Lord of the Manor (NC-17; Lucius/Girl!Harry; 1050 words): After awakening with Lucius, Harry is in no doubt that he likes cock, Lucius' almost more than his own. (Follows Lady in Waiting.)
missingkeys prompted me with Lucius/girl!Harry: quill.
Harry lay tangled up in Lucius' arms, listening to him snore. It was . . . nice. Well, all right, it was a bit weird, and also warm, and . . . nice. "I should be able to think of another adjective," Harry murmured.
Lucius shifted and frowned but didn't wake. Harry propped himself up on an elbow and watched him, hardly able to believe what he'd allowed Lucius to do to him, or what he'd done to Lucius.
I do not know how to feel about this, he thought, realising that Lucius' snoring had suddenly ceased. "You're awake, aren't you?"
"If you desire a word, I've a library—in which no one is attempting to sleep."
Harry snorted, starting at how feminine it sounded before sighing deeply. "What I need is a pronoun."
"Ah," Lucius replied, opening his eyes. "I believe we've established that you prefer wizards to witches."
"But the question is, Harry, do you prefer being a witch more than a wizard?"
Harry sat up. "There's no reason to ask that question. I can't be a wizard again."
"There is every reason to ask that question because it has a bearing on how you'll learn to accept your situation." Lucius rose from the bed and moved to the nearby desk.
Harry didn't ask him for what he was looking, instead he said, "This isn't actually your bedroom, is it?" and saw Lucius' back stiffen.
"The size gave it away, did it?" Lucius asked, pulling a quill and a sheet of parchment from one of the drawers.
"No, it's not just that it seems too small. It's that it doesn't seem lived in."
"Take these," Lucius told Harry, Summoning a book and handing the lot to Harry.
"That quill won't allow you to lie."
"It's not going to use my blood for ink, is it?" Harry asked, his eyes widening.
"No." Lucius sat down on the bed's edge. "It's a pity Dolores wasn't killed in the battle."
Harry shifted a bit, still finding it difficult to manoeuvre around his breasts, and made a desk out of his knees and the book. "I'm actually not going to argue with you about that. What am I supposed to be writing?"
"Do you like being a witch, Harry?"
Harry shivered. "I—"
Lucius shook his head. "Don't speak. Write."
Harry looked at the quill; it seemed normal, but when he answered Lucius' question, he knew it was anything but.
"Read me your answer."
"Read it, anyway."
"'I'm not a witch, but I like being one for your cock'," Harry whispered, feeling his entire body heat uncomfortably.
"Fuck," Lucius muttered, rather savagely.
"I told you it was—"
Lucius' mouth on his was amazing. It was strong and possessive and not wet at all, and it made Harry's body tingle everywhere it had been before in spite of the fact that only their lips and tongues were touching. Suddenly overwhelmed by what he was feeling, Harry pulled away.
"You . . . you just happened to have . . . a truth-telling quill on hand."
Lucius smiled. "Arthur never did manage to find everything in his raids."
"You were planning this, weren't you?"
"Of course I was, Harry. What wizard wasn't?" Lucius reached out to stroke Harry's jaw.
Hating himself for it, Harry leaned into Lucius' hand.
"Fuck," Lucius said, more quietly this time.
Lucius glanced away from Harry for a moment before turning his gaze back to him and staring. Just as Harry was about to repeat his question, Lucius murmured, "I did not expect you to . . . affect me."
"You're not saying something. Write down what you're not saying. Use the quill."
Lucius sighed, but he did as Harry asked him to.
Instead, Lucius handed Harry the parchment. It read:
I lied. I know how to restore you, but I don't want to.
"What?" Harry demanded. "But why?"
"Because if I do, you'll still like cock, but I won't want yours."
"Fuck!" exclaimed Harry.
Lucius drew in a long breath, releasing it as he breathlessly said, "Yes, shall we? Once more before you insist on taking your cure?"
"It doesn't feel like my body."
"I know," Lucius replied, "and you never should have been cursed as you were."
"And you never would have told me about the cure if you hadn't been planning to fix Draco."
"It would have been difficult to explain, yes."
Crossing his arms, Harry said, "So, rather than just telling me you could help me, you used me."
"It would be fair, I think, to say we used each other. You are in no doubt as to what you want now, I trust?"
Harry's mouth worked but no sound emerged from it, and frustrated, he threw himself back down on the bed.
Lucius followed him with his own body, stretching out next to Harry as he drew a fingertip up his thighs, through his curls, and farther still until he was teasing one of Harry's nipples to hardness.
It was the only hard thing about Harry, who said, "Yes, I do want you again . . . almost more than I want—"
"That's the eighteen-year-old boy in you," Lucius replied, before sucking Harry's nipple into his mouth.
Inexplicably, Harry found himself saying, "You're still in love . . . with your wife. That's why you didn't take me back to—oh!" Lucius had moved faster than Harry would have believed possible to force his cock between his thighs and into his cunt.
"We. Will. Not. Speak. Of. My. Wife," he said, punctuating each word with a sharp, thick thrust.
It stung a bit, being fucked so peremptorily, especially after only just having been deflowered, but Harry didn't mind. He wasn't even angry with Lucius for having, essentially, danced him into bed without telling him about the cure to his curse beforehand.
He's lonely, Harry thought, as if that excused everything. "I like it, Lucius, I do. I like cock."
"I . . . I know," he replied, crushing his mouth to Harry's.
I like cock, Harry thought, and I'm going to have mine back!
At least, he hoped he was. As aroused as he felt, Harry was still able to think clearly enough to realise that Lucius might be lying, or might not actually mean to give him the cure—but as he wrapped his legs high up around Lucius' back, he couldn't be arsed to care.
Note: For the purposes of my monthly wrap-up, I'm counting this fic as slash, even though I'm sure that Lucius would have preferred me to have thought of it as het. ;)
In the Greenhouse (NC-17; Neville/Pansy, Neville/Luna; 400 words): There are no delicate flowers in the greenhouse.
alisanne prompted me with Neville/Pansy: greenhouse.
"Oh, look, it's you," Neville said rudely, as he happened upon Parkinson in the greenhouse.
"Eighth Year" hadn't been easy for Parkinson, and rightly so, but even though Neville had as much reason to dislike her as anyone, he was getting tired of seeing her looking so crushed. Neville didn't like seeing any girl cry, and Parkinson wasn't a delicate flower.
It's past time someone reminded her of that, he thought, as Parkinson ignored him. Striding forward, he seized her by the shoulders and pulled her up into a rough embrace.
He was pleased when Parkinson tried to bite him, and excited when, after only a moment's struggle, she surrendered to his kiss.
"Right," he said, pulling away from her once the need to breathe became too much, "you have to stop crying all the time. No one's going to feel sorry for you, Parkinson. You're a dreadful bitch."
"H—how can you say that?" she demanded. "You just kissed me."
"Yeah, but only to bring you to your senses," Neville replied, running a hand through his hair. "It's bad enough having to watch you cringing around the castle without also having to see you cry. I don't like you, Parkinson."
"Really?" Parkinson asked, sliding a hand into his trousers and grabbing his prick.
"Really, I . . . I don't like you at all," Neville replied, shuddering as she sped her strokes.
Parkinson grinned. "Not. At. All?"
Leaning up, Parkinson whispered against Neville's mouth, "We could have done, you know, if you didn't think I was such a dreadful bitch."
With that, she abruptly released him and strode—shoulders back and head held high—away, leaving Neville shaking with frustration.
"That was nice of you, Neville."
"Luna! What are you doing here?" he exclaimed, reaching down to hide the taut placket of his trousers with both hands.
Stepping out from behind some ferns, she replied, "Well, I was just trying to figure out how to make Pansy stop crying, but I see you worked that out well enough." She moved to stand before him. "Would you like some help with that? One good turn deserves another, after all."
Flushing, Neville nodded, gasping as Luna sank to her knees and undid his trousers—and cramming a fist into his mouth as she sucked his prick into hers.
"That's . . . oh, yeah, that's . . . you're amazing, Luna." And Eighth Year is turning out to be the best one, yet.
The Frustrations of Dedication (G; Charlie, Draco, Kingsley; 150 words)
angela_snape prompted me with Kingsley, Charlie & Draco: glass, dragon, air.
"It's just Minister Shacklebolt," Draco said, watching Charlie continue to fret over the wards that protected the Preserve's human-inhabited area from the dragon habitat. "He's been here before and knows how to go on. There's no need to treat him like glass."
Charlie, vigorously swishing his wand through the air, shook his head. "You don't understand. He wants to go into the pens. Anything could happen in the sodding pens!"
Draco placed a hand on Charlie's arm. "You've checked and rechecked these—all night, in fact—nothing's going to happen."
"And if something does, Draco, do you think we'll ever receive funding again?"
"I'll fund you."
Charlie snorted and would have spoken but for the people approaching.
"Mr Weasley's adjusting the wards, you say?"
"Damn it, I'm not ready!" Charlie exclaimed. "Go distract Shacklebolt for a moment, will you?"
Scowling, Draco stalked off. Whatever possessed me to take such a dedicated lover?
Thirteen (NC-17; Rabastan/Severus; 100 words)
snapesgirl prompted me with Rabastan/Severus: OCD.
Rabastan had an irritating habit, before getting to it, of touching Severus in a particular way: first, they'd kiss, and Rabastan would stroke Severus' tongue exactly thirteen times with his own; then, Rabastan would undo Severus' trousers and slowly stroke him—exactly thirteen times—after that, as Rabastan positioned himself between Severus' thighs, he would lick his way up and down Severus' cock, again, exactly thirteen times. If Severus tried to deviate from Rabastan's preferred order of business or made Rabastan lose count while he was kissing or stroking or licking, Rabastan would insist upon beginning again.
It was maddening, every time!