Exciting News About Her Minder II !

Boscobel Books is excited to announce the publication of The Chine, book two in Teddy Raye’s exciting Her Minder series!

Cover art by Rusty Apper

On April Fool’s day, a London cabbie gets a very unusual dispatch. In an exclusive London nightclub catering to kinksters, a dark truth is revealed. A dangerous drug makes the rounds, with deadly effects. To the mysterious branch of MI6 known only as The Agency, these random acts all point to one conclusion: the resurgence of a sinister organisation, preying on the vulnerable and the affluent alike, codenamed Silverbirch.

The Chine, the second installment of Teddy Raye’s exciting Her Minder series, continues the gripping story of Sydney Chapin, the Agency’s best and brightest, and her Minder, the compelling Doctor Dahlra Gar. From the spine-tingling opening pages, to its thrilling showdown, The Chine is a page-turning story of espionage, erotic Dominance and heart-stopping action.

Sydney, once betrayed and incarcerated because of Silverbirch, has completed her two year hiatus from the Agency and is more than ready to get back in the game. Her Minder, Doctor Dahlra Gar, is not so eager; her old life in ‘the spy-catching business’ is dangerous, but that’s what Sydney does, and she’s good at it. Their friend and lover Elwess Talbert, a renown Dominant in London’s exclusive kinkster community, is pulling them in different directions. Can Dahlra maintain his control over the elusive and morally ambiguous Elwess, and still keep his Sydney safe from the collateral damage sure to follow?

The Chine, along with part one of Her Minder, The Doctor, are both available in softcover and e-book formats. You can find them at most online retailers, including Amazon.

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Posted by on May 24, 2019 in General Announcements


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The Perfect Menage A Trois!

Don’t the best things come in threes? Now, in addition to the printed and e-book formats, Her Minder Book One: The Doctor, is available as an unabridged audio book through!

Read by the incomparable Evan Harris, this Audio book is completed unabridged and flawlessly brought to life by this talented actor, podcaster and reader.

Her Minder Audible Book Cover

When a fact-finding mission goes wrong, Special Agent Sydney Chapin is thrown into prison behind enemy lines. There, she encounters The Doctor, a mysterious physician who wields both drugs and seduction to entice her into revealing her mission.

After a harrowing rescue, Sydney returns to England, where The Agency has decided to award her a Minder: a vetted envoy responsible for meeting all the needs of their charges. As the first female agent to receive such an honour, Sydney has no intention of turning it down—until she discovers Her Minder is none other than her chief tormentor, The Doctor.

As the lure of an old case resurfaces, Sydney quickly learns there is much more to Dr Dahlra Gar than meets the eye. Together, their journey will take them from the manor of England’s most famous Dominatrix to the underground lair of Elwess Talbert, a compelling, sensual Dominant, who has his own hidden agenda where Sydney is concerned.

Enthralling, erotic and addictive, Her Minder will draw you into a world of Dominance and submission, espionage and suspense, trust and redemption.

​Teddy Raye has written over 250 essays, short stories and novels. The Doctor is the first of her three-novel series, Her Minder. Drawing from her life in London, and assisted by her husband Trev, who spent over twenty-five years with Scotland Yard. Her heroine, Sydney Chapin, will become YOUR heroine.

Her Minder – Book One: The Doctor, is now available in both e-book and print versions at and as an audio book on

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Posted by on August 6, 2017 in General Announcements


HP_Halloween 2019: The Bat of the Party

Gift for theimpossiblegl:

Title: The Bat of The Party
Pairing: Ginny/Snape
Disclaimer:These characters do not belong to me. They are the property of JK Rowling and Warner brothers. I make no monetary gain from this story.
Summary: It’s another one of those dreary Ministry affairs, except some idiot decided since it’s Halloween, everyone should get in the spirit and wear fancy dress.

theimpossiblegl, I was absolutely delighted to be assigned you as my gift recipient. I hope you know every word was written with love and affection for you. You are a dear friend, and I truly hope you enjoy it. Happy Halloween!! TR

The Bat of The Party

The cream of Wizarding Britain’s society. Sacred cows more like, standing around self-conscious and uncomfortable in their Muggle fancy-dress costumes.

Not her. The black PVC batsuit hugged her figure like a second skin, as if she wore it every day. She flitted from group to group, leaving a trail of covetous wizards in her wake.

She caught his eye, and made her way over. Once, he might have allowed that flaming auburn hair to put him off. Those days were thankfully gone.

“Miss Weasley.”

“Call me Ginny.”

“Ginny it is.”

“So, Severus. What are you tonight?”

He looked down at his clothing. “Merely myself. These affairs are uncomfortable enough without fancy dress.”

Her face fell in mock disappointment. “Shame. I thought we might be a matching set.”

He bristled. “I am well aware of my old nickname, Bat of the-“

“No.” She turned serious. “I’d never do that to you.” Her ruby lips curved in a tantalising smile. “Truthfully? I only wore this because I hoped you might come as a vampire.”

She slipped her hand in his, and offered up her ivory throat. She whispered, “So, why don’t we go someplace more private, and you can grab a bite?”

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Posted by on November 12, 2019 in General Announcements


Pretty Pony, Pretty Mine

Rating: R
Characters: Sirius/Severus
Length: 573 Words
Warnings: Pony Play, D/s, no dialogue
Author’s Note: Kat, your gorgeous art Proud Beast (today’s 

Severus is not a difficult taskmaster. In fact, this is not really his kink. But he loves indulging Sirius, and that is.

Sirius knows it is not the gear that winds up his lover; it is his stillness, his complete and utter submission to the act of donning the accoutrements that is the point of this. And so he stands still, restive, a little edgy and nervy, willing his limbs to relax, willing his body to accept.

The headpiece is first. It is heavy and hard to balance. He must keep his shoulders square and his neck straight, or it will slip to and fro, and look ridiculous. He doesn’t want that. He wants to look tall and proud and beautiful for his lover, and so he does.

The bit is the worst. It is too large for his mouth; it chafes, it makes his jaw ache. And yet he accepts it willingly, because he sees the pride and the pleasure in Severus’ face. He feels the gentleness of his hands as Severus eases the bit between his teeth. It is the tenderness in which he bridles him that fills Sirius with pleasure, his balls with heat.

The collar and belt are heavy, stiff leather, cold to the touch at first. The collar fits up tight beneath his chin, another aid in allowing his head to sit high and proud. Large hands, warm and soothing, massage his shoulders. It is the first of many rewards. As the leather warms, it fills his nostrils with the earthy, delicious aroma, and he has to fight not to drool through his bit. He never quite succeeds.

The belt is wide and black and bristling with chains and loops and other items. His hands are manacled, then chained to the edges of the belt, giving his body a long, straight line, arms close to sides. The metallic jingle is pleasing to his ears, and he moves in a way that makes them sing like the prancing pony he is, and the smile that plays on Severus’ lips makes him feel open and hard and yearning.

He sees his own reflection in those great, dark eyes, and he is beautiful. He watches his reflection for as long as Severus allows, because now come the blinders. They aren’t strictly necessary; it is just the two of them, and no one else to see or stare or cause him to shy, but the blinders have other purposes.

Head held high, body stiff and straight, arms at sides, Sirius has grown tense and off balance, and the blinders calm him. The only contact he has in his dark, silent, jingling world is the beautiful, murmuring voice of his lover, instructing him, commanding him to obey.

He senses movement behind him, and he grows at once more relaxed and tense with anticipation. The base of the tail, harnessed to his belt with leather, long and luxuriant and tactilely gorgeous, is inserted into is waiting rectum with long, gentle fingers, a soft urging command. Sirius accepts it eagerly. It brushes against the back of his thighs in a whispering caress, and he is complete.

Sirius is hard, so hard. His body is tall and proud and he knows he is beautiful in his submission and his bearing, and he feels his lover’s pride and arousal in the caress of his cheek, the wiping the drool from his chin, the first jerk of the reins. He is ready to follow that leading hand to the ends of the earth.

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Posted by on August 20, 2019 in General Announcements


The Music We Make

The Music We Make

Title: The Music We Make
Rating: NC-17 (duh)
Pairing: Severus Snape/Sirius Black
Word Count: 2,458
Featuring: Slash, Spanking, Anal Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Molly Weasley’s Cooking
Summary: Sirius accepts what he needs, even though he really doesn’t understand why he needs it. A kitchen-sink drama in two unnatural acts.

The Music We Make

“You’re late.”

The words ooze from the darkness of the room, and Sirius hesitates before shrugging out of his robes. “It couldn’t be helped. There was a collision on the Quidditch pitch and Poppy─”

“I’m not interested in your excuses, Black.”

How can one short word roll from that sharp tongue, and land with such percussive elegance at the back of a throat? Has anyone ever been able to utter his name with more nuance and meaning? It becomes a barometer from those sneering lips; said casually, indifferently, it is no more than a word, a colour, a name for the absence of light. But now, spoken in that low, guttural rasp, it has its own prisms of colour. Coming from Severus’ mouth, it holds its own definition.

Sirius stills, and the robe slips from his nerveless fingers. He carefully retrieves it to hang on a hook, but Sirius is hit with a sharp rush of wandless magic and it flutters to the ground again. His hands are bound behind him, and he is spun toward the wooden table. “Fuck, Severus!” he barks, shocked into protest. A bright, harsh light shines down from above, like an interrogation room in one of those Muggle films Severus pretends not to watch. Magically he is swatted, pinned face down, his hips crashing uncomfortably against the table’s edge. Another sharp curse gusts from him, along with his breath, and he cannot move.

The little Manc shit always could get the drop on him.

From the darkness beyond, Severus emerges, his smirk almost trademark Slytherin. He taps his wand against his thigh with studied nonchalance, regarding Sirius as if he is a particularly interesting potions ingredient. This could be a game, but Sirius knows it is much more than that. After all, he orchestrated it himself.

Though it strains his neck, Sirius lifts his head and defiantly meets those black, black eyes. They are large and hot and snapping fire, and the lust he sees in them arouses him so quickly he feels momentarily dizzy. The discomfort of his hips locked against the table’s edge ramps into a higher gear as his cock punches against the zip of his fly.

He knows what will come next. Oh gods, he knows, and it thrills him down to his boots. It shouldn’t; their history has been fraught with every emotion in the world, but Severus has always known what he needed, almost before Sirius does himself. That realisation is as exciting as the adrenaline pumping through his body, in time with his swiftly beating heart.

Another whisper of magic, and Sirius is naked, and that is both a relief and a concern. He rises up on tiptoe to dislodge his rigid cock, pinned between his body and the table. He sighs as it bounces free.

“Oh, my,” Severus purrs, and Sirius can hear the smug in his tone. “A little uncomfortable, are we?”

“Just a bit,” Sirius manages through gritted teeth. He may be gagging for it inside, but he’s damned if he wants Severus to know just how desperate he is. Severus has left him choking on his own lust for less.

Now he drawls, “Only a bit? Well, then. Perhaps I should truly apply myself.”

Sirius yelps as each leg is yanked outward and bound to the legs of the table. Not unbearably uncomfortable, no. Just enough to remind them both exactly who is in charge.

“Do you accept this, Sirius?”

The voice in his ear is cool and low and intimate; it is a lover’s voice, but it is tainted with power. Power is something Severus still understands and appreciates, and Sirius knows his trust is the only thing that truly holds Severus Snape in check. It is the only thing that matters at this point. Everything else comes later.

He turns so that his lips are very near Severus’. “Yes,” he whispers into that mouth, that beautiful, haughty, twisted mouth that would taste of firewhisky and desire, if he could only get to it. “Please,” he adds, hoping to seal the deal. A hand cups his sac, and Sirius shivers. Knowing, talented fingers deliciously caress his balls before sliding between his bum cheeks and devilishly circling his anus. Sirius almost swoons. Touch me, he prays. Just stroke my cock, once, please, oh gods, just touch it, play with it─

But Severus moves away from him, and Sirius grinds his teeth in frustration. Behind him, he hears another whisper. It is one that has called to him many times, and he relaxes. It is the whisper of leather swishing through the air. It is a flail, and Severus is testing his aim and his pitching arm.

The first blow comes too quickly; Sirius hasn’t had time to prepare. It stripes across his arse like heat lightning, and his senses are both dulled and pricked by it. Sometimes Sirius wants to ask where Severus learned his talent with the flail, the cane, the whip, but he is almost afraid of the answer. In a last bid for defiance, he keeps his breathing even, and tries not to react. He doesn’t know why he does this; perhaps to show a little power of his own. Perhaps also because he knows Severus will see it as incentive.

The flail slashes through the air, licking at his skin like tongues of fire, and Severus taunts him with each rise and fall of his arm. “So you want to be a big man, eh, Black? Want to be tough? Is that why you defy me? Look at that gorgeous arse, striped and red. I’ll bet you’re as hard as a broom handle, aren’t you, Black? You just can’t wait for my cock up your arse, can you? Just another bitch on heat.”

Sirius tries to speak, but he is caught up in the music of the flail, its voice a duet, a tenor to Severus’ drawling, jeering bass. It sings on him and with him, the harsh, discordant music of pain. The next blows sear and sting and his arse is burning and Sirius is trying to cry, trying so, so hard to cry. Not because his tears will make Severus stop, but because he needs to cry. He needs this, and Severus is his catalyst, and Severus always gives him what he needs.

It is that thought that brings the tears. Not the pain of the flail, nor his lover’s silken goading, but the knowledge that he needs this. Is something wrong with him that he needs Severus to spank him like a child?

And does Severus think less of him because of it?

That is the final blow, the one unbearable thing. Sirius feels the sting behind his eyes, the sudden salt in the back of his throat. The tears flow, then the weeping, then the sobs. Severus is relentless and selfless; he keeps on until the sobs turn to wails.

Then. He. Stops. The only sounds in the room are Severus’ harsh breathing, and Sirius’ weeping; the clock ticks in the hall, a slow dirge in 4/4 time. Together, they create the most desolate sound on earth.

A gentle hand, calloused and showing the first signs of arthritis in the joints, rides up the back of Sirius’ spine. It gently strokes his blistered backside, sliding underneath to caress his sac once again. Finding Sirius’ cock flaccid, Severus releases the bonds with a soft murmur. He has to pull Sirius upright from the table; he cannot do it unaided. He is too distraught and afraid.

Sirius turns to Severus, knowing he’s a mess, all red-rimmed eyes and clogged nose and mussed hair. He can’t bring himself to look at him. He blindly allows Severus to pull him onto their battered sofa and into his arms. Sirius chokes through a slime of mucus and terror, “You won’t go, will you? You won’t ever leave─”

“Hush, you old fool.” Severus’ voice is brusque, almost angry. He strokes Sirius’ hair, and passes him a handkerchief. “You ask me that every sodding time. When will you get it through your thick skull I’m going nowhere?”

Looking up into his severe face, Sirius sees tears pooling in those large, expressive eyes, and his own dry immediately. There was a time, oh, yes, don’t they both know, there was a time when Severus would have rejoiced in making Sirius truly suffer. Severus has lost any taste for inflicting this kind of pain, if he ever truly had it in the first place. He brings his talents to bear purely for Sirius, and only then very reluctantly─the price is very, very high.

“Gods, what a fucked up pair we are,” Severus says with a sigh. He tenderly wipes Sirius’ face with the handkerchief. “There’s you, asking─no, beggingme to spank you because you need that catharsis. And there’s me, wailing away at you because I need prove to myself that I could never truly hurt you.”

Then, to Sirius’ surprise, Severus actually laughs, a rusty old sound few are privileged to hear. “Merlin, Black, who else would put up with us?”

Severus is warm, his robes soft and smelling of woodsmoke and herbs, and that old twisting need for release is soon replaced with something far harder to tame. Sirius stretches, and rubs against Severus, reveling in the feel of his cock against the cloth. He is hard again, straining against Severus like a cat, moaning softly as Severus’ body joins his in arousal. He strokes Severus’ cock through the robes, shamelessly humping against his leg. Sirius has been cleaned out; now he needs to be filled again, and thank Merlin, Severus understands this as well.

“You’re a randy old dog,” Severus rumbles, but there is a sneer of pure lust on his face as Sirius parts his robe and frees his cock. It is beautiful; coarse and gaudy and brutal, like its owner. Sirius knows it will burn like pepper on the first thrust and open him up like a crowbar. It will hit every sweet spot he owns, and feel like heaven as it fills him over and over again. Sirius leans down and plants wet kisses up the shaft, burying his nose in Severus’ pubic hair, snuffling, licking, listening as Severus’ even breathing turns deep and fast.

Severus rises and drags Sirius over to his favourite chair. He sits, and makes Sirius sit on his lap, facing away. Sirius smiles as his thighs are draped over the arms of the chair. “I’m going to fuck that tight arse of yours, Black,” he croons, his sinister voice glossy and a little drunk. He pushes Sirius’ arse cheeks apart, and slowly lowers him onto that heavy cock. Sirius pants hard as he is eased down, pierced through the last of his need and his desire. Severus takes the first strokes slow, sliding in, pulling Sirius down, and his arse feels greedy and hungry. He lies back against Severus’ chest, and rocks, hissing at the pain/pleasure coursing through his groin. Gripping his thighs, Sirius strains against his lover, thrusting back with what little leverage he is allowed. When Severus wraps one long arm around his waist and drives upward hard, Sirius cannot hold himself back any longer.

“Please, touch me,” he whimpers. “Touch my cock, stroke it. Oh gods, please Severus! I need it!”

“Like this?” Those long fingers encircle Sirius’ cock and tug, hard. Twisting, jerking, ruthless and arduous. “Do you want me to play with it? Yeah? Tell me. Tell me what a sweet little slut wants, Black. The sweet─sweetest─” His voice breaks and spins away in a growl of pleasure.

The cock in his arse is like a battering ram, and Sirius is caught between that demanding pole and that cruel, twisting hand, and pleasure boils into his groin and he shouts his climax into the room. And like before, Severus goes on, wringing every ounce of pleasure from his hypersensitive glans, making his arse and the tip of his cock tingle and pulse until Sirius is a bleak, demented husk, boneless and spent.

Severus’ rhythm becomes erratic, uncontrollable. He leans forward as if to kiss Sirius’ shoulder, but in truth it is to muffle the noises of his climax. Sirius feels the hot breath as Severus cries out against his skin, feels the hot liquid as it sprays into his hole, and he clenches as hard as he is able. Severus shudders beneath him, holding on to Sirius’ waist like a man drowning. He falls back against the chair, sucking wind like a marathon runner. Neither can move.

Finally, Severus pushes at Sirius’ back. “The weight-lightening charm wore off five minutes ago. Gerroff.”

With a silent laugh, Sirius somehow manages to struggle onto his feet, but he is as wobbly as a new-born colt. Severus’ not inconsiderable issue runs down the back of his thigh. “Where did you vanish my wand?” he pants, groaning as his knees pop loudly.

“Upstairs. I’ll do it, mutt.” In the space of an eye blink, Sirius is clean and fresh, and whole again. He turns to his lover. Severus’ cheeks are stained with colour from his exertions, and he looks tiredly sated.

Sirius holds out his hand and pulls Severus to his feet. “Hungry?”

“You know I am. Molly sent over some stew. Be a lad and warm it up. I’m off for a piss.”

The bread and stew are on the table by the time Severus returns, and they eat with relish. Good sex has made Severus gain two stone, and it suits him.

There are few people that Severus truly cares about, and even less that it could be said he loves. Tonight, he will finish grading papers and crawl into bed beside Sirius and sleep deeply, without the nightmares that haunted him for so long. Sirius has seen to that. It was the least he could do. Sirius is loved. He is loved enough to be given pain, so that he can receive pleasure again. He is loved with every stitch that sews the sinews of Severus Snape’s tough heart, and that is a gift.

Sirius has spent a lot of time examining his motives; he is grateful that Severus gives him what he needs without question, without judgement, without demands for recompense. On selfish nights like this, when it is all about him, Sirius looks at his lover, and wishes he were as eloquent as Severus. He wishes he could tell him all these things, because he instinctively knows Severus will understand.

He meets those black eyes, and Severus returns his gaze keenly, almost pityingly. “I do know,” he says, with that beautiful voice, full of colour and meaning and emotion. “And I do understand. Now pass the bread, and stop thinking yourself into an early grave, Black.”

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Posted by on August 20, 2019 in General Announcements



2014-11-24: Rewards (Blow Job Friday)

Blow Job Friday Challenge
Title: Rewards
Length: 1000
Rating: NC-17 (Well, yeah. Blow jobs)
Pairing: SSHG (Another well yeah)
Summary: They say that Discipline is its own reward. Well, perhaps it is part of its own reward.
Warning: No dialogue, smut, oral sex, smut, D/s, smut…I think that about covers it.
Author’s Note: I wrote this in about five minutes, so please excuse all mistakes and gaffs. I didn’t even bother stgulik with beta-ing it because it’s just a little ficlet, but I really did have a lot of fun with it. Usual disclaimer applies.


It is always the same, and Hermione prefers it that way. At first, when she was new to the lifestyle, he would order her on her knees, and the first time she dropped clumsily down at his feet he almost, but not quite, suppressed a snicker. Her face had burned with humiliation, and he had taken the opportunity to teach. Not in the harsh, impatient way that had marred her time as his official student, but in a quiet, commanding way that had both soothed and thrilled her.

Now, she sinks to her knees with practiced grace; she has spent hours kneeling before a mirror, wanting to be beautiful for him, wanting him to praise her. She flutters to the ground like snow, making no noise, her head lowered in supplication and anticipation, and the hand that rests on her head is warm and gentle. It is his silent praise, her first reward, and her body, that ancient, aching machine, sings with thrumming want.

The man she calls Master in the privacy of their rooms is not handsome; he is harsh and foreboding, but he, too, is aroused, and she is the cause of his desire. He steps closer, his black robes whispering their promises. Hermione has learned patience and discipline from him; she waits, daring to glance up into his face, for this is the moment that she has longed for.

He allows her this indulgence, this breach of humility, because he knows it is part of what she calls her ‘second reward’, the gift of his countenance. He looks down at her with solemn acceptance, and meets her eyes with his, black and heated and full of the power she has given him.

With a sigh, he slowly opens his robes, like a courtesan. His pale, slender body is not beautiful either, but so alive, flushed and rosy with heat and his own lusts, and his cock is dusky and so hard it seems to reach for her. Hermione can smell his body; it is a scent that makes her mouth water. The dark hair that cradles his rigid cock is fragrant and soft. She has spent as much time with her nose buried in his pubic hair as she has spent with his cock buried in her mouth.

His lips part as his breathing increases, and it is at this point the power between them tips and totters, waxes and wanes. He has taught her the beauty of control; now he instructs her in the beauty of surrender. His surrender.

The breath he exhales stutters from his chest, and the hand on her head tightens, works down into her crown until his fingers braid through her curls, and he guides her mouth onto his cock, hissing as he parts her lips with it. She moans around his cock, her tongue rasping against the smooth underside, and his control dissolves. As delicious, as wonderful as it is to taste him, Hermione remains watchful. His expression melts into pure ecstasy, and in the moment he is the most beautiful creature she has ever seen, much less touched and tasted. In that moment, he is the slave, and she is the Master.

He has never been one to punish her with his cock; punishment is meted out with the rod, the admonishment, the disappointed gaze. He has never tried to choke her or threaten her with his sex, but she has been known to choke herself on him. In her greed to see that blissful expression, that dizzyingly thrilling loss of control, she has gagged and coughed around him, too eager, too wild. Even here, he teaches her, instructs her in reminding her of her own discipline, even as he abandons his own.

It is at the moment when he widens his stance and starts to thrust that she no longer allows herself to care.

She uses her hands, fluttering tongue, the gentle administration of teeth, to turn him into the animal she craves, the wild, rutting creature tamable only by her. When his voice turns dark and hot and growling, when his hips rock and piston his cock in and out of her mouth, only then does she dare to truly Dominate him. Her hand slips between his legs, caressing his balls, heavy and hard as stones, then she inserts her middle finger into his rectum. The effect is instantaneous, like an electric shock, and he cries out with his impending climax.

Now there is no control, no Dominance, no balance of power. Now it is just him, lost in the moment, his every nerve syntax attuned to her, his world concentrated down to this pinpoint of pleasure and trust and love, and Hermione is his guide.

He comes with a growling roar of helpless, rippling rapture, holding on as she accepts him, deep and hot in her throat. It grips him like a fever, and even as she drinks him down, she is soothing him, holding him steady, letting him lose and find himself in the same darkly joyful moment.

Staggering against her, Severus utters a soft, unbearably sweet cry. It is an innocent sound, vulnerable and helplessness. It says, you know me like no one else. I have placed my heart in your hands. Hermione has held that precious treasure against her breast long enough for him to know it is in the safest of keeping.

Tonight is just a shadow play, a single thread upon the tapestry of their lives, a taste of the exotic spice that defines their landscape. It is a part of the rich flavour of their relationship, not the dish itself. They both know this well, and as Hermione tidies him up, as she rises and he leans against her like a drunken man, defenseless and afraid, she gives him the strength he needs to be strong himself. Soon after, he leads them back to their bed, where they will make love later, and fall asleep in one another’s arms like children.

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Posted by on September 25, 2018 in Fanfiction Archive, GrangerSnape100


2011-06-11: Gellert Grindelwald and the Dark Mirror of Erised

Title: Mirror of Seil
Word Count: 450
Warnings: Slash

Gellert Grindelwald often wondered what life would have been like had he never fallen in love with Albus Dumbledore. In the end, it destroyed him, but there were times it was as close to perfection as he would ever know. He would always love Albus, he of the lovely, long red hair Gellert so loved to stroke.

You could say that Albus had – what were they calling it these days? Contributed to the delinquency of a minor. Actually, it was with the minor’s full consent. They didn’t burden themselves with details like that back then.

It was Albus’ doing, sneaking them into Hogwarts. Dumbledore was newly graduated, and Gellert was nothing more than a wild sixteen-year-old dropout, ready for any piece of action, and lovely, long-limbed Albus had given him that in spades.

“I have something to show you,” Albus said, his breath warm and excited against Gellert’s ear. They wandered down to the deepest recesses of the castle, and with a flourish, Albus flung the canvas from the mirror.

Gellert stared into it until his eyes almost fell out. Albus watched the younger man intently; saw his cock rise, watched it twitch and spasm, stain his robes, and still the boy stared into the mirror.

“Gellert, what in Merlin’s name do you see?” Albus demanded, aching to touch the robe, to sniff it, feel the boy’s spunk in his eager fingers.

“I see us, Albus,” Gellert whispered ecstatically. “We are the rulers of the world! Even the gods bow down to us!”

He finally tore his gaze from the mirror, his eyes blazing, full of beautiful, hopeful glee. “Does this mirror foretell the future?”

He ran into Albus’ arms. “Will we truly reign over the Muggle born and Wizard folk alike? Rule over them for the greater good of all?” He was almost in tears. “Tell me, my lover, it this mirror showing our future together?”

Albus, his heart pounding, his eighteen-year-old self burning, desperate for Gellert, wrapped his fingers in Gellert’s blond ringlets. “Yes! It does, my love!”

He lay the mirror down and they crouched over it. Albus deflowered Gellert’s sweet, unfurled arsehole, watching himself in the mirror. Gellert came, roaring with the triumph of their destiny.

Truth came later.

Gellert thought they would rule together. In the end, Albus banished him, leaving Gellert to rule the world of his own making. Nurmengard. That gruesome son-of-a Mudblood Voldemort found him there.

“Come, boy. If you think you’re Wizard enough,” Grindelwald cackled, beckoning the upstart.

The half-breed Riddle smiled hellishly as he cast the Avada Kedavra. Gellert felt the briefest moment of agony, then nothing… nothing but the voice he had missed all those years, welcoming him home.

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Posted by on September 25, 2018 in darkarts_ldws, Drabbles, Fanfiction Archive


2011-06-11: Lucius Malfoy and Tom Riddle’s Diary

Title: The Power Behind The Throne
Word Count: 275
Rating: PG
Warnings: Extreme arrogance

Let me make one thing clear. I am a Malfoy. As such, I am not interested in Potions, Transfiguration, Arithmancy, or even the woolly crest of Divination.

Power and plotting; now, that is a form of magic that suits me. We Malfoys have conjured power for generations; I’m merely the consummation of its brightest and best. In the Wizarding world of the elite, I am without peer. I have a wife who worships at my feet; I have a son who promises to be almost as handsome and clever as I.

I’m entitled.

In reality, Lord Voldemort is nothing more than a jumped-up little half-breed, much like my friend Severus; eager, gauche, thirsting for fame. In terms of intelligence and charisma, nothing more than shit on my shoe.

But he has power and ego aplenty. That I can play with, massage, mold like putty. He wants to scourge the world; recreate a Pureblood’s paradise, and rid it of Mudblood filth like, well, like himself.

I have read his diary. Compelling reading. To say the little scrote has ambition is like saying Severus needs a little shampoo. He’s too ill-bred to realise that when you have connections, you don’t need ambition. You just need an in.

I am that in. I am merely the Machiavellian serpent tempting Eve with the Wizarding world.

For so long, the Mudbloods and their craving for a bit of Pureblood trim have whittled us down to nothing. Traitors like Arthur Weasley and their ilk love cavorting with Mudbloods. Isn’t it fitting, then, that Arthur’s precious progeny will facilitate the rise of the Dark Lord again?

Merlin, I love being a Malfoy.

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Posted by on September 25, 2018 in darkarts_ldws, Drabbles, Fanfiction Archive

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