Celebratory Ficlets I: silver_sunn101, mikazuki, gaycrow, killerqueen1946, a_belladonna, samson28
And you thought I'd just forgotten, right? *g* Last month good things happened. I finished my term, my "friended by" grew to over 100 people, and I had my 3 month fic-a-versary. So I offered celebratory ficlets to anyone who wanted one. Here are the first batch! (Actually, the first two are in exchange for other lovely things, and the rest are celebratory ;) )
~*~
A Taste or Two- Harry Potter- Harry/Remus- PG-13
Misselved- Harry Potter- Severus/Remus- PG-13
Never Again- Harry Potter- Harry/Severus- R
Layers of Life- RPS Queenslash- Freddie/John- PG
The Potions Master's Plan- Harry Potter- Severus/Remus- G
Triangles- Angel- Spike/Gunn- PG
Title: A Taste or Two
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Remus/Harry
Summary/Prompt: for silver_sunn101, because she made me my spiffing nottanaddict colour bar. Her prompt was Remus/Harry
Word Count: 1184
Harry Potter, saviour of the world, hero to witches and wizards everywhere, renowned auror, and winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile four years running, had pissed off a lot of people in his time. He’d aggravated Severus Snape with his mere existence and inability to keep away from mischief. He’d upset the Hogwarts Board of Governors when he’d turned down the Defense Against the Dark Arts position for the last three years. He’d certainly enraged countless Death Eaters and Voldemort hangers-on by doing away with the Dark Lord more than seven years ago. But perhaps this time he’d pissed off more people than ever before. He’d most assuredly infuriated the Ministry, his bosses, and the general public, who all agreed that someone like Harry simply had to go on fighting the Dark. So when he’d handed in his six weeks’ notice and released a statement to the Daily Prophet that he was very well, thank you, but he was giving it all up and he’d appreciate no further questions, he’d received more than a few howlers. Petitions had circulated, nasty editorials had been printed, Ministry drone after Ministry drone had hammered on his door to alternately threaten him and beg him to come to his senses, and the opinion on the streets of Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley was that young Harry had finally succumbed to the stress of it all and had gone unceremoniously mad. Or he was a lazy little bugger. Possibly both.
But on this shining June morning, Harry Potter didn’t care what they were saying about him. He was finally, finally looking at his dream made real, and all he could think was At last. After heavy investment, innumerable construction problems, a strike by the builder-elves (Bloody Hermione and her liberation fronts, Harry thought darkly), and a shortage from the chocolate mines, it was complete. Harry stood in front of the shop- his shop- and admired the view. Its brick façade was a rich cinnamon colour. It’s windows displayed shimmering sugary confections and delicious chocolates of every conceivable type and taste. The sign above the door swung gently in the breeze, and Harry couldn’t help but feel both a swell of pride and of apprehension. Today was the day. He wondered just who would show up, if the one person he was truly hoping to see would come. He felt a clap on the shoulder and turned, smiling, to find two identical faces grinning back.
“Done at last, Harry?” said Fred Weasley, a note of teasing respect in his voice. “We thought you’d-”
“-go mad before it was finished,” completed George.
“Opening Day, lads,” Harry breathed. “Do you think anyone will show up?”
“Only everyone you went to school with.”
“And all of your admirers.”
“And the people who’re curious to see if you really did give up being an auror for opening a candy store.”
“Directly across from our own fine establishment, might I add,” George said with a wink.
Harry laughed, gazing across the street at the now highly profitable head office of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. “You’re the ones who encouraged me to do this when I wasn’t sure I could, so you’d better be willing to take full responsibility if I fail.”
Fred opened his mouth to respond but was drowned out by a babble of voices as witches and wizards of every age flooded Diagon Alley, converging on the shop.
“Yeah, looks like you’re doomed to fail, mate!” Fred shouted over the din.
“Best of luck, Harry!” added George as the twins hastily retreated to the safety of their own store, unlocking the doors for any of the curious crowd who might want to go exploring after taking a look at Harry’s chocolate shop.
Harry was practically swept into his own store by the eager crowds. Many of them were there simply to gawk at him or ask him if he was feeling quite well. A few wanted to know if the Ministry had treated him all right. They all seemed pleased to see him alive happy. But mostly people actually bought things. Rich dark chocolate, lovely mint chocolate molded into the shape of peppermint leaves, fudge of every flavour, chocolate cakes and chocolate cream pies, bars and squares and truffles laced with expensive liqueurs. Harry didn’t have a moment to stop and think. The day passed by him in a blur of delighted faces and clinking coins and carefully wrapped packages of the finest chocolate in England. It was hours later, near closing, when Harry realized he hadn’t seen the one person he’d been hoping to see.
“Harry, we made a killing!” Dennis Creevey, his assistant manger, crowed.
Harry smiled at the young man. “We did at that. Would you mind locking up, Dennis? I’m going to do the balance and close the till.”
“Of course Harry. And- oh, Professor Lupin, I didn’t see you there.”
Harry dropped the bankbook he’d been fidgeting with. There stood Remus Lupin in soft brown robes, no longer faded and worn as he’d had a steady income at Beauxbatons for years now. Harry took in his greying hair, his gentle, sparkling eyes. His face creased into that most familiar smile as he looked at Harry, and the younger wizard felt his stomach lurch. It had been too long since he’d seen the werewolf, too long since he’d listened to his wonderful voice and watched that prowling gait and been lost in aching, unanswered wanting.
“So you gave it all up after all,” Remus said quietly. “The world-class auror opened a candy store.”
“I was so sick of being what was expected of me,” Harry said, taking a step closer and then faltering. “I just... want to do what I want to do for once. And it’s not a candy store. It’s a chocolate shop.”
“A chocolate shop named Remus’.”
“Yes.”
“So you want to live your life for yourself. That’s admirable. And have you decided what you truly want, Harry?” Remus took a step closer, and then another until he was standing directly in front of Harry. He reached out and let his fingers run gently along Harry’s stubbly cheek, lingering by the chin as he held the younger man’s gaze.
“You know,” Harry whispered, more in surprise than conviction. He schooled his Gryffindor courage and reached out. He wrapped his arms around Remus’ waist and tugged him forward, brushing his lips across the older man’s mouth with a needy, grateful sigh. He felt Remus tense for a moment and then relax and respond, malleable lips moving against Harry’s.
He pulled back a little and smiled. “It’s been a very good day.”
“Has it?” Remus said, bending lower and trailing biting kisses down Harry’s throat.
“Yes. The chocolate’s excellent, too. Mmmm. Care to taste some?”
“I’m tasting all I care to right here, thanks.”
“God, Remus,” Harry breathed, arching into his touch, “this is what I want. You’re what I want. What I need.”
“And you’ll let me sample the chocolate after of course,” Remus said, holding him close.
“As much as you want,” Harry agreed. “Starting tomorrow morning.”
Fin
Title: Misshelved
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Remus/Severus MWPP-era
Summary/Prompt: for miyumiyu, because she did this wonderful interest meme art for me. In return I thought I'd do an interest meme ficlet. I chose "Snupin" and "Alphabetical Order" from her interests
Word Count: 1222
With a sigh that spoke of too many nights hunched over cauldron or text, of too many days escaping torment at the hands of his classmates or plotting vengeance, Severus Snape got up from his study table in the library of Hogwarts and made his way to the Restricted Section. He’d been researching his History of Magic essay for that insane ghost Binns all weekend, hoping to get ahead of his classmates and hand in the paper early. Two more titles should do it, and then he’d be free for the rest of Sunday night.
“Rovandar,” he muttered, pacing up one row of bookcases and down the next until he reached the R’s. He ran elegant fingers along the shelf, searching for the right author. “Rothian, Rouen, Rovae... Rowan.” His brow furrowed. The Rovandar volume was supposed to be there.
“Accio Rovandar,” he said with a twitch of his wand, and the leather-bound tome immediately hefted itself off the shelf directly underneath where it should have been and dropped into Severus’ outstretched hand.
Misshelved. Again. This was the third bloody time this weekend that a book he’d required hadn’t been in the right spot.
“That Pince woman,” he grumbled, heading off toward the D section for the other title. “Honestly, anyone who can’t manage a task as simply as shelving in alphabetical order has no business allowed near... books.”
He stopped abruptly, staring at the person standing before the D’s. Remus sodding Lupin. His jaw tightened as he looked at the easygoing boy with honeyed hair and hazel eyes cradling two books in his arms as though they were very precious. Just as Severus himself treated books. He watched as Lupin cheerfully replaced a third book on the shelf, recognizing the ornate blue and gold spine as the one he himself needed. With an irritated growl, he descended on the Gryffindor, causing him to jump in surprise.
“Lupin,” he spat, hating that the other boy had begun to smile in greeting. He didn’t want that smile turned on him. It was too... he didn’t know what. Disconcerting, maybe. He directed his attention to the book he needed, “Trollish Relations in Medieval Scandinavia” by Filigree Dumas. Shelved between two works by Lalandra Davidson. He ground his teeth in fury.
“You’ve shelved it wrong!” he said, sounding for all the world like he was about to drag Remus off to the Wizengamot for so heinous a crime. “This is for Binns’ essay?”
Remus nodded, apparently unsure why Severus was so upset.
Severus shook his head. “You’ve been reshelving books improperly all weekend!” He snatched the book off the shelf and held it close to his chest, next to the Rovandar. “Every time I need a book, you’ve put it in the wrong place!”
Remus chuckled, in spite of Severus’ most-practiced Harbinger of Pain and Death Glare. “Not doing it to irritate you, Severus. I solemnly swear.”
“Well, really, Lupin, surely even you can grasp the concept of alphabetical order,” Severus sneered, but the sneer very nearly turned into a squeak when Remus took a step closer to him, and then another.
The boy stood directly in front of him and leaned in, head tilted upward. My gods, Severus thought, feeling half insane, he’s going to kiss me. Instead, Remus reached up, book in hand, and pushed it onto the shelf. Severus twisted around. Shelved improperly. He turned back around to make a scathing comment, only to find Remus’ mouth dangerously close to his own. And with his back against the bookcase, he had nowhere to retreat.
“I’m not stupid, Severus,” Remus said softly, watching him carefully. “They like it when I do that.”
“They... who? What?” Severus was somewhat dazed. He could feel the heat rolling off Remus’ body- Remus, who had always been… if not kind to Severus, then certainly never cruel, who sometimes actually spoke to him in the Great Hall or in class, who sometimes seemed to seek him out for short, quiet conversations.
Remus smiled. “The books, of course. They like being put back in different places. Gives them a chance to catch up with friends they haven’t spoken with for a while. And they like the exercise of getting themselves back to the right positions during the night, too.”
“The books speak to you?”
“Yes.”
“Are they doing it right now?” His tone belied the fact that he thought Remus was either crazy or having him on.
“You’d be able to hear them if they were,” Remus said, bending forward to shelve his final book, just to the left of Severus’ shoulder. This time, though, as he drew back from the shelf, he allowed his hand to settle on the taller boy’s elbow ever so lightly. Severus looked down at the offending touch and then back up at Remus, panicking.
Perhaps sensing the panic, Remus leaned up and brushed his lips across Severus’, not hesitantly but gently, testing for a reaction.
Severus didn’t react at all. He felt the tingle of that easy friction of lips on his own, but he couldn’t move. His brain had promptly shut down. He tried to splutter out some response, any response. Apparently taking the lack of being hexed through the wall as a sign, Remus plucked the books from him and placed them somewhere behind him and then advanced again, sliding one hand up to caress Severus’ neck as his lips moved. At last, Severus’ brain, or perhaps his instinct, began working once more and with a fierce, disbelieving joy he kissed Remus back, his lips parting to allow the boy’s tongue inside, and he wrapped his arms around Remus’ waist, pulling him close.
The fingers on his neck moved up to card through his hair as Remus’ tongue explored and tasted and teased, and a little, needy whimper escaped from Severus’ throat. Whoever would have expected this to feel so very, very good?
Far too soon- though Severus couldn’t be sure just how long they’d stood in the dim shelter of bookcases and torchlight- Remus pulled back and Severus opened his eyes, the suspicious part of him expecting Remus to turn on him, to reveal that this was all a terrible prank. But when he looked down into joyous, gleaming eyes, he knew that the kiss had been sincere. He felt a smile creeping unbidden onto his face, and Remus laughed with delight.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Remus breathed, kissing Severus’ jaw. Severus arched into the surprisingly tender movement, feeling a series of little thrills shiver down his spine.
“All right, dearies, I think that’s enough for one evening,” an ancient, wheezing voice said by Severus’ ear. He gasped and spun around.
“That’s right,” a more robust voice agreed. “A little kiss or two is all right, of course, but it’s time you two were off your separate ways.”
Severus arched an eyebrow, looking back at Remus, who was grinning. “I told you they talked,” he said with a shrug. “I suppose I’d best be going.”
0With a final kiss on the cheek, Remus slipped past him and disappeared from view.
Severus touched the spot on his cheek as though he couldn’t quite believe what had happened. He gathered up his books and made his way back to his table, and whispered, “goodnight... Remus.”
Fin
Title: Never Again
Rating: Hard R
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Severus
Summary/Prompt: for gaycrow, whose prompt was : "Snape/Harry - both straight, can't understand their attraction to one another."
Word Count: 1187
Of all the people he’d expected to attend Percy Weasley’s wedding, Severus Snape was not one of them. Harry hadn’t seen the man in years, but he looked like he hadn’t aged a day. Still tall, thin, greasy, menacing. Harry glared at him as he whirled Poppy Pomfrey across the dance floor, his elegant hand at her waist guiding them both gracefully as his black- was that velvet?- robes swished and swirled with their movement, clinging to his lithe form. And when he turned to face Harry’s direction, the young man gasped. Where was the permanent scowl that he knew all too well? While Snape wasn’t smiling, neither was his face set into lines of contempt and disgust. As he murmured something to his partner, he looked like was actually enjoying himself.
“A glamour, do you think?” Lavender Brown-Potter muttered, nodding at Snape. Clearly she was surprised to see him still looking young, still looking vital. Harry suppressed a snicker at the thought of his evil former teacher resorting to magic to make himself more appealing, and he offered his hand to his wife. He still hated dancing, but he knew he’d disappoint her if they didn’t spend at least a little time out on the dance floor. He cast a look once more toward his old professor and found him staring back, a burning, angry gaze that caught Harry in the pit of his stomach and sent a strange flush to his cheeks. The alcohol, Harry told himself firmly, tearing his eyes away and catching Lavender around the waist. I’m drunk already. That’s all.
As the evening wore on, Harry found his eyes drawn to the imposing form of the Potions Master. Again and again his gaze wandered to the tall, shockingly graceful man, and more often than not, Snape returned his stare, scrutinizing him as though trying to determine the composition of his very soul. Harry bit his lip as Lavender danced off with Ron, watching Snape waltz with Minerva McGonagall. He couldn’t stop looking, couldn’t understand what it was that caused this outlandish fixation.
Harry, old man, he thought, finishing his goblet of Magnificent Moonshine with a single pull, you’re going crazy. It’s that he looks so bloody young. So good- well, not good, but decent. Fit. And elegant, like you’ve never really noticed before. And- oh hell, he’s coming over here!
Harry clamped down on a squeak - he was 25. He had a lovely wife and a respectable career, for god’s sake. There was no cause for the strange, nervous flip-flop of his stomach as the man approached.
“Potter.”
“Snape.” Why was he standing so close? Harry scrambled for something to say, and came up with, “So, how’re you doing?”
Snape snorted. “I teach insolent little beggars an art form they aren’t equipped to appreciate.”
As if that was an answer. “And how long have you and Madam Pomfrey-“
“A year. Are you quite through the personal questions awkwardly veiled as small talk?” Snape sneered at him. “You always were too nosey. Too sure of getting away with anything you wished.”
“Oh, stuff it, you surly old bastard,” Harry muttered, wondering just how intoxicated he was. Snape’s face contorted, transmuting into a shade of colour that was somewhere between green and purple. He said something back, but the music had changed into a throbbing, clamorous tune and Harry shook his head and shouted, “You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear your insults!”
Snape turned an even greener purple, if that was possible, and loomed close, so close, hissing into Harry’s ear, “you’re no better than your father, though at least you’ve managed to live a few years longer. That was most unexpected.”
Harry turned in fury, about to snark back, but Snape was so incredibly near to him and his neck was inches from Harry’s mouth and - gods! What was wrong with him? Dizzily, he grabbed the older man’s arm and all but dragged him out of the dance hall, away from the music and lights and laughter and why, why, why was he getting hard now, with no Lavender or Ginny or even Hermione in sight?
He steered them both into the cloakroom, and no sooner had Harry rounded on his infuriating ex-professor than he felt himself shoved backward against a wall, a shower of outer robes falling around him and puddling at his feet. “Wha-“
“What have you done to me?” Snape seethed, grabbing Harry’s wrists and pinning them to the wall by his hips.
Harry struggled feebly but couldn’t free himself of Snape’s grasp. Wasn’t he supposed to be old and weak, while Harry was young and strong? Shouldn’t he fight back harder? He squirmed weakly, but Snape pressed in further, making Harry even dizzier, sending thrills up and down Harry’s spine and straight to his groin.
“Me?” he gasped.
“I am with Poppy. Why are you doing this? I have no interest in stupid, frivolous young men,” Snape spat.
“I’m not doing anything!” Harry protested. “It’s you and your stupid glamour! I’m not supposed to be interested in slimy old men!”
“What glamour? You insolent little-“ as Snape pushed forward, Harry felt his own arousal brush against an unmistakable hardness in Snape’s trousers. His head was swimming, and he couldn’t believe anything, let alone this, could feel so good. He moaned in spite of himself.
“I did nothing to you, apart from the obvious,” Harry ground out, driving his hips forward to underscore his point.
With a cry of rage, Snape caught Harry’s mouth with his own and Harry was overwhelmed by the sensation of thin, pliable lips and sharp teeth and an angry tongue plundering, exploring, fucking his mouth. Snape released his wrists in favour of raking his long fingers through Harry’s messy hair, holding his head in place. Free, Harry wrapped his arms around Snape’s waist, urging him closer so he could crush their hips together forcefully, clumsily, unsure of what he was doing but knowing that the feeling of Snape’s erection undulating against his own was the most insanely exquisite sensation he’d ever experienced.
This was ridiculous, crazy, wrong, right, good, perfect, and Harry could no longer think about who he was with and why this was happening, losing himself in the rhythm of bucking hips and competing tongues. With a choking cry that was swallowed by Severus’ greedy mouth, he came hard, pumping against those wonderfully narrow hips until he could no longer move. He fell limply against the taller man, giving way to Snape’s own motion, as graceful and rhythmic as his dancing had been, until Snape shuddered, bit his lip to prevent crying out, and then collapsed against Harry.
Long moments passed until Harry fumbled in his pocket for his wand, his other arm still wrapped around Snape’s waist, and muttered, “scourgify.”
Snape wrenched himself away and stalked backward before sending Harry a strange, haunted look. “Never do that to me again,” he hissed, and then strode out of the room without a backward glance. Harry passed a shaky hand over his face and after a moment left to find his wife.
Fin
Title: Layers of Life
Rating: PG for language
Fandom: Queen
Pairing: Freddie/John
Summary/Prompt: John and Freddie have this exchange once a year, and John doesn't know if he can do it anymore. killerqueen1946, who wanted to see Freddie/John.
Word Count: 1367 (1224 without lyrics)
John poured the last of the champagne into his flute and sighed, massaging his temples. He hated this day, this date. He hated Roger and Brian for the letter he’d been staring at for the last two hours. He even hated Vera a little for having to visit her relatives this week, leaving him alone. But mostly, he hated Freddie.
“No you don’t, love.”
John paused as the resonant, cheerful voice echoed through his bedroom. “Like clockwork, you are.”
“Are you calling me predictable? I can imagine no greater insult, you know.”
John turned to the bedroom door and furrowed his brow. Freddie stood there, looking twenty-five years old, glossy hair flowing to his shoulders, dark eyes accentuated with kohl, wearing black nail polish and tight clothes that revealed his lightly haired chest.
“Well, that’s certainly different,” John acceded, and Freddie laughed, moving forward with that prowling gate John knew far too well. He smiled, self-satisfied. “I’m not so predictable after all, then.”
“You come to me every year on this date,” John reminded him, standing and scooping up the letter.
“Ah, you’ve noticed the pattern. Good for you!”
“And you always find me when I’m alone.”
“Well, I don’t want to share you with anyone else,” Freddie reasoned, stepping closer, scarce inches between them.
John shivered and looked at the burgundy carpet, willing himself not to stare, not to sulk, not to scream. At last he found his voice and whispered, “Why do you do it? Why do you come here? Just to show me what I can’t have?”
Freddie froze, eyes widening dramatically before his face plunged into a fetching pout. “I’m here to tell you that I miss you, you shit!”
John sighed wearily. “Same thing.”
“Deaky. My Deaky. Look at me.”
John looked up again and regarded the man before him. Freddie reached out and trailed his fingers along John’s cheek, following the jaw bone, ghosting down the line of his neck. The bass player could almost feel something, could almost feel heat where the fingers danced and he tried to lean into the touch. Freddie shook his head and pulled back with a rueful smile.
“So how are things? Vera? Your lovely children? How many do you have now, fourteen of them?” A teasing smile played at the edge of Freddie’s mouth.
“What, you aren’t watching over us like some demented guardian angel?” John asked as he sat back down and scooted over to the middle of the bed, stretching his legs out before him and leaning against the headboard. After a moment’s hesitation, Freddie joined him, sitting a few inches away.
“I can’t watch over you,” Freddie said, studiously not looking at John. “I only get today. I’m not aware of what goes on the rest of the time. Today I’m allowed to come back and check on whatever I need to.”
“And you come to me.”
“Of course, dear.”
John turned to regard Freddie and then opened the letter, holding it up for Freddie to read. “Brian and Roger. They want to tour again.”
Freddie snorted. “Well, fuck. Is that why you’re so fucking withdrawn tonight? Go tour, then!”
“I can’t.”
“What? Why the hell not?” Freddie laughed incredulously. “How could you not want to tour? Don’t you remember what it was like? How much fun we had?”
John squeezed his eyes shut, wanting nothing more than to lean his head on Freddie’s shoulder. The images of a thousand different shows ran through his mind. The electricity of performing, the nights on the road, the first time Freddie kissed him, almost timidly because Freddie was always more timid than everyone suspected... The tangle of limbs and tongues and shared hotel rooms and stolen kisses and nights in the recording studio and days spent jamming and a complete, hidden, second life resting just beneath the surface of the one they showed to the public.
“What are you thinking about, Johnny?”
“The way you taste.”
Freddie exhaled hard. “You’re killing me.”
“A little after the fact, isn’t it?”
Their eyes met and they burst out laughing. God, it felt good to laugh with Freddie!
“I’ve missed you so much,” John said, his giggle fit subsiding. “It’s so different without you.”
“It’s been a long time, Johnny,” Freddie countered. “Why don’t you tour with the lads? It would do you a world of good.”
“I can’t.”
“Why? Wait, who the hell have they got singing? It’s not one of them, is it? Bri and Rog are dear boys, but they can’t carry our songs.”
John shook his head. “No. They aren’t that stupid. They’ve asked Paul Rodgers. You remember him.”
Freddie tilted his head to the side as if considering. “That’s... not bad. His voice is not nearly what mine was, of course. But still, it’s not a bad fit, is it?”
“You’re okay with this?”
Freddie flashed John that mischievous smile that had been the bass player’s undoing so many years ago. “Now? It’s all right. Ten years ago I’d have thrown quite a spectacular fit. If you want to tour, tour. I won’t be upset with you.”
John felt a lump rising in his throat. He couldn’t bloody breathe as he turned to his former bandmate. “Don’t you understand, Freddie? I can’t tour! I won’t do it. Not without you.”
Freddie’s jaw tightened and he made a strange, choking sound. “Johnny...”
“No. I love the music, Freddie, you know that. But ultimately, it was about you. It was about us. Without you here, there isn’t any point. I love you too much to do it without you.”
“I love you too, Johnny,” Freddie whispered. “God, I wish I could touch you.”
John leaned forward and tried to touch his lover’s cheek. His fingers slipped through as though Freddie was nothing more than air. Which John supposed he was.
“Sing me something?” he asked, settling back against the headboard.
Freddie smiled at him, making his heart skip just like always. “What would you like to hear?”
“The song I wrote for you, of course.”
“Of course, darling.” Freddie cleared his throat and began:
”Music is playing in the darkness
And a lantern goes swinging by
Shadows flickering my heart's jittering
Just you and I
Not tonight come tomorrow
When ev'rything's sunny and bright (sunny and bright)
No no no come tomorrow 'cause then
We'll be waiting in the moonlight”
John watched his lover’s expressive face as he continued with the song. He whispered the words along with Freddie’s melody:
”You know I never could forsee the future years
You know I never could see
Where life was leading me
But will we be together forever?
What will be my love?
Can't you see that I just don't know”
Their eyes locked as Freddie moved through each verse. John couldn’t get over how he’d written something so long ago that was so apt now. When Freddie reached the final words, John wanted to look away, wanted to do something to prevent the tears that were threatening to make an appearance. Instead, he just watched and listened:
”I can hear the music in the darkness
Floating softly to where we lie
No more questions now
Let's enjoy tonight
(Just you and I) just you and I
Just you and I
Can't you see that we've gotta be together
Be together just you and I just you and I
No more questions just you and I”
Freddie bowed dramatically, but when he looked up again, John could see a difficult sadness in his expressive eyes.
“Are you leaving me again?”
“You know I am, darling.”
They watched each other for a heavy moment before John nodded. “Come back to me next year, Freddie.”
“Always.”
Freddie made his way out of the room and John turned off the bedside light. He hated November 24th. He hated the tiny glimpse Freddie gave him of the hidden layer of his life that had been stripped away thirteen years ago. But he cherished it too. With lingering memories of masterful lips whispering the most perfect promises to him before mapping each part of his body with reverence and eagerness and passion and love, John fell into a deep sleep.
Fin
Title: The Potions Master's Plan
Rating: G
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Severus/Remus
Summary/Prompt: The things Severus will do for a potion. Or for his werewolf. For a_belladonna, who wanted to see mpreg Snupin- I'd like to think of this as mpreg even for those who don't like mpreg. Hopefully.
Word Count: 1382
“You’ve come to the right place, Master Snape,” the old man said with a chuckle. He angled his portly body forward conspiratorially and murmured, “not everyone’s can brew the likes o’ this. I wouldn’t tell just nobody, y’understand. But you- you’re a Master, you are, and I’ve no doubt that you can follow the procedure to the letter.”
Severus snorted. “Naturally.” Honestly, for this greasy, corpulent old maniac to question his ability... why, the old fool didn’t even have all of his own teeth! “The ingredients list, if you please.”
“There’s no list, boy!” the old man chortled. He sat back in his moss-covered armchair. A spider scuttled over his shoulder, but he paid it no heed. “It’s all up here, in me noggin.”
Typical. Severus hated folk remedies. They were all so ridiculously imprecise. Unfortunately, he had no alternative. The potion he needed couldn’t be found in any of his texts. He’d spoken discreetly to the three other living Potions Masters in Europe, but none knew the exact formula. Everyone had agreed, however, that this old shaman was the only answer. “Very well. Teach me the potion.”
“Payment first, young man,” the medicine man said with a detestable smile. “And a bit o’ manners wouldn’t kill ya neither.”
Severus rolled his eyes and fished into one of his deep pockets. At the sound of clinking coins, the old man held up his hands. “Not money, Snape! What use have I for that?”
“You demanded payment,” Severus said in the voice he used on his dimmest students. “What is that you want?”
“Labour.”
Severus choked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve firewood needs chopping, water that needs hauling. A list of herbs need to be harvested just so over the next few weeks. You work for me, I teach you what you need to know.” He sat back and observed his reluctant visitor for a long, pregnant moment.
At last, Severus inclined his head and acquiesced through gritted teeth. “What is it that you need done?”
It wasn’t as though he had anything better to do, Severus reflected bitterly as he enchanted an axe to chop the requisite kindling. He had no classes to teach in the middle of summer, no major duties to play at the school. And his lover was off visiting Harry sodding Potter until the end of the month, a vacation that Severus had used many colourful words to both condemn and refuse to accompany Remus on. As he curled up in their bed that evening, longing for the familiar, soothing warmth of his bedmate, he shivered. Lupin had better bloody appreciate this!
Severus did everything the maddening old wizard demanded of him over the next few weeks. He gathered herbs, pruned hedges, sent correspondence, and ran errands. His hands were stained green from combing through tall grasses for wild hellesbore and rarest aconite. His back ached from carrying water up from the old fool’s well. Mostly, his pride suffered. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had to perform such menial, manual labour. If this didn’t work... the fate the shaman suffered would be a grisly one indeed.
In the evenings, Severus sat down next to him and watched as he worked, taking detailed notes, stirring what he was asked to stir, mincing what he was told to mince.
“This one the patient’ll have to drink thrice a day. T’ain’t pleasant, neither,” Severus was told. “Leads to cramping of the stomach, changes in skin tone, and irrational bouts of anger.”
It always surprised Severus when the old man slipped into the voice of a lecturer, but he simply nodded and recorded what he’d said.
“Two parts damiana to one part astragalus. Then three parts false unicorn root to one part gotu kola and diced yohimbe root,” the old man chimed off as he mashed and stirred.
“Next, yer patient’ll have to smear this paste across the abdomen,” the shaman continued. “Made o’ crushed goats’ ovaries, wild yams, and wheat germ.”
“And what wonderful side effects does that produce?” Severus sneered.
“Makes the insides feel as though they’re being ripped apart and put back t’gether again, only not put together right. Or so I’m told.”
Severus’ jaw tightened. Not unlike how Remus felt each month after his transformation, the Potions Master mused.
“Flatten those ovaries, would yeh?”
Severus shuddered. “Of course.” They made the most appalling squelching sound as Severus squished them with his marble rolling pin.
“Yeh’ll have to warn whoever it is you’re brewing this for,” the old man advised. “It’s not a pleasant business. Not the way a human body’s to work, yeh know.”
Severus rolled his eyes again. “I understand. Is there anything else you require of me this evening?”
The old wizard looked him over carefully. “This kind o’ sacrifice is the real meaning of love, Severus Snape.”
Severus blushed in spite of himself. Infuriating geezer!
“You’re ready, I think. Payment is over,” the old man said with a nod. “Be off with yeh.”
Severus didn’t need to be told twice. He gathered up the evening’s potions, his meticulously taken notes, and his outer robes. With a terse thank you thrown over his shoulder, he strode out of the squalid hut, past the paranoiac’s anti-apparation wards, and with a pop returned to his village. Then he crept through his own anti-apparation wards and into his home.
For a week he prepared the potions and paste, following each step to the letter, adhering to the schedule the old man had lain out. When Remus returned home two days later, he found his lover hunched over the toilet bowl, retching and trembling.
“Severus! My god, what’s happened? Are you ill?”
At the sound of that warm, familiar voice, Severus turned and looked up into concerned, frightened eyes. He gritted his teeth against another wave of nausea. Remus knelt down beside him and gathered him into his arms, letting his fingers stroke through dark hair and across sweating brow.
“Just an experiment,” Severus managed, relaxing back into Remus’ embrace. “Folk medicine.”
Remus squeezed him. “You hate folk medicine.”
“But...” Severus hated saying things like this out loud, but the potions were playing havoc with his emotional state. “But I love you. And I want you to be happy, Remus.”
He heard the quick intake of breath above him. Remus wasn’t used to hearing admissions like this. “You know I’m happy, Severus,” he said cautiously.
“You want a family,” Severus sighed, turning to bury his face in the crook of Remus’ neck, inhaling his lover’s scent as he wrapped his arms around the werewolf’s torso. “After that row we had and you’d left to visit Potter, I thought about it. A lot.”
Severus shook his head. Why was he saying this all now? He’d had a plan, damn it! He was going to impart this information so carefully, but now all he could think of was the comfort of being in Remus’ arms. After a long moment, he whispered, “I want what you want. I want a family with you. And so I shall give us one.”
The arms tightened around him and Remus gasped, “Severus, are you saying-?”
“Another two weeks and I will be able to... conceive.”
With a whoop of joy, Remus stood, picking the startled Potions Master up and spinning him around. “You’re doing this for me? For us?”
“Lupin, I will be sick all over that ratty cardigan if you don’t desist immediately!” Severus squawked, and Remus quickly put him down but didn’t let go. “Of course I’m doing this for us. I certainly wouldn’t allow you to take the potions- your body goes through enough stress as it is.”
“I love you, Severus,” Remus whispered. “Now, to bed with you. I’ll take care of you.”
Severus permitted himself to be led into their room and then tucked into bed, Remus curling up next to him. Yes, it had been hell getting the potions. It would be hell going through the regimen, and it would be even worse when he was actually... pregnant. But that was all secondary to the circle of arms around him and the adoration in those beloved hazel eyes. And as he drifted to sleep, Remus fingers tracing circles across his abdomen, he knew it would be worth it.
Fin
Title: Triangles
Rating: PG
Fandom: Angel
Pairing: Spike/Gunn
Summary/Prompt: For samson28, who requested Spike/Gunn after the season finale, which I couldn't do, and then suggested something in Lorne's club. I tried to combine both. Just remember, even if it looks AU and it sounds AU, that doesn't necessarily mean it is AU!
Word Count: 1604 (1358 without lyrics)
“Welcome to my lair, babies. I know it’s humid out there, but in here it’s positively scorching!”
Spike rolled his eyes as he wove his way through the club, smoky air and dimmed lights providing no real impairment to his enhanced senses. He felt every inch the predator this evening, ready to attack, ready to sink his teeth into someone, ready to kill. He loved this feeling.
Onstage, that green-skinned idiot was going through his too-slick opening spiel, complete with requisite pandering to the crowd, but Spike wasn’t really paying attention. There was a reason that he never listened to lounge lizards, he thought, snorting derisively at Lorne’s little reptilian horns.
He spotted his quarry at the back of the club, sitting with the usual group. His feral grin widening, revealing glistening, if not pointed, teeth, Spike stalked toward them noiselessly.
“Spike!” Fred squeaked, adjusting her glasses. “You... you don’t usually come here. With us. Are you here to see us?”
Spike shrugged noncommittally. All of the seats were taken around the grimy table, so Spike grabbed the back of a chair from the next table, unceremoniously dumping its occupant onto the floor. The demon turned on him with a growl, but Spike leveled his most dangerous expression at him and he backed down. With a self-satisfied smirk, Spike spun the chair around so that he could straddle it, leaning forward with his arms draped across its back.
“What are you doing here?”
Spike barely spared a glance at the vampire glowering in the corner. “I’ll come and go wherever I please, Peaches, and you’d do well to remember it.”
Angel stood, jaw set, leaning his hands against the table. “Spike! What’s your business here? You don’t come here willingly. Or ever.”
“No business,” Spike drawled, letting his gaze roam over the assembled group, “just pleasure.”
He turned to the man he’d just happened to sit himself next to and leered. “Know what I mean?”
“You know I do,” Gunn replied, a vaguely menacing smile playing at the corners of his lips.
Spike looked like he was about to continue, but Gunn held up a hand. “Spike, have you met my, um, girlfriend Annie?”
~*~
Lorne finished his last number and shot a toothy grin around the club. He didn’t know why, but he was feeling incredibly nostalgic this evening. He sensed an intangible... something hanging in the air, something that spoke of times past and memories relived.
“Now for my next number-“
“Because I said get out!”
“If I’m leaving, it’ll only be after I’ve taken you out, mate. Don’t think I won’t.”
“What’ll you do, Spike, read poetry at me?”
“Oh, that’s it!”
As the bleached blond launched himself across the table at Angel, Lorne hopped off the stage. “Hey, cool it! Chill! No fights in my establishment!” he called, pushing past the milling demons. When he reached the would-be fight, he found Angel being held back by both Fred and Wesley, while Spike was being restrained by Gunn. Gunn had his arms wrapped tightly around Spike’s chest and the vampire’s head had fallen back a little, as though leaning into the embrace.
Not fighting so hard, are we, Sunshine? Lorne thought with a smirk. He nodded toward the stage and said out loud, “Up there. Now.”
Angel and Spike both stopped struggling and stared at Lorne as though he’d sprouted an extra eye in the center of his forehead. “Excuse me?” Angel said.
“You heard me. I need to see your intentions, make sure neither of you have gone crazy, been possessed by even worse demons than usual. You know the drill. I have to make sure this,” he waved his hand between the two pissed off vampires, “isn’t going to go any further.”
“Right then,” Spike said, shrugging out of Gunn’s arms. Lorne noticed the way Gunn’s hands lingered on those well-defined biceps just a fraction too long, and the way the new- girlfriend? She looked vaguely familiar, somehow- glared at Spike.
Spike didn’t seem to mind the thought of singing in the club as he strutted up to the stage. He flashed a feral grin at the demons he knew, threw a knowing smirk at a few of the more attractive females in attendance, and then mounted the stage, grabbing the microphone in a punishing grip.
“This one’s for all you Sex Pistols fans,” he said. But when the music began, it was decidedly not punk.
“Are you serious?” he shouted over the lush instrumental backing.
“Sing,” Lorne shouted back.
Spike groaned, closed his eyes, and then began to croon:
"There's a calm surrender
To the rush of day
When the heat of the rolling world
Can be turned away
An enchanted moment
And it sees me through
It's enough for this restless warrior
Just to be with you "
Lorne watched carefully. Of course Spike was clean of any incriminating taint. And he wasn't a half bad singer, either. Maybe Lorne could talk him into doing a regular act. He continued to listen.
"And can you feel the love tonight?
It is where we are
It's enough for wide eyed wanderer
That we got this far
And can you feel the love tonight
How it's laid to rest
It's enough to make kings and vagabonds
Believe the very best"
Lorne blinked. Was that-? So the vampire was hiding powerful lust for someone... for... oh. Now wasn't that interesting. Lorne glanced at Gunn, who was watching Spike with unwavering attention. The new girlfriend was scowling at both Gunn and Spike. Oh ho. That was certainly an unexpected triangle.
There's a time for ev'ryone
If they only learn
That the twisting kaleidoscope
Moves us all in turn
There's a rhyme and reason
To the wild outdoors
When the heart of this starcrossed voyager
Beats in time with yours
Spike hit the chorus again, his heated gaze never moving from Gunn. When he finished, the club erupted in applause. Lorne grinned in spite of himself and murmured, "a star is born."
~*~
Annie’s eyes narrowed as the blond vampire leaped off the stage with a predatory grin. Gunn, the lying bastard, had been transfixed the entire time. She smirked as Angel brushed past his nemesis with a push and then took to the stage himself.
Angel cleared his throat uncomfortably as the music began to play. "Oh great," he muttered, but he began to... well, not "sing", exactly, but mumbled the lyrics along more or less in time if not in tune.
"Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,
bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens,
brown paper packages tied up with strings,
these are a few of my favorite things."
Lorne caught Spike by the arm before he sat down. He grinned shrewdly. “Tell him.”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Why should I?”
“Because of the way he’s ignoring the girl and tracking your every movement, my little morsel.”
Annie's jaw tightened. Damn it all to hell! This wasn't suppose to work like this!
"Cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudels,
door bells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles.
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings.
these are a few of my favorite things."
Spike looked back at Gunn, who raised both eyebrows and pursed his lips into a kind of quirked smile, and Annie grimaced. The green-skinned freak was absolutely right. And the vampire who should have been utterly humiliated by that debacle onstage instead grabbed Gunn by the forearm and pulled him to his feet.
"Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes,
snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes,
silver white winters that melt into springs,
these are a few of my favorite things."
Spike looked hard at Gunn for a moment and then seemed to decide that words weren't necessary. He wrapped both arms around the young man's waist and pulled him forward roughly, bringing their lips together in a breathtaking kiss. Gunn groaned, looping his hands around Spike's neck to draw him closer.
"When the dog bites, when the bee stings,
when I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
and then I don't feel so bad."
"Oh, that is it!" Annie screeched, jumping to her feet, and punching Gunn in the shoulder to get his attention. He dragged himself away, only just coming to the realization that she was still present.
"An-"
"You summoned me!" she shouted as everyone turned to stare at her curiously. "You told me he'd broken your heart, that he had to be punished. You wanted this club resurrected. You wanted him to go up and sing a sickening love song and make it obvious to everyone that he was pining for you!"
Gunn nodded. "I did. I just didn't tell you that I hoped it would lead to... this."
In a whirl, her features blurred and reformed in a hideous parody of her face. She looked as though she'd been the victim of an overturned vat of acid, with raw, deep, red wells dug across her face.
"Vengeance demon!" Fred cried.
"Oh- Anya!" Wesley gasped, as though only just realizing that he knew her.
"Yes. Anya," the vengeance demon said, curling her lip. "Only this vengeance is hereby revoked." She turned on Gunn furiously. "This club is gone, and so is whatever feelings you two think you might share. Ha!"
She spun on her heel and walked away. With a wave of her hand she undid all of her beautiful vengeance. Ungrateful asshole. She smiled gleefully. None of them would remember. None except Gunn. And that was a true work of vengeful art.
Fin
~*~
A Taste or Two- Harry Potter- Harry/Remus- PG-13
Misselved- Harry Potter- Severus/Remus- PG-13
Never Again- Harry Potter- Harry/Severus- R
Layers of Life- RPS Queenslash- Freddie/John- PG
The Potions Master's Plan- Harry Potter- Severus/Remus- G
Triangles- Angel- Spike/Gunn- PG
Title: A Taste or Two
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Remus/Harry
Summary/Prompt: for silver_sunn101, because she made me my spiffing nottanaddict colour bar. Her prompt was Remus/Harry
Word Count: 1184
Harry Potter, saviour of the world, hero to witches and wizards everywhere, renowned auror, and winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile four years running, had pissed off a lot of people in his time. He’d aggravated Severus Snape with his mere existence and inability to keep away from mischief. He’d upset the Hogwarts Board of Governors when he’d turned down the Defense Against the Dark Arts position for the last three years. He’d certainly enraged countless Death Eaters and Voldemort hangers-on by doing away with the Dark Lord more than seven years ago. But perhaps this time he’d pissed off more people than ever before. He’d most assuredly infuriated the Ministry, his bosses, and the general public, who all agreed that someone like Harry simply had to go on fighting the Dark. So when he’d handed in his six weeks’ notice and released a statement to the Daily Prophet that he was very well, thank you, but he was giving it all up and he’d appreciate no further questions, he’d received more than a few howlers. Petitions had circulated, nasty editorials had been printed, Ministry drone after Ministry drone had hammered on his door to alternately threaten him and beg him to come to his senses, and the opinion on the streets of Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley was that young Harry had finally succumbed to the stress of it all and had gone unceremoniously mad. Or he was a lazy little bugger. Possibly both.
But on this shining June morning, Harry Potter didn’t care what they were saying about him. He was finally, finally looking at his dream made real, and all he could think was At last. After heavy investment, innumerable construction problems, a strike by the builder-elves (Bloody Hermione and her liberation fronts, Harry thought darkly), and a shortage from the chocolate mines, it was complete. Harry stood in front of the shop- his shop- and admired the view. Its brick façade was a rich cinnamon colour. It’s windows displayed shimmering sugary confections and delicious chocolates of every conceivable type and taste. The sign above the door swung gently in the breeze, and Harry couldn’t help but feel both a swell of pride and of apprehension. Today was the day. He wondered just who would show up, if the one person he was truly hoping to see would come. He felt a clap on the shoulder and turned, smiling, to find two identical faces grinning back.
“Done at last, Harry?” said Fred Weasley, a note of teasing respect in his voice. “We thought you’d-”
“-go mad before it was finished,” completed George.
“Opening Day, lads,” Harry breathed. “Do you think anyone will show up?”
“Only everyone you went to school with.”
“And all of your admirers.”
“And the people who’re curious to see if you really did give up being an auror for opening a candy store.”
“Directly across from our own fine establishment, might I add,” George said with a wink.
Harry laughed, gazing across the street at the now highly profitable head office of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. “You’re the ones who encouraged me to do this when I wasn’t sure I could, so you’d better be willing to take full responsibility if I fail.”
Fred opened his mouth to respond but was drowned out by a babble of voices as witches and wizards of every age flooded Diagon Alley, converging on the shop.
“Yeah, looks like you’re doomed to fail, mate!” Fred shouted over the din.
“Best of luck, Harry!” added George as the twins hastily retreated to the safety of their own store, unlocking the doors for any of the curious crowd who might want to go exploring after taking a look at Harry’s chocolate shop.
Harry was practically swept into his own store by the eager crowds. Many of them were there simply to gawk at him or ask him if he was feeling quite well. A few wanted to know if the Ministry had treated him all right. They all seemed pleased to see him alive happy. But mostly people actually bought things. Rich dark chocolate, lovely mint chocolate molded into the shape of peppermint leaves, fudge of every flavour, chocolate cakes and chocolate cream pies, bars and squares and truffles laced with expensive liqueurs. Harry didn’t have a moment to stop and think. The day passed by him in a blur of delighted faces and clinking coins and carefully wrapped packages of the finest chocolate in England. It was hours later, near closing, when Harry realized he hadn’t seen the one person he’d been hoping to see.
“Harry, we made a killing!” Dennis Creevey, his assistant manger, crowed.
Harry smiled at the young man. “We did at that. Would you mind locking up, Dennis? I’m going to do the balance and close the till.”
“Of course Harry. And- oh, Professor Lupin, I didn’t see you there.”
Harry dropped the bankbook he’d been fidgeting with. There stood Remus Lupin in soft brown robes, no longer faded and worn as he’d had a steady income at Beauxbatons for years now. Harry took in his greying hair, his gentle, sparkling eyes. His face creased into that most familiar smile as he looked at Harry, and the younger wizard felt his stomach lurch. It had been too long since he’d seen the werewolf, too long since he’d listened to his wonderful voice and watched that prowling gait and been lost in aching, unanswered wanting.
“So you gave it all up after all,” Remus said quietly. “The world-class auror opened a candy store.”
“I was so sick of being what was expected of me,” Harry said, taking a step closer and then faltering. “I just... want to do what I want to do for once. And it’s not a candy store. It’s a chocolate shop.”
“A chocolate shop named Remus’.”
“Yes.”
“So you want to live your life for yourself. That’s admirable. And have you decided what you truly want, Harry?” Remus took a step closer, and then another until he was standing directly in front of Harry. He reached out and let his fingers run gently along Harry’s stubbly cheek, lingering by the chin as he held the younger man’s gaze.
“You know,” Harry whispered, more in surprise than conviction. He schooled his Gryffindor courage and reached out. He wrapped his arms around Remus’ waist and tugged him forward, brushing his lips across the older man’s mouth with a needy, grateful sigh. He felt Remus tense for a moment and then relax and respond, malleable lips moving against Harry’s.
He pulled back a little and smiled. “It’s been a very good day.”
“Has it?” Remus said, bending lower and trailing biting kisses down Harry’s throat.
“Yes. The chocolate’s excellent, too. Mmmm. Care to taste some?”
“I’m tasting all I care to right here, thanks.”
“God, Remus,” Harry breathed, arching into his touch, “this is what I want. You’re what I want. What I need.”
“And you’ll let me sample the chocolate after of course,” Remus said, holding him close.
“As much as you want,” Harry agreed. “Starting tomorrow morning.”
Fin
Title: Misshelved
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Remus/Severus MWPP-era
Summary/Prompt: for miyumiyu, because she did this wonderful interest meme art for me. In return I thought I'd do an interest meme ficlet. I chose "Snupin" and "Alphabetical Order" from her interests
Word Count: 1222
With a sigh that spoke of too many nights hunched over cauldron or text, of too many days escaping torment at the hands of his classmates or plotting vengeance, Severus Snape got up from his study table in the library of Hogwarts and made his way to the Restricted Section. He’d been researching his History of Magic essay for that insane ghost Binns all weekend, hoping to get ahead of his classmates and hand in the paper early. Two more titles should do it, and then he’d be free for the rest of Sunday night.
“Rovandar,” he muttered, pacing up one row of bookcases and down the next until he reached the R’s. He ran elegant fingers along the shelf, searching for the right author. “Rothian, Rouen, Rovae... Rowan.” His brow furrowed. The Rovandar volume was supposed to be there.
“Accio Rovandar,” he said with a twitch of his wand, and the leather-bound tome immediately hefted itself off the shelf directly underneath where it should have been and dropped into Severus’ outstretched hand.
Misshelved. Again. This was the third bloody time this weekend that a book he’d required hadn’t been in the right spot.
“That Pince woman,” he grumbled, heading off toward the D section for the other title. “Honestly, anyone who can’t manage a task as simply as shelving in alphabetical order has no business allowed near... books.”
He stopped abruptly, staring at the person standing before the D’s. Remus sodding Lupin. His jaw tightened as he looked at the easygoing boy with honeyed hair and hazel eyes cradling two books in his arms as though they were very precious. Just as Severus himself treated books. He watched as Lupin cheerfully replaced a third book on the shelf, recognizing the ornate blue and gold spine as the one he himself needed. With an irritated growl, he descended on the Gryffindor, causing him to jump in surprise.
“Lupin,” he spat, hating that the other boy had begun to smile in greeting. He didn’t want that smile turned on him. It was too... he didn’t know what. Disconcerting, maybe. He directed his attention to the book he needed, “Trollish Relations in Medieval Scandinavia” by Filigree Dumas. Shelved between two works by Lalandra Davidson. He ground his teeth in fury.
“You’ve shelved it wrong!” he said, sounding for all the world like he was about to drag Remus off to the Wizengamot for so heinous a crime. “This is for Binns’ essay?”
Remus nodded, apparently unsure why Severus was so upset.
Severus shook his head. “You’ve been reshelving books improperly all weekend!” He snatched the book off the shelf and held it close to his chest, next to the Rovandar. “Every time I need a book, you’ve put it in the wrong place!”
Remus chuckled, in spite of Severus’ most-practiced Harbinger of Pain and Death Glare. “Not doing it to irritate you, Severus. I solemnly swear.”
“Well, really, Lupin, surely even you can grasp the concept of alphabetical order,” Severus sneered, but the sneer very nearly turned into a squeak when Remus took a step closer to him, and then another.
The boy stood directly in front of him and leaned in, head tilted upward. My gods, Severus thought, feeling half insane, he’s going to kiss me. Instead, Remus reached up, book in hand, and pushed it onto the shelf. Severus twisted around. Shelved improperly. He turned back around to make a scathing comment, only to find Remus’ mouth dangerously close to his own. And with his back against the bookcase, he had nowhere to retreat.
“I’m not stupid, Severus,” Remus said softly, watching him carefully. “They like it when I do that.”
“They... who? What?” Severus was somewhat dazed. He could feel the heat rolling off Remus’ body- Remus, who had always been… if not kind to Severus, then certainly never cruel, who sometimes actually spoke to him in the Great Hall or in class, who sometimes seemed to seek him out for short, quiet conversations.
Remus smiled. “The books, of course. They like being put back in different places. Gives them a chance to catch up with friends they haven’t spoken with for a while. And they like the exercise of getting themselves back to the right positions during the night, too.”
“The books speak to you?”
“Yes.”
“Are they doing it right now?” His tone belied the fact that he thought Remus was either crazy or having him on.
“You’d be able to hear them if they were,” Remus said, bending forward to shelve his final book, just to the left of Severus’ shoulder. This time, though, as he drew back from the shelf, he allowed his hand to settle on the taller boy’s elbow ever so lightly. Severus looked down at the offending touch and then back up at Remus, panicking.
Perhaps sensing the panic, Remus leaned up and brushed his lips across Severus’, not hesitantly but gently, testing for a reaction.
Severus didn’t react at all. He felt the tingle of that easy friction of lips on his own, but he couldn’t move. His brain had promptly shut down. He tried to splutter out some response, any response. Apparently taking the lack of being hexed through the wall as a sign, Remus plucked the books from him and placed them somewhere behind him and then advanced again, sliding one hand up to caress Severus’ neck as his lips moved. At last, Severus’ brain, or perhaps his instinct, began working once more and with a fierce, disbelieving joy he kissed Remus back, his lips parting to allow the boy’s tongue inside, and he wrapped his arms around Remus’ waist, pulling him close.
The fingers on his neck moved up to card through his hair as Remus’ tongue explored and tasted and teased, and a little, needy whimper escaped from Severus’ throat. Whoever would have expected this to feel so very, very good?
Far too soon- though Severus couldn’t be sure just how long they’d stood in the dim shelter of bookcases and torchlight- Remus pulled back and Severus opened his eyes, the suspicious part of him expecting Remus to turn on him, to reveal that this was all a terrible prank. But when he looked down into joyous, gleaming eyes, he knew that the kiss had been sincere. He felt a smile creeping unbidden onto his face, and Remus laughed with delight.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Remus breathed, kissing Severus’ jaw. Severus arched into the surprisingly tender movement, feeling a series of little thrills shiver down his spine.
“All right, dearies, I think that’s enough for one evening,” an ancient, wheezing voice said by Severus’ ear. He gasped and spun around.
“That’s right,” a more robust voice agreed. “A little kiss or two is all right, of course, but it’s time you two were off your separate ways.”
Severus arched an eyebrow, looking back at Remus, who was grinning. “I told you they talked,” he said with a shrug. “I suppose I’d best be going.”
0With a final kiss on the cheek, Remus slipped past him and disappeared from view.
Severus touched the spot on his cheek as though he couldn’t quite believe what had happened. He gathered up his books and made his way back to his table, and whispered, “goodnight... Remus.”
Fin
Title: Never Again
Rating: Hard R
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Severus
Summary/Prompt: for gaycrow, whose prompt was : "Snape/Harry - both straight, can't understand their attraction to one another."
Word Count: 1187
Of all the people he’d expected to attend Percy Weasley’s wedding, Severus Snape was not one of them. Harry hadn’t seen the man in years, but he looked like he hadn’t aged a day. Still tall, thin, greasy, menacing. Harry glared at him as he whirled Poppy Pomfrey across the dance floor, his elegant hand at her waist guiding them both gracefully as his black- was that velvet?- robes swished and swirled with their movement, clinging to his lithe form. And when he turned to face Harry’s direction, the young man gasped. Where was the permanent scowl that he knew all too well? While Snape wasn’t smiling, neither was his face set into lines of contempt and disgust. As he murmured something to his partner, he looked like was actually enjoying himself.
“A glamour, do you think?” Lavender Brown-Potter muttered, nodding at Snape. Clearly she was surprised to see him still looking young, still looking vital. Harry suppressed a snicker at the thought of his evil former teacher resorting to magic to make himself more appealing, and he offered his hand to his wife. He still hated dancing, but he knew he’d disappoint her if they didn’t spend at least a little time out on the dance floor. He cast a look once more toward his old professor and found him staring back, a burning, angry gaze that caught Harry in the pit of his stomach and sent a strange flush to his cheeks. The alcohol, Harry told himself firmly, tearing his eyes away and catching Lavender around the waist. I’m drunk already. That’s all.
As the evening wore on, Harry found his eyes drawn to the imposing form of the Potions Master. Again and again his gaze wandered to the tall, shockingly graceful man, and more often than not, Snape returned his stare, scrutinizing him as though trying to determine the composition of his very soul. Harry bit his lip as Lavender danced off with Ron, watching Snape waltz with Minerva McGonagall. He couldn’t stop looking, couldn’t understand what it was that caused this outlandish fixation.
Harry, old man, he thought, finishing his goblet of Magnificent Moonshine with a single pull, you’re going crazy. It’s that he looks so bloody young. So good- well, not good, but decent. Fit. And elegant, like you’ve never really noticed before. And- oh hell, he’s coming over here!
Harry clamped down on a squeak - he was 25. He had a lovely wife and a respectable career, for god’s sake. There was no cause for the strange, nervous flip-flop of his stomach as the man approached.
“Potter.”
“Snape.” Why was he standing so close? Harry scrambled for something to say, and came up with, “So, how’re you doing?”
Snape snorted. “I teach insolent little beggars an art form they aren’t equipped to appreciate.”
As if that was an answer. “And how long have you and Madam Pomfrey-“
“A year. Are you quite through the personal questions awkwardly veiled as small talk?” Snape sneered at him. “You always were too nosey. Too sure of getting away with anything you wished.”
“Oh, stuff it, you surly old bastard,” Harry muttered, wondering just how intoxicated he was. Snape’s face contorted, transmuting into a shade of colour that was somewhere between green and purple. He said something back, but the music had changed into a throbbing, clamorous tune and Harry shook his head and shouted, “You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear your insults!”
Snape turned an even greener purple, if that was possible, and loomed close, so close, hissing into Harry’s ear, “you’re no better than your father, though at least you’ve managed to live a few years longer. That was most unexpected.”
Harry turned in fury, about to snark back, but Snape was so incredibly near to him and his neck was inches from Harry’s mouth and - gods! What was wrong with him? Dizzily, he grabbed the older man’s arm and all but dragged him out of the dance hall, away from the music and lights and laughter and why, why, why was he getting hard now, with no Lavender or Ginny or even Hermione in sight?
He steered them both into the cloakroom, and no sooner had Harry rounded on his infuriating ex-professor than he felt himself shoved backward against a wall, a shower of outer robes falling around him and puddling at his feet. “Wha-“
“What have you done to me?” Snape seethed, grabbing Harry’s wrists and pinning them to the wall by his hips.
Harry struggled feebly but couldn’t free himself of Snape’s grasp. Wasn’t he supposed to be old and weak, while Harry was young and strong? Shouldn’t he fight back harder? He squirmed weakly, but Snape pressed in further, making Harry even dizzier, sending thrills up and down Harry’s spine and straight to his groin.
“Me?” he gasped.
“I am with Poppy. Why are you doing this? I have no interest in stupid, frivolous young men,” Snape spat.
“I’m not doing anything!” Harry protested. “It’s you and your stupid glamour! I’m not supposed to be interested in slimy old men!”
“What glamour? You insolent little-“ as Snape pushed forward, Harry felt his own arousal brush against an unmistakable hardness in Snape’s trousers. His head was swimming, and he couldn’t believe anything, let alone this, could feel so good. He moaned in spite of himself.
“I did nothing to you, apart from the obvious,” Harry ground out, driving his hips forward to underscore his point.
With a cry of rage, Snape caught Harry’s mouth with his own and Harry was overwhelmed by the sensation of thin, pliable lips and sharp teeth and an angry tongue plundering, exploring, fucking his mouth. Snape released his wrists in favour of raking his long fingers through Harry’s messy hair, holding his head in place. Free, Harry wrapped his arms around Snape’s waist, urging him closer so he could crush their hips together forcefully, clumsily, unsure of what he was doing but knowing that the feeling of Snape’s erection undulating against his own was the most insanely exquisite sensation he’d ever experienced.
This was ridiculous, crazy, wrong, right, good, perfect, and Harry could no longer think about who he was with and why this was happening, losing himself in the rhythm of bucking hips and competing tongues. With a choking cry that was swallowed by Severus’ greedy mouth, he came hard, pumping against those wonderfully narrow hips until he could no longer move. He fell limply against the taller man, giving way to Snape’s own motion, as graceful and rhythmic as his dancing had been, until Snape shuddered, bit his lip to prevent crying out, and then collapsed against Harry.
Long moments passed until Harry fumbled in his pocket for his wand, his other arm still wrapped around Snape’s waist, and muttered, “scourgify.”
Snape wrenched himself away and stalked backward before sending Harry a strange, haunted look. “Never do that to me again,” he hissed, and then strode out of the room without a backward glance. Harry passed a shaky hand over his face and after a moment left to find his wife.
Fin
Title: Layers of Life
Rating: PG for language
Fandom: Queen
Pairing: Freddie/John
Summary/Prompt: John and Freddie have this exchange once a year, and John doesn't know if he can do it anymore. killerqueen1946, who wanted to see Freddie/John.
Word Count: 1367 (1224 without lyrics)
John poured the last of the champagne into his flute and sighed, massaging his temples. He hated this day, this date. He hated Roger and Brian for the letter he’d been staring at for the last two hours. He even hated Vera a little for having to visit her relatives this week, leaving him alone. But mostly, he hated Freddie.
“No you don’t, love.”
John paused as the resonant, cheerful voice echoed through his bedroom. “Like clockwork, you are.”
“Are you calling me predictable? I can imagine no greater insult, you know.”
John turned to the bedroom door and furrowed his brow. Freddie stood there, looking twenty-five years old, glossy hair flowing to his shoulders, dark eyes accentuated with kohl, wearing black nail polish and tight clothes that revealed his lightly haired chest.
“Well, that’s certainly different,” John acceded, and Freddie laughed, moving forward with that prowling gate John knew far too well. He smiled, self-satisfied. “I’m not so predictable after all, then.”
“You come to me every year on this date,” John reminded him, standing and scooping up the letter.
“Ah, you’ve noticed the pattern. Good for you!”
“And you always find me when I’m alone.”
“Well, I don’t want to share you with anyone else,” Freddie reasoned, stepping closer, scarce inches between them.
John shivered and looked at the burgundy carpet, willing himself not to stare, not to sulk, not to scream. At last he found his voice and whispered, “Why do you do it? Why do you come here? Just to show me what I can’t have?”
Freddie froze, eyes widening dramatically before his face plunged into a fetching pout. “I’m here to tell you that I miss you, you shit!”
John sighed wearily. “Same thing.”
“Deaky. My Deaky. Look at me.”
John looked up again and regarded the man before him. Freddie reached out and trailed his fingers along John’s cheek, following the jaw bone, ghosting down the line of his neck. The bass player could almost feel something, could almost feel heat where the fingers danced and he tried to lean into the touch. Freddie shook his head and pulled back with a rueful smile.
“So how are things? Vera? Your lovely children? How many do you have now, fourteen of them?” A teasing smile played at the edge of Freddie’s mouth.
“What, you aren’t watching over us like some demented guardian angel?” John asked as he sat back down and scooted over to the middle of the bed, stretching his legs out before him and leaning against the headboard. After a moment’s hesitation, Freddie joined him, sitting a few inches away.
“I can’t watch over you,” Freddie said, studiously not looking at John. “I only get today. I’m not aware of what goes on the rest of the time. Today I’m allowed to come back and check on whatever I need to.”
“And you come to me.”
“Of course, dear.”
John turned to regard Freddie and then opened the letter, holding it up for Freddie to read. “Brian and Roger. They want to tour again.”
Freddie snorted. “Well, fuck. Is that why you’re so fucking withdrawn tonight? Go tour, then!”
“I can’t.”
“What? Why the hell not?” Freddie laughed incredulously. “How could you not want to tour? Don’t you remember what it was like? How much fun we had?”
John squeezed his eyes shut, wanting nothing more than to lean his head on Freddie’s shoulder. The images of a thousand different shows ran through his mind. The electricity of performing, the nights on the road, the first time Freddie kissed him, almost timidly because Freddie was always more timid than everyone suspected... The tangle of limbs and tongues and shared hotel rooms and stolen kisses and nights in the recording studio and days spent jamming and a complete, hidden, second life resting just beneath the surface of the one they showed to the public.
“What are you thinking about, Johnny?”
“The way you taste.”
Freddie exhaled hard. “You’re killing me.”
“A little after the fact, isn’t it?”
Their eyes met and they burst out laughing. God, it felt good to laugh with Freddie!
“I’ve missed you so much,” John said, his giggle fit subsiding. “It’s so different without you.”
“It’s been a long time, Johnny,” Freddie countered. “Why don’t you tour with the lads? It would do you a world of good.”
“I can’t.”
“Why? Wait, who the hell have they got singing? It’s not one of them, is it? Bri and Rog are dear boys, but they can’t carry our songs.”
John shook his head. “No. They aren’t that stupid. They’ve asked Paul Rodgers. You remember him.”
Freddie tilted his head to the side as if considering. “That’s... not bad. His voice is not nearly what mine was, of course. But still, it’s not a bad fit, is it?”
“You’re okay with this?”
Freddie flashed John that mischievous smile that had been the bass player’s undoing so many years ago. “Now? It’s all right. Ten years ago I’d have thrown quite a spectacular fit. If you want to tour, tour. I won’t be upset with you.”
John felt a lump rising in his throat. He couldn’t bloody breathe as he turned to his former bandmate. “Don’t you understand, Freddie? I can’t tour! I won’t do it. Not without you.”
Freddie’s jaw tightened and he made a strange, choking sound. “Johnny...”
“No. I love the music, Freddie, you know that. But ultimately, it was about you. It was about us. Without you here, there isn’t any point. I love you too much to do it without you.”
“I love you too, Johnny,” Freddie whispered. “God, I wish I could touch you.”
John leaned forward and tried to touch his lover’s cheek. His fingers slipped through as though Freddie was nothing more than air. Which John supposed he was.
“Sing me something?” he asked, settling back against the headboard.
Freddie smiled at him, making his heart skip just like always. “What would you like to hear?”
“The song I wrote for you, of course.”
“Of course, darling.” Freddie cleared his throat and began:
”Music is playing in the darkness
And a lantern goes swinging by
Shadows flickering my heart's jittering
Just you and I
Not tonight come tomorrow
When ev'rything's sunny and bright (sunny and bright)
No no no come tomorrow 'cause then
We'll be waiting in the moonlight”
John watched his lover’s expressive face as he continued with the song. He whispered the words along with Freddie’s melody:
”You know I never could forsee the future years
You know I never could see
Where life was leading me
But will we be together forever?
What will be my love?
Can't you see that I just don't know”
Their eyes locked as Freddie moved through each verse. John couldn’t get over how he’d written something so long ago that was so apt now. When Freddie reached the final words, John wanted to look away, wanted to do something to prevent the tears that were threatening to make an appearance. Instead, he just watched and listened:
”I can hear the music in the darkness
Floating softly to where we lie
No more questions now
Let's enjoy tonight
(Just you and I) just you and I
Just you and I
Can't you see that we've gotta be together
Be together just you and I just you and I
No more questions just you and I”
Freddie bowed dramatically, but when he looked up again, John could see a difficult sadness in his expressive eyes.
“Are you leaving me again?”
“You know I am, darling.”
They watched each other for a heavy moment before John nodded. “Come back to me next year, Freddie.”
“Always.”
Freddie made his way out of the room and John turned off the bedside light. He hated November 24th. He hated the tiny glimpse Freddie gave him of the hidden layer of his life that had been stripped away thirteen years ago. But he cherished it too. With lingering memories of masterful lips whispering the most perfect promises to him before mapping each part of his body with reverence and eagerness and passion and love, John fell into a deep sleep.
Fin
Title: The Potions Master's Plan
Rating: G
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Severus/Remus
Summary/Prompt: The things Severus will do for a potion. Or for his werewolf. For a_belladonna, who wanted to see mpreg Snupin- I'd like to think of this as mpreg even for those who don't like mpreg. Hopefully.
Word Count: 1382
“You’ve come to the right place, Master Snape,” the old man said with a chuckle. He angled his portly body forward conspiratorially and murmured, “not everyone’s can brew the likes o’ this. I wouldn’t tell just nobody, y’understand. But you- you’re a Master, you are, and I’ve no doubt that you can follow the procedure to the letter.”
Severus snorted. “Naturally.” Honestly, for this greasy, corpulent old maniac to question his ability... why, the old fool didn’t even have all of his own teeth! “The ingredients list, if you please.”
“There’s no list, boy!” the old man chortled. He sat back in his moss-covered armchair. A spider scuttled over his shoulder, but he paid it no heed. “It’s all up here, in me noggin.”
Typical. Severus hated folk remedies. They were all so ridiculously imprecise. Unfortunately, he had no alternative. The potion he needed couldn’t be found in any of his texts. He’d spoken discreetly to the three other living Potions Masters in Europe, but none knew the exact formula. Everyone had agreed, however, that this old shaman was the only answer. “Very well. Teach me the potion.”
“Payment first, young man,” the medicine man said with a detestable smile. “And a bit o’ manners wouldn’t kill ya neither.”
Severus rolled his eyes and fished into one of his deep pockets. At the sound of clinking coins, the old man held up his hands. “Not money, Snape! What use have I for that?”
“You demanded payment,” Severus said in the voice he used on his dimmest students. “What is that you want?”
“Labour.”
Severus choked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve firewood needs chopping, water that needs hauling. A list of herbs need to be harvested just so over the next few weeks. You work for me, I teach you what you need to know.” He sat back and observed his reluctant visitor for a long, pregnant moment.
At last, Severus inclined his head and acquiesced through gritted teeth. “What is it that you need done?”
It wasn’t as though he had anything better to do, Severus reflected bitterly as he enchanted an axe to chop the requisite kindling. He had no classes to teach in the middle of summer, no major duties to play at the school. And his lover was off visiting Harry sodding Potter until the end of the month, a vacation that Severus had used many colourful words to both condemn and refuse to accompany Remus on. As he curled up in their bed that evening, longing for the familiar, soothing warmth of his bedmate, he shivered. Lupin had better bloody appreciate this!
Severus did everything the maddening old wizard demanded of him over the next few weeks. He gathered herbs, pruned hedges, sent correspondence, and ran errands. His hands were stained green from combing through tall grasses for wild hellesbore and rarest aconite. His back ached from carrying water up from the old fool’s well. Mostly, his pride suffered. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had to perform such menial, manual labour. If this didn’t work... the fate the shaman suffered would be a grisly one indeed.
In the evenings, Severus sat down next to him and watched as he worked, taking detailed notes, stirring what he was asked to stir, mincing what he was told to mince.
“This one the patient’ll have to drink thrice a day. T’ain’t pleasant, neither,” Severus was told. “Leads to cramping of the stomach, changes in skin tone, and irrational bouts of anger.”
It always surprised Severus when the old man slipped into the voice of a lecturer, but he simply nodded and recorded what he’d said.
“Two parts damiana to one part astragalus. Then three parts false unicorn root to one part gotu kola and diced yohimbe root,” the old man chimed off as he mashed and stirred.
“Next, yer patient’ll have to smear this paste across the abdomen,” the shaman continued. “Made o’ crushed goats’ ovaries, wild yams, and wheat germ.”
“And what wonderful side effects does that produce?” Severus sneered.
“Makes the insides feel as though they’re being ripped apart and put back t’gether again, only not put together right. Or so I’m told.”
Severus’ jaw tightened. Not unlike how Remus felt each month after his transformation, the Potions Master mused.
“Flatten those ovaries, would yeh?”
Severus shuddered. “Of course.” They made the most appalling squelching sound as Severus squished them with his marble rolling pin.
“Yeh’ll have to warn whoever it is you’re brewing this for,” the old man advised. “It’s not a pleasant business. Not the way a human body’s to work, yeh know.”
Severus rolled his eyes again. “I understand. Is there anything else you require of me this evening?”
The old wizard looked him over carefully. “This kind o’ sacrifice is the real meaning of love, Severus Snape.”
Severus blushed in spite of himself. Infuriating geezer!
“You’re ready, I think. Payment is over,” the old man said with a nod. “Be off with yeh.”
Severus didn’t need to be told twice. He gathered up the evening’s potions, his meticulously taken notes, and his outer robes. With a terse thank you thrown over his shoulder, he strode out of the squalid hut, past the paranoiac’s anti-apparation wards, and with a pop returned to his village. Then he crept through his own anti-apparation wards and into his home.
For a week he prepared the potions and paste, following each step to the letter, adhering to the schedule the old man had lain out. When Remus returned home two days later, he found his lover hunched over the toilet bowl, retching and trembling.
“Severus! My god, what’s happened? Are you ill?”
At the sound of that warm, familiar voice, Severus turned and looked up into concerned, frightened eyes. He gritted his teeth against another wave of nausea. Remus knelt down beside him and gathered him into his arms, letting his fingers stroke through dark hair and across sweating brow.
“Just an experiment,” Severus managed, relaxing back into Remus’ embrace. “Folk medicine.”
Remus squeezed him. “You hate folk medicine.”
“But...” Severus hated saying things like this out loud, but the potions were playing havoc with his emotional state. “But I love you. And I want you to be happy, Remus.”
He heard the quick intake of breath above him. Remus wasn’t used to hearing admissions like this. “You know I’m happy, Severus,” he said cautiously.
“You want a family,” Severus sighed, turning to bury his face in the crook of Remus’ neck, inhaling his lover’s scent as he wrapped his arms around the werewolf’s torso. “After that row we had and you’d left to visit Potter, I thought about it. A lot.”
Severus shook his head. Why was he saying this all now? He’d had a plan, damn it! He was going to impart this information so carefully, but now all he could think of was the comfort of being in Remus’ arms. After a long moment, he whispered, “I want what you want. I want a family with you. And so I shall give us one.”
The arms tightened around him and Remus gasped, “Severus, are you saying-?”
“Another two weeks and I will be able to... conceive.”
With a whoop of joy, Remus stood, picking the startled Potions Master up and spinning him around. “You’re doing this for me? For us?”
“Lupin, I will be sick all over that ratty cardigan if you don’t desist immediately!” Severus squawked, and Remus quickly put him down but didn’t let go. “Of course I’m doing this for us. I certainly wouldn’t allow you to take the potions- your body goes through enough stress as it is.”
“I love you, Severus,” Remus whispered. “Now, to bed with you. I’ll take care of you.”
Severus permitted himself to be led into their room and then tucked into bed, Remus curling up next to him. Yes, it had been hell getting the potions. It would be hell going through the regimen, and it would be even worse when he was actually... pregnant. But that was all secondary to the circle of arms around him and the adoration in those beloved hazel eyes. And as he drifted to sleep, Remus fingers tracing circles across his abdomen, he knew it would be worth it.
Fin
Title: Triangles
Rating: PG
Fandom: Angel
Pairing: Spike/Gunn
Summary/Prompt: For samson28, who requested Spike/Gunn after the season finale, which I couldn't do, and then suggested something in Lorne's club. I tried to combine both. Just remember, even if it looks AU and it sounds AU, that doesn't necessarily mean it is AU!
Word Count: 1604 (1358 without lyrics)
“Welcome to my lair, babies. I know it’s humid out there, but in here it’s positively scorching!”
Spike rolled his eyes as he wove his way through the club, smoky air and dimmed lights providing no real impairment to his enhanced senses. He felt every inch the predator this evening, ready to attack, ready to sink his teeth into someone, ready to kill. He loved this feeling.
Onstage, that green-skinned idiot was going through his too-slick opening spiel, complete with requisite pandering to the crowd, but Spike wasn’t really paying attention. There was a reason that he never listened to lounge lizards, he thought, snorting derisively at Lorne’s little reptilian horns.
He spotted his quarry at the back of the club, sitting with the usual group. His feral grin widening, revealing glistening, if not pointed, teeth, Spike stalked toward them noiselessly.
“Spike!” Fred squeaked, adjusting her glasses. “You... you don’t usually come here. With us. Are you here to see us?”
Spike shrugged noncommittally. All of the seats were taken around the grimy table, so Spike grabbed the back of a chair from the next table, unceremoniously dumping its occupant onto the floor. The demon turned on him with a growl, but Spike leveled his most dangerous expression at him and he backed down. With a self-satisfied smirk, Spike spun the chair around so that he could straddle it, leaning forward with his arms draped across its back.
“What are you doing here?”
Spike barely spared a glance at the vampire glowering in the corner. “I’ll come and go wherever I please, Peaches, and you’d do well to remember it.”
Angel stood, jaw set, leaning his hands against the table. “Spike! What’s your business here? You don’t come here willingly. Or ever.”
“No business,” Spike drawled, letting his gaze roam over the assembled group, “just pleasure.”
He turned to the man he’d just happened to sit himself next to and leered. “Know what I mean?”
“You know I do,” Gunn replied, a vaguely menacing smile playing at the corners of his lips.
Spike looked like he was about to continue, but Gunn held up a hand. “Spike, have you met my, um, girlfriend Annie?”
~*~
Lorne finished his last number and shot a toothy grin around the club. He didn’t know why, but he was feeling incredibly nostalgic this evening. He sensed an intangible... something hanging in the air, something that spoke of times past and memories relived.
“Now for my next number-“
“Because I said get out!”
“If I’m leaving, it’ll only be after I’ve taken you out, mate. Don’t think I won’t.”
“What’ll you do, Spike, read poetry at me?”
“Oh, that’s it!”
As the bleached blond launched himself across the table at Angel, Lorne hopped off the stage. “Hey, cool it! Chill! No fights in my establishment!” he called, pushing past the milling demons. When he reached the would-be fight, he found Angel being held back by both Fred and Wesley, while Spike was being restrained by Gunn. Gunn had his arms wrapped tightly around Spike’s chest and the vampire’s head had fallen back a little, as though leaning into the embrace.
Not fighting so hard, are we, Sunshine? Lorne thought with a smirk. He nodded toward the stage and said out loud, “Up there. Now.”
Angel and Spike both stopped struggling and stared at Lorne as though he’d sprouted an extra eye in the center of his forehead. “Excuse me?” Angel said.
“You heard me. I need to see your intentions, make sure neither of you have gone crazy, been possessed by even worse demons than usual. You know the drill. I have to make sure this,” he waved his hand between the two pissed off vampires, “isn’t going to go any further.”
“Right then,” Spike said, shrugging out of Gunn’s arms. Lorne noticed the way Gunn’s hands lingered on those well-defined biceps just a fraction too long, and the way the new- girlfriend? She looked vaguely familiar, somehow- glared at Spike.
Spike didn’t seem to mind the thought of singing in the club as he strutted up to the stage. He flashed a feral grin at the demons he knew, threw a knowing smirk at a few of the more attractive females in attendance, and then mounted the stage, grabbing the microphone in a punishing grip.
“This one’s for all you Sex Pistols fans,” he said. But when the music began, it was decidedly not punk.
“Are you serious?” he shouted over the lush instrumental backing.
“Sing,” Lorne shouted back.
Spike groaned, closed his eyes, and then began to croon:
"There's a calm surrender
To the rush of day
When the heat of the rolling world
Can be turned away
An enchanted moment
And it sees me through
It's enough for this restless warrior
Just to be with you "
Lorne watched carefully. Of course Spike was clean of any incriminating taint. And he wasn't a half bad singer, either. Maybe Lorne could talk him into doing a regular act. He continued to listen.
"And can you feel the love tonight?
It is where we are
It's enough for wide eyed wanderer
That we got this far
And can you feel the love tonight
How it's laid to rest
It's enough to make kings and vagabonds
Believe the very best"
Lorne blinked. Was that-? So the vampire was hiding powerful lust for someone... for... oh. Now wasn't that interesting. Lorne glanced at Gunn, who was watching Spike with unwavering attention. The new girlfriend was scowling at both Gunn and Spike. Oh ho. That was certainly an unexpected triangle.
There's a time for ev'ryone
If they only learn
That the twisting kaleidoscope
Moves us all in turn
There's a rhyme and reason
To the wild outdoors
When the heart of this starcrossed voyager
Beats in time with yours
Spike hit the chorus again, his heated gaze never moving from Gunn. When he finished, the club erupted in applause. Lorne grinned in spite of himself and murmured, "a star is born."
~*~
Annie’s eyes narrowed as the blond vampire leaped off the stage with a predatory grin. Gunn, the lying bastard, had been transfixed the entire time. She smirked as Angel brushed past his nemesis with a push and then took to the stage himself.
Angel cleared his throat uncomfortably as the music began to play. "Oh great," he muttered, but he began to... well, not "sing", exactly, but mumbled the lyrics along more or less in time if not in tune.
"Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,
bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens,
brown paper packages tied up with strings,
these are a few of my favorite things."
Lorne caught Spike by the arm before he sat down. He grinned shrewdly. “Tell him.”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Why should I?”
“Because of the way he’s ignoring the girl and tracking your every movement, my little morsel.”
Annie's jaw tightened. Damn it all to hell! This wasn't suppose to work like this!
"Cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudels,
door bells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles.
Wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings.
these are a few of my favorite things."
Spike looked back at Gunn, who raised both eyebrows and pursed his lips into a kind of quirked smile, and Annie grimaced. The green-skinned freak was absolutely right. And the vampire who should have been utterly humiliated by that debacle onstage instead grabbed Gunn by the forearm and pulled him to his feet.
"Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes,
snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes,
silver white winters that melt into springs,
these are a few of my favorite things."
Spike looked hard at Gunn for a moment and then seemed to decide that words weren't necessary. He wrapped both arms around the young man's waist and pulled him forward roughly, bringing their lips together in a breathtaking kiss. Gunn groaned, looping his hands around Spike's neck to draw him closer.
"When the dog bites, when the bee stings,
when I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
and then I don't feel so bad."
"Oh, that is it!" Annie screeched, jumping to her feet, and punching Gunn in the shoulder to get his attention. He dragged himself away, only just coming to the realization that she was still present.
"An-"
"You summoned me!" she shouted as everyone turned to stare at her curiously. "You told me he'd broken your heart, that he had to be punished. You wanted this club resurrected. You wanted him to go up and sing a sickening love song and make it obvious to everyone that he was pining for you!"
Gunn nodded. "I did. I just didn't tell you that I hoped it would lead to... this."
In a whirl, her features blurred and reformed in a hideous parody of her face. She looked as though she'd been the victim of an overturned vat of acid, with raw, deep, red wells dug across her face.
"Vengeance demon!" Fred cried.
"Oh- Anya!" Wesley gasped, as though only just realizing that he knew her.
"Yes. Anya," the vengeance demon said, curling her lip. "Only this vengeance is hereby revoked." She turned on Gunn furiously. "This club is gone, and so is whatever feelings you two think you might share. Ha!"
She spun on her heel and walked away. With a wave of her hand she undid all of her beautiful vengeance. Ungrateful asshole. She smiled gleefully. None of them would remember. None except Gunn. And that was a true work of vengeful art.
Fin