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500 Friends Ficlets

I took prompts on the occasion of being friended by 500 people. (Sadly, the prompt post and outstanding prompts were lost to my back-up snafu.) These are the ficlets which survived, and I apologize profusely for the loss of the prompts that I will now never write.

Please remember that I don't provide warnings for my drabbles and ficlets!

1. For xanthophyllippa, who requested "Snape/Hermione/Minerva: flexibility, raspberry, fur."

A Rewarding Display (NC-17; Snape/Hermione/Minerva; 665 words)

Note: This drabble is set in the same universe as Showing Severus.

Mrs. Riddle was prepared to be generous with her husband's most valued servant, which was why she had removed Hermione to Severus' chambers with the help of a special raspberry cordial.

The silly chit had thought it was a concentration draught.

"I knew you'd want this one," Minerva told Severus, whose eyes were fixed upon Hermione's nude, struggling body as she tested the flexibility of the fur-lined restraints. "Happy Christmas."

"It's wrong," Severus said, hoarsely, "to find her so silent—Lady Riddle."

"There's no need to stand on ceremony with me now," Minerva chided, banishing her silencing spell—and her clothing—with a casual wave of her hand.

"You bitch! You tricked me! I thoughmmph!"

"If you bite me," Minerva warned Hermione, while straddling her, "I'll peel your tongue out in strips—now, put it to use."

"She's . . . more advanced than I would have credited her," Severus whispered, after he'd removed his clothing and approached the lab table on which Hermione was spread open for him.

"Oh! That's true—you lick, too—I want to see her writhe."

"Stop crying, Granger," Severus ordered, summoning a phial.

"Wha—what's that?" Minerva asked, while her fingers tweaked her nipples.

"Watch," Severus replied, uncorking the phial and spreading a bit of the oil it contained on his fingers before thrusting three of them deeply inside Hermione's cunt.

The effect was instantaneous: Hermione's body went rigid as a strangled keening escaped her muffled mouth and Minerva gasped, and then Hermione began to thrash in as unrestrained a manner as Minerva had ever witnessed a pet behave—she had to lean forward and rest her hands against the table for support to prevent herself from being thrown off her perch.

Severus leaned forward and captured Minerva's mouth with his own, thrusting his tongue against hers in time with his flicking fingertips over Hermione's clit.

Minerva broke their kiss. "Oil of Wanting, Oil of Wanting, OIL OF WANTING!" she cried, coming hard as Hermione sucked her labia and clit hard into her mouth in what Minerva knew was a desperate attempt to give what she needed to receive.

Severus, who Minerva had long ago taught to be a gentleman, was there to help her down from the table as her orgasm subsided to the pleasant, choked sound of Hermione's lustful begging.

"Aren't you going to finish her off?" Minerva asked, as she shakily walked around to the front of the table to better view Hermione's engorged, glistening cunt. "True Gryffindor red—I never tire of seeing it."

Severus bent down to silence Hermione with a deep kiss and was bitten for his trouble.

"Fuck!" he shouted, thrusting his fingers into Hermione's hair and jerking her head back while casting, "Imperio! Be still," he hissed, drawing back to massage his tongue.

Minerva laughed. "Look at those tears, falling so prettily, my dear," she told Hermione, caressing the soft skin near, but not near enough, she knew, to the vee of Hermione's splayed thighs. "How long will the oil last?"

"Long enough to drive her mad if someone doesn't satisfy her."

"Someone, or . . . something?" Minerva whispered against Hermione's damp curls. "I know I've always enjoyed your attentions when you were in your Animagus form."

Severus groaned. "Gods, I—that's a secret," he half-protested, fisting his cock faster.

"Stop."

"What . . . what is your will?" Severus ground out from between compressed lips.

"Let her move again, and then fuck her—transformed."

Severus did not hesitate to obey.

"Yes, fuck me—but not like that, not like tha—notlikethatohnonoNONO!" Hermione shrieked, while Minerva settled into a conjured, over-stuffed chair and watched her rut against the intrusion of Severus' tail.

"Fuck," Minerva spat, coming just from the sight.

She waited until Hermione had passed out from a surfeit of scaly pleasure before allowing Severus to return to his human form and wake the girl with proper fuck—one which the girl received while suspended from a Fire Ficus before her friends in the Great Hall.

"You've always been entertaining, my wife."

"Yes, well, Severus deserves most of the credit for this display."

2. For 13oct, who requested "Ron/Pansy."

Clever Enough for Bewitching (Hard R; Ron/Pansy; 845 words)

Fred and George had "bewizarded," as they put it, the pomegranates to produce every-flavor seeds, but they were all the same brilliant shade of purplish-red; the color matched Pansy's lips.

Ron kept thinking about that even though he knew it was stupid, but nothing was more stupid than Malfoy's ex-girlfriend being forced to work in his brothers' shop to prove to the Wizengamot that she was truly prepared to re-enter wizarding society—well, nothing except the annoying habit Fred and George had developed of dragging the distracting bint to the Burrow for the occasional meal when they'd thought up some new trick.

"Do you see, Mr. Weasley?" Pansy asked, as Arthur picked up some seeds to taste. "They're just like Bertie Botts' beans."

"Except they're healthier for you," Fred added.

Ron snorted and rubbed his injured leg, wishing—not for the first time—that he'd stayed with Harry and Hermione instead of coming home to recuperate after the war. "Since when did Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes become a produce shop?" he groused, trying not to think about how happy his best friends probably were without him, or which of the twins was shagging Parkinson.

Pansy's generous lower lip, Ron noticed, began to tremble.

George noticed, as well, and said, as if in reproach, "Pansy's given us several interesting ideas."

"I did notice, dear," Arthur put in, pointedly ignoring Ron's comment. "And I'm sure Molly will enjoy these when she comes back from sitting with the triplets."

Irritated, Ron gathered himself up and hobbled out of the room with as much dignity as he could muster, thinking, Stupid Parkinson. Stupid Fred. Stupid George. Stupid everyone!

It was all so bloody stupid, his family looking after Parkinson for months when he was the one who had been hurt. He hated Parkinson. He did—even if her mouth was that color, that rich, soft-looking color.

Even if she isn't using it to insult people anymore.

A brief image of Pansy using her mouth on him flashed through Ron's mind.

"Stop it," he told himself, as he leaned up against the outside of the garden shed. "Just stop it."

"You might, at that, you ungrateful weasel," Pansy insisted, rounding the corner of the shed. "I thought you liked pomegranates!"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I've been trying to come up with a way to—never mind," Pansy answered, turning to walk away.

Ron pushed himself off the shed and grasped Pansy's arm, demanding, "Don't 'never mind' me. Why does it matter? What've you been trying to do?"

"Let go of me."

Now that is stupid. You don't order someone to let you go without putting some force into it, Ron thought, dropping Pansy's arm. "You sick?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"You're being . . . reasonable," Ron replied, to Pansy's mouth.

"Git. I have eyes, you know. Why are you always staring at my—"

"You still haven't answered my question," Ron interrupted, staring into Pansy's eyes with an effort.

"It wasn't their idea—the pomegranates—I just asked them to say it was because . . . because I didn't think you'd accept—I didn't know how else to thank you for testifying for me. They would have left me in Azkaban if you hadn't, and—"

"You weren't a Death Eater, and you don't have to thank me for—"

"You hate me, Weasley. You didn't have to—"

"Wait. You mean you were actually trying to be nice, to me?"

"You're not that thick, and you're not deaf, either. I just told—"

"Why," Ron interrupted, "would you want to be nice to me? I got you stuck in the twins' shop."

"You got me out of prison. You made it possible for me to walk down the street without being spat upon. Don't you think that's worth a thanking?"

"Yeah, but . . . but you're not the kind of girl who thanks people, Pans—Parkinson," Ron replied, gobsmacked, his eyes moving back to her mouth.

"Oh for Merlin's sake!" Pansy exclaimed, moving forward until she'd backed Ron into the shed and kissing him.

Ron dropped his crutch and thrust his tongue into Pansy's pomegranate-sweetened mouth, his rough lips moving over ones which were as soft as he'd imagined them, and thought, I am thick. I could've been doing this for weeks, couldn't I have?

Pansy stiffened as Ron cupped her arse through the silky material of her dress.

"You . . . you're welcome," he told her, removing his hand and his mouth from her body. "Um, sorry," he added.

"You're an idiot. Did I tell you to stop?" Pansy asked.

"But you stiffened up."

"So did you," Pansy said, dropping her gaze. "I'm glad to see that Fred was lying about the true extent of your injuries."

"What?"

"Never mind your brother. Are you going to take your thanking like a man, or do I have to mess about with more fruit for the rest of the afternoon?"

Ron smirked. "Fruit's okay, but I've always preferred nuts."

"You really aren't clever," Pansy told him, moving forward to press herself into his chest and reaching down to stroke his prick.

Ron swallowed, hard. "'M okay with tha—"

3. For fodirteg, who requested "boyHarry/girlSeverus: Chicken soup."

Soup's On (R; Snarry; 514 words)

"Wow," Harry said, when Severus finally opened the door.

"Idiot," he retorted, his voice surprisingly unfeminine under the circumstances.

Harry followed Severus into the kitchen, watching as she rummaged through the liquor cabinet and removed a bottle of whisky from it. "Wow," he repeated, his mind blank. "Nice tits."

"Shut it, you imbecile!"

"Well, how?"

"Compress your lips together," Severus demanded, his voice made newly husky by drink.

"That's not what I meant, and you know it—hey! Take it easy with the whisky. I doubt it'll match well with the chicken soup."

"You don't think a man without his testicles needs a drink?"

Harry snorted, looking pointedly at the evidence of Severus' lack of manhood. "I think a wizard who works so long in his laboratory that he doesn't eat and gets light-headed enough to make the sort of . . . mistake you just did needs feeding up more than alcohol."

"I made no mistake!"

Harry jumped at the sound of Severus' glass smashing, but recovered quickly enough to pin his transformed lover into the cabinets before Severus could storm out of the kitchen.

"Let me pass!"

"Uh, uh," Harry replied, smirking, as he nudged one of his knees between Severus' legs. "This is too good an opportunity to pass up."

"What are you talking abou—"

~*~

"Wow," Severus said, panting, sometime later as he and Harry laid sprawled across the kitchen floor.

Grinning, Harry asked, "Are you going to tell me how you ended up with these?"

"No."

Harry laughed.

"Don't get used to them."

"Oh, I won't," Harry answered, before moving a hand over one of Severus' breasts to fondle it, delighting in the small gasp his action elicited.

"And . . . and don't you dare—fuck!—tell anyone about this!"

Harry lifted his head. "Dear Playwitch, I never thought this could—"

"It won't happen, ever again, if—"

"I'm just teasing. Seriously, how, Severus?"

"Did you happen to notice which spices you flung into your soup, brat?"

"You mean, you ate some of it?"

"I did."

"Um," Harry replied, thinking quickly. Oh, shit! "Damn it, things like this wouldn't happen if you didn't leave your supplies in the kitchen!"

Severus glared. "'Things like this' wouldn't happen if you read jars before opening them! Where," he demanded, his voice growing rougher and more familiar, "did you find the—"

"Oh, wow," Harry whispered, as Severus' cock suddenly reformed, rigid and leaking. "That's so much better."

Before Harry could take the proper organ into his mouth, however, Severus said, "I think, after our . . . exercise, that you could use some 'feeding up'."

"No way," Harry said, hurriedly untangling himself from Severus' now-stronger arms.

Severus easily jerked Harry back down, rolling atop the wizard and summoning the soup pot. "Think again, Miss Potter."

Harry sighed and drank his soup, feeling grateful to know its affect would be a temporary one.

~*~

His mortification, upon reading the next edition of Playwitch, however, lasted some time longer than had his transformation. Plotting revenge, he pulled out one of his special cookbooks and hoped that Severus hadn't locked the Potions supply cabinet, newly expanded in his laboratory.

4. For samson28, who requested "SNUNA!"

A Courtship of Fur and Numbers (PG-13; Snuna; 450 words)

As she stepped out of his shop and into the storm, the wind caught Lovegood's robes and Severus—who had tried to avoid eye-contact with his former student—was treated to a glimpse of long creamy leg and a fuzzy garter.

His fingertips were itching to stroke the soft white material even as the door slammed shut.

Fur, he decided. She's wearing fur garters.

It never occurred to Severus that Lovegood hadn't actually been wearing stockings. No, the only thing other than the image of that fur garter running through his mind was the idea that he would close early and give his prick the attention it had been demanding since the wind had kicked up.

Panting heavily sometime later, Severus decided that he needed to know just what kind of fur graced Lovegood's lingerie. He had no other choice, therefore, than to set aside his professional pride and botch the witch's order—again.

I hope the weather doesn't turn pleasant.

~*~

"I'm sorry, what was the question?"

Severus cleared his throat and repeated, "Would you like home-delivery? I can't think why the potion soured, and it may take some time to re-brew."

Lovegood blinked up at him, laying her hands on the counter.

Each of her delightfully slender fingers boasted a fur ring of the same material as her garter; Severus couldn't look away from them.

"Professor?"

"I'm not," he growled. "Anymore."

"Of course. I'm sorry. Let me see, I suppose 'Mr. Snape' would do—"

Anything, Severus fervently thought, clasping his hands behind his back and feeling grateful for the counter's presence. Anything to catch up your fingers and feel that soft fur against my skin.

"—but you should feel free to call me 'Luna'. And yes, home-delivery would suit me very well."

With that, Lovegood turned to leave, once more being treated to the welcome, rude attentions of the wind.

Severus closed the shop at once.

~*~

Luna returned home—by way of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes—humming happily to herself. Localized weather charms were somewhat expensive, but she felt them as worthy an investment as fur lingerie.

A hard man would necessarily be intrigued by something soft, wouldn't he?

True, it was a bit chilly going round with nothing on but pretty underclothes beneath her robes, but it wasn't as if she were afraid of catching a cold. If her Arithmantical calculations were correct, her minimal health risk and uncharacteristic expenditure would yield one husband—one devoted husband—soon enough.

Other witches might marry for love, but Luna had always been practical in her own way: numbers, unlike most of her past, disappointing beaux, didn't lie.

And a loyal man, even one ensnared by something as trivial as a glimpse of fur, is well worth catching.

5. For medawyn, who requested "Nearly Headless Nick: dragon, wishes, moon."

Ironical Remembrances (PG-13; Nearly Headless Nick, mentions of Sir Patrick Delaney-Podmore, OFC; 260 words)

His entry in Hogwarts: A History revealed nothing of Sir Patrick "Loves-His-Bitches-More-Than-Witches" Delaney-Podmore's true perfidy. Nick had often thought of having one of the Gryffindor students—perhaps that bookish Granger girl—write a complaint to the editors of the volume on his behalf.

Not that it would likely do much good.

The moon was full, and Nick's wishes regarding the Headless Hunt had once again been ignored by his nemesis and former near-brother-in-law.

Patrick, you bastard! How dare you convince Patricia that I was unworthy of her when it was you who were born on the wrong side of the blanket!

It had only been one kiss, Nick remembered, one kiss given in friendship that Patrick had managed to twist into something more unseemly after his sister "happened" upon Nick and her brother in the stables.

She didn't believe me about the wine. She thought I was taking advantage of her little brother's . . . difficulties, that I was more a lecher than a suitor.

No matter how Patricia's wrath had called to mind the heat of a thousand dragons defending their egg clutches, Nick had refrained from disabusing his love of Patrick's true nature.

I was a gentleman. It would have been wrong to tell her all I knew of Patrick. It wouldn't have done much good, and now—and now the hunt begins again, and I'm left with nought but my ironical remembrances.

It occurred to Nick, as he heard the riders' distant calls, that Patrick might have been right about him.

I was never much of a hunter, was I? Oh, Patricia!

6. For realmess, who requested "Luna Lovegood vs Draco Mafoy: on the corridor of Hogwarts, blink, shiny."

A Sharp Subject (G; Luna, Draco, First Year; 200 words)

Luna observed. It was a hobby. Her current object of fascination was not some "mythical" creature but a boy who, she often thought, could cut through wards with the sharpness of his chin. Walking toward Draco Malfoy in the corridor, she giggled to imagine him, chin raised, slicing through unseen magics.

Draco caught sight of her then, and Luna noted his blink of surprised annoyance. Such a shiny blue, she thought, of his eyes. They're almost fairy-polished, aren't they?

In passing, Draco hissed, "Keep your freakish looks to yourself, Loony!"

He wasn't two feet behind her when he fell.

Luna rethought her observation about Draco's chin. Not too sharp.

But then, she'd always been able to manage a sturdy tripping ward on the fly.

It wasn't until Luna reached the Ravenclaw common room and one of the First Years blushingly told her that there was a hole in the back of her robes that she realized Draco was as fast with his wand as she was.

"I thought it was breezy," she murmured, adding Malfoy to her list of students who did not enjoy direct eye contact.

There seemed to be so many of them.

They must be terribly lonely.

7. For ms_beeblebrox, who requested "Percy/Snape ust."

Waiting for an Opportunity (R; Snape/Percy; 525 words)

Note: This ficlet was written as part of hpqfac's February 2007 event, but is included in this post because it was prompted by my 500 friends drabblethon, and its original posting date was lost to my back-up snafu.

Their meetings were always brief but intense. Percy Ignatius Weasley was not the sort of young man to dawdle; he was, like Severus, himself, someone who knew and did his duty no matter what other pressures were brought to bear upon him. Severus had, however, taken to ensuring that he always arrived at their rendezvous points first; he liked watching Weasley arrive.

Where is he? It's not like him to be late, Severus wondered, as he heard Aberforth's coarse and ironic call of "Time, gentleman, please."

Just then, a familiar figure stumbled out the back door of the pub—quickly followed by another, more steady figure.

Severus watched, alert and ready, as the two men grappled with—kissed—each other in the moonlight.

Weasley's a poof?

"You can do better than that, boy. Get yer kit off an'll show you what I—"

WHOOSH!

The spell hit the large stranger without warning; Severus was impressed, but he did not step forward to tell Weasley so, electing to watch what he did instead.

"Thank you, Mr. Nutbellsy," Weasley said, panting a bit as he relieved the man of what looked like a packet of papers before dragging him over to the cistern and dunking his head in it—and then Obliviating him. "You never saw me. You lost the papers in a drunken brawl and went home. You don't want to steal Ministry secrets anymore," he told the stunned Nutbellsy, before walking unsteadily toward the stables.

Severus withdrew his wand and waited, backing Weasley into the door after he'd stepped inside and closed it. "I don't care whatever else you must do. You will never keep my waiting again," he said, low and menacingly.

Weasley swallowed but didn't lose his nerve, and Severus found that impressive, as well.

"Step back, Snape," he ordered.

Severus didn't move.

"I said," Weasley began, as he pressed himself forward, "step ba—oh."

It was dark, but Severus was certain Weasley was blushing to feel the erection pressed into his belly. He held his breath to feel Weasley's hardness against his own thigh.

"'Oh'?" Severus asked.

"You . . . I . . . I shouldn't have kept you wai—waiting."

Severus exhaled against Weasley's neck and said, "No, you shouldn't have," smiling when he felt the younger wizard shudder.

"Snape. What's the meaning of this?" Weasley almost demanded.

What do you want it to mean? Severus thought, reaching down to adjust his prick and stepping back from Weasley in frustration. "You've left us with precious little time to answer that question."

"I'm . . . just here for information, damn it."

"Of course. Take this," Severus replied, handing Weasley a small phial. "The Dark Lord is having me develop a poison. You'll want to brew as much of that antidote as possible, and soon."

"Thank you," Weasley replied, once again employing his customary crisp and professional tone.

Something prompted Severus to ask, "Would you have fucked Nutbellsy, Weasley, if that's what it took to retrieve his stolen documents?"

"How dare you ask me that!"

"Would you have?"

"It wouldn't have come to that. It . . . never does."

The wistful tone of Weasley's voice was not lost on Severus. "It might—if you don't keep me waiting next time."

8. For name a_belladonna, who requested "Gen: Severus and Eileen, dinner, magic."

Once a Librarian (G; Severus, Eileen, Minerva; 200 words)

"They're taking it well, Professor Prince," Severus said, as he looked out over the Great Hall at the students assembled for dinner.

Sitting to Severus' left, Hogwarts' new History of Magic professor smirked. "They're just pleased I won't be fussing at them about their treatment of the library's books any longer," she replied, before taking a bite of her meal and chewing thoughtfully.

"You'll still fuss, I think."

"I won't have to," Eileen replied, smirking.

"Oh?" the Potions master asked.

"I've added a special magic to the binding paste, and that Miss Lovegood has promised to keep up my own charms."

"A special—"

"OW! Let me go!" a Third Year Ravenclaw shouted then, rising from her table and flapping her hands—one of which was being "bitten" by a book—wildly.

Eileen snorted.

"Once a librarian?" Severus asked.

"Always a librarian," Eileen said, drawing her wand and leaving the Head Table with a stern expression on her face.

Severus watched her remove the hex and smiled openly.

"I'm so pleased that Eileen agreed to stay, despite how much she hated hiding here during the war."

Thank you, Albus, Severus thought, replying, "So am I, Headmistress."

9. For khana, who requested "girl!Ron/Harry(/Hermione?): Freckles . . . and/or broomsticks."

Ice Breaking with Breasts (NC-17; Harry/Ron; 453 words)

khana, I apologize for not mixing in the freckles and broomsticks; I kind of got carried away, but I don't think you'll mind.

"What did you do?" Harry asked, horrified, as Ron emerged from the changing room showers.

Ron, wearing a dazed expression and nothing else, didn't reply. Instead, he ran his hands up and down his torso—before cupping his breasts.

"You, uh, you really should stop that," Harry choked out more than said, surreptitiously adjusting himself as he took in the tall redhead's new curls. "You're making me want to touch you."

Ron looked at Harry then, in an intent and disturbing manner, and licked his lips. "Do it," he said, in a whisky drenched, feminine tone. "Touch me, Harry."

Harry, forgetting his need to understand how his best mate had transformed himself into a girl, dropped the towel he'd been holding around his waist and moved to press himself into Ron, his cock twitching with enthusiasm at the sensation.

"Yeah, oh, more," Ron urged.

They kissed then, slowly at first, Harry sucking Ron's tongue into his mouth and drinking in his—her?—moans as his hands snaked down to feel the flesh between Ron's legs, and then their kiss became more heated, their tongues thrusting in time with Harry's fingers.

"Fuck!" Ron exclaimed, breaking their embrace. "I want . . . I need you to—"

"Hell yes," Harry growled, pushing Ron back into the showers and into a wall before thrusting his cock inside of Ron's welcoming cunt. Cunt! his mind shouted. Ron's got a—"Oh, that's—Ron, I'm shagging you, shagging you, shag—"

Ron's mouth closed over Harry's then, silencing him, but Harry couldn't help the noises that tried to escape, that did escape when Ron moved his mouth to Harry's shoulder and bit down.

"Fuck!" Harry shouted, coming hard before slumping against Ron, his knees too weak to hold him.

Ron didn't allow him to fall, but grabbed Harry roughly by the hips and kept thrusting forward until he came.

"Ha—arry?" he asked, moments later from the floor of the showers to which they'd slid in a satisfied, panting heap.

"Yeah?"

"I think . . . I think m'cock's back."

"Yeah, it is," Harry replied, before kissing his way up Ron's now-smooth torso and sucking hard on his neck.

"You, uh, you want to try that again?"

Harry broke off his sucking and pressed his forehead against Ron's, staring into his eyes and grinning. "Fuck yeah."

Ron smiled and bit at Harry's lips playfully. "Gonna have to thank Fred 'n' George for the ice breaker," he admitted, blushing furiously.

"You did that on purpose—for me?"

"Fuck yeah," Ron replied, reaching down to fondle Harry's balls. "Couldn't think of another way to . . . to you know."

Harry groaned, spread his legs, and wisely said nothing about how he'd asked the Weasley Twins to help him do a little ice breaking of his own.

10. For soberloki, who requested "George/Snape: battlefield, coddle, emperor."

Delayed Intentions (NC-17; Severus/George; 625 words)

"—and I don't think that's what he meant when he asked me to coddle his eggs," George said, apparently concluding some sort of joke as Severus approached him and his brother.

Fred couldn't stop laughing, it seemed, but George turned to greet him with a nod and a "Professor."

"Mr. Weasley," Severus replied, nodding in turn, sweeping George's frame with a minute eye-flick. Fit, he thought, and polite. An improvement over his school days. "I'd like to order something from your special catalog."

George straightened, and Severus watched him glance at his suddenly more subdued sibling as if to ask him, "Which 'special catalog'?"

"Something from your Emperor Line."

"Certainly," George replied, flushing a bit as he led Severus toward the back of the shop. "How'd you hear about the uh, the line?"

"Does it matter?" Severus asked, turning to examine some of the cartons to his right. "'Make your bed a battlefield—of love'?" he asked, frowning. "That sort of spell sells?"

George's blush deepened. "We get all kinds in here, sir."

"Such as myself."

"If you like."

"I do," Severus replied, sweeping George's body with his eyes with exaggerated deliberateness.

George tripped over a box backing away, and Severus took the opportunity to rush forth and grasp the younger wizard around his waist.

"Do be careful of your . . . merchandise, Mr. Weasley. I'm most interested in sampling it," Severus told George, staring deeply into his eyes and quite liking the images he found swirling confusedly in his mind. Releasing him, he continued, "The Emperor Line?"

"Right. Yes. Of course," George said, his tone a bit higher than it had been as he began rummaging through the stock. "What . . . what exactly are you looking for?"

"Cock."

This time, George tripped over nothing, and Severus smiled in satisfaction—but George didn't turn around.

"'Cock'?"

"Indeed. A large one, and preferably thick. Something I can animate, if you please."

George didn't move but stood still, his hands resting on either side of the shelf upon which he'd pressed his forehead. Severus could see by the rise and fall of his shoulders that he was trying not to breathe heavily.

Excellent, he thought, adjusting himself and taking two steps forward so that he could whisper against George's neck, "Is that a problem, Mr. Weasley?"

Shaking now, George stammered, "N—no."

"I think you have a problem. A large one," Severus told George, running a hand down his back. "Probably thick, as well, and definitely one I've animated," he continued, cupping George's arse.

"Oh, gods. Are you . . . are you trying to kill me—sir?"

"Your death is not my objective. Turn around."

George obeyed at once, banging his head into Severus' as he did so. "Oh, sor—"

The kiss was slow, probing, and warm. Severus slid his tongue over George's, under it, around it in lazy loops, and then he sucked it into his own mouth as he seized George's arms and forced them firmly but gently behind his back, thrusting the young man's chest and hips and prick into his own body at all those same points.

Yes, definitely an improvement to the boy he once was, Severus thought, stepping back abruptly and ending the Obliviation spell he'd been forced to employ on George when he was a randy, clever, nude fifteen-year-old boy and sitting—quite without permission—at the foot of his bed, having broken the wards to Severus' personal quarters. "Do you remember what I told you?"

"Oh. Oh, for—you . . . you really meant it!" George exclaimed.

"I told you I'd see you again when you were of age," Severus replied, sheathing his wand.

"You're several years late, Severus."

"Consider those years your detention served," the Potions master replied, cupping George's cock through the placket of his trousers and squeezing.

"Fuck."

"I intend to."

11. For ladylark77, who requested "Harry/Charlie/Severus: Christmas, love, forever."

Accepting a New Position (NC-17; Harry/Charlie/Severus; 862 words)

The dragon preserve was a hotbed of heterosexuality, which Severus found depressing as he was contracted to live "on-preserve" until his Scale Rot antidote was invented, working, and brewed in sufficient quantity to last until a permanent brewer could be found to replace the previous one.

Charlie had hinted that the position was open to Severus, but the Potions master had no intention of placing himself in a situation guaranteed to leave him sexually frustrated for the remainder of his life: dragon biologists were predominantly male, and all of them were rather fit.

And now I'll be spending another Christmas alone, this time listening to the endless chatter of women, Severus thought, as he sat in the meal hall eating by himself.

It was a shock, then, to see Potter walk into the hall and approach the buffet, and a greater one to note how Charlie, in full view of everyone, came up behind Potter to squeeze his arse before dragging him out of the hall.

Having last seen Potter bloody but undefeated after his final meeting with the Dark Lord, it seemed almost forever since the familiar stab of lust for the younger wizard had plagued Severus, and he was powerfully intrigued to discover the Chosen One was gay—too intrigued to eat, as it happened; he had to follow them.

"I love it out here," Severus heard Potter telling Charlie, as the two of them spread a blanket out under the stars in a remote and empty paddock. "I can't believe it took you so long to convince me to live here."

Potter's living here? Severus thought, surprised, as Charlie wrapped his arms around Potter and pulled him down to the blanket.

He couldn't think at all as he watched them kiss, watch them peel off each other's garments, watched their hands slide and cup and tease. Biting his lip, he reached down to press a palm against his inquiescent prick and sighed.

"Think we've company," Charlie murmured, turning to look directly at Severus.

Potter turned, as well, and grinned. "Want some help with that, you stubborn git?"

Severus straightened. "I don't know what you mean. I was merely—"

"Following us, exactly as we thought you would," Potter interrupted, grinning more widely.

Charlie pushed himself up off the blanket. "You look cold."

"I'm not the one half-dressed and exposing myself to the elements. Look to yourselves," Severus replied sharply, turning to walk away, embarrassed and angry.

"Hey," Potter called. "Hey, Severus. We really did want you to follow us."

Severus stopped and called back, "Why?"

"Because six hands are better than four?"

"Potter, you can't expect me to believe," Severus said, spinning about to face him, "that you and Charlie intended—"

Suddenly, Potter was standing before him, his chest pressing into Severus' own. "My name is Harry, you great berk, and I've told you before: I want you."

When Harry kissed him, Severus didn't push him away. All he could do was allow himself to feel the silken slide of Harry's tongue over his own as he remembered how the brat had propositioned him before the End. He'd thought Potter was playing some sort of prank upon him to give himself courage.

"Wrong," he muttered, breaking their embrace, "I thought—"

"Yeah, Harry told me what you thought," Charlie, who had walked up to them, said. "He was disappointed."

"Were you? Why?"

"Because, Severus, you never let me thank you properly for all your help," Harry replied, as he and Charlie threaded their arms around him. "And I've been wanting to, uh, thank you for a long time."

"Nonsense."

"Not really," Charlie said, kissing one side of Severus' neck, while Harry nipped at his ear on the other side. "It makes perfect sense to me. Come back to the blanket."

"Yes, do," Harry urged.

The throbbing of Severus' prick was enough to make him ignore his reservations—the throbbing, and the hands now rubbing themselves along its turgid length. He came with a groan before he ever reached Charlie and Harry's trysting spot, came and awoke with a guttural cry.

It was quiet. Not even the dragons were stirring, it seemed.

"Fuck. Not again," Severus whispered, casting a cleaning spell upon himself and his bed linens before rolling over in self-disgust.

He didn't know why he'd refused Charlie and Harry's invitation to Christmas Eve dinner, though he suspected it was nervousness. The two men had made it plain that he was more than welcome; the three of them were, after all, the only poofs living on-preserve.

But Severus didn't want to be in the way, didn't want to be a third wheel. Given his nocturnal preoccupations, however, he decided that he might screw up his courage and attempt to be a third pair of hands—if, for no other reason, because he found it impossible to create an antidote to anything when he was sexually frustrated.

"And Potter's gratitude is nothing to be afraid of, surely."

Smiling, Severus quietly composed his letter of acceptance of the position of Brewer to Charlie Weasley, privately blessing the man for his well-timed and generous offer.

It was time to accept that he was worthy of such things.

12. For alisanne, who requested "Severus/Harry/Draco: special, feather, red."

Quills to Cocks (NC-17; Severus/Harry/Draco; 1498 words)

The red barbules of a phoenix feather could be used, Severus knew, in several lust and love potions. Glaring from Potter to Draco in Potions one afternoon, he decided that it was time to collect some.

If they don't fuck each other soon, they'll kill each other, he thought, forcing himself to pay neither boy any further special attention as he formulated his plan.

Fawkes didn't protest when Severus collected the necessary feather, but it took him days to prepare his potion, given the necessary adjustments to it he wished to make.

If I'm going to employ Dark magic, I might as well get something out of it, myself, he told himself, grunting as he came hard into his cauldron.

The potion thickened and turned scarlet, exactly as it should have.

Administering the draught would have proved difficult, had not Potter and Draco had an altercation that necessitated their being given detention, and, once he had the Sixth Years locked in the Potions classroom, he instructed them each to take up the quills he'd laid upon their desks.

"Ow!"

"Damn!"

"Silence!" Severus ordered, watching in satisfaction as the boys rubbed their pricked fingers, and, by so doing, pushed the potion deeply into their slight wounds. It won't be long, now, he thought, before saying, "Write the sentence on the board fifty times."

The sentence was rather shocking: "There is great power in the marshaling of desire."

Potter furrowed his brow, opening his full, luscious mouth as if he intended to protest, but Severus stopped him with a look. Draco, he saw, was already writing—and squirming a bit in his chair.

Severus smirked and pretended to mark essays. By his second one, both boys were fidgeting, and Potter, he noted through a surreptitious glance, had moved his free hand to touch himself, a fact which had not been lost on Draco. Without a word, Severus cast a spell of stillness on Potter's arms and legs, which slackened at once.

"Just what do you think you're doing to yourself, Mr. Potter?"

Potter's eyes widened in alarm when he found that he could barely move. "N—nothing, sir."

"Liar," Draco spat. "He was wanking!"

"You're doing the same thing, are you not, Mr. Malfoy?" Severus asked, standing and sweeping around his desk to glare down at the boy.

Instantly, both of Draco's hands were on his desk. "No, sir!"

Impressively, Draco's robes and clothing suddenly disappeared, and Severus turned to see that Potter, not unexpectedly, had thrown off the affects of his spell and was pointing his wand at him.

"What the hell did you do to me? To us?"

"You don't want to threaten me, do you, Harry?" Severus replied, allowing the syllables of Potter's first name to roll slowly off his tongue as Draco flushed and yelped in anger.

Harry's wand arm dropped a bit. "Uh, I . . . I don't know."

"Sir," Severus corrected.

"I don't know, sir," Harry replied, confusion coloring his features.

"Draco," Severus said, "kneel before Harry, would you?"

Harry dropped his wand as Draco dropped to his knees as ordered.

"Tell Harry what you want, Draco."

"To . . . to suck you," he replied, his eyes glazing as he stared imploringly up at Harry.

"Harry, do you want Draco to suck you?"

"No—yes—hey! I can't . . . I want—"

Severus moved to stand behind Harry and placed his hands on the boy's hips, silently casting the same disrobement spell that Harry had earlier used on Draco. "You know that you want his lips sliding over your cock, to have him suck you, so why not just admit it?" he whispered into Harry's ear.

Harry groaned and pressed his arse into Severus' erection, grinding a bit as he barked, "Do it! Suck me!"

Draco didn't have to be told twice, and it didn't take Harry long to come. Catching the boy as his knees buckled, Severus picked him up and laid him out over his desk, which he cleared with a flick of his eyes. Pulling Harry toward him so that his arse was almost hanging off the edge, he cast Lubricus and bade Draco to take his position, helping the boy to position Harry's legs over his shaking shoulders.

"Now then, Draco, how long have you wanted to fuck Harry?" Severus asked, stroking his prick through his robes.

"Gods, for—for such a long time, Professor."

Harry gasped as Draco pressed the head of his leaking cock between the cheeks of his arse and rubbed himself up and down.

"And Harry? How long have you—"

"Yes, just do it! Fuck me, Draco. Please."

Again, Draco didn't have to be asked twice, and Severus trembled with his own need as Draco thrust himself inside of Harry.

Too easy, too easy, too good! he inwardly exclaimed, coming almost in time with Draco, who fell forward onto a very frustrated Harry.

Steadying himself, Severus pulled Draco off the other boy and began unbuttoning himself furiously. "Get up and hold his arms above his head," he ordered Draco, as he positioned himself between Harry's thighs.

Harry whimpered.

"Yes?" asked Severus. "You want me to fuck you, Harry?"

Harry nodded, seemingly incapable of speech, and Severus took great delight in teasing the boy's hole with his knuckles, rubbing them lightly in circles over the slackened pucker, but increasing the pressure each time.

"Sir, p—please!"

"You will kiss him as I fuck him, Draco," Severus commanded, moving his hand and pressing his cock quickly and deeply inside of Harry. FUCK, the heat!

"Fu—"

Harry's exclamation was cut short when Draco thrust his tongue into his mouth. Severus imagined that he was kissing Harry and jerked his hips hard, in and out, faster and still faster until he threw his head back and screamed wordlessly as he came.

When the last frisson of pleasure had rushed through him, Severus looked down at his desk, his semi-erect prick still sheathed inside of Harry's arse, to see that Draco had climbed up on top of Harry and was feeding the other boy his cock.

"Oh, better than I hoped for," he muttered, pulling out of Harry and moving to collapse into his chair.

Draco said, "You like that, don't you, slut? Like taking my prick into your mouth—take it, eat it, suck it down, suck it dow—noh! Fuuuh!"

Severus shot out of his chair to catch Draco before he could fall off the desk, and then carried him to his private chamber, laying him down on his bed before returning to the classroom to find Harry sitting slumped against his desk and breathing heavily.

"Bastard," Harry hissed, glaring at him. "What . . . what did you do?"

"Don't pretend you didn't like it," Severus said, moving forward to grab Harry by his hair and pull him up to his feet. "You liked it. You wanted it, and there's more to come."

Roughly dragging Harry into his bedchamber, Severus pushed him onto the bed, smiling with malicious lust. Draco, he saw, appeared to be sleeping.

But I'll rouse him soon enough, Severus thought, charming the curtain pulls to snake around Harry's wrists and lift him up to hang from the slat that connected the two posts at the end of his bed.

Harry struggled and cursed, but still he panted as if in excited anticipation—and never once did he ask to be released.

Severus laughed. "Yes, 'fuck' is quite right, Harry. You will be, repeatedly. If you like, you may tell me how you wish to be buggered. I have," Severus told him, gesturing toward the cabinet by his bed and allowing it to open before continuing, "several implements which you might find of interest."

"Oh," Draco moaned as he woke, "could I—sir, could I use some of those on him?"

"Would you like that, Harry?" Severus asked, cupping his balls as he watched Harry's glisten with sweat.

"N—no. I don't want him to touch . . . to . . . touch me. Touch me. Just . . . touch me," he babbled.

Severus couldn't have been more pleased with his potion. Harry was strong, but the potion, combined with Harry's hormones and latent sexual desire for Draco, was stronger still.

"Harry, I'll do anything you want," Draco whispered, drawing his hands over the bound boy's body from his kneeling stance behind Harry.

Framed as they were by the bed frame, the picture the two enemies made almost had Severus coming again, but he restrained himself.

This night will be a long one, he thought, summoning the be-potion-ed quills and passing one to Draco. "And you want him to do so many things to you, don't you, Harry?"

"Y—yes, I do. Yes!" Harry exclaimed, as Draco began stippling Harry's nipples with the nib.

"Fuck," Severus muttered, moving forward to take Harry's prick into his mouth. A long night, indeed.

"Just please Obliviate me in the morning!" Harry cried, snapping his hips forward, hard.

Forgetting his original intentions utterly, Severus accepted the fact that he'd most likely be "Obliviating" both boys as often as he could manage it for the remainder of the term.

13. For beckaandzac, who requested "Snarry: old age, warmth."

Lasting Impressions (PG-13; Snarry; 200 words)

They've never agreed on a position for the bed and argue over it at the change of each season, but to place the overstuffed green wing chair by the hearth in their private parlor was a decision easily made. To celebrate that rare moment of accord, they've never moved the chair.

Its arms are threadbare from the repeated clutching of them—Harry's doing—and the dip in its seat cushion isn't truly comfortable for anyone's bum but Severus'. That's his fault, of course, because he's always preferred Harry on his lap, and, long ago, the two smaller impressions to the left and right of the larger one became permanent, a sign of how very much they've become creatures of habit with regard to at least one matter.

They fit well together in their favorite chair, sharing their warmth, sharing their memories, sharing their love, and they delight in the sturdiness of its frame as they stare into each other's eyes, noting the deepening laugh lines around them and reveling in every one. They've grown unexpectedly and happily into a glorious old age while testing the strength of their favorite chair; it's an oft-indulged practice that never fails to make them feel young.