ficlets for inell
I could only manage 'drawbles'/ficlets of a sort, but Happy Holidays all the same :)
Hermione/Charle, 229 words. PG
It amazes him that he's content to sit here.
Normally Charlie is never content to just be still. He is outside with the dragons, he's going for a jog, he's flying when he has nothing else to do. Life for him is a never ending action sequence; there is a reason he never took a Ministry job, at least not the traditional kind, and a reason he's not working for Gringott's. Sit him down behind a desk and he starts to itch, plunk him in front of the wireless and he's finding something else to do; he's a creature of motion, it's that simple.
What he can find with her seems a contradiction.
Charlie's hands glide over the soft skin of Hermione's legs, his attention as much for that as for the Quidditch game playing in the background. She's propped them up on his lap, leaning back into the sofa. They're esconsed from the world around them, the rain pelting down on the windows, and there is no intention of leaving. He should be bored, he should be twitching, he should be wanting to get out and climb mountains.
When Hermione glances up though, from whatever complicated document she's been paying attention to, and smiles softly at him - Charlie knows.
When it comes right down to it, in this moment there is nowhere else he would rather be.
*****************
Hermione/Kingsley, 600 words. R
It should be sordid.
There are others that see it that way. He's an older man, the Minister for Magic, and she's shagging him. She must be doing it for her career in the magical law department, some whisper. He must be doing it for the sex with a younger woman, others murmur behind their backs. At the very least it must be a passing fancy, a temporary insanity that will pass when they both realize what they're doing. Hermione hears the whispers, and her eyes narrow every time. They had tried secrecy, but neither had a taste for it, besides they know there is nothing to be ashamed about.
They might whisper, but Hermione knows the truth, what she has actually found with Kingsley.
She's the last one left in the department for the night, tucked away in her miniature corner office so that she barely realizes that fact. They don't exactly give the highest priority to the woman who champions house elves and the downtrodden. She'll settle for the condescension they show though, if it means getting her laws passed. Sighing as she works, knowing there are hours she could do yet, Hermione leans back and stretches.
That's when she sees him, leaning against the door frame.
"You work too much," he says quietly, a dark impassive shape in the low light.
Hermione lets out a soft laugh, "I think that's the cauldron bottom calling the kettle black, Minister."
She has the satisfaction of watching his nostrils flare slightly. He does that every time she calls him by his title, every time she offers a 'Sir'. Normally when they are at work she is all business, but that doesn't mean she can't take a little bit of pleasure in provoking that small reaction in the normally so outwardly stoic man. Here, after hours, his eyes darken and he takes a step into her office.
"We're here alone," he says mildly, pretending to study he documents on her desk.
"So we are," Hermione says, just as mildly. This is a line that they have never crossed. She is fairly sure they will not now either. Neither of them are the type; the job important, their reputations important as well. They are not the type to shag over her desk. She is not a prude, and he even less so, but that's left for the privacy of his flat or his own house. They don't need the titillation.
She starts to question that though, because as she stands up to grab her cloak to leave for the evening Kingsley slides behind her. His lips touch her neck, and she finds herself manouevered towards the desk and bent over slightly.
Kingsley pauses. It's his way of asking for permission more than with words. Like everything that has passed between them, she doesn't stop him.
It's not a rough and frantic shagging. His hands glide worshipfully over her body, baring skin and caressing it, his bulk pressing against her. By the time he even gets to shoving her knickers aside Hermione is almost mindless from the arousal. It has always been like this between them, overwhelming. It doesn't make the relationship mindless though. She loves him for his mind more than his hands, and she finds comfort in the arms he slides around her after the nightmares she still suffers, more than in the orgasms he can offer. They are so very much more.
"I love you," the words are soft against the skin of her neck as he slides forcefully into her, the wood of the desk rough against her bare skin.
So very much more.
*****************
Morgana/Uther, 1,149. R, mild violence
When she is found out, it is almost a relief.
For months she struggled with the knowledge that she is what Camelot hates, that magic courses through her blood. For months she has felt so alone. She, who has always been good at secrets, hates keeping them. Whom can she tell though? She will not put Gwen in that danger, she will not place that burden on Arthur or Merlin, and she was not even sure they would understand. She conceals everything and reveals nothing, and she feels them all drift away from her.
Now, even as they all stare at her - every noble, every knight, every servant, the lack of concealment is a relief.
Morgana draws herself to her full height. She will not bow down in fear, she is more than that. She will go to her death proudly, if it comes to that. Or at least, that's what she tells herself. In the execution she isn't as sure. Still, she will maintain the pride that has become her shield. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Arthur staring, mouth agape, and Gwen with tears gathering in her eyes.
She can see Uther, and the storm clouds gathering on his face.
She is not manhandled as Sir Leon escorts her down to the dungeons; she might be a witch, but there is still something of the King's ward in there in the back of their minds. There are some who murmur she should be killed outright, that she will escape whatever means they use to hold her, but Morgana knows the consequences will come soon enough. Her magic is a useless one, at least it has been thus far. She will escape into nothing except nightmares.
For days she is left there. Morgana does not know what happens outside the walls of her cell.
On the third day they bring her some water to cleanse herself. She who is not used to the filth accepts it gracefully.
"I require privacy," she tells Sir Leon, her most frequent guard, her chin held high. It is hard to maintain a regal air in this environment, but she manages.
"I'm sorry, my lady," is all he says, and does not turn his back, but he does tactfully averts his eyes. They are very strict orders then, that have been given to her captors.
Morgana washes quickly, baring as much skin as she dares before yanking the wrinkled dress back over hers shoulders. Her look is defiant when they come in to take the basin of water away, leaving her with no luxuries again.
She almost wishes for the prophetic dreams, but here in the cell they do not come.
It is days again before he comes. One day when she wakens from a fitful sleep, curled in the chaff that lines the cell, she opens her eyes to see him standing there. There are no guards, only Uther. He looks at her, just looks at her. Morgana gets to her feet, straightening her clothes almost imperceptively. "My lord," she murmurs, a sarcastic tone in her voice. She might give a mocking curtsy, but he holds her life in his hands. She does not know what debate has raged about her fate, if there had even been any.
He is in her cell then, but there is no chance for escape. She knows even with the open cage, there are guards beyond the doors of the room. Where Uther goes, protection follows.
All of a sudden she is pinned up against the wall, Uther flat against her. His gloved hand presses against her throat. The breath comes, but it's a struggle. Her hands raise instinctively to grab at his wrists, but her grasp is ineffectual against his. She can only imagine his hatred; she was his ward, his companion, his queen in practically every way if not in literal truth. It will mirror the hatred she felt for him once; she wonders if he will show the same mercy.
"Damn you Morgana," he hisses, "damn you."
It startles her to see the tears in his eyes. There is something so much more there.
This has never been her choice, but she feels like she has betrayed him. She can't stand to see the hurt. It is not an emotion one often sees with Uther. It is tied in with the anger, and it makes it easier to forgive the hand against her throat.
As much as she feared death, as much as she feared the reaction of Arthur, Gwen, and Merlin, this she feared just as much.
"I. . . am. . . still me," she chokes out the words.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he loosens his grip. The leather rubs against her skin as she slides back down to her flat feet. Morgana gasps as the breath rushes back into her body, her hand pressed to her chest. Still, Uther doesn't move away from her.
He cuts her breath off in a different way.
His lips press against hers. It is not a gentle kiss, not the way she imagined her first real one would be. He kisses her in anger more than desire, his hands leaving bruises as they grasp, his mouth devouring her. She can't breathe, she can barely respond, and she lets him crush her - her arms hanging limply at her sides. On some level she has loved him as much as she'd hated him, then desired him, but not like this - never like this. Still, she welcomes it, because it is human contact. It is some proof he truly cares.
Uther pushes her away. His touch is gentle, but definitive. He will not meet her eyes.
"My lord," she begins, her voice trembling, but he is gone before she can say anything else - not that she is sure what she would say regardless. She is not sure there are any words that will fix this.
When her death sentence reaches her through a sobbing Gwen a week later, Morgana slips into a numb state.
She has been betrayed herself, though she knows she should have expected it. Though she showed mercy, there will be none for her. Her own betrayal is because of nothing she has done, only because of who she is, and she would give it up in a heartbeat if she could. She does not want the magic, it tortures her, if there is a way to rip it from her existence she would. How can that not be understood? How can anybody think she means malice?
How can he end her like this? She has no doubt it's his decree.
There's an ice in her that there hasn't been before.
When Merlin comes to help her escape her in the night, to secret her away from Camelot, it still hasn't melted. Morgana isn't sure that it ever will.
Hermione/Charle, 229 words. PG
It amazes him that he's content to sit here.
Normally Charlie is never content to just be still. He is outside with the dragons, he's going for a jog, he's flying when he has nothing else to do. Life for him is a never ending action sequence; there is a reason he never took a Ministry job, at least not the traditional kind, and a reason he's not working for Gringott's. Sit him down behind a desk and he starts to itch, plunk him in front of the wireless and he's finding something else to do; he's a creature of motion, it's that simple.
What he can find with her seems a contradiction.
Charlie's hands glide over the soft skin of Hermione's legs, his attention as much for that as for the Quidditch game playing in the background. She's propped them up on his lap, leaning back into the sofa. They're esconsed from the world around them, the rain pelting down on the windows, and there is no intention of leaving. He should be bored, he should be twitching, he should be wanting to get out and climb mountains.
When Hermione glances up though, from whatever complicated document she's been paying attention to, and smiles softly at him - Charlie knows.
When it comes right down to it, in this moment there is nowhere else he would rather be.
*****************
Hermione/Kingsley, 600 words. R
It should be sordid.
There are others that see it that way. He's an older man, the Minister for Magic, and she's shagging him. She must be doing it for her career in the magical law department, some whisper. He must be doing it for the sex with a younger woman, others murmur behind their backs. At the very least it must be a passing fancy, a temporary insanity that will pass when they both realize what they're doing. Hermione hears the whispers, and her eyes narrow every time. They had tried secrecy, but neither had a taste for it, besides they know there is nothing to be ashamed about.
They might whisper, but Hermione knows the truth, what she has actually found with Kingsley.
She's the last one left in the department for the night, tucked away in her miniature corner office so that she barely realizes that fact. They don't exactly give the highest priority to the woman who champions house elves and the downtrodden. She'll settle for the condescension they show though, if it means getting her laws passed. Sighing as she works, knowing there are hours she could do yet, Hermione leans back and stretches.
That's when she sees him, leaning against the door frame.
"You work too much," he says quietly, a dark impassive shape in the low light.
Hermione lets out a soft laugh, "I think that's the cauldron bottom calling the kettle black, Minister."
She has the satisfaction of watching his nostrils flare slightly. He does that every time she calls him by his title, every time she offers a 'Sir'. Normally when they are at work she is all business, but that doesn't mean she can't take a little bit of pleasure in provoking that small reaction in the normally so outwardly stoic man. Here, after hours, his eyes darken and he takes a step into her office.
"We're here alone," he says mildly, pretending to study he documents on her desk.
"So we are," Hermione says, just as mildly. This is a line that they have never crossed. She is fairly sure they will not now either. Neither of them are the type; the job important, their reputations important as well. They are not the type to shag over her desk. She is not a prude, and he even less so, but that's left for the privacy of his flat or his own house. They don't need the titillation.
She starts to question that though, because as she stands up to grab her cloak to leave for the evening Kingsley slides behind her. His lips touch her neck, and she finds herself manouevered towards the desk and bent over slightly.
Kingsley pauses. It's his way of asking for permission more than with words. Like everything that has passed between them, she doesn't stop him.
It's not a rough and frantic shagging. His hands glide worshipfully over her body, baring skin and caressing it, his bulk pressing against her. By the time he even gets to shoving her knickers aside Hermione is almost mindless from the arousal. It has always been like this between them, overwhelming. It doesn't make the relationship mindless though. She loves him for his mind more than his hands, and she finds comfort in the arms he slides around her after the nightmares she still suffers, more than in the orgasms he can offer. They are so very much more.
"I love you," the words are soft against the skin of her neck as he slides forcefully into her, the wood of the desk rough against her bare skin.
So very much more.
*****************
Morgana/Uther, 1,149. R, mild violence
When she is found out, it is almost a relief.
For months she struggled with the knowledge that she is what Camelot hates, that magic courses through her blood. For months she has felt so alone. She, who has always been good at secrets, hates keeping them. Whom can she tell though? She will not put Gwen in that danger, she will not place that burden on Arthur or Merlin, and she was not even sure they would understand. She conceals everything and reveals nothing, and she feels them all drift away from her.
Now, even as they all stare at her - every noble, every knight, every servant, the lack of concealment is a relief.
Morgana draws herself to her full height. She will not bow down in fear, she is more than that. She will go to her death proudly, if it comes to that. Or at least, that's what she tells herself. In the execution she isn't as sure. Still, she will maintain the pride that has become her shield. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Arthur staring, mouth agape, and Gwen with tears gathering in her eyes.
She can see Uther, and the storm clouds gathering on his face.
She is not manhandled as Sir Leon escorts her down to the dungeons; she might be a witch, but there is still something of the King's ward in there in the back of their minds. There are some who murmur she should be killed outright, that she will escape whatever means they use to hold her, but Morgana knows the consequences will come soon enough. Her magic is a useless one, at least it has been thus far. She will escape into nothing except nightmares.
For days she is left there. Morgana does not know what happens outside the walls of her cell.
On the third day they bring her some water to cleanse herself. She who is not used to the filth accepts it gracefully.
"I require privacy," she tells Sir Leon, her most frequent guard, her chin held high. It is hard to maintain a regal air in this environment, but she manages.
"I'm sorry, my lady," is all he says, and does not turn his back, but he does tactfully averts his eyes. They are very strict orders then, that have been given to her captors.
Morgana washes quickly, baring as much skin as she dares before yanking the wrinkled dress back over hers shoulders. Her look is defiant when they come in to take the basin of water away, leaving her with no luxuries again.
She almost wishes for the prophetic dreams, but here in the cell they do not come.
It is days again before he comes. One day when she wakens from a fitful sleep, curled in the chaff that lines the cell, she opens her eyes to see him standing there. There are no guards, only Uther. He looks at her, just looks at her. Morgana gets to her feet, straightening her clothes almost imperceptively. "My lord," she murmurs, a sarcastic tone in her voice. She might give a mocking curtsy, but he holds her life in his hands. She does not know what debate has raged about her fate, if there had even been any.
He is in her cell then, but there is no chance for escape. She knows even with the open cage, there are guards beyond the doors of the room. Where Uther goes, protection follows.
All of a sudden she is pinned up against the wall, Uther flat against her. His gloved hand presses against her throat. The breath comes, but it's a struggle. Her hands raise instinctively to grab at his wrists, but her grasp is ineffectual against his. She can only imagine his hatred; she was his ward, his companion, his queen in practically every way if not in literal truth. It will mirror the hatred she felt for him once; she wonders if he will show the same mercy.
"Damn you Morgana," he hisses, "damn you."
It startles her to see the tears in his eyes. There is something so much more there.
This has never been her choice, but she feels like she has betrayed him. She can't stand to see the hurt. It is not an emotion one often sees with Uther. It is tied in with the anger, and it makes it easier to forgive the hand against her throat.
As much as she feared death, as much as she feared the reaction of Arthur, Gwen, and Merlin, this she feared just as much.
"I. . . am. . . still me," she chokes out the words.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he loosens his grip. The leather rubs against her skin as she slides back down to her flat feet. Morgana gasps as the breath rushes back into her body, her hand pressed to her chest. Still, Uther doesn't move away from her.
He cuts her breath off in a different way.
His lips press against hers. It is not a gentle kiss, not the way she imagined her first real one would be. He kisses her in anger more than desire, his hands leaving bruises as they grasp, his mouth devouring her. She can't breathe, she can barely respond, and she lets him crush her - her arms hanging limply at her sides. On some level she has loved him as much as she'd hated him, then desired him, but not like this - never like this. Still, she welcomes it, because it is human contact. It is some proof he truly cares.
Uther pushes her away. His touch is gentle, but definitive. He will not meet her eyes.
"My lord," she begins, her voice trembling, but he is gone before she can say anything else - not that she is sure what she would say regardless. She is not sure there are any words that will fix this.
When her death sentence reaches her through a sobbing Gwen a week later, Morgana slips into a numb state.
She has been betrayed herself, though she knows she should have expected it. Though she showed mercy, there will be none for her. Her own betrayal is because of nothing she has done, only because of who she is, and she would give it up in a heartbeat if she could. She does not want the magic, it tortures her, if there is a way to rip it from her existence she would. How can that not be understood? How can anybody think she means malice?
How can he end her like this? She has no doubt it's his decree.
There's an ice in her that there hasn't been before.
When Merlin comes to help her escape her in the night, to secret her away from Camelot, it still hasn't melted. Morgana isn't sure that it ever will.