmancy. Transfigurations, though, is taught by McGonagall, and McGonagall is, in Sirius's opinion, the best teacher to get.
Though, of course, Sirius's opinions aren't always, well, moral things.
Sirius is a teenage boy, and teenage boys, as a rule, have the brainpower to think about one topic at a time, and one topic only. And teenage boys, as a rule, tend to think about girls (or boys), and what they, being teenage boys, can do to said girls (or boys). And, sometimes when Sirius is lying on his bed, staring up at the drapes covering his bed, girls aren't so much girls as women. And, well, McGonagall is a woman.
Sorta.
She's mostly a teacher, because she's been a teacher all of Sirius's years at Hogwarts. It's a rather new thing, for her to become a woman as well as a teacher.
But. Well. She is. Because when she's bending over his desk, criticizing his teapot with the polk-a-dots that look suspiciously like a turtle's shell, she has, well--
Breasts.
So he stares, and jumps when she slams his turtle-turned-teapot on the desk and asks, "Are you quite alright, Mister Black?"
"Fine, thank you," he says, meeker than he'd like, and he can hear James and Remus snickering behind him. Bastards. McGonagall gives him a look, he tells himself not to stare, and pointedly looks down. Except down is where her hips are, too, and really, he's trying, he really is, to pay attention to the lesson, but, well, it's not his fault, not really, and--
"Mister Black," McGonagall snaps, "if this lesson is so uninteresting, perhaps you'd prefer to spend your time in detention."
Sirius opens his mouth, thinks better of it, bites his tongue, and sinks lower into his seat as James' snickers grow louder.
x
"Professor?" he calls in through her office doorway, trying to lean around the edge without actually falling into the room.
McGonagall is sitting at her desk, surrounded by scrolls of parchment, and she waves him in with her quill. Sirius sneaks in, slides into the chair McGonagall points at with the tip of the quill, and waits, holding onto the edge of the chair with his hands.
"Mister Black," McGonagall asks, "is there some reason my class seems to be so difficult for you? Perhaps a problem with my teaching methods?"
"No!" Sirius says too quickly, and his palms feel all sweaty against the wood of the chair. He scrubs his hands on his trousers, tries again. "Umm, no, that's not it. I think your class is brilliant, really, and, umm--"
"Is that so?" McGonagall looks up, lips pursed, and she taps the quill against her chin, tip of the feathers brushing her mouth. Sirius swallows, nods. "Then why, Mister Black," she asks, "are you having so much trouble paying attention."
"It's, well," and Sirius, for the life of him, can't even imagine telling McGonagall that frankly, he's really quite taken with her, in the teenage boy way, which mostly involved a good amount of wet dreams and some frantic wanking in the bathroom stalls, his trousers shoved down to his knees. So he swallows again, rubs his sweaty palms, and says, "fuck it."
"Mister Black," McGonagall begins to say, face stern and eyebrows in a knot, and Sirius jumps up, trips around the desk. He distantly feels the edge of the desk dig into his hip, thinks, that's going to bruise, and kisses McGonagall with all the spirit a teenage boy with hormones the size of a small dragon can manage.
Which is, to say, quite a bit.
And it's good. Better than Sirius imagined. It's-- God, and he's touching her, his hands are-- He thinks one is near her waist, and he's pretty sure he's got his other hand on her breast, and he very well might come in his pants any second, but that's alright, because he's touching a living, breathing woman. And not any living, breathing woman. McGonagall.
He's about two seconds away from rubbing himself against her until he comes when she catches his hands (and dear God, she's touching him, forget two seconds, he's going to come, because her fingers are warm, and strong, and they're wrapped around his wrists, and if they could only wrap around his dick) and pulls his hands away from her breast. And her arse.
She says something, and he can't hear it, but he can see her mouth move, lips wet from spit (his spit, and that thought's about the best thought Sirius has had all year). He tries to lean in to kiss her again, gets close enough to feel her breath, almost get his tongue in her mouth (so close, so close), and she pushes him away, holds him at a distance.
"Mister Black, if you're quite finished?"
And, to his shame and, deep inside somewhere, utter joy, he is. His pants feel wet and sticky, and he's really hoping that there aren't any spots on the front of his trousers. He tries to speak, realizes he's panting, and nods instead.
"Very well, then," McGonagall says, and she licks her lips, and Sirius thinks, oh, God, oh. "I won't bother explaining to you our positions, because I'm sure it's quite clear to you what they are. I will, however, be happy to inform you that I'm old enough to be your grandmother and, quite frankly, have little interest in clandestine arrangements with a child." She stresses the word clandestine, her tongue nearly clicking through the syllables, and Sirius almost chokes on his hope.
"Then not clandestine, then?"
"No," McGonagall says, as though Sirius is a rather slow and stupid student. Sirius swallows, bites back his disappointment. "I prefer arrangements, clandestine or otherwise, with adults."
"'course," Sirius says, tries to put as much bravado in the word as he can. McGonagall's hands are still around his wrists, but now they feel not so much as something he wants as something he wants but will never have. He tries to pull away, and McGonagall frowns, tightening her hands.
"Are you always going to be sixteen, Mister Black?" McGonagall asks, and her voice sounds as though she's running out of patience. Sirius swallows again, mumbles a "no," and stares at the floor.
"Then I'll see you when you're an adult." McGonagall lets go of Sirius's hands, already turning to pick up her quill. "You can finish your detention on your own. Copy out the last two chapters we discussed in class and hand it in during next class. That will be all, Mister Black."
Sirius stares at the floor, then stares at McGonagall, then stares at the floor for a moment longer, somehow very confused. He looks up when McGonagall clucks her tongue, and finds her looking at him with a tired look on her face.
"Is there anything else, Mister Black?"
"Er, no, nothing," he says, stumbling backwards. "Just, uh, the last two chapters?"
"Unless you'd prefer to copy out three chapters, then yes," she says, looking back at the parchment spread over the desk. Sirius opens his mouth, closes it, then shakes his head, bumping into the door.
"No, thank you, Professor, I-- Er, that is, I--"
"Goodnight, Mister Black," McGonagall says, and Sirius falls out of the room with the distinctive feeling that his pants are cold and sticky, his hip is bruised, and McGonagall is laughing at him.
Things, he decides, couldn't get better.
And, well, Time-Lord mindsex. Because.
Omega, Rassilon, and the
Before the Fall
Omega's half-asleep when Rassilon comes home, because it's been a long two weeks, and time eventually bunches up until even he needs to close his eyes. He's somewhere between a dream and reality when Rassilon slips into his mind, smooth and silky and slick, in and down and around.
Omega's thinking of getting up, but then there's a twist, right there, inside, and the thought of moving is one that becomes particularly foreign. Rassilon's still in his head, pushing and pulling and prodding, in little ways that make Omega bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut. It's sometime between the first touch and the twentieth that the bed beneath Omega shifts, a weight on the far side.
"I'm home," Rassilon says, and his hands feel almost as good on Omega's body, or maybe better. Omega blinks, bright spots in his eyes, and rolls over, closer to Rassilon. Rassilon smells of sweat and smoke, burnt electricity, and his hands are fumbling on Omega's skin.
"I noticed," Omega says after a try or two, eyeing Rassilon's shirt. It's a little stained, like rust, or maybe blood, but Rassilon's hot and thick and alive, and Omega can't worry about everything, not when Rassilon's in and out and around him. "I thought-- The war?"
"It's fine," Rassilon says, twining a little closer, legs twisted around Omega's. "How goes your little experiment?"
"Almost--" Omega breaks off, spends a long moment just touching, then leans his head against Rassilon's shoulder, shuddering. "Almost ready."
"Good," Rassilon says, and he feels almost oily, pleased and fed in Omega's mind. "Good."
It should be noted that
dragon_bite is to blame. She, like, goads me into abandoning my moral scruples. And then she like, seduces me with the thought of Time Lord mindsex. 'cause they touch minds.Obviously, the English are better than every other people on the world. Obviously.
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no subject
Date: 2007-06-05 07:55 am (UTC)Two favourite parts - Your ficlet description, and this line: And teenage boys, as a rule, tend to think about girls (or boys), and what they, being teenage boys, can do to said girls (or boys).
Thanks so much for sharing.
no subject
Date: 2007-06-06 01:42 am (UTC)I'm so glad you liked it!
no subject
Date: 2007-06-05 02:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-06 01:43 am (UTC)Sorry about the soul bit, though. XD
no subject
Date: 2007-06-05 08:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-06-06 01:43 am (UTC)