Christmas Drabbles, Part One
Hello hello, beautiful flist! First of all, Happy Christmas to all of you! I hope you've got a wonderful day ahead of you, and that you'll be merry and bright and that all your Christmases will-- er. Yes. *coughs*
Anyhow, if you recall, some time ago I posted a call for Christmas drabble requests. Now, as always, said drabbles that were to be born of these requests have...somewhat run away with me. As such, instead of flooding you with millions of mini-ficlets, I've decided to post them in groups of five over the next week. Today's drabbles, therefore, will be the first five people who signed up for gifties, and I will continue this until, I believe, the 30th will be the last of them. Or maybe the 31st if I start making stuff up. In any case, my apologies to those of you who will have to wait for your gifts, but hopefully they'll be worth the wait. :)
And without further ado...
Merry Christmas to froda_baggins, alliante, hydaspes, shortcircuited, and anise_anise!!!
Hope you ladies enjoy your presents. :D
For froda_baggins, who requested Remus/James, James teaches Remus to lighten up.
"C'mon, Remus," James wheedled, waving the admittedly rather fragrant glass of nog beneath the taller boy's nose. "It's just egg nog. It won't hurt you."
"That's what you said about the bowl of chocolate ganache that sent me to the hospital wing with a bellyache...and the 'harmless' hair-growing charm that had me looking like a great ape for a week...and the--"
"You complain too much," James interrupted him, tugging on his sleeve petulantly. "Moonyyyyy, come on. It's Christmas. The least you could do is try something new. Live a little! Besides, it's just. Egg nog. I made it myself." He fluttered his eyelashes charmingly.
"That's what I'm worried about," Remus muttered, but sighed at the huge, wide, wet-eyed look that James was giving him, and accepted the glass. "Fine," he said. "I'll try the egg nog." He scrunched his eyes shut, tipped his head back, and took a tentative sip...and was surprised to find it actually tasted...
"Not bad," he said, licking his lips. "It's...quite nice, actually. A bit too much rum for my liking, but like you said. New things." He smiled, bracing himself for an I told you so, but James was staring at him like he'd grown a third head.
"What?" He narrowed his eyes, knowing the nog had to be too good to be true and expecting to start changing colours any moment now. "What's the matter?" James seemed to be fixating on his mouth, so he licked his lips again, then brought his fingers up to check for sores. Finding none, he turned back to James, a stern remark on his tongue, but instead found his tongue being rather more...pleasantly occupied as James surged forward and slammed their mouths together, trying to devour Remus' tongue.
"Mmmmmph!" Remus grunted, surprised, his hands frozen by his sides -- not that he was sure what he would do with them if they weren't, because this was James and he wasn't going to pull the other boy closer but on the other hand, he certainly wasn't going to push him off, not when his mouth felt so good and his tongue tasted of peppermint and chocolate, and he was making all sorts of lovely noi--
James broke away, panting and flushed as if he'd had far too much egg nog of his own, his eyes huge and frightened and darker than usual as he stared up at Remus, and Remus suddenly felt both utterly confused and very frustrated. "James," he said, "what the fuck was that?"
"M...M--mistletoe," James choked, then turned and fled, leaving the glass of egg nog in Remus' hand. Remus blinked, then looked up instinctively...only to find that there was not, in fact, any mistletoe anywhere in sight.
Well. Remus shook his head, bringing the glass of egg nog up to his mouth for another swallow...and stopped halfway, a slight smile curving his somewhat swollen lips. Well. Maybe Christmas really was the season for new things.
+
For alliante, who requested Voldemort/Peter, post-GOF, the small hours of the morning.
"It is time, My Lord." It is morning, or only just, the light silver instead of gold against the thick velvet bedding, sparkling off the smooth, powerful curve of his arm as he prostrates himself before me, my faithful servant, my Wormtail.
"Of course," I intone, my voice still scratchy, still ragged from so many years of disuse, but it is better, better than the whispers passing through that idiot Quirrel's mouth, better than being forced to live a half-life, without body, without eyes to see or hands to touch or mouth to taste, without that power that a flashing gaze can command, without the reverence a single touch can inspire.
I bestow one of those touches on my servant now, feeling him quiver beneath my palm, and he scurries backward along the floor, murmured praises falling faster and faster from his lips as I rise, naked, from my bed and reach for my robes, winding them around my pale body, my gift from the illustrious (damnable) Harry Potter.
Thusly clad, I cross the room to him and reach down, stroking thinning hair and trembling flesh, and turn his face upward, studying the ravages of time across his face and eyes, the bitten lips, the twitching nose. "Wormtail," I murmur, prompting another shiver. "Wormtail."
I simply look at him for a long moment, watching his eyes dart nervously from side to side, his flesh hand clenching and unclenching by his side, and then slowly pull him to his feet. "Come," I say, resting a hand against his back, catching him before he can fall to his knees again, to grovel and praise and express thanks over and over for my benevolence, my regard, my kindness in allowing him to accompany me.
After all. It is Christmas. And 'tis the season to reward the faithful.
+
For hydaspes, who requested Snape/Hermione.
"Miss Granger."
Hermione flinched at the icy tone of Professor Snape's voice, very quiet and with the faintest underlying note of fury, feeling a frisson of disquiet twist her spine. But she hadn't been Sorted into Gryffindor for nothing, so she met his gaze with as much calmness as she could muster and concentrated on not squeaking. "Sir?"
"What are the magical properties of mistletoe?"
Hermione swallowed, and then, in the tone that had served her well for answering questions for the last seven years, answered, "Mistletoe, specifically the leaves, is primarily used in protective potions. The sap can be used for healing potions that affect the respiratory system, although it is not as effective as other coniferous saps. The berries, when used whole, can be implemented in exorcism, and crushed to release the juices, are an important component of fertility rituals, and can also be used in love potions."
Snape watched her impassively until she had finished her diatribe, and then folded his arms. "And in any of your certainly exhaustive research, have you found a property of mistletoe that causes spontaneous and uncontrollable mouth-to-mouth mauling?"
"Sir, I told you, it's a tradition that--"
"Silence!" Snape snapped, cutting her off quite effectively, and Hermione clamped her mouth shut and forced herself to count to ten before replying again.
"No, sir," she answered stiffly.
"I thought not," he said.
They glared at each other for a moment, Snape looking a mixture between smug and irritated, and Hermione feeling both angry and very embarrassed, certain her cheeks were the same colour as her jumper, before Hermione finally forced her jaw to unclench and said, "May I go now, sir?"
"By all means," Snape answered, waving a hand in brusque dismissal. She repressed a sigh of relief, spinning on her heel and beginning to leave, but was stopped by Snape's voice again.
"Aren't you forgetting something, Miss Granger?"
She turned, spotting the sprig of mistletoe hanging from his long fingers, and sighed, crossing the room and reaching up to pluck it from his hand. Before she could, though, she felt a cool palm press against the small of her back, and suddenly she was being kissed quite firmly, thin lips tasting vaguely of tea moving over hers, lank hair that actually smelled quite nice, eucalyptus and citrus, brushing her cheek, and then -- she gasped -- the faintest touch of tongue, a warm point against her bottom lip, flickering gently against the skin and then retreating as Snape straightened again, face once again impassive, eyes flickering over her face for the briefest moment before he turned and stalked away, leaving the mistletoe dangling from between her shock-limp fingers.
+
For shortcircuited, who requested Twins/Harry, NC-17, chan, slight non-con, dirty talk, rimming, twincest, cinnamon and cocoa.
Harry groaned, pressing back against Fred -- or was it George -- and forward against George -- or was it Fred --with equal neediness, his head tossed back and his hands stretched up over his head, bound tightly to the showerhead with some conjured rope or other, stretching his shoulders at a painful angle and dragging him up onto the balls of his feet, such that he could barely move but to thrust forward and back again and again and again as two tongues tortured his most sensitive places, dirty, and wrong, wrong but so good, so good, and Aunt Petunia would cut it off if she knew what he was doing with it, and he was scared, and wanted-didn't-want to pull himself loose, to run away, to rewind to three days ago when he'd seen the two of them tangled together, freckled arms and legs and chests and backs as they slid cock against identical cock, water sluicing down over broad shoulders and plastering scarlet hair to their foreheads, and Harry, little Harry, who'd never even heard the word sex except from Dudley and Piers Polkiss who were the same age as him and Harry knew that they couldn't know that much more than him because boys didn't get the sex lecture until they were at least fourteen, was frozen, towel clenched around his waist and prepubescent cock pressing against the rough fabric as he heard them growl at each other, words like slut and whore and gonna fuck you so hard and want you to taste your own come off my tongue and any number of other things that Harry didn't even quite understand, but oh, oh, he was starting to now, now that he didn't have a choice, hadn't been given one, now that he was bound and stretched between the two of them, like a plaything, and he was starting to wonder if twins always shared everything, and if the Patil sisters with their cinnamon-skin and cocoa-eyes would ever do this, press him between the two of them and lick and bite and oh God suck like that and then Fred did something with his tongue and George swallowed hard around his prick and the only thing Harry could think as he arched and twisted and screamed and exploded was that he rather preferred the practical demonstration to the sex lecture any day.
+
For anise_anise, who requested Remus/Harry, NC-17, Remus teaching Harry to rim for the first time, Harry following instructions, dirty talk.
Fuck, Harry's good at this. I knew he would be a natural, would take to it the way he takes to everything else -- easily, comfortably, like he was born to do it. I still remember the first time I let him suck me, his hair twined between my fingers and his eyes holding mine as he licked his lips and took the head of my cock between those beautiful lips, Lily's lips on James' face, something that has always made him look almost androgynous, all smooth lines and soft angles and curved planes, like an oxymoron.
He liked it when I talked to him, when I told him how good his mouth felt wrapped around my prick, how I wanted to hold the back of his head and fuck his mouth hard, that I wanted him to take it like the good little slut he was, that I was going to make him swallow every drop, and then make him lick me hard again so I could bend him over the sofa and fuck his pretty little brains out. I hadn't, of course...I'd had to go slow with him. He's eighteen, nearly nineteen, but he is in many ways still a child, his youth stolen by the same creature who'd taken James and Lily and Sirius and Severus and so many other people, but who won't have Harry, can't have Harry, never again, because he's dead now, dead by those same hands that are right now squeezing the flesh of my arse as they spread me open for his lips and tongue.
"Harry," I groan, arching up into his mouth. "So good, Harry, so warm and wet...you love this, don't you, love sliding your tongue over any inch of my body you can get. You need this...this is what you were born for, to slide that hot little tongue of yours into my hole...oh, yes, just like that..." I toss my head back, fingers sinking into the mattress, as he follows my words, delving the tip of his tongue inside me, and I'd never guess he hadn't done this before if he hadn't told me not five minutes ago that he wanted to learn, and please, Remus, please teach me, and really, teaching is the one thing I've always loved, aside from chocolate, that is, and now Harry, so who am I to disagree?
Oh, fuck, Harry, do that again.
Anyhow, if you recall, some time ago I posted a call for Christmas drabble requests. Now, as always, said drabbles that were to be born of these requests have...somewhat run away with me. As such, instead of flooding you with millions of mini-ficlets, I've decided to post them in groups of five over the next week. Today's drabbles, therefore, will be the first five people who signed up for gifties, and I will continue this until, I believe, the 30th will be the last of them. Or maybe the 31st if I start making stuff up. In any case, my apologies to those of you who will have to wait for your gifts, but hopefully they'll be worth the wait. :)
And without further ado...
Merry Christmas to froda_baggins, alliante, hydaspes, shortcircuited, and anise_anise!!!
Hope you ladies enjoy your presents. :D
For froda_baggins, who requested Remus/James, James teaches Remus to lighten up.
"C'mon, Remus," James wheedled, waving the admittedly rather fragrant glass of nog beneath the taller boy's nose. "It's just egg nog. It won't hurt you."
"That's what you said about the bowl of chocolate ganache that sent me to the hospital wing with a bellyache...and the 'harmless' hair-growing charm that had me looking like a great ape for a week...and the--"
"You complain too much," James interrupted him, tugging on his sleeve petulantly. "Moonyyyyy, come on. It's Christmas. The least you could do is try something new. Live a little! Besides, it's just. Egg nog. I made it myself." He fluttered his eyelashes charmingly.
"That's what I'm worried about," Remus muttered, but sighed at the huge, wide, wet-eyed look that James was giving him, and accepted the glass. "Fine," he said. "I'll try the egg nog." He scrunched his eyes shut, tipped his head back, and took a tentative sip...and was surprised to find it actually tasted...
"Not bad," he said, licking his lips. "It's...quite nice, actually. A bit too much rum for my liking, but like you said. New things." He smiled, bracing himself for an I told you so, but James was staring at him like he'd grown a third head.
"What?" He narrowed his eyes, knowing the nog had to be too good to be true and expecting to start changing colours any moment now. "What's the matter?" James seemed to be fixating on his mouth, so he licked his lips again, then brought his fingers up to check for sores. Finding none, he turned back to James, a stern remark on his tongue, but instead found his tongue being rather more...pleasantly occupied as James surged forward and slammed their mouths together, trying to devour Remus' tongue.
"Mmmmmph!" Remus grunted, surprised, his hands frozen by his sides -- not that he was sure what he would do with them if they weren't, because this was James and he wasn't going to pull the other boy closer but on the other hand, he certainly wasn't going to push him off, not when his mouth felt so good and his tongue tasted of peppermint and chocolate, and he was making all sorts of lovely noi--
James broke away, panting and flushed as if he'd had far too much egg nog of his own, his eyes huge and frightened and darker than usual as he stared up at Remus, and Remus suddenly felt both utterly confused and very frustrated. "James," he said, "what the fuck was that?"
"M...M--mistletoe," James choked, then turned and fled, leaving the glass of egg nog in Remus' hand. Remus blinked, then looked up instinctively...only to find that there was not, in fact, any mistletoe anywhere in sight.
Well. Remus shook his head, bringing the glass of egg nog up to his mouth for another swallow...and stopped halfway, a slight smile curving his somewhat swollen lips. Well. Maybe Christmas really was the season for new things.
+
For alliante, who requested Voldemort/Peter, post-GOF, the small hours of the morning.
"It is time, My Lord." It is morning, or only just, the light silver instead of gold against the thick velvet bedding, sparkling off the smooth, powerful curve of his arm as he prostrates himself before me, my faithful servant, my Wormtail.
"Of course," I intone, my voice still scratchy, still ragged from so many years of disuse, but it is better, better than the whispers passing through that idiot Quirrel's mouth, better than being forced to live a half-life, without body, without eyes to see or hands to touch or mouth to taste, without that power that a flashing gaze can command, without the reverence a single touch can inspire.
I bestow one of those touches on my servant now, feeling him quiver beneath my palm, and he scurries backward along the floor, murmured praises falling faster and faster from his lips as I rise, naked, from my bed and reach for my robes, winding them around my pale body, my gift from the illustrious (damnable) Harry Potter.
Thusly clad, I cross the room to him and reach down, stroking thinning hair and trembling flesh, and turn his face upward, studying the ravages of time across his face and eyes, the bitten lips, the twitching nose. "Wormtail," I murmur, prompting another shiver. "Wormtail."
I simply look at him for a long moment, watching his eyes dart nervously from side to side, his flesh hand clenching and unclenching by his side, and then slowly pull him to his feet. "Come," I say, resting a hand against his back, catching him before he can fall to his knees again, to grovel and praise and express thanks over and over for my benevolence, my regard, my kindness in allowing him to accompany me.
After all. It is Christmas. And 'tis the season to reward the faithful.
+
For hydaspes, who requested Snape/Hermione.
"Miss Granger."
Hermione flinched at the icy tone of Professor Snape's voice, very quiet and with the faintest underlying note of fury, feeling a frisson of disquiet twist her spine. But she hadn't been Sorted into Gryffindor for nothing, so she met his gaze with as much calmness as she could muster and concentrated on not squeaking. "Sir?"
"What are the magical properties of mistletoe?"
Hermione swallowed, and then, in the tone that had served her well for answering questions for the last seven years, answered, "Mistletoe, specifically the leaves, is primarily used in protective potions. The sap can be used for healing potions that affect the respiratory system, although it is not as effective as other coniferous saps. The berries, when used whole, can be implemented in exorcism, and crushed to release the juices, are an important component of fertility rituals, and can also be used in love potions."
Snape watched her impassively until she had finished her diatribe, and then folded his arms. "And in any of your certainly exhaustive research, have you found a property of mistletoe that causes spontaneous and uncontrollable mouth-to-mouth mauling?"
"Sir, I told you, it's a tradition that--"
"Silence!" Snape snapped, cutting her off quite effectively, and Hermione clamped her mouth shut and forced herself to count to ten before replying again.
"No, sir," she answered stiffly.
"I thought not," he said.
They glared at each other for a moment, Snape looking a mixture between smug and irritated, and Hermione feeling both angry and very embarrassed, certain her cheeks were the same colour as her jumper, before Hermione finally forced her jaw to unclench and said, "May I go now, sir?"
"By all means," Snape answered, waving a hand in brusque dismissal. She repressed a sigh of relief, spinning on her heel and beginning to leave, but was stopped by Snape's voice again.
"Aren't you forgetting something, Miss Granger?"
She turned, spotting the sprig of mistletoe hanging from his long fingers, and sighed, crossing the room and reaching up to pluck it from his hand. Before she could, though, she felt a cool palm press against the small of her back, and suddenly she was being kissed quite firmly, thin lips tasting vaguely of tea moving over hers, lank hair that actually smelled quite nice, eucalyptus and citrus, brushing her cheek, and then -- she gasped -- the faintest touch of tongue, a warm point against her bottom lip, flickering gently against the skin and then retreating as Snape straightened again, face once again impassive, eyes flickering over her face for the briefest moment before he turned and stalked away, leaving the mistletoe dangling from between her shock-limp fingers.
+
For shortcircuited, who requested Twins/Harry, NC-17, chan, slight non-con, dirty talk, rimming, twincest, cinnamon and cocoa.
Harry groaned, pressing back against Fred -- or was it George -- and forward against George -- or was it Fred --with equal neediness, his head tossed back and his hands stretched up over his head, bound tightly to the showerhead with some conjured rope or other, stretching his shoulders at a painful angle and dragging him up onto the balls of his feet, such that he could barely move but to thrust forward and back again and again and again as two tongues tortured his most sensitive places, dirty, and wrong, wrong but so good, so good, and Aunt Petunia would cut it off if she knew what he was doing with it, and he was scared, and wanted-didn't-want to pull himself loose, to run away, to rewind to three days ago when he'd seen the two of them tangled together, freckled arms and legs and chests and backs as they slid cock against identical cock, water sluicing down over broad shoulders and plastering scarlet hair to their foreheads, and Harry, little Harry, who'd never even heard the word sex except from Dudley and Piers Polkiss who were the same age as him and Harry knew that they couldn't know that much more than him because boys didn't get the sex lecture until they were at least fourteen, was frozen, towel clenched around his waist and prepubescent cock pressing against the rough fabric as he heard them growl at each other, words like slut and whore and gonna fuck you so hard and want you to taste your own come off my tongue and any number of other things that Harry didn't even quite understand, but oh, oh, he was starting to now, now that he didn't have a choice, hadn't been given one, now that he was bound and stretched between the two of them, like a plaything, and he was starting to wonder if twins always shared everything, and if the Patil sisters with their cinnamon-skin and cocoa-eyes would ever do this, press him between the two of them and lick and bite and oh God suck like that and then Fred did something with his tongue and George swallowed hard around his prick and the only thing Harry could think as he arched and twisted and screamed and exploded was that he rather preferred the practical demonstration to the sex lecture any day.
+
For anise_anise, who requested Remus/Harry, NC-17, Remus teaching Harry to rim for the first time, Harry following instructions, dirty talk.
Fuck, Harry's good at this. I knew he would be a natural, would take to it the way he takes to everything else -- easily, comfortably, like he was born to do it. I still remember the first time I let him suck me, his hair twined between my fingers and his eyes holding mine as he licked his lips and took the head of my cock between those beautiful lips, Lily's lips on James' face, something that has always made him look almost androgynous, all smooth lines and soft angles and curved planes, like an oxymoron.
He liked it when I talked to him, when I told him how good his mouth felt wrapped around my prick, how I wanted to hold the back of his head and fuck his mouth hard, that I wanted him to take it like the good little slut he was, that I was going to make him swallow every drop, and then make him lick me hard again so I could bend him over the sofa and fuck his pretty little brains out. I hadn't, of course...I'd had to go slow with him. He's eighteen, nearly nineteen, but he is in many ways still a child, his youth stolen by the same creature who'd taken James and Lily and Sirius and Severus and so many other people, but who won't have Harry, can't have Harry, never again, because he's dead now, dead by those same hands that are right now squeezing the flesh of my arse as they spread me open for his lips and tongue.
"Harry," I groan, arching up into his mouth. "So good, Harry, so warm and wet...you love this, don't you, love sliding your tongue over any inch of my body you can get. You need this...this is what you were born for, to slide that hot little tongue of yours into my hole...oh, yes, just like that..." I toss my head back, fingers sinking into the mattress, as he follows my words, delving the tip of his tongue inside me, and I'd never guess he hadn't done this before if he hadn't told me not five minutes ago that he wanted to learn, and please, Remus, please teach me, and really, teaching is the one thing I've always loved, aside from chocolate, that is, and now Harry, so who am I to disagree?
Oh, fuck, Harry, do that again.