Title: Always Beautiful to me Word Count: 127 Warning/Rating: 1st person blaine pov....... no need to say more. Pairing(s)/Character(s): Kurt/Blaine (glee fandom) Author Notes: Okay, so hildigunnur prompted me with klaine, ‘fashion has no gender’ and so I combined it with this prompt. I hope she/you like it.
I know the saying ‘fashion has no gender’. However, before I met Kurt Hummel, I don’t think I understood it completely. That day, in Dalton, all I wanted to do was stare at him for the rest of my life. He attracted me in, his looks, his intelligence and his wit. When I found out how hard his life was, I knew I couldn’t get into a relationship with him right away. So, I put my attraction on hold, pushed it into a corner and buried it away, but I never stopped staring. He wore clothes I’d only seen on women, he wore clothes I’d never seen without a horse in sight and he wore clothes I’d never seen, period.
Title: The Pretty Things In Azkaban Rating: A Very Hard R Warnings: Azkaban madness, mentions of violence and rape, suggestion of violence and rape, suggested m/m non-con, suggestion of prison guard/prisoner assault Words: 599
Lucius stared at the man.
Through the black, melting lines of prison bars and the darkness setting into his vision, he could have sworn that he and this man attended Hogwarts together. Or had crossed paths at the Ministry, or Gringotts. Never-the-less, his features were known to Lucius in a niggling, not-quite-familiar way. He could not, for the life of him, recall the fellow's name. Did he have a child at Hogwarts with Draco? Had he guarded a prisoner during trials before the Wizengamot? Perhaps he'd brought a case before the Hogwarts Board of Governors.
Lucius could not recall. It had been too long since he'd seen faces he knew, Quidditch, magic, sunlight. Not even a house elf scuttled by. Azkaban was an endless monotony, a play of grey and black and rusting eternity. He swore up and down to the walls of his cell that he was going mad. He'd named the walls—Victory, War, Famine and Death, according to the colors they took on when wizards passed by with torches and lit wands once a day, bringing scraps of food. He suspected the walls took on their colors due to the cell's previous occupant, and his habit of smearing his own feces on the walls to count the days. Excrement came in many colors according to the week's diet. Some prisoners painted frescoes in it.
Somehow, Lucius managed to restrain himself from such artistic endeavors.
The man was guarding Lucius' cell after all the others had gone. He simply stood, looking out over the endless lines of walkways and battered metal, perhaps counting the bars or lifeless limbs poking out from dank identical cells, waiting for them to twitch, or for flies to land and devour their corpses.
“Why are you standing there?” Lucius croaked.
The side of the guard's mouth turned up. He had very straight teeth. “Suppose I like the view.”
Lucius was too starved to object, to refute the logic that the view from outside his particular cell was any more engaging than, say, the view from five cells down.
Lucius pointed, stretching one very dirty finger out beyond the bars. “You find that a pleasant thing to look upon?” And he waggled his finger at the endless progression of tiny blocks, cells and prisoners as far as they eye could see, Dementors drifting by every now and again, bringing their chill to the still air.
The guard turned to face him and Lucius remembered. He was Archibald Grant, and he'd once played Chaser for the Falmouth Falcons. Grant still had his build—tall and muscled, with a bull neck and big, hairy hands. One of them closed over the bars, over Lucius' own hand. Archibald Grant looked him right in the eye, muttering, “You, sir. You're very attractive. I think I'll stare at you.”
Lucius remembered, then, the scandal amid which Archibald Grant had left the Falcons years ago. After losing a championship game to Puddlemere United, Grant had assaulted the Puddlemere Keeper in the showers—had raped him and beaten the wizard within an inch of his life. Supposedly the Keeper had called Grant a Mudblood; Lucius didn't believe that for a second.
Lucius felt himself gulp.
“I don't suppose being attractive might get me an extra slice of meat on my dinner plate tonight?” Lucius tried sweetly.
Grant shook his dark head. But he was smiling. “Not that kind of meat, no. But perhaps....”
And he reached for his ring of keys, letting himself into Lucius' cell. Archibald Grant's staring suddenly became the least of Lucius Malfoy's worries.
Title: The Goat Whisperer Rating: R Warnings: Aberforth Dumbledore + a goat = suggestion of bestiality, inebriation Words: 99
“Baa-aaa-aah,” she bleated.
Aberforth glanced over. His head was swimming. How had they wound up on the floor?
He moved his mouth. It took a moment for the words to come. “What was that, dear?”
“Baa-aaa-aah!”
“I see,” Aberforth nodded serenely. It had been half an hour ago—and half a bottle of Ogden's Own ago—when the goat had started making sense. And only several thumbs worth of firewhisky since he'd stopped worrying about it. “Well,” he smiled, leaning closer, “You, sir, are very attractive, too; therefore, I will stare at you.”
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no subject
Date: 2012-04-21 06:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-21 10:15 pm (UTC)Word Count: 127
Warning/Rating: 1st person blaine pov....... no need to say more.
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Kurt/Blaine (glee fandom)
Author Notes: Okay, so
I know the saying ‘fashion has no gender’. However, before I met Kurt Hummel, I don’t think I understood it completely. That day, in Dalton, all I wanted to do was stare at him for the rest of my life. He attracted me in, his looks, his intelligence and his wit. When I found out how hard his life was, I knew I couldn’t get into a relationship with him right away. So, I put my attraction on hold, pushed it into a corner and buried it away, but I never stopped staring. He wore clothes I’d only seen on women, he wore clothes I’d never seen without a horse in sight and he wore clothes I’d never seen, period.
He was always beautiful to me though.
no subject
Date: 2012-04-22 10:57 pm (UTC)Rating: A Very Hard R
Warnings: Azkaban madness, mentions of violence and rape, suggestion of violence and rape, suggested m/m non-con, suggestion of prison guard/prisoner assault
Words: 599
Lucius stared at the man.
Through the black, melting lines of prison bars and the darkness setting into his vision, he could have sworn that he and this man attended Hogwarts together. Or had crossed paths at the Ministry, or Gringotts. Never-the-less, his features were known to Lucius in a niggling, not-quite-familiar way. He could not, for the life of him, recall the fellow's name. Did he have a child at Hogwarts with Draco? Had he guarded a prisoner during trials before the Wizengamot? Perhaps he'd brought a case before the Hogwarts Board of Governors.
Lucius could not recall. It had been too long since he'd seen faces he knew, Quidditch, magic, sunlight. Not even a house elf scuttled by. Azkaban was an endless monotony, a play of grey and black and rusting eternity. He swore up and down to the walls of his cell that he was going mad. He'd named the walls—Victory, War, Famine and Death, according to the colors they took on when wizards passed by with torches and lit wands once a day, bringing scraps of food. He suspected the walls took on their colors due to the cell's previous occupant, and his habit of smearing his own feces on the walls to count the days. Excrement came in many colors according to the week's diet. Some prisoners painted frescoes in it.
Somehow, Lucius managed to restrain himself from such artistic endeavors.
The man was guarding Lucius' cell after all the others had gone. He simply stood, looking out over the endless lines of walkways and battered metal, perhaps counting the bars or lifeless limbs poking out from dank identical cells, waiting for them to twitch, or for flies to land and devour their corpses.
“Why are you standing there?” Lucius croaked.
The side of the guard's mouth turned up. He had very straight teeth. “Suppose I like the view.”
Lucius was too starved to object, to refute the logic that the view from outside his particular cell was any more engaging than, say, the view from five cells down.
Lucius pointed, stretching one very dirty finger out beyond the bars. “You find that a pleasant thing to look upon?” And he waggled his finger at the endless progression of tiny blocks, cells and prisoners as far as they eye could see, Dementors drifting by every now and again, bringing their chill to the still air.
The guard turned to face him and Lucius remembered. He was Archibald Grant, and he'd once played Chaser for the Falmouth Falcons. Grant still had his build—tall and muscled, with a bull neck and big, hairy hands. One of them closed over the bars, over Lucius' own hand. Archibald Grant looked him right in the eye, muttering, “You, sir. You're very attractive. I think I'll stare at you.”
Lucius remembered, then, the scandal amid which Archibald Grant had left the Falcons years ago. After losing a championship game to Puddlemere United, Grant had assaulted the Puddlemere Keeper in the showers—had raped him and beaten the wizard within an inch of his life. Supposedly the Keeper had called Grant a Mudblood; Lucius didn't believe that for a second.
Lucius felt himself gulp.
“I don't suppose being attractive might get me an extra slice of meat on my dinner plate tonight?” Lucius tried sweetly.
Grant shook his dark head. But he was smiling. “Not that kind of meat, no. But perhaps....”
And he reached for his ring of keys, letting himself into Lucius' cell. Archibald Grant's staring suddenly became the least of Lucius Malfoy's worries.
no subject
Date: 2012-04-22 10:58 pm (UTC)Rating: R
Warnings: Aberforth Dumbledore + a goat = suggestion of bestiality, inebriation
Words: 99
“Baa-aaa-aah,” she bleated.
Aberforth glanced over. His head was swimming. How had they wound up on the floor?
He moved his mouth. It took a moment for the words to come. “What was that, dear?”
“Baa-aaa-aah!”
“I see,” Aberforth nodded serenely. It had been half an hour ago—and half a bottle of Ogden's Own ago—when the goat had started making sense. And only several thumbs worth of firewhisky since he'd stopped worrying about it. “Well,” he smiled, leaning closer, “You, sir, are very attractive, too; therefore, I will stare at you.”
“Baa-aaa-aah!!!”