The prompt and original drabble posts for this drabblethon were lost to my back-up snafu. These drabbles were written on the occasion of my 400th friending.
5. For fleshdress, whose prompt was "Snape/Draco: thoughts, model, sun."
Falling Farther (PG-13; Severus/Draco; 100 words)
Draco was never far from Snape's thoughts. There was an unconscious sensuality about the boy which thrilled him—but Draco was not his father.
No, Lucius was never as . . . naïve as his son, Snape thought, watching as the boy laid himself down to model nothing but the sun.
"You could use some," Draco called, stretching—No, displaying, Snape thought, his prick hardening further with the knowledge—himself on the chaise he had conjured, "and it would be a shame to waste—"
"What?" Snape demanded thickly, his resolve wavering.
"All this gorgeous light," Draco replied, caressing his perfect skin in an unmistakably wanton invitation.
6. For chasingtides, whose prompt was "Snape/Harry: movement, rain, subtle."
Redemption (PG-13; Snarry; 100 words)
Severus had never imagined it would be so easy to embrace his own destruction, but when the subtle movement beyond the curtain of rain which shielded the cave in which he had been hiding caught his eye, he surrendered.
"Do it. I won't fight you."
"You've always been alone, haven't you?"
"Spare me the gracious hero act, Potter, and do what you've come to do!"
Harry put away his wand and crossed the cave's darkened floor to embrace Severus.
"Thank you for everything you've done," he said, before placing a kiss—one not at all tentative—on Severus' surprise-slackened mouth.
7. For cormallen, whose prompt was "Revan/Malak/Bastila: celebrations, regrets, promises."
Malak's Method (R; Revan/Malak/Bastila; 350 words: Knights of the Old Republic universe)
Note: This ficlet marks a rare divergence from my HP fandom writing.
You are bound to the platform, stripped of every method with which you might shield yourself, and yet . . . even my Force lightning cannot penetrate your will. What is it that protects you? Karath's tortures should have weakened you, but you resist all pain.
You resist every persuasion I know to employ, just as I resist the temptation of your pale, perfect, quivering flesh. I am still a man, and the sight of your arousal—for the lessening of pain always has that affect upon the weak, does it not?—is difficult to ignore.
Yet I must not touch you. You are unbroken, and such indignities as the touch of the "monster" you believe me to be would cause you only to withdraw more deeply from me. No, you are not ready, and pain is not the way. I must allow you to rest, to believe that I have withdrawn, so that I can delve once more into your less-resistant mind.
I sense your regrets, Bastila. I will follow them to their source.
Ah. So it is Revan, thoughts of my old master, which wind like talismans within your consciousness against my intrusion. You have been awake too long, my future apprentice.
How willingly you acquiesce! And what thoughts you have of the lover you dare not take. His promises to you—you believe them all—how you trust him!
It is disgusting.
Why must you Jedi confuse the power of lust—a real emotion—with something ephemeral and false? No matter. I will use this "love." I will turn its celebrations against you.
While you lay there, open and waiting on the platform, shivering in your violated slumber, I will use the false emotion with which you've tricked yourself against you. You are not as strong as you believe yourself to be if you can truly think yourself in love with anyone.
That pleases me, for I mean to enter you in more ways than you can imagine. I will breach your mind as Revan, and then take your body with my own, and the betrayal . . . it will be his.
And you will fall.