Leigh!fic | Humpathon 2011
Title: Humpathon 2011
Author: Leigh, aka leigh_adams
Pairings: Blaise Zabini/Gabrielle Delacour, Benjy Fenwick/Marlene McKinnon, Charlie Weasley/Alicia Spinnet, Ron Weasley/Lavender Brown, Julian Vaisey/Penelope Clearwater, Godric Gryffindor/Rowena Ravenclaw, Michael Corner/Lisa Turpin, Julian Vaisey/Astoria Greengrass, Stephen Cornfoot/Eloise Midgen, Bill Weasley/Fleur Delacour
Rating: PG-13 through NC-17
Word Count: Between 100 and 600
Summary: Ten smutty drabbles for your reading pleasure.
Author's Notes: Here be my drabbles for hp_humpdrabbles' Humpathon 2011. Three weeks of smutty drabbles... yay! I'll be updating this post if I fill any more prompts as time passes. :)
Blaise Zabini/Gabrielle Delacour (PG-13) for elle_blessing
Benjy Fenwick/Marlene McKinnon (R) for lar_laughs
Charlie Weasley/Alicia Spinnet (R) for ragdoll
Ron Weasley/Lavender Brown (R) for luvscharlie
Julian Vaisey/Penelope Clearwater (PG-13) for mugglechump
Godric Gryffindor/Rowena Ravenclaw (R) for scaratthedisco
Michael Corner/Lisa Turpin (PG-13) for elle_blessing
Julian Vaisey/Astoria Greengrass (NC-17) for elle_blessing
Stephen Cornfoot/Eloise Midgen (R) for baby_k21
Bill Weasley/Fleur Delacour (R) for ellielove_x3
Blaise Zabini/Gabrielle Delacour (PG-13)
Prompt: Hell on Heels by Pistol Annies
Word Count: 395
Blaise knew better.
He'd been raised by Francesca Zabini, the most infamous black widow of the twentieth century. He knew all the signs of a strike; rich, older man dies shortly after marrying a young, nubile beauty, leaving her all his money. His mother had done it seven bloody times and managed to escape suspicion.
He knew better than to take a second glance at Gabrielle Delacour. She wasn't a black widow; none of her past consorts had died suddenly (though he had no desire to be the first to do so), but each paramour left her Gringotts account considerably fuller than the last.
Her Italian villa in Tuscany? Courtesy of Giovanni san Marco.
The penthouse flat on Fifth Avenue in New York City? Jeremiah Rockefeller had insisted she keep it.
She practically glittered when she moved from the diamonds that adorned her slender wrist and delicate earlobes. The sapphire at her neck matched her deep blue eyes, and her lips were the same color as her ruby ring.
All in all, Blaise certainly knew better.
That didn't mean he cared.
He quite liked the way she felt pressed up against him, those red lips slanted against his own. She would wrap her leg around his and let the tip of her stiletto heel press into his flesh; he never said so aloud, but the slight tinge of pain with his pleasure made him randy beyond belief. He liked it when her gaze flashed in warning before she raked her teeth over his neck.
When she reached for him-- somewhere? Anywhere, really-- and dug her nails into his back, he couldn't say no. Blaise Zabini, the seducer of Slytherin House, reduced to a complaint boytoy by a leggy blonde in Louboutins; how his friends would laugh. But they could smirk and snicker all they liked-- none of them had Gabrielle Delacour in their beds.
(And none of them would, if he had his way).
She was beautiful. Bewitching, with a slight otherworldly aura that spoke to her veela heritage. She didn't have to turn on her charm like other witches; it was never off. She could walk into a room and have every male clamoring for her attention, if she liked-- which she usually did.
All Blaise knew (besides that he knew better) was that Gabrielle was hell on heels, six feet of seductive, curvaceous woman.
And she was coming for him.
Benjy Fenwick/Marlene McKinnon (R)
Prompt: Forever in your eyes
Word Count: 444
The Order safehouse was quiet. Too quiet for the number of people gathered in the kitchen. The ragged remains of their brethren were there, some bleeding and bruised on the outside while others internalized their pain. But someone was missing-- a pair of bright green eyes that should have been looking back at her.
"Where's Benjy?" she breathed, meeting Mad Eye's stoic gaze across the room. "Did you find him?"
"Marlene," Caradoc began, "we--"
"He's dead," Mad Eye said abruptly.
The room was dark, with only the light from a candle illuminating the tiny chamber. It wasn't what either of them had wanted, but it was all they had. The war... it had taken nearly everything from them. When Marlene woke screaming in the night, recalling the Cruciatus Curse, it was Benjy who held her tight and whispered that everything was going to be alright. And when he came back from a raid, bleeding and faint, she was the one to administer potions and charms.
In the flickering light, shadows danced along their naked bodies as they moved together. Marlene clung to him, her breath hot in his ear as his hand slid along her slick body. The callouses caught on her smooth skin, rough against her breast when he paused to flick her sensitive nipple.
He knew how wild that drove her.
"Benjy," she moaned, arching towards him.
"Patience, love," he murmured in response, dipping to suck lightly on her fluttering pulse point as his hips moved against hers. In and out, slow and steady, stoking the simmering flame between them until it threatened to consume them both.
Marlene pressed her face against his shoulder, muffling her cries as her climax crashed down on them both. With each touch, each kiss, she felt more alive than she had the day before. And when neither of them knew if they'd survive to the next night, that meant everything.
"I could love you forever," she whispered into the darkness.
"I know," he replied softly, the words soft in her ear.
Marlene turned her head to the side, her nose brushing against his. "How do you know?"
"It's in your eyes."
Mad Eye was still talking, but Marlene wasn't listening. He'd only been gone a week-- though in the small, rational part of her mind, she knew that meant ill. Order members checked in every single night, and no one had heard from Benjy in seven days.
Benjy was gone. Killed.
Dead.
The forever written in her eyes-- had he seen how short it was when he'd kissed her? When he'd said he could love her forever, too?
Without him, was her forever equally as doomed?
Charlie Weasley/Alicia Spinnet (R)
Prompt: Quidditch uniforms
Word Count: 423
When it came down to it, Charlie liked to think of himself as a man with discernible tastes. Molly Weasley had often moaned that he'd never give her any grandbabies; he was too wrapped up in dragons to date. In truth, he was captious when it came to women. (Bill preferred to call him "picky.")
He liked a certain type of woman. Fit, preferably with an arse he could bounce a Galleon off and a pair of breasts to match. Intelligent, but not a brainiac; a woman who could hold a conversation about the 2002 World Cup as well as identify different breeds of dragons.
"Really, Charlie, do you not want to give me grandbabies?"
His standards weren't high; not at all, really. Besides, he'd already found a girl like a walking wet dream. Why would he look any further?
Alicia Spinnet was his dirtiest little fantasy, wrapped up in a tight little blonde package. Sure, she played for the Kestrals while he was a diehard Falmouth fan, and yeah, maybe she was the twins' age, but surely no one could blame him for that. She was sex appeal personified in those tight Quidditch trousers.
"Charlie, you know no professional Quidditch player will want to settle down and have babies. Isn't that what you want?"
It might've broken his mother's heart to know it, but babies were really the furthest thing from Charlie's mind most of the time. Granted, he didn't usually think about babies-- he left that sort of thing to Bill and Percy-- but he most certainly didn't think about babies when his girlfriend was sauntering around in her Kestrals kit.
When she was fresh from the pitch, it was hard to keep his hands off her. It was all too easy to press her against the wall, pinning her in place with his hips as his lips plundered hers. Coming off a win, she was always so fiery and responsive under his hands; it was almost animalistic the way she reacted to his touch.
With Alicia's long legs wrapped around his waist, it was easy to lose himself in her soft, feminine curves. He relished the way her nails felt raking down his back, the pain co-mingled with the pleasure that built up in his body when they fucked.
"Honestly, Charlie, it's like you don't want to settle down and find a nice girl at all."
But he'd found his nice girl, and he intended to keep her right where she belonged-- in his bed.
And preferably, wearing her Quidditch trousers.
Ron Weasley/Lavender Brown (R)
Prompt: Forbidden
Word Count: 380
Knockturn Alley isn't the sort of place a respectable Auror, a family man is supposed to be. It's somewhere one would find back-alley ailhotsy peddlers, wizards of dubious character, and scarlet women. When the sun goes down and the street lamps glow, respectable wizarding folk find themselves elsewhere.
Ron knew he wasn't supposed to be there. He was supposed to be at home with Hermione, tucking Rosie and Hugo into bed before giving them a kiss goodnight. They're still much too young to understand why Mummy and Daddy don't sleep in the same room anymore, and he doesn't want to tarnish their innocence. They're only children.
And he knew coming to Knockturn Alley after work was a mistake, but he did it anyway. It was the same 'mistake' he made two or three times a week-- if it could even be called that.
If she could even be called that.
Lavender Brown is forbidden to him. Ron Weasley, a married man and father of two. A war hero who always goes home with his family for Sunday dinner at the Burrow, a man of strong morals and principles. But Lavender is his secret. Maybe he fucks her to get back at Hermione. Maybe he fucks her because he never got to at Hogwarts. Or maybe he fucks her because he still feels something for her, that teenage romance that burned hot and fizzled out just as quickly as it'd came.
When he's buried hilt deep inside of her, he doesn't think about his wife. All he can think of is the squeeze of her body around him, the bounce of her full breasts as skin slaps against skin and grunts echo in tandem. When his fingers pinch her nipples and she squeals in delight, he can't help but smirk against her lips. He likes an uninhibited woman in the bedroom, unlike--
No, he can't think about her.
Instead, he'll think about Lavender. He'll think about the way she sucks him off, driving him wild with that pretty pink tongue. He'll think about the way she's naked and ready as soon as he arrives, spreading her legs for him before he even undresses. He'll think about kissing her, about fucking her, about making her scream his name.
And when they're done, then he'll think about his wife.
Julian Vaisey/Penelope Clearwater (PG-13)
Prompt: Sometimes the wrong choices bring us to the right places
Word Count: 522
To other couples, Julian and Penelope were an anomaly; two people, as morally different as black and white, who at times could barely stand to be in the same room as one another. They fought more often than not; heated arguments that nearly always ended in dramatic fashion. Penelope's friends certainly couldn't understand it, nor could Julian's. Mandy swore her friend had Stockholm Syndrome, voicing the thought aloud on more than one occasion.
After all, a potential stint in Azkaban would have been a deal breaker for most couples. But of all the things Julian and Penelope were, they were certainly not like 'most couples.'
Most couples-- eventually-- settled down and made it official. But not Julian and Penleope. They were quite content to maintain separate households and live in sin.
Most couples considered their partner to be their best friend, their confidante. Someone they could confide in no matter what. Julian kept his secrets, and Penelope let him; she wasn't sure she wanted to know what all he hid from her. (But as a general rule, it was probably illegal, immoral, or unethical).
Julian and Penelope had their own language, one only known to the two of them. In their language, "no" meant "yes," "don't touch me" meant "oh god, please don't stop," and "I hate you" really meant "I love you."
In Penelope's opinion, Julian brought out the worst in her (and Julian would say he was merely coaxing out what was already there). In his arms, she could honestly forget her qualms with his lifestyle, the backroom dealings and illegal potion transactions. When he pressed her against the smooth glass wall of his office, she could forgo her moral high ground and clasp her lover to her, clinging to him as their bodies chased ecstasy together.
With Penelope laid back on his desk, spread out like some debauched feast for his eyes, Julian found it hard to remember why he hated her-- or thought he hated her, at least. She had tried to ruin him, bring down everything he'd worked for over the past ten years. She hadn't succeeded-- his lack of prison robes was testament to that-- but she'd still tried.
Julian had never taken well to betrayal.
But for some reason, he couldn't shake her. It was wrong, they both knew it, but neither could stay away. His hands itched for the feel of her smooth skin beneath his fingers, watching her tremble for his touch. It was their game, one they'd fallen back into disturbingly quickly after their... 'break.'
When she breathed, "I hate you," in his ear, Julian only thrust harder, his fingers pressed deeper into her soft hips. Hate and love tread a thin line between them, one that oftentimes blurred when their bodies came together in the shadow-- the only anchor in a world of shifting realities for the both of them.
It was wrong.
She'd made her choices, and he'd made his. Being together after all that... it was just wrong. They both knew it, but neither really tried to stop.
Two wrongs... well, it seemed they made a right after all.
Godric Gryffindor/Rowena Ravenclaw (R)
Prompt: Corsets and colors
Word Count: 218
Blue.
It was her color; a pleasing, soothing shade that Godric always associated with Rowena. It was everywhere when it came to her, from the blue crest on her House's robes to the flashing cornflower hue of her eyes. It suited her, he thought, much better than his own proffered shade of fiery red. Rowena was calm, always thinking before speaking-- the polar opposite of himself.
But it wasn't her eyes he saw when he thought of blue. His thoughts instead went to the blue satin corset, tightly laced beneath her gown. In his mind's eye, he could see her pale breasts straining against their confines as he took her against the stone wall. The delicate boning pressed into her skin, leaving angry red lines he would later trace with his tongue.
Red.
That was his color, and while blue would always be Rowena's, he liked to leave red on her body. Small red circles where his fingertips grasped her curvy hip, a red imprint of his teeth against the flesh of her neck. It pleased him to see their colors mingle on her skin, a visible sign of their combined desires.
Red and blue. Fire and water. Godric and Rowena, colors intertwined until they melded together in a mess of heat and passion, fusing their hues into something much stronger.
Michael Corner/Lisa Turpin (PG-13)
Prompt: One night only
Word Count: 509
Sleep did not come easy in the Room of Requirement. It was hard for the group of schoolchildren-- for that was what they were, in the end: children-- to let their collective guard down long enough to rest. So they took it in turns; two sentries standing watch at the entries while their comrades slept.
Rest, though, was not forthcoming for one Ravenclaw.
Softly, Lisa tiptoed around the gently swaying hammocks, trying her best to avoid a clumsy moment. Soft snore emanated from the makeshift beds, and the last thing she wanted to do was trip over her feet and break her nose-- again. There had already been enough blood shed.
Michael was still awake. She knew he would be.
He was waiting for her.
It had quickly become her habit, slipping into his hammock when the others were asleep. Mandy was gone, in hiding. Stephen was still out there, keeping a watch over the younger students who couldn't disappear like the DA -- students like Michael's sister, Penelope's little brother. Sharing the night with Michael... it kept her grounded, gave her something to hold on to. Someone to remind her that she wasn't alone, that they were still fighting.
Tonight, though, comfort was hers to give.
There was a soft glow from the moon filtering through the window, casting a pale light on Michael's face. Two angry red scars raked across his cheek, but there was more to his wounds than the superficial. The Carrows had... Lisa couldn't stand to think about what those two evil people had done to her friend.
He opened his mouth to speak as she slipped into his hammock, but Lisa put one finger over his lips. Not tonight. Tonight, their roles were reversed.
Her free hand cupped his cheek lightly, thumb tracing lightly over the skin as she ducked down and pressed her lips against his. It was soft, chaste almost, just the press of a gentle kiss-- but it didn't stay that way for long. Michael's arms banded around her waist, pulling her on top of him as he threaded one hand in her long blonde hair.
It wasn't what it should have been for their first time-- or their last time, Lisa didn't know. Fumbling hands pushed clothing aside, lips muffled soft cries as the hammock swayed back and forth to the rhythm of their bodies. Fingers flicked and teased, soft kisses traded in the moonlight And when they reached their climaxes together, his lips were tender against hers when she shuddered against him. Michael's hands held her as if she were something precious, and Lisa clung to Michael like he was the only thing holding her in the moment.
Maybe he was. She didn't know.
All she knew was fear. Fear of dying, of losing her friends, her family. But she could hear Michael's voice low in her ear, reminding her that she was still here, that they were there and that nothing would happen to her. It was enough. It had to be enough.
Even if it was only for a night.
Julian Vaisey/Astoria Greengrass (NC-17)
Prompt: Regrets
Word Count: 598
He doesn't know how to apologize.
It's not that Julian is prideful, per se-- though he is a proud man. But there have been very few times that he's looked back in regret on his actions. Years of his grandfather's training have taught him to weigh his thoughts and act accordingly, standing by whatever decision he makes. He's never had to apologize.
He regrets this.
Astoria. He regrets many things about his relationship with her. He regrets not pursuing her when he had the chance, treating her as he should have. Part of him rationalizes it away; he wasn't ready for anything serious, and a witch such as her would have demanded nothing less. But the other part of him knows that he messed up. He had a chance, and he missed it.
It's what led him here, to her office at White Chapel. He doesn't know how to say he's sorry, but he knows how to show it.
The roses lay forgotten on the desk, the door is cracked halfway open, but neither pay it any heed. It is late, and Euan and Romilda have both gone home. No eyes can see them but those of the portraits-- and they're not talking. Astoria's slender fingers tangle in his hair, and Julian's hands are tight against her hips as the heat of their kiss consumes the both of them.
It's a kiss that says so much-- "I'm sorry." "I know."-- but they don't have to speak. There's no need for words, not anymore. Everything that they need to say can be said in the way she clings to him, the way his hands are gentle despite his want. It's long overdue, and Julian is of no mind to rush.
Her brown eyes seem even darker, almost black with want, and they're keenly fixed on him as he gently lowers her to the smooth surface of her desk. His lips trail down her slender neck, gently kissing and nibbling as his hands press her back on the polished wood. He's kissing her stomach now, bared to his lips as his hands push her dress up over her hips.
Astoria makes to speak, but he cuts her off as one finger slips beneath her knickers. Her head falls back, and her thighs part; whether an unconscious move or blatant invitation, Julian is not of a mind to ignore such a sign, and he peels her tiny knickers down her legs and lets them fall to the floor.
His lips replace his finger, tongue flicking out over her hot sex. He starts slow, but as her fingers slide into his hair and she moans in encouragement, his ministrations pick up speed. He's spurned on by the tightening of her fingers and the way she presses her stiletto heels into his back; those sexy Louboutins that make her six inches taller than she really is, lengthening her legs and highlighting her shapely arse.
She's close, and Merlin, his name sounds good falling from her lips in soft, breathy pants; another circle of his tongue around her swollen nub and she's falling, back arching off the desk in orgasm. Her fingers tighten, then suddenly fall slack against his scalp, and Julian's not sure he's ever felt as hard as he does right now.
Astoria shifts beneath him, pressing her heel to his shoulder. When he looks up at her, those dark brown eyes have a wicked glint, and she crooks one finger in invitation. It's an invitation he's more than willing to accept.
So maybe he doesn't know how to apologize. But then again, maybe words aren't really necessary.
Especially now.
Stephen Cornfoot/Eloise Midgen (R)
Prompt: The Girl Got Hot by Weezer
Word Count: 356
Hackney Underground wasn't the sort of club most witches and wizards frequented. For one, it was Muggle-- that was enough to keep most magical folk out. And secondly, it was located in one of London's dodgier neighborhoods; well north of Charring Cross and the relative safety of Diagon Alley.
Stephen had never considered himself a normal Pureblood. His parents had always treated him as if he were lesser for consorting with Muggleborns; he preferred heavy metal to Celestina Warbeck and ripped tees and denims to robes. No Cornfoot worth his salt would be caught dead in Hackney-- not that he gave a fuck. NOFX was playing, and he'd be damned if he missed the show.
It was probably a combination of good tunes, good booze, and the good blunt he'd shared that led him here; pressing Eloise Midgen against the brick wall in the back of the club. The pounding bass line from the band was near deafening, nicely muffling the moans and grunts that passed between them.
A plain face, albeit heavily pimpled, had cleared up nicely, and she'd slimmed up into a punk rocker's wet dream; clunky leather boots donned her feet, and her plaid mini was currently bunched around her waist as he fucked her against the wall. Her teeth were sharp against his neck, and he could feel the angry red lines left by her fingernails as she gripped his ass.
"Fuck," she hissed in his ear, squeezing around him; she was close, Stephen could feel it, and his hips increased in speed. There were people nearby-- but neither of them cared. They were high on music, weed, and the thrill that came from doing something so amazingly wrong. It was all Stephen cared about at that moment.
She climaxed, writhing against him and bringing on his own release. His hips stilled, and he would have slumped against her if not for the sharp pain at the back of his neck. He lifted his head and met her hard brown gaze.
"Fuck me again, Cornfoot," she all but growled.
And not for the first time, he thought, This girl got hot.
Bill Weasley/Fleur Delacour (R)
Prompt: Rough sex on the beach
Word Count: 600
It was eerily bright at midnight, the beams from the full moon casting a pale glow down on the beach. It was quiet save for the waves that gently washed onto the shore, the tide ebbing and flowing with the pull of the moon. Hundreds of tiny shells cut into Fleur's feet as she ran as fast as she could-- faster than she had since the Triwizard Tournament. Adrenaline flooded her veins, making her heart beat faster and her blood rush hotter.
It was a game. Foreplay.
She was being hunted.
The moon was full, and there was an ancient pull drumming through her husband. The magic that ruled him this night had never fully been understood by wizards, nor had this half-strain that filtered through Bill's blood. The moon called to him, but the wolf did not rule him. It was both blessing and curse that took him.
He was close; she could hear his heavy footsteps behind her. Fleur made to look over her shoulder, and a shriek pierced the night air when a solid mass rushed her, pushing her through the air and pinning her down onto the sand. Those same shells that had cut her feet now tore at her back, leaving jagged red punctures against the pale expanse of skin.
Fleur's blue eyes flashed up at her husband, her body straining against his tight hold on her. He wanted her to fight him-- to appease the beast that slumbered within.
He ducked his head, sinking his teeth into her soft neck. His voice, low in his throat, rumbled, "You call that running, ma fleur?"
She gasped in pain, tipping her head back as she writhed beneath him. "Mon dieu, lâches-moi," she breathed, even as her traitorous body warmed beneath his grip. It was hard to put up a convincing fight, not when she wanted him so much. She lived for the ferocity that ruled him during the full moon; it called to the fierce creature that lay dormant in her own blood.
"I don't think I will."
It was the only warning he gave; rough hands released her wrists to jerk at her skirt, pulling it upwards as he yanked her knickers around her knees. Her ears registered the sound of a zipper being pulled down and then mon dieu, he was inside of her. Fleur moaned and arched, wanton beneath him as her legs wrapped around his waist.
With a loud growl, Bill's lips fell to her neck as he started to thrust. There was no time to adjust, only the pounding of his hips against hers. Skin slapped on skin, moans and grunts passing from lips as his calloused hand jerked her bodice down, exposing one pale breast. His fingers tweaked her rosy nipple, teeth scraping on skin as Fleur raked her nails down his back in retaliation. In the morning, her body would bare marks of this-- but by then, the angry red imprints in her neck would fade to a deep purple bruise, and her hips would be framed by rings of fingertips.
Fleur didn't give a fuck. She wasn't a delicate flower to be coddled. She could run just as wild as her husband.
There was no tingling in her stomach to signal her climax. Her orgasm crashed down upon her just as suddenly as Bill had, making her scream his name as she shuddered beneath him. Her husband's teeth sank down into her shoulder, and she felt his hips still when he found his own release a scant second later. The wolf was appeased-- for now.
But it was still hours until sunrise.
Author: Leigh, aka leigh_adams
Pairings: Blaise Zabini/Gabrielle Delacour, Benjy Fenwick/Marlene McKinnon, Charlie Weasley/Alicia Spinnet, Ron Weasley/Lavender Brown, Julian Vaisey/Penelope Clearwater, Godric Gryffindor/Rowena Ravenclaw, Michael Corner/Lisa Turpin, Julian Vaisey/Astoria Greengrass, Stephen Cornfoot/Eloise Midgen, Bill Weasley/Fleur Delacour
Rating: PG-13 through NC-17
Word Count: Between 100 and 600
Summary: Ten smutty drabbles for your reading pleasure.
Author's Notes: Here be my drabbles for hp_humpdrabbles' Humpathon 2011. Three weeks of smutty drabbles... yay! I'll be updating this post if I fill any more prompts as time passes. :)
Blaise Zabini/Gabrielle Delacour (PG-13) for elle_blessing
Benjy Fenwick/Marlene McKinnon (R) for lar_laughs
Charlie Weasley/Alicia Spinnet (R) for ragdoll
Ron Weasley/Lavender Brown (R) for luvscharlie
Julian Vaisey/Penelope Clearwater (PG-13) for mugglechump
Godric Gryffindor/Rowena Ravenclaw (R) for scaratthedisco
Michael Corner/Lisa Turpin (PG-13) for elle_blessing
Julian Vaisey/Astoria Greengrass (NC-17) for elle_blessing
Stephen Cornfoot/Eloise Midgen (R) for baby_k21
Bill Weasley/Fleur Delacour (R) for ellielove_x3
Blaise Zabini/Gabrielle Delacour (PG-13)
Prompt: Hell on Heels by Pistol Annies
Word Count: 395
Blaise knew better.
He'd been raised by Francesca Zabini, the most infamous black widow of the twentieth century. He knew all the signs of a strike; rich, older man dies shortly after marrying a young, nubile beauty, leaving her all his money. His mother had done it seven bloody times and managed to escape suspicion.
He knew better than to take a second glance at Gabrielle Delacour. She wasn't a black widow; none of her past consorts had died suddenly (though he had no desire to be the first to do so), but each paramour left her Gringotts account considerably fuller than the last.
Her Italian villa in Tuscany? Courtesy of Giovanni san Marco.
The penthouse flat on Fifth Avenue in New York City? Jeremiah Rockefeller had insisted she keep it.
She practically glittered when she moved from the diamonds that adorned her slender wrist and delicate earlobes. The sapphire at her neck matched her deep blue eyes, and her lips were the same color as her ruby ring.
All in all, Blaise certainly knew better.
That didn't mean he cared.
He quite liked the way she felt pressed up against him, those red lips slanted against his own. She would wrap her leg around his and let the tip of her stiletto heel press into his flesh; he never said so aloud, but the slight tinge of pain with his pleasure made him randy beyond belief. He liked it when her gaze flashed in warning before she raked her teeth over his neck.
When she reached for him-- somewhere? Anywhere, really-- and dug her nails into his back, he couldn't say no. Blaise Zabini, the seducer of Slytherin House, reduced to a complaint boytoy by a leggy blonde in Louboutins; how his friends would laugh. But they could smirk and snicker all they liked-- none of them had Gabrielle Delacour in their beds.
(And none of them would, if he had his way).
She was beautiful. Bewitching, with a slight otherworldly aura that spoke to her veela heritage. She didn't have to turn on her charm like other witches; it was never off. She could walk into a room and have every male clamoring for her attention, if she liked-- which she usually did.
All Blaise knew (besides that he knew better) was that Gabrielle was hell on heels, six feet of seductive, curvaceous woman.
And she was coming for him.
Benjy Fenwick/Marlene McKinnon (R)
Prompt: Forever in your eyes
Word Count: 444
The Order safehouse was quiet. Too quiet for the number of people gathered in the kitchen. The ragged remains of their brethren were there, some bleeding and bruised on the outside while others internalized their pain. But someone was missing-- a pair of bright green eyes that should have been looking back at her.
"Where's Benjy?" she breathed, meeting Mad Eye's stoic gaze across the room. "Did you find him?"
"Marlene," Caradoc began, "we--"
"He's dead," Mad Eye said abruptly.
The room was dark, with only the light from a candle illuminating the tiny chamber. It wasn't what either of them had wanted, but it was all they had. The war... it had taken nearly everything from them. When Marlene woke screaming in the night, recalling the Cruciatus Curse, it was Benjy who held her tight and whispered that everything was going to be alright. And when he came back from a raid, bleeding and faint, she was the one to administer potions and charms.
In the flickering light, shadows danced along their naked bodies as they moved together. Marlene clung to him, her breath hot in his ear as his hand slid along her slick body. The callouses caught on her smooth skin, rough against her breast when he paused to flick her sensitive nipple.
He knew how wild that drove her.
"Benjy," she moaned, arching towards him.
"Patience, love," he murmured in response, dipping to suck lightly on her fluttering pulse point as his hips moved against hers. In and out, slow and steady, stoking the simmering flame between them until it threatened to consume them both.
Marlene pressed her face against his shoulder, muffling her cries as her climax crashed down on them both. With each touch, each kiss, she felt more alive than she had the day before. And when neither of them knew if they'd survive to the next night, that meant everything.
"I could love you forever," she whispered into the darkness.
"I know," he replied softly, the words soft in her ear.
Marlene turned her head to the side, her nose brushing against his. "How do you know?"
"It's in your eyes."
Mad Eye was still talking, but Marlene wasn't listening. He'd only been gone a week-- though in the small, rational part of her mind, she knew that meant ill. Order members checked in every single night, and no one had heard from Benjy in seven days.
Benjy was gone. Killed.
Dead.
The forever written in her eyes-- had he seen how short it was when he'd kissed her? When he'd said he could love her forever, too?
Without him, was her forever equally as doomed?
Charlie Weasley/Alicia Spinnet (R)
Prompt: Quidditch uniforms
Word Count: 423
When it came down to it, Charlie liked to think of himself as a man with discernible tastes. Molly Weasley had often moaned that he'd never give her any grandbabies; he was too wrapped up in dragons to date. In truth, he was captious when it came to women. (Bill preferred to call him "picky.")
He liked a certain type of woman. Fit, preferably with an arse he could bounce a Galleon off and a pair of breasts to match. Intelligent, but not a brainiac; a woman who could hold a conversation about the 2002 World Cup as well as identify different breeds of dragons.
"Really, Charlie, do you not want to give me grandbabies?"
His standards weren't high; not at all, really. Besides, he'd already found a girl like a walking wet dream. Why would he look any further?
Alicia Spinnet was his dirtiest little fantasy, wrapped up in a tight little blonde package. Sure, she played for the Kestrals while he was a diehard Falmouth fan, and yeah, maybe she was the twins' age, but surely no one could blame him for that. She was sex appeal personified in those tight Quidditch trousers.
"Charlie, you know no professional Quidditch player will want to settle down and have babies. Isn't that what you want?"
It might've broken his mother's heart to know it, but babies were really the furthest thing from Charlie's mind most of the time. Granted, he didn't usually think about babies-- he left that sort of thing to Bill and Percy-- but he most certainly didn't think about babies when his girlfriend was sauntering around in her Kestrals kit.
When she was fresh from the pitch, it was hard to keep his hands off her. It was all too easy to press her against the wall, pinning her in place with his hips as his lips plundered hers. Coming off a win, she was always so fiery and responsive under his hands; it was almost animalistic the way she reacted to his touch.
With Alicia's long legs wrapped around his waist, it was easy to lose himself in her soft, feminine curves. He relished the way her nails felt raking down his back, the pain co-mingled with the pleasure that built up in his body when they fucked.
"Honestly, Charlie, it's like you don't want to settle down and find a nice girl at all."
But he'd found his nice girl, and he intended to keep her right where she belonged-- in his bed.
And preferably, wearing her Quidditch trousers.
Ron Weasley/Lavender Brown (R)
Prompt: Forbidden
Word Count: 380
Knockturn Alley isn't the sort of place a respectable Auror, a family man is supposed to be. It's somewhere one would find back-alley ailhotsy peddlers, wizards of dubious character, and scarlet women. When the sun goes down and the street lamps glow, respectable wizarding folk find themselves elsewhere.
Ron knew he wasn't supposed to be there. He was supposed to be at home with Hermione, tucking Rosie and Hugo into bed before giving them a kiss goodnight. They're still much too young to understand why Mummy and Daddy don't sleep in the same room anymore, and he doesn't want to tarnish their innocence. They're only children.
And he knew coming to Knockturn Alley after work was a mistake, but he did it anyway. It was the same 'mistake' he made two or three times a week-- if it could even be called that.
If she could even be called that.
Lavender Brown is forbidden to him. Ron Weasley, a married man and father of two. A war hero who always goes home with his family for Sunday dinner at the Burrow, a man of strong morals and principles. But Lavender is his secret. Maybe he fucks her to get back at Hermione. Maybe he fucks her because he never got to at Hogwarts. Or maybe he fucks her because he still feels something for her, that teenage romance that burned hot and fizzled out just as quickly as it'd came.
When he's buried hilt deep inside of her, he doesn't think about his wife. All he can think of is the squeeze of her body around him, the bounce of her full breasts as skin slaps against skin and grunts echo in tandem. When his fingers pinch her nipples and she squeals in delight, he can't help but smirk against her lips. He likes an uninhibited woman in the bedroom, unlike--
No, he can't think about her.
Instead, he'll think about Lavender. He'll think about the way she sucks him off, driving him wild with that pretty pink tongue. He'll think about the way she's naked and ready as soon as he arrives, spreading her legs for him before he even undresses. He'll think about kissing her, about fucking her, about making her scream his name.
And when they're done, then he'll think about his wife.
Julian Vaisey/Penelope Clearwater (PG-13)
Prompt: Sometimes the wrong choices bring us to the right places
Word Count: 522
To other couples, Julian and Penelope were an anomaly; two people, as morally different as black and white, who at times could barely stand to be in the same room as one another. They fought more often than not; heated arguments that nearly always ended in dramatic fashion. Penelope's friends certainly couldn't understand it, nor could Julian's. Mandy swore her friend had Stockholm Syndrome, voicing the thought aloud on more than one occasion.
After all, a potential stint in Azkaban would have been a deal breaker for most couples. But of all the things Julian and Penelope were, they were certainly not like 'most couples.'
Most couples-- eventually-- settled down and made it official. But not Julian and Penleope. They were quite content to maintain separate households and live in sin.
Most couples considered their partner to be their best friend, their confidante. Someone they could confide in no matter what. Julian kept his secrets, and Penelope let him; she wasn't sure she wanted to know what all he hid from her. (But as a general rule, it was probably illegal, immoral, or unethical).
Julian and Penelope had their own language, one only known to the two of them. In their language, "no" meant "yes," "don't touch me" meant "oh god, please don't stop," and "I hate you" really meant "I love you."
In Penelope's opinion, Julian brought out the worst in her (and Julian would say he was merely coaxing out what was already there). In his arms, she could honestly forget her qualms with his lifestyle, the backroom dealings and illegal potion transactions. When he pressed her against the smooth glass wall of his office, she could forgo her moral high ground and clasp her lover to her, clinging to him as their bodies chased ecstasy together.
With Penelope laid back on his desk, spread out like some debauched feast for his eyes, Julian found it hard to remember why he hated her-- or thought he hated her, at least. She had tried to ruin him, bring down everything he'd worked for over the past ten years. She hadn't succeeded-- his lack of prison robes was testament to that-- but she'd still tried.
Julian had never taken well to betrayal.
But for some reason, he couldn't shake her. It was wrong, they both knew it, but neither could stay away. His hands itched for the feel of her smooth skin beneath his fingers, watching her tremble for his touch. It was their game, one they'd fallen back into disturbingly quickly after their... 'break.'
When she breathed, "I hate you," in his ear, Julian only thrust harder, his fingers pressed deeper into her soft hips. Hate and love tread a thin line between them, one that oftentimes blurred when their bodies came together in the shadow-- the only anchor in a world of shifting realities for the both of them.
It was wrong.
She'd made her choices, and he'd made his. Being together after all that... it was just wrong. They both knew it, but neither really tried to stop.
Two wrongs... well, it seemed they made a right after all.
Godric Gryffindor/Rowena Ravenclaw (R)
Prompt: Corsets and colors
Word Count: 218
Blue.
It was her color; a pleasing, soothing shade that Godric always associated with Rowena. It was everywhere when it came to her, from the blue crest on her House's robes to the flashing cornflower hue of her eyes. It suited her, he thought, much better than his own proffered shade of fiery red. Rowena was calm, always thinking before speaking-- the polar opposite of himself.
But it wasn't her eyes he saw when he thought of blue. His thoughts instead went to the blue satin corset, tightly laced beneath her gown. In his mind's eye, he could see her pale breasts straining against their confines as he took her against the stone wall. The delicate boning pressed into her skin, leaving angry red lines he would later trace with his tongue.
Red.
That was his color, and while blue would always be Rowena's, he liked to leave red on her body. Small red circles where his fingertips grasped her curvy hip, a red imprint of his teeth against the flesh of her neck. It pleased him to see their colors mingle on her skin, a visible sign of their combined desires.
Red and blue. Fire and water. Godric and Rowena, colors intertwined until they melded together in a mess of heat and passion, fusing their hues into something much stronger.
Michael Corner/Lisa Turpin (PG-13)
Prompt: One night only
Word Count: 509
Sleep did not come easy in the Room of Requirement. It was hard for the group of schoolchildren-- for that was what they were, in the end: children-- to let their collective guard down long enough to rest. So they took it in turns; two sentries standing watch at the entries while their comrades slept.
Rest, though, was not forthcoming for one Ravenclaw.
Softly, Lisa tiptoed around the gently swaying hammocks, trying her best to avoid a clumsy moment. Soft snore emanated from the makeshift beds, and the last thing she wanted to do was trip over her feet and break her nose-- again. There had already been enough blood shed.
Michael was still awake. She knew he would be.
He was waiting for her.
It had quickly become her habit, slipping into his hammock when the others were asleep. Mandy was gone, in hiding. Stephen was still out there, keeping a watch over the younger students who couldn't disappear like the DA -- students like Michael's sister, Penelope's little brother. Sharing the night with Michael... it kept her grounded, gave her something to hold on to. Someone to remind her that she wasn't alone, that they were still fighting.
Tonight, though, comfort was hers to give.
There was a soft glow from the moon filtering through the window, casting a pale light on Michael's face. Two angry red scars raked across his cheek, but there was more to his wounds than the superficial. The Carrows had... Lisa couldn't stand to think about what those two evil people had done to her friend.
He opened his mouth to speak as she slipped into his hammock, but Lisa put one finger over his lips. Not tonight. Tonight, their roles were reversed.
Her free hand cupped his cheek lightly, thumb tracing lightly over the skin as she ducked down and pressed her lips against his. It was soft, chaste almost, just the press of a gentle kiss-- but it didn't stay that way for long. Michael's arms banded around her waist, pulling her on top of him as he threaded one hand in her long blonde hair.
It wasn't what it should have been for their first time-- or their last time, Lisa didn't know. Fumbling hands pushed clothing aside, lips muffled soft cries as the hammock swayed back and forth to the rhythm of their bodies. Fingers flicked and teased, soft kisses traded in the moonlight And when they reached their climaxes together, his lips were tender against hers when she shuddered against him. Michael's hands held her as if she were something precious, and Lisa clung to Michael like he was the only thing holding her in the moment.
Maybe he was. She didn't know.
All she knew was fear. Fear of dying, of losing her friends, her family. But she could hear Michael's voice low in her ear, reminding her that she was still here, that they were there and that nothing would happen to her. It was enough. It had to be enough.
Even if it was only for a night.
Julian Vaisey/Astoria Greengrass (NC-17)
Prompt: Regrets
Word Count: 598
He doesn't know how to apologize.
It's not that Julian is prideful, per se-- though he is a proud man. But there have been very few times that he's looked back in regret on his actions. Years of his grandfather's training have taught him to weigh his thoughts and act accordingly, standing by whatever decision he makes. He's never had to apologize.
He regrets this.
Astoria. He regrets many things about his relationship with her. He regrets not pursuing her when he had the chance, treating her as he should have. Part of him rationalizes it away; he wasn't ready for anything serious, and a witch such as her would have demanded nothing less. But the other part of him knows that he messed up. He had a chance, and he missed it.
It's what led him here, to her office at White Chapel. He doesn't know how to say he's sorry, but he knows how to show it.
The roses lay forgotten on the desk, the door is cracked halfway open, but neither pay it any heed. It is late, and Euan and Romilda have both gone home. No eyes can see them but those of the portraits-- and they're not talking. Astoria's slender fingers tangle in his hair, and Julian's hands are tight against her hips as the heat of their kiss consumes the both of them.
It's a kiss that says so much-- "I'm sorry." "I know."-- but they don't have to speak. There's no need for words, not anymore. Everything that they need to say can be said in the way she clings to him, the way his hands are gentle despite his want. It's long overdue, and Julian is of no mind to rush.
Her brown eyes seem even darker, almost black with want, and they're keenly fixed on him as he gently lowers her to the smooth surface of her desk. His lips trail down her slender neck, gently kissing and nibbling as his hands press her back on the polished wood. He's kissing her stomach now, bared to his lips as his hands push her dress up over her hips.
Astoria makes to speak, but he cuts her off as one finger slips beneath her knickers. Her head falls back, and her thighs part; whether an unconscious move or blatant invitation, Julian is not of a mind to ignore such a sign, and he peels her tiny knickers down her legs and lets them fall to the floor.
His lips replace his finger, tongue flicking out over her hot sex. He starts slow, but as her fingers slide into his hair and she moans in encouragement, his ministrations pick up speed. He's spurned on by the tightening of her fingers and the way she presses her stiletto heels into his back; those sexy Louboutins that make her six inches taller than she really is, lengthening her legs and highlighting her shapely arse.
She's close, and Merlin, his name sounds good falling from her lips in soft, breathy pants; another circle of his tongue around her swollen nub and she's falling, back arching off the desk in orgasm. Her fingers tighten, then suddenly fall slack against his scalp, and Julian's not sure he's ever felt as hard as he does right now.
Astoria shifts beneath him, pressing her heel to his shoulder. When he looks up at her, those dark brown eyes have a wicked glint, and she crooks one finger in invitation. It's an invitation he's more than willing to accept.
So maybe he doesn't know how to apologize. But then again, maybe words aren't really necessary.
Especially now.
Stephen Cornfoot/Eloise Midgen (R)
Prompt: The Girl Got Hot by Weezer
Word Count: 356
Hackney Underground wasn't the sort of club most witches and wizards frequented. For one, it was Muggle-- that was enough to keep most magical folk out. And secondly, it was located in one of London's dodgier neighborhoods; well north of Charring Cross and the relative safety of Diagon Alley.
Stephen had never considered himself a normal Pureblood. His parents had always treated him as if he were lesser for consorting with Muggleborns; he preferred heavy metal to Celestina Warbeck and ripped tees and denims to robes. No Cornfoot worth his salt would be caught dead in Hackney-- not that he gave a fuck. NOFX was playing, and he'd be damned if he missed the show.
It was probably a combination of good tunes, good booze, and the good blunt he'd shared that led him here; pressing Eloise Midgen against the brick wall in the back of the club. The pounding bass line from the band was near deafening, nicely muffling the moans and grunts that passed between them.
A plain face, albeit heavily pimpled, had cleared up nicely, and she'd slimmed up into a punk rocker's wet dream; clunky leather boots donned her feet, and her plaid mini was currently bunched around her waist as he fucked her against the wall. Her teeth were sharp against his neck, and he could feel the angry red lines left by her fingernails as she gripped his ass.
"Fuck," she hissed in his ear, squeezing around him; she was close, Stephen could feel it, and his hips increased in speed. There were people nearby-- but neither of them cared. They were high on music, weed, and the thrill that came from doing something so amazingly wrong. It was all Stephen cared about at that moment.
She climaxed, writhing against him and bringing on his own release. His hips stilled, and he would have slumped against her if not for the sharp pain at the back of his neck. He lifted his head and met her hard brown gaze.
"Fuck me again, Cornfoot," she all but growled.
And not for the first time, he thought, This girl got hot.
Bill Weasley/Fleur Delacour (R)
Prompt: Rough sex on the beach
Word Count: 600
It was eerily bright at midnight, the beams from the full moon casting a pale glow down on the beach. It was quiet save for the waves that gently washed onto the shore, the tide ebbing and flowing with the pull of the moon. Hundreds of tiny shells cut into Fleur's feet as she ran as fast as she could-- faster than she had since the Triwizard Tournament. Adrenaline flooded her veins, making her heart beat faster and her blood rush hotter.
It was a game. Foreplay.
She was being hunted.
The moon was full, and there was an ancient pull drumming through her husband. The magic that ruled him this night had never fully been understood by wizards, nor had this half-strain that filtered through Bill's blood. The moon called to him, but the wolf did not rule him. It was both blessing and curse that took him.
He was close; she could hear his heavy footsteps behind her. Fleur made to look over her shoulder, and a shriek pierced the night air when a solid mass rushed her, pushing her through the air and pinning her down onto the sand. Those same shells that had cut her feet now tore at her back, leaving jagged red punctures against the pale expanse of skin.
Fleur's blue eyes flashed up at her husband, her body straining against his tight hold on her. He wanted her to fight him-- to appease the beast that slumbered within.
He ducked his head, sinking his teeth into her soft neck. His voice, low in his throat, rumbled, "You call that running, ma fleur?"
She gasped in pain, tipping her head back as she writhed beneath him. "Mon dieu, lâches-moi," she breathed, even as her traitorous body warmed beneath his grip. It was hard to put up a convincing fight, not when she wanted him so much. She lived for the ferocity that ruled him during the full moon; it called to the fierce creature that lay dormant in her own blood.
"I don't think I will."
It was the only warning he gave; rough hands released her wrists to jerk at her skirt, pulling it upwards as he yanked her knickers around her knees. Her ears registered the sound of a zipper being pulled down and then mon dieu, he was inside of her. Fleur moaned and arched, wanton beneath him as her legs wrapped around his waist.
With a loud growl, Bill's lips fell to her neck as he started to thrust. There was no time to adjust, only the pounding of his hips against hers. Skin slapped on skin, moans and grunts passing from lips as his calloused hand jerked her bodice down, exposing one pale breast. His fingers tweaked her rosy nipple, teeth scraping on skin as Fleur raked her nails down his back in retaliation. In the morning, her body would bare marks of this-- but by then, the angry red imprints in her neck would fade to a deep purple bruise, and her hips would be framed by rings of fingertips.
Fleur didn't give a fuck. She wasn't a delicate flower to be coddled. She could run just as wild as her husband.
There was no tingling in her stomach to signal her climax. Her orgasm crashed down upon her just as suddenly as Bill had, making her scream his name as she shuddered beneath him. Her husband's teeth sank down into her shoulder, and she felt his hips still when he found his own release a scant second later. The wolf was appeased-- for now.
But it was still hours until sunrise.