plotbunnies

WIP Amnesty Day!

I don't even remember writing most of this stuff, much less know how I was going to finish it. Maybe the fic gnomes planted it on my hard drive at night!

This stuff ranges from old to really really old, and is all pretty much dead or just really, really resting.

Random gen, Petunia Dursley, post-OOTP
Petunia Dursley found herself feeding biscuits and sweets and all manner of nice things to Harry Potter. At least, she kept putting them on the table every day, and she and this sullen, dark-haired stranger would pick at them. She liked to see a boy with some appetite, she thought savagely, watching him listlessly fork his mashed potatoes and then set them back down again. Her Duddykins had such a lusty disposition, just like his father, always grasping and snatching and consuming. That was at least something she could respect. Her own potatoes were untouched.

Her thin lips compressed and her eyebrows drew together as she contemplated his bowed head: the black tangle of hair, the thick frames of his glasses, the scar just visible on the pale skin between the two. Bad enough when all she had had to trouble her was that unruly hair, that unsightly scar, those sullen green eyes fixing her eerily from behind those lenses. These constant irritations were the least of what Lily had wrought when she spawned and orphaned this unsatisfactory child.

She shook off the memory of that cold, grey chill that stole into her mind unbidden. The pot roast in front of her made her vaguely ill. She pushed them away and jerked out of her chair, stalking off to take up her habitual place in the front parlour, carefully ignoring Harry as he swept the supper dishes away and stomped off to his bedroom. There was a perfectly nice rice pudding sitting in the fridge for a sweet, but it would keep well enough for them to not eat it tomorrow.

Petunia’s evenings, like her mornings, her teatimes, her afternoons and, on occasion, her wee hours of the night, hung heavily on her hands now that Vernon and Dudley were not there to place demands upon her. She switched on the telly, and watched not only the usual news programme, but everything which came after it as well, as she fiddled aimlessly with the paper and the other post.

There had been no word from her husband and her son since the rather rude postcard, inscribed, “Having wonderful time glad Potter isn’t here,” which had arrived from Paris three weeks previously. She had tacked it up on the fridge, thought better of it, and shoved it in a drawer instead. She was sure they were having a wonderful time, well out from anyone’s watchful eye, vacationing all summer while leaving her alone with this miserable brat whom any horror might follow home.

“Come to that, he’s none of my blood,” Vernon had said, quite nastily, when the roaring had subsided. “Come to that, I don’t see that Dudley and I need to stick around waiting for these dementors to slit our throats in our sleep to protect your sister’s unnatural son. Come to that, they can spare me at Grunnings, though only if I insist on it, of course. Come to that, Petunia.”

But there were things that Petunia Dursley feared, and Vernon Dursley could scarcely have come any higher than third on that list no matter how he tried. Those dementors, they came second; she knew they were capable of far worse than throat-slitting.

“If you feel it best,” she had said, wearily, and the two of them had hustled off faster than was seemly, or decent, or ordinary, and the neighbours had begun to talk, but Petunia did not care.

An advert for a washing-up liquid gave her a rather compelling idea. She found the bottles of vastly overpriced wine that Vernon kept for entertaining his clients and took one at random. The label bore no instructions for how to proceed, unfortunately, so she began by shaking it, then fished around for the corkscrew, which she worked haltingly into the green glass neck of the bottle. She tugged at the metal handle as she cradled the bottle awkwardly under one bony arm, and finally the cork disengaged with a soft pop and a slosh of red liquid on the polished tiles.

She heard a flurry of frantic footfalls and whirled around to find Harry behind her, searching the house for something. When he saw her, he froze, seeming relieved for a moment before his lip curled in disgust. She longed to strangle him in that instant, impertinent invading good-for-nothing. It was nothing to him what she did, nothing at all. It was as well for him that he turned away and slipped back to his room without breathing a word.

The wine mostly made her sleepy, which was welcome enough. She left the dirty flutes in front of the telly, donned a bilious white nightdress and crawled into bed, slipping between the sheets on her side as she always did, even though every morning these past weeks she found herself lying on the sagging side of the mattress where Vernon usually slept.


One thing that never happened to Lancelot du Lac, the giant perv, although he keeps fantasizing about it
The little page boy that they called Lancelot huddled on his little straw pallet, pulling his thin blanket about his broad shoulders. He never minded the discomfort or the night’s chill, and now he noticed them less than ever before. All his thoughts were completely occupied by That Man.

King Arthur. Mentally, he was preparing himself to wrap his tongue around the savage English tang of it, with that odd th sound they made. Lancelot intended to emulate King Arthur in every conceivable way, not merely in the fantastically high principles that he had put forward for them all.

Such a fine, imposing figure as he had cut, sitting astride his horse and stirring them all up in his impeccable Latin with that funny English accent. Never a figure of fun, in spite of—or, rather, Lancelot corrected himself reverently, because of—his own self-deprecating humor. Even as a boy, Lancelot was dimly aware that a lack of a sense of humor numbered among his many grievous faults, but he felt that this man could make him do anything, even laugh at himself.

He lusted for Arthur with his body and his heart and his soul. His seduction was complete. It was a feeling so intoxicating that it made every passion that he had previously experienced seem hollow. Certainly he couldn’t sleep—he felt like he would never sleep again, because every moment he slept was another moment he couldn’t spend working for, or at the very least thinking about, King Arthur. He twitched off the blanket and crept out to the gardens.

Lancelot paced back and forth as though there were something vested in it. He saw the lovely, orderly plants in their cultivated forms, and smelled their sweet sharp spicy scents, but nothing charmed him. He had already been mesmerized.

“I say! Is there someone else there?”

Lancelot froze. The voice was bluff, and hearty, and undeniably English.

“What are you doing awake and about at this time of night, boy?” King Arthur stared at him by dim moonlight

“I might ask you the same question,” he responded promptly.

“Well, sometimes, my boy, a man may have a perfectly exhausting day, beginning with the tail-end of a journey on horseback of many miles and culminating in a great many speeches delivered before a great many men, and yet still be unable to sleep.”

“Yes, and sometimes a boy may have a perfectly exhausting day, running errands all day long at a feverish pace to make up for the hours he spent listening to a fine speaker, and yet be unable to sleep,” Lancelot replied, seriously. Arthur laughed; a fine, full bellylaugh.

“Indeed he might, indeed he might, although I must say, most nights when I was young, I slept as the dead. So you thought I was a fine speaker, eh?”

“Oh yes, sir!” Lancelot met Arthur’s gaze square-on. “I made up my mind as soon as I heard you that I was going to devote myself to becoming worthy to sit at your round table. Might for right, and the strong protecting the weak…” His piping voice trailed off a trifle. “Only, it’ll be most difficult for me to make myself become good enough, you see.”

“Really?” Arthur asked, gravely. “What could possibly be so difficult about it?”

Lancelot stared down at his shoe. “Should a knight always tell the truth?”

Arthur rubbed his chin. “I don’t know about ‘always’,” he said, finally. “I’m not very clever about these things, and I should like to give it some more thought. And see what Merlyn has to say about it, of course. But,” he smiled, “if you are asking if you should answer me truthfully, I would appreciate it if you did.”

That was all the encouragement that Lancelot needed, although the words were still difficult to choke out. “I want—things. I want to do things. With boys.” He felt himself flush. “I never told anyone. Sometimes I imagine things. I imagine them at night when I’m supposed to be asleep. Sometimes—sometimes they involve doing things. To hurt other boys.” He looked up. Arthur was shaking his head, gravely.

“That simply won’t do at all,” he said, “A knight should never use his strength to hurt those who are weaker than he is. Worse, I can already see that that you are a very strong young man. You could hurt someone very badly.”

“I know,” Lancelot said, “I know.” His head hung with shame once more.

“But still you would like to join my round table some day,” Arthur went on.

“Yes. Oh yes!”

“Well, then.”

Lancelot heard a sound, a simple singing sound of a simple thing that he’d heard all his life, yet shiver-making. King Arthur had pulled Excalibur from its sheath and he held it before him meditatively. It shone dim in the moonlight.


Fic that was supposed to end up in a Lily/James kinky sex games kind of place, and never even got close
When James Potter came to Hogwarts, the Ministry decree banning corporal punishment in magical boarding schools and similar establishments had been in effect for five years. The sixth and seventh years didn't mind sharing their war stories, though: Ben Widdershins especially liked to bring up the time that Filch had caught him sneaking out into the Forbidden Forrest and he'd been caned for it – "that old bastard striped me within an inch of my life, said it was the fourth time he'd caught me out there and clearly he hadn't beaten me hard enough the first three times." The other sixth years vouched for the welts, which they'd inspected afterwards. "And the whole time, I had to keep my mouth shut because I'd stashed my bloodroot there," Widdershins concluded triumphantly. "The next day I mixed up a Barbarbarbarus Potion and slipped it into the pumpkin juice. No one could understand a word anyone said for a week, and they never did figure out who did it, either."

James thrilled with admiration, and perhaps with something else. He and Sirius Black immediately set about plotting all sorts of mischief that would top anything that had ever been done at Hogwarts before. On the whole, they were fabulously successful at this, especially when they teamed up with Remus Lupin, who could be very quiet right up until he came up with the wickedest scheme of all, and Peter Pettigrew, who was loyal as loyal and willing to do anything – anything – for his friends. With the invention of the Maurader's Map – one of Remus's ideas, naturally – they were golden. They were never caught at anything, no matter how audacious. James Potter had it all: the sport, the marks, the family, the best friends in the world. What else could he possibly want?

It hit him in fifth year, along with the trail of dark black curls down his belly and spot on his nose that would not go away. He needed a girlfriend, preferably as soon as possible. Specifically, he needed Lily Evans, who'd been made Gryffindor prefect with Lupin and was always after him for one thing or another. She was red-haired and gorgeous and practically popping out of her robes and he was going to ask her out straightaway and then he'd have everything that he ever wanted.

"What d'ye suppose she meant, 'drop dead'?" James asked, still absently rubbing at his cheek. "Perhaps she wants me to take her by the Shrieking Shack next weekend? After all, she doesn't know it's not haunted."

"Not sure that's it, mate," Remus said, shaking his head ruefully.

James turned to Sirius. "You were there. What kind of vibe would you say that you got off her?"

"I think it was sort of a 'not if you were the last man on earth and I were the last woman on earth' vibe," Sirius volunteered helpfully. "Perhaps that was because that was what she said."

"You can't trust anything women say, you know. They're always playing hard to get," James said. "What do you say, Peter?"

"You're bleeding, you know. Think she caught your glasses when she hit you. Should I find something to put on that?"

"Eh, it'll be fine," James said broodily, wiping his bloody fingers off on his robes. Of course, he was perfectly confident that Lily would succumb to his charms soon enough. It was just that he'd never had to wait before, so it was a novel and less than pleasant experience for him.

For once, it seemed that James's confidence might have been misplaced. Lily Evans seemed entirely disinclined to swoon at his feet. The results of his attempts to attract her attention ranged from the bad (such as the filling of the quidditch pitch with lilies before the Gryffindor/Slytherin match, giving any number of students, including Lily herself and the Gryffindor seeker a bad case of allergies) to the really, really bad (such as the Chocolate Frog Incident, about which the less said, the better), and James was starting to wonder if she actually didn't fancy him or something. On the face of it, it didn't seem possible, and yet, all signs pointed to yes.


Totally stillborn Sawyer/Sayid, written back when they were so canon it hurt
He had stumbled a few feet from Doctor Jackass’s cave of healing when his brain started working again and he asked himself what the goddam hell had just happened. Things had started out fine—things had started out perfect, actually, with the Butcher of Iraq bleeding and cowering on the ground at his feet—and then somehow, it had all gone wrong.
  • Current Mood: embarrassed embarrassed
I want to know what happens next in the Lancelot one!  Although of course I can imagine.  But I did rather like that one, so if one day fortune smiles upon us and the planets align properly and you write an ending, do remember your devoted fans, and grace us with a glimpse of it?  I ask not for the promise of an ending, merely for the promise of being able to read it, should it come into existence. :)
Awww! Well, since you ask so nicely, I may have to go back to working on it after all. *g* Besides, I was looking for an excuse to reread The Once and Future King.
Hooray! *celebrates*

And there's no better reason to reread a book than to find more ways to exploit it for erotic fiction.
Aww, thank you!

I always feel rather sorry for Petunia -- if I were her, I would have been incredibly jealous of Lily, too. So she tries to compensate by being the most normal person ever and marrying the perfectly dreadful Vernon Dursley, and she's just trying to live her normal life, when Harry gets dropped on her doorstep. I noticed when I reread PS recently that in the first chapter, Vernon seems to be very much the henpecked husband, but then in the later chapters, he has become the dominant force in the household, which is I think attributable to Harry's presence constantly undermining her position in their family where normality is prized above all. She's really gotten the short end of the stick.
so, i found your lj by accident, because i was google image searching "ordinary princess," and i saw that you had the coolest icon collection ever (go vicky bliss!), and i looked at your lj, and lancelot/arthur is one of my OTPs (actually, it's more like lancelot/arthur/guinevere OT3, but close enough), and i see babysitter's club/bible crossover fic, and can i friend you?
Of course, feel free! Besides, you clearly have excellent taste. ;)

Lancelot/Arthur/Guinevere is totally the OT3 of all time. They all would have lived happily ever after if they had threesomes back then, damn it!
(Anonymous)
I’ve meant to post about something like this on my webpage and you gave me an idea. Cheers..
(Anonymous)
thanks amigo! great post!