shocfix (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} shocfix) wrote,@ 2001-02-11 01:00:00 |
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VD Celebrations - DC/JP - NC-17
Title: VD Celebrations
Author:shocfix
Pairing: Dennis Creevey/James II
Words: 1800
Rating: NC-17
Written forviolet_quill’s SLASH SUPERCHALLENGE, where I was offered Remus/Neville or Dennis Creevey/James II or Frank Longbottom/Peter Pettigrew.
And I don’t write Marauders’ era characters… so…
VD Celebrations
****
It’s not that I’m uncomfortable in the Wizarding World, but it has never had the same appeal, since Colin died. Without his enthusiasm, everything seemed grey scale. Washed out. Bland.
I never returned to school and, without O.W.L.s, I was unlikely to get a job. I tried the local Comprehensive, cocked that up, dropped out of school completely, and, even though I wasn’t really old enough, worked part time at the dairy, with my dad, and then part time helping Aberforth Dumbledore out at the Hog’s Head.
He was happy to have a young pair of hands around the place, even if I didn’t know all the Domestic Charms. Well, not happy, exactly. Just less miserable.
The Hog’s Head was still full of the shabbier, dodgier residents of Hogsmeade, but I couldn’t face all the happy faces at the Leaky or the Three Broomsticks, anyway; people claiming they’d actively supported the Chosen One, all along; people moving on, rebuilding their lives. Clapping Harry Potter on the back and offering to buy him a drink.
To his partial credit, he didn’t seem to enjoy it, and I liked the protective way Ron Weasley or Neville Longbottom shielded him from the gawping ghouls who still wanted a piece of him.
But if it wasn’t for the inexplicable attraction of Harry Potter, maybe my brother wouldn’t have snuck back into the school. Wouldn’t have died at the hands of the Death Eaters. I can just picture Colin’s reaction to that, though. He’d be furious with me; of course he’d been doing the right thing, fighting, facing the Mudblood haters, it wasn’t just for Harry.
Bloody Harry, bloody Potter.
So, I was fourteen when my brother died, maybe seventeen when I drifted back into the Wizarding World and started working at the pub. Maybe nineteen the first time Harry Potter arrested me.
There were always goods and substances being traded at the Hog’s Head; I just wasn’t very good at it, yet.
Or very good at picking my fights.
It’s a really stupid thing to do, assaulting an Auror, and I didn’t even use my wand.
I punched him.
You should have seen the look on his face.
I threw myself at him and pounded him with my fists, resenting my brother’s death and shouting gibberish into his face.
Suddenly I felt myself being hauled off him, by the scruff of my neck, and found myself dangling in the hands of his partner. Not that sort of partner, although there were plenty of rumours about the two of them, the Hog’s Head being as it is, and Potter and Weasley sticking their noses into our business rather too often.
And we weren’t the only ones sniggering at all the hoo-ha over the ‘Potter-Weasley’ wedding, wondering if Harry’d put back Ginny’s veil, only to find he’d married her brother.
A lot of people thought Colin fancied Harry Potter, but they were barking up the wrong brother. Colin was straight, yet… enthusiastic.
Not that I ever fancied Potter.
I prefer redheads, often seeking out a skinny, freckled face in Muggle pubs and slipping into the gents for a quick hand job, and I was far from unhappy to be hauled off by Ron Weasley.
Anyway, there I was, finally being manhandled by a bloke I’d always fancied, and being given another chance by Potter, because he felt guilty about getting my brother killed.
He still arrested me over the Class C Untradables, but he didn’t press assault charges. If he thought I’d be grateful, he had another thing coming.
Over the years I’ve pretty much alternated between petty crime and bartending. Aberforth and then his successors have let me come and go rather accommodatingly, letting me walk back into the bar and pick up my apron, whenever I got out of prison.
Potter has alternated between running the Auror Department and impregnating his wife and some of the redheads wandering around Hogsmeade, the last few years, have been his. Not many of the school children come in here, of course, but I’ve seen them.
Even though the Great Victory was all but launched from the pub, Aberforth’s grumpiness saw off all the do gooders, and the shiny, happy people paraded and celebrated down the High Street and into the Three Broomsticks, every year, on Victory Day – led by Potter’s little niece, all blond ringlets and shining eyes.
I stayed at the pub, serving the rest of my grumpy and cynical peer group.
Imagine my surprise, this year, to have a young, red headed, grumpy customer, hunched over the bar and staring into his drink, late in the evening.
He tossed it back and I refilled his glass.
“Not going to the VD celebrations?” I asked. “Twenty-fifth anniversary and all that.”
He shrugged one shoulder.
“Won’t Daddy be disappointed?” I said.
Angry blue eyes flashed up at me.
“Hardly,” he said. “My father doesn’t attend the celebrations; he leaves that to lesser mortals.”
He looked mutinous and young and miserable, and so much like his uncle at that age that I found my cynical, middle-aged heart wanting to comfort him.
And do much more.
I poured him another drink.
“I’m the last person to stand up for him,” I said. “But I don’t think that’s entirely fair, is it?”
He snorted.
“My mother told me about you,” he said. “You and your brother adored him.”
“No,” I said flatly.
“No?”
“My brother... admired him,” I admitted. “But he wasn’t queer.”
He raised an amused eyebrow.
“My brother isn’t queer, either,” he said dryly.
I made a ridiculously startled noise and he chuckled.
“The Chosen One’s son ‘bats for the other side’?” I asked. “What does Daddy think of that?”
“Daddy doesn’t know,” he said archly. “I’m not stupid enough to do anything at home or school.”
“What are you telling me for, you little fool?” I snapped.
He looked startled.
“I... you... you said you used to...” he stammered.
“Never tell a petty criminal that the Chief Auror’s son is queer,” I said. “First rule of how not to be blackmailed.”
“I said you admired him and you said you were queer,” he muttered.
“I never fancied your father,” I said firmly.
He looked sulky and mutinous and simply delicious.
“But your uncle is another matter,” I found myself saying.
His eyes narrowed, speculatively.
“Everyone says I look just like my Uncle Ron,” he said.
I looked at his shaggy hair and bright blue eyes and long fingers wrapped around his drink and knew I it was a really stupid thing to do, but the little idiot was flirting with me and was clearly a danger to himself.
I opened the hatch in the bar and nodded to the back passage. His eyes opened wide and he licked his lips and stood up and followed me.
When we stood in the shadows, I turned and looked up into his nervous face.
“Have you done this before?” I asked.
“’Course,” he said. “I’m eighteen.”
Shaking my head at his indignation, I knelt down at his feet, enjoying the gasp that was jolted out of him. I’d be surprised if he’d done more than give some anonymous bloke in a pub a clumsy hand job.
“Keep quiet,” I said. “I can’t close the door to the bar.”
He leant against the wall, breathing audibly as I rubbed my hand up and down the noticeable bulge in front of my face. I unzipped his jeans and slid them and his boxers down his slim legs, inhaling deeply as his cock sprung free.
It was long and thick and arching out of crisp ginger curls: the definitive Weasley cock.
He swore as I took him in my mouth, his hands automatically coming up to hold my head in place, thrusting deeper into my throat as I sucked on him. I hummed a ‘no’ around the head of his cock, placing my own hands on his hips and pressing him back against the wall.
“Oh, fuck, yes,” he murmured, submitting and tangling his fingers in my hair and guiding my head as it bobbed up and down my shaft. “Pleasepleaseplease suck god...”
“Hush, Weasley,” I hissed, letting his cock slide out of my mouth. “The customers.”
“Hush, Potter,” he moaned.
“Don’t spoil it,” I whispered against the head of his cock, stroking his spit slicked shaft with one hand as I tugged on his balls with the other.
“Weasley’s good,” he gasped, biting his hand to stop crying out as I swallowed him deep and sucked hard and he climaxed in my mouth, his cock pulsing on my tongue.
I let his cock slip free and sat back on my heels, inhaling his warm, sweaty scent as he braced his hands against the wall behind him, locking his knees and breathing hard.
“Put it away,” I said sternly, getting to my feet.
He tucked his damp, spent cock away and zipped up, before gesturing vaguely at my groin.
“I can...” he said, nodding significantly and making a wanking motion.
“Kneel down,” I said, enjoying the way his eyes opened wide before he nodded nervously and sank to his knees.
“I don’t know what...”
“Just open your mouth,” I whispered, undoing my robes and freeing my own aching cock.
He parted his lips and his eyes flicked between my face and my rapidly approaching erection.
“Wider,” I said.
He opened his mouth and I looked down at him and stroked myself. Running the head of my cock round his lips before resting it on his pouting lower lip, I buried my other hand in his hair and tipped back his head, watching his wide blue eyes as I wanked, feeling the tip of his tongue flickering against me.
I tugged harder, my vision blurring as I came, the red haired teenager in front of me looking more and more like his uncle as he swallowed what spurted into his mouth.
Wiping his lips on the back of his hand, he stood up.
“Um,” he said.
“I have to get back to my customers,” I said, doing up my robes.
“’Course,” he muttered.
“I won’t tell anybody,” I said gruffly. “My brother wouldn’t want me to tell anybody.”
“Right,” he said. “Thanks. And... thanks.”
I snorted.
“Tell your parents,” I said.
“About this?” he gasped.
“About you!” I said, rolling my eyes. “They should hear it from you.”
He nodded glumly and followed me back into the bar, sniffing what was left in his glass gingerly, before deciding he didn’t trust my customers not to have spiked it.
So.
He wasn’t as stupid as he looked.
Waving goodbye, he opened the door and stepped out into the warm spring evening.
Smiling wryly to myself about my new top secret knowledge, I poured myself a drink and toasted my brother’s memory.
Maybe my life wasn’t perfect, but nor was Harry Potter’s.
Title: VD Celebrations
Author:
shocfixPairing: Dennis Creevey/James II
Words: 1800
Rating: NC-17
Written for
violet_quill’s SLASH SUPERCHALLENGE, where I was offered Remus/Neville or Dennis Creevey/James II or Frank Longbottom/Peter Pettigrew.And I don’t write Marauders’ era characters… so…
VD Celebrations
****
It’s not that I’m uncomfortable in the Wizarding World, but it has never had the same appeal, since Colin died. Without his enthusiasm, everything seemed grey scale. Washed out. Bland.
I never returned to school and, without O.W.L.s, I was unlikely to get a job. I tried the local Comprehensive, cocked that up, dropped out of school completely, and, even though I wasn’t really old enough, worked part time at the dairy, with my dad, and then part time helping Aberforth Dumbledore out at the Hog’s Head.
He was happy to have a young pair of hands around the place, even if I didn’t know all the Domestic Charms. Well, not happy, exactly. Just less miserable.
The Hog’s Head was still full of the shabbier, dodgier residents of Hogsmeade, but I couldn’t face all the happy faces at the Leaky or the Three Broomsticks, anyway; people claiming they’d actively supported the Chosen One, all along; people moving on, rebuilding their lives. Clapping Harry Potter on the back and offering to buy him a drink.
To his partial credit, he didn’t seem to enjoy it, and I liked the protective way Ron Weasley or Neville Longbottom shielded him from the gawping ghouls who still wanted a piece of him.
But if it wasn’t for the inexplicable attraction of Harry Potter, maybe my brother wouldn’t have snuck back into the school. Wouldn’t have died at the hands of the Death Eaters. I can just picture Colin’s reaction to that, though. He’d be furious with me; of course he’d been doing the right thing, fighting, facing the Mudblood haters, it wasn’t just for Harry.
Bloody Harry, bloody Potter.
So, I was fourteen when my brother died, maybe seventeen when I drifted back into the Wizarding World and started working at the pub. Maybe nineteen the first time Harry Potter arrested me.
There were always goods and substances being traded at the Hog’s Head; I just wasn’t very good at it, yet.
Or very good at picking my fights.
It’s a really stupid thing to do, assaulting an Auror, and I didn’t even use my wand.
I punched him.
You should have seen the look on his face.
I threw myself at him and pounded him with my fists, resenting my brother’s death and shouting gibberish into his face.
Suddenly I felt myself being hauled off him, by the scruff of my neck, and found myself dangling in the hands of his partner. Not that sort of partner, although there were plenty of rumours about the two of them, the Hog’s Head being as it is, and Potter and Weasley sticking their noses into our business rather too often.
And we weren’t the only ones sniggering at all the hoo-ha over the ‘Potter-Weasley’ wedding, wondering if Harry’d put back Ginny’s veil, only to find he’d married her brother.
A lot of people thought Colin fancied Harry Potter, but they were barking up the wrong brother. Colin was straight, yet… enthusiastic.
Not that I ever fancied Potter.
I prefer redheads, often seeking out a skinny, freckled face in Muggle pubs and slipping into the gents for a quick hand job, and I was far from unhappy to be hauled off by Ron Weasley.
Anyway, there I was, finally being manhandled by a bloke I’d always fancied, and being given another chance by Potter, because he felt guilty about getting my brother killed.
He still arrested me over the Class C Untradables, but he didn’t press assault charges. If he thought I’d be grateful, he had another thing coming.
Over the years I’ve pretty much alternated between petty crime and bartending. Aberforth and then his successors have let me come and go rather accommodatingly, letting me walk back into the bar and pick up my apron, whenever I got out of prison.
Potter has alternated between running the Auror Department and impregnating his wife and some of the redheads wandering around Hogsmeade, the last few years, have been his. Not many of the school children come in here, of course, but I’ve seen them.
Even though the Great Victory was all but launched from the pub, Aberforth’s grumpiness saw off all the do gooders, and the shiny, happy people paraded and celebrated down the High Street and into the Three Broomsticks, every year, on Victory Day – led by Potter’s little niece, all blond ringlets and shining eyes.
I stayed at the pub, serving the rest of my grumpy and cynical peer group.
Imagine my surprise, this year, to have a young, red headed, grumpy customer, hunched over the bar and staring into his drink, late in the evening.
He tossed it back and I refilled his glass.
“Not going to the VD celebrations?” I asked. “Twenty-fifth anniversary and all that.”
He shrugged one shoulder.
“Won’t Daddy be disappointed?” I said.
Angry blue eyes flashed up at me.
“Hardly,” he said. “My father doesn’t attend the celebrations; he leaves that to lesser mortals.”
He looked mutinous and young and miserable, and so much like his uncle at that age that I found my cynical, middle-aged heart wanting to comfort him.
And do much more.
I poured him another drink.
“I’m the last person to stand up for him,” I said. “But I don’t think that’s entirely fair, is it?”
He snorted.
“My mother told me about you,” he said. “You and your brother adored him.”
“No,” I said flatly.
“No?”
“My brother... admired him,” I admitted. “But he wasn’t queer.”
He raised an amused eyebrow.
“My brother isn’t queer, either,” he said dryly.
I made a ridiculously startled noise and he chuckled.
“The Chosen One’s son ‘bats for the other side’?” I asked. “What does Daddy think of that?”
“Daddy doesn’t know,” he said archly. “I’m not stupid enough to do anything at home or school.”
“What are you telling me for, you little fool?” I snapped.
He looked startled.
“I... you... you said you used to...” he stammered.
“Never tell a petty criminal that the Chief Auror’s son is queer,” I said. “First rule of how not to be blackmailed.”
“I said you admired him and you said you were queer,” he muttered.
“I never fancied your father,” I said firmly.
He looked sulky and mutinous and simply delicious.
“But your uncle is another matter,” I found myself saying.
His eyes narrowed, speculatively.
“Everyone says I look just like my Uncle Ron,” he said.
I looked at his shaggy hair and bright blue eyes and long fingers wrapped around his drink and knew I it was a really stupid thing to do, but the little idiot was flirting with me and was clearly a danger to himself.
I opened the hatch in the bar and nodded to the back passage. His eyes opened wide and he licked his lips and stood up and followed me.
When we stood in the shadows, I turned and looked up into his nervous face.
“Have you done this before?” I asked.
“’Course,” he said. “I’m eighteen.”
Shaking my head at his indignation, I knelt down at his feet, enjoying the gasp that was jolted out of him. I’d be surprised if he’d done more than give some anonymous bloke in a pub a clumsy hand job.
“Keep quiet,” I said. “I can’t close the door to the bar.”
He leant against the wall, breathing audibly as I rubbed my hand up and down the noticeable bulge in front of my face. I unzipped his jeans and slid them and his boxers down his slim legs, inhaling deeply as his cock sprung free.
It was long and thick and arching out of crisp ginger curls: the definitive Weasley cock.
He swore as I took him in my mouth, his hands automatically coming up to hold my head in place, thrusting deeper into my throat as I sucked on him. I hummed a ‘no’ around the head of his cock, placing my own hands on his hips and pressing him back against the wall.
“Oh, fuck, yes,” he murmured, submitting and tangling his fingers in my hair and guiding my head as it bobbed up and down my shaft. “Pleasepleaseplease suck god...”
“Hush, Weasley,” I hissed, letting his cock slide out of my mouth. “The customers.”
“Hush, Potter,” he moaned.
“Don’t spoil it,” I whispered against the head of his cock, stroking his spit slicked shaft with one hand as I tugged on his balls with the other.
“Weasley’s good,” he gasped, biting his hand to stop crying out as I swallowed him deep and sucked hard and he climaxed in my mouth, his cock pulsing on my tongue.
I let his cock slip free and sat back on my heels, inhaling his warm, sweaty scent as he braced his hands against the wall behind him, locking his knees and breathing hard.
“Put it away,” I said sternly, getting to my feet.
He tucked his damp, spent cock away and zipped up, before gesturing vaguely at my groin.
“I can...” he said, nodding significantly and making a wanking motion.
“Kneel down,” I said, enjoying the way his eyes opened wide before he nodded nervously and sank to his knees.
“I don’t know what...”
“Just open your mouth,” I whispered, undoing my robes and freeing my own aching cock.
He parted his lips and his eyes flicked between my face and my rapidly approaching erection.
“Wider,” I said.
He opened his mouth and I looked down at him and stroked myself. Running the head of my cock round his lips before resting it on his pouting lower lip, I buried my other hand in his hair and tipped back his head, watching his wide blue eyes as I wanked, feeling the tip of his tongue flickering against me.
I tugged harder, my vision blurring as I came, the red haired teenager in front of me looking more and more like his uncle as he swallowed what spurted into his mouth.
Wiping his lips on the back of his hand, he stood up.
“Um,” he said.
“I have to get back to my customers,” I said, doing up my robes.
“’Course,” he muttered.
“I won’t tell anybody,” I said gruffly. “My brother wouldn’t want me to tell anybody.”
“Right,” he said. “Thanks. And... thanks.”
I snorted.
“Tell your parents,” I said.
“About this?” he gasped.
“About you!” I said, rolling my eyes. “They should hear it from you.”
He nodded glumly and followed me back into the bar, sniffing what was left in his glass gingerly, before deciding he didn’t trust my customers not to have spiked it.
So.
He wasn’t as stupid as he looked.
Waving goodbye, he opened the door and stepped out into the warm spring evening.
Smiling wryly to myself about my new top secret knowledge, I poured myself a drink and toasted my brother’s memory.
Maybe my life wasn’t perfect, but nor was Harry Potter’s.