HP Fic Repost: "The House of the Rising Sun," short pieces, various ratings, Lucius/ Severus AU

When Severus was seventeen and Lucius Malfoy twenty-one, they killed Tobias Snape with his own gun. Lucius set the gun between his eyes, Lucius pulled the trigger, and Lucius was the one whose face was spattered with bits of blood and bone. But it was Severus who put the gun in Lucius' hand, Severus who taught him to use it. Severus who made him a killer.

Lucius was scornful in the beginning. He did not have much faith to put in Muggle things, toys made out of iron. They were younger still, then: boys of fourteen and seventeen. They took the gun into the woods that ringed Lucius Manor and practiced with it. Severus had fired it before, of course; it was his father's gun and had been his grandfather's, in the war.

But he had no special aptitude for it. In his hands it was only a piece of metal, and he missed the target as many times as he hit it. When Lucius saw what it could do-the neat, perfect holes it drilled in the wood of the target, in the branch the target leaned against-he overcame his reluctance to try it.

It was like seeing the missing ingredient put into a potion, the final syllable spoken to complete a charm, seeing Lucius's fingers close around the butt of the gun. It was magic. And Lucius raised the gun-he did not even seem to aim it. He did not need both hands to steady the weight of it, as Severus had. He raised the gun and pulled the trigger, and the bullet went where he sent it. He emptied the gun again and again, until he had used up all the ammunition Severus had brought. Every shot was true.

Later, of course, it stopped being a trick and started being a job. Later he was the Dark Lord's enforcer. But that first time he did it, he did it out of love, and he was beautiful. When Tobias Snape found out that Severus had taken the gun he hit him, but Severus hardly minded. It had been worth it, to make Lucius happy. It was not until later that he made up his mind to kill his father.

You can beat a dog or a woman forever, but a seventeen-year-old boy will turn on you. Severus was not the only boy at Hogwarts whose father was capable of it, but he was the only one whose father's life was worthless. He was the only one whose closest friend had a grudge of his own. He was the only one with a gun.

Afterwards they fucked in Tobias Snape's bed and his blood left brown smears on the white sheets. Severus had been born in that bed, and his mother had died in it, but his father died on the floor in the unlit hall. It was not so different than that first time in the leaves. They were older, but no wiser. When they were done Severus lay with his head on his father's pillow and watched Lucius wash with the cold water in the jug. He couldn't remember where the gun had gone, but it didn't matter. There was no one from either world to miss his father.

Summary: It started with a boy who wanted another boy to like him. R.



The mark on his arm is still burning when they Apparate to the house at Spinner's End. Lucius is so tired he staggers and Severus catches him, steadying him with arm under his shoulder. They are old men playing a young man's game, the best years of their lives gone in Voldemort's service. He follows Severus into the book-lined living room and falls into a chair, too tired even to shake off his damp cloak, while Severus moves slowly to pour drinks, ice clinking in the heavy cut glass tumblers.

It is nights like this that Lucius wonders what it would be like to be free, unmarked; nights like this when he wonders what it would be like to be somewhere else entirely. Somewhere there are still green fields, white beaches, blue seas. Somewhere there is a place where Voldemort's name has never been spoken, where fear is foreign and peace is not. The glass is heavy in his hand, too heavy even to lift to his mouth.

They are old men, he and Severus, and they made their choices, bad and worse, a long time ago. Now Lucius has a son, and no choices. Now he has spent time in Azkaban, now he wants nothing but to be left alone, now when it is far too late to walk away. He wonders what it is Severus wants: Severus whom they all thought was a traitor: Severus, who proved himself loyal the only way he could.

Severus has no sons, no children at all; his mother died in Azkaban and his cousins during the war. He is the last of the Princes, for all their blood runs thin in his veins. When he dies he will leave nothing behind him but stacks of books with cracking leather bindings and peeling gold letters; nothing but books and his mother's tumbledown house and a reputation blacker than Lucius' own. And it was Lucius who brought him to this, Lucius who brought him to Voldemort. For once he is sorry for someone besides himself.

He is almost asleep, there in Severus's chair, with his fingers curled around his glass. Severus touches his thigh and he starts awake, unsure for a moment what's happening. "Come to bed," Severus says, as he has so many times before. Lucius smiles, and gulps down the expensive whiskey, and lets Severus pull him to his feet. They move slowly up the stairs, the way old men do, tired men, men who have spent their lives fighting for lost causes.

And they lie down together in Severus's bed, to dream of Azkaban or murder, made less lovers than comrades by the night closing in. This is longest relationship of Lucius' life, longer than his service to Voldemort, longer than his marriage. This is home, this little, shabby house; it means something to him that Malfoy Manor never has.

Summary: Daylight fading/ Come and waste another year/ All the anger and the eloquence are bleeding into fear. PG.


In the camp, the tattoo on his right arm matters more than the mark on his left, more than his parentage, more than his face. He finds peace there at first, lost among those who are left. (And there are fewer than even he had imagined, who thought he knew. There are fewer than three thousand, and many of those are not of pure blood, or even purely human blood.) It is easy to imagine dying here: this is a place for death. But when he has been there for three months, more or less, they burn Lord Voldemort's body in the exercise yard so that everyone can see. That is when it comes to him. He does not want to die. Not here, and not like this.

The air still reeks of charred flesh when he meets with Arthur Weasley and Lucius Malfoy. (These are people looking for leaders, he tells them, looking for answers. If they had been Muggleborn he might have mentioned deserts, Moses, Jesus, prophecies, light in time of darkness, the stories their enemies tell. They are all wizards and so he speaks to them of Merlin, swords and stones, ladies and lakes.) They are willing to be convinced, Arthur and Lucius, Lucius and Arthur. They are men with sons.

In the camp there is never quite enough to eat, never quite enough water to feel clean, no books, no parchment and no quills. No magic and no hope. Rumor has it things are better in the camp where they keep the women and children. Snape has no reason to believe the rumors are true, except that he knows Muggles tend to underestimate women. His father always did.

The first order of business is food. Food will make them stronger, more prepared, less desperate. The simplest thing would be to withhold food from the oldest, let them die. Many would do so voluntarily, Lucius says: what have they to live for? Snape chose Lucius because he knew he could trust him to see the shortest road most clearly. Arthur protests. They cannot buy freedom with blood, surely. (At least, not with the blood of their own. Snape chose Arthur because Arthur is representative of the moral majority. If he can be convinced-so can the others.) Snape offers a compromise.

Lucius understands at once. Lucius knows everything there is to know about black markets, prison economies, the value of desperation. Lucius has played both sides of this game. Arthur's naivety is astounding in a man who once worked at the Ministry. Snape explains, as briefly as possible; still, he makes the man blush.

"We'll have to let others in on this, of course," Lucius says, and Snape knows what he is thinking. Middle-aged men with middle-aged bodies will not tempt the guards: they will want youth and they will want beauty. This is the other thing Lucius brings-a son who is young and beautiful and absolutely loyal to his father. And if they can convince Draco Malfoy to whore for them, the Weasley boys will hardly do less.

Of course, it is left to Snape to do the pandering. He chooses one of the younger women to be Draco's first. She is soft and pale and spotty, and he does not think her capable of violence. She turns as red as Arthur when he propositions her. When she comes for Draco it is evening, nearly time for lockdown. The general consensus seems to be that he has been selected for punishment, and Snape can hear the whispers like hisses in the dark.

Finally there is silence, and then there is Lucius Malfoy in his bed with him, quick and quiet as a striking snake. Lucius presses against him, shivering despite the heat, and Snape wonders if it is fear or anger that rides him. "It will be all right," he whispers, and feels Lucius nod. His own body stirs and he suppresses it ruthlessly. After a long time, Lucius goes to sleep, his head unfortunately on Snape's arm.

There have begun to be other sounds in the darkness, and Snape pretends not to hear them. There are more than thirty men in this dormitory, and they have been six months without female company. This is the closest any of them can come to privacy: turned faces in the dark. They have all had to make their own peace with captivity.

The church bells have rung midnight when the door opens, and two figures are silhouetted in the opening. Draco and his guard. She kisses him one last time, and he lets her. Then it is black again, and there is a third body in Snape's narrow bed. Even with Lucius between them Snape can feel Draco's exultation. He is the nervy sort; any action is better than none at all. He smells of cheap perfume, and something else Snape recognizes eventually: soap. He's had a proper bath, and that does make Snape jealous.

In the morning there are eggs for breakfast, even though it isn't Sunday, and double rations of bread, and a small square of Muggle chocolate in red paper, each. Draco shoots Snape just the slightest hit of a triumphant grin, and Snape knows that the chocolate was his idea.

Afterward they stand in the corner of the exercise yard, surrounded on two sides by chain link fence topped with barbed wire, and all of them are watching Draco. He lies in the brutal July sun with his shirt off, just as the others do. He seems to be unbothered. But Arthur looks and looks away, and Lucius' eyes are stormy. Snape wonders what is that bothers them most: the string of numbers on Draco's arm; the ring of bite marks at his throat; the fact that all of his ribs are clearly visible. "He did well," Snape says as gently as he can. "It is necessary."

"So long as he didn't get the little bitch pregnant," Lucius answers, but his pride shows despite the grimness of his voice. He loves his son, which is something not even Draco would believe. After a moment he says, "They'll fight well, given adequate food and weapons. They haven't given up entirely."

"My boys will do their part." Arthur's voice is determined. He is a decent man, who has found himself in an untenable situation. It is hard to tell just what he will be capable of, if pressed. There was another son once, who crossed Arthur and died for it in the end, but Snape has never been sure if that was an accident. He has Lucius for strategy; he needs Arthur for strength.

"Which shall we start with?" he asks now, practically. It's a legitimate question: all the red heads look the same to him.

"Charlie." Lucius' words have a ring of certainty to them. Snape caught him with one of the older boys once, fucking in the dust behind a cabin. He wishes now he'd paid more attention-Bill or Charlie?

He shakes his head. "No, not Charlie. The twin--."

Arthur flinches. "Fred."

"Fred," Snape says, trying to remember what the other one's name had been. "He needs an interest."

"It will be all right," Lucius tells Arthur, with something like kindness. He turns a little, looking not at Draco but at the charred spot where Voldemort died. "There is nothing they can do to us that will make us less than who we are."

Snape thinks that they did a fine job of making Voldemort less. (Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, they had not said.)

"The king is dead," Lucius says without irony. "Long live the king." Arthur grimaces, but he does not disagree. Where they are now, they can only hope for Voldemort to come back from the dead to lead them. Snape and Lucius both sat at Voldemort's table and drank his blood, long ago. He has no right to disagree.

Snape spends six months selling other men's sons. They achieve a certain standard of living. There is enough to eat, and meat several times a week. There is enough water to wash. There are blankets, once the temperature drops. There are even books, Muggle Bibles and textbooks. Arthur has never been out of Western Europe but he learns to read Japanese; Lucius memorizes Shakespeare and quotes it at inappropriate times. The twin catches a venereal disease from one of the male guards and has to be taken out of the rotation.

Snape waits, and watches. The mark on his arm fades; the tattoo does not. Draco gains weight and muscle, running laps around the perimeter with Hufflepuffs at his heels. Bill and Charlie Weasley come to blows over Lucius. The guards grow careless, and walk among their prisoners unarmed. He tells the men he sends: ask for weapons. Ask for small things, easily concealed. Knives, guns, steel and cold iron. Do whatever they want, if you think they will supply them for you.

He has a secret, something he has kept safe since Voldemort died. (The thought of revealing it makes him both elated and sick; he has spent his life trying to end a war-now he must begin one.) He recognizes the moment when it comes: Draco brings him a sword. Snape wonders what he did to earn it.

The next afternoon, when he is sure he has the attention of both Lucius and Arthur, he opens his hand and shows them the thing that gave him hope. It is not a sliver of the True Cross, but in this place it is as valuable, perhaps more so. In this place there are no trees, there is no wood at all, only metal and plastic. In his palm is a splinter the width and length of his thumb, blackened at one end: a relic of the pyre that destroyed the Dark Lord's mortal body.

They ask him how he got it, and he tells the truth, though he is not sure they believe him. He did not do anything he has not asked their sons to do; what they do not believe is that anyone would be willing to do it with him. But he had earned and held his place in Voldemort's ranks by the work he did on his back, and he knew his own worth.

They want to know what he means to do with it. It seems too small, and too dead, to be the miracle they have been promised. It is an old spell, Snape tells them, and a chancy one, dependent not on wand waving or words or rare ingredients, but on belief-and blood.

"That makes it dark magic," Arthur says, his voice startled.

"Yes," Snape says. He does not say that it is what you do with magic that makes it dark, or that the darkest magic is done without shedding blood at all. He should not need to. Sometimes he thinks that Arthur is an idiot.

Lucius smiles a little, over Arthur's head, but sadly. He knows that need trumps morality. There were no innocents--and no idiots-in Voldemort's service. "The Muggles have machines that let them see magic in blood, Arthur," he says. "It's science."
Lucius has only the faintest idea of what science means, but he can always cut straight to the heart. "There is magic in our blood," Snape agrees. "Just as Voldemort always said there was. It stands to reason that it can be activated. The first wandmakers did not have wands."

He tells them everything, which is difficult. He has been a double agent (and sometimes a triple one) half his life. He has never liked Arthur and he has never trusted Lucius. He would be happier by far to keep his secrets secret. But they have done everything he has asked of them, followed him blindly-and foolishly-and now they are almost to the end of the road. It is up to him to make the destination worth the journey.

The guards have grown so careless that when Snape asks for curfew to be put back three hours they do not even want to know why. His carefully prepared lies are wasted on them. He gathers his assistants and sketches out his circle on the concrete. There is no precedent for this magic without magic; he has been forced to draw on Muggle traditions. It should not matter. It is the idea that is important.

The idea, and blood. He has a knife, a cheap thing with a plastic handle, disposable and very, very sharp. He draws it quickly across his palm and closes his hand around the sliver of wood. He has never known what to pray to (he is caught between worlds, the way all halfbloods are, caught between gods) and so he prays to them all. Perhaps it is true that all gods are the same in the dark. He passes the knife, and the man on his right takes it. There are thirteen of them gathered here, and Snape is, reluctantly, playing the role of leader.

Once King Arthur had twelve knights; once Christ had twelve disciples; once Voldemort had twelve lieutenants; the men who kneel now beside Snape are not his servants, and not his friends, but they are desperate enough to follow him to the death. The bloody scrap of wood makes its way around the circle, back to his hand.

It feels smoother, heavier than he remembers, but the night is cloudy and he cannot see whether it has changed. "Lumos," he says without thinking, and flinches when he remembers. But he feels it even before he sees it. Magic. The charred piece of kindling in his hand gives off a soft, glowing white light. He is so startled he drops it.

It takes root in the concrete, and in less than a minute it grows into a tree with a trunk as wide as their circle, as tall as the sky. "Goddess," Lucius says, from his position at Snape's right hand, and there is nothing in his voice but wonder. It is not the miracle they were looking for, but it is an answer all the same. That is when Snape knows they will be free.

Summary: We are never so alone as we think we are. R.


After the war there was no place for them in England any longer. And so they went looking for another war. Northern Ireland. The Balkans. The Ivory Coast. Sierra Leone. Iraq. Lebanon. California. They killed for money, because it was what they knew, what they were good at. They did not have their wands any longer, but the guns were as comforting, and more useful, than magic had ever proved to be. And sometimes it was enough and Snape forgot there had ever been anything else.

Sometimes when Lucius kissed him he tasted iron, green fields and grey sky, England and home and magic. The sun was bright everywhere they went, and the blood they spilled looked the same on grass, concrete, pavement, sand. They put down rebellions. They started wars. Lucius learned to fly a helicopter the way he'd once flown a broom. Snape taught himself the chemistry of artillery, and built bombs instead of mixing potions.

They did contract work for the CIA and Lucius's old connections in the French government, until one of Snape's grenades went off at the wrong time and killed a dozen UN peacekeepers. After that they mostly worked for the wrong side, so many acronyms not even Snape could keep them straight, groups called The Coalition, The Committee, The Band. For a while they were at the top of the terrorism list, until an Arab with a grudge knocked them back.

By then they spoke a dozen languages each, Arabic and Farsi and Russian, Krio and Korean and Hindi. They had not been back to England in ten years, and Lucius had grandchildren he'd never seen, and a son who'd stopped speaking to him in 1998. They could assemble and disassemble any gun ever made, in half the time it took the average Marine recruit. They'd killed people on every continent but Antarctica. They'd fucked each other on every continent but Antarctica.

For Snape, it wasn't any different than being in the Death Eaters. He liked the new places, the interesting people, the killing. He liked Lucius's lean brown body, with its railway lines of scars. He liked the freedom, and the lack of consequences. Lucius had been the believer, the one who thought he was doing the right thing. Snape was only ever along for the ride.

And somewhere along the way, the ride had become the destination, even for Lucius. There was no more talk about the wizard's burden. The university student who had quoted Thomas Hobbes and Hegel and Aleister Crowley was gone: there was no room in the man Lucius had become for idealism. Snape was a little sorry, because without it Lucius burned less brightly-but there was no question that he was still a killer of the first order.

They might go on this way forever, two old warhorses growing steadily older, until one day they drop in the traces and are buried where they've fallen. Snape would kind of like that. It would almost make up for the way the magic's gone out of the world. But they aren't that old yet, and there's still killing to be done.

Back in the hotel for the night, he puts on the news. The Americans are at it again, and this time the EU will be in on the action. He's already on the phone arranging transport to Venezuela when Lucius gets out of the shower. He can feel the old excitement burning in his stomach, and he doesn't look up when Lucius drops a kiss on the back of his neck. After all, this is what they were made for.

Summary: Snape and Lucius find a peace of sorts. PG13.


It's Bobby who gives Dean the number for the guy who sells the big stuff. Not just guns and ammo, which, Christ, you can buy at WalMart in the South and parts of the Midwest. This guy sells flamethrowers, grenades, full automatics, military grade stuff. Even dabbles in the supernatural. He can get you fucking nuclear warheads, Bobby says with something like awe. He can get you a sword of the cross, the speaking gun, a crossbow that always shoots true. He can get you something guaranteed to send a demon back to hell or cause an apocalypse. He can get you bullets for the Colt, bullets that that Samuel Colt never made.

Dean doesn't believe him. Makes the call anyway. This sounds like the kind of guy he might need to know--might need to kill---down the line. The man who answers is a Brit, not old and not young, with a clipped drawl that sounds military, maybe. He's in Los Angeles through the weekend, he says. If Dean can come down, and bring the gun, he'll see what he can do.

Dean leaves Sam with Bobby and drives his dad's truck down from South Dakota. It's the first trip of any length he's made since the accident, the first trip he's made driving anything but the Impala, the first time he's been away from Sam like this. It feels wrong and stupid and like it might be a trap, but he doesn't know what the hell else to do. The demon's given him six weeks grace, and that could end at any second.

He makes it to Pasadena by dawn on Sunday and stops for coffee and breakfast to kill some time, checks the arsenal in the truck bed one last time. The guy told him to come unarmed, so when he pulls into the driveway he takes the gun he usually carries and shoves it in the crack of the seat as deep as it will go. He has a feeling this guy doesn't fuck around, and anyway there's no one left to get his back. He has the Colt in a carrying case, and other than that he goes in empty-handed. There's a time and a place for faith.

It's just after nine in the morning when he rings the doorbell. The street is still empty, peaceful. It doesn't look like somewhere an arms dealer would live. The man who opens the door--the man he talked to on the phone-- is his father's age, maybe, tall and very fair and dressed like he comes from money.

"Dean Winchester," he says, his lip curling a little, but he opens the door and lets Dean in and leads him through the house to the back yard.

Dean's clearly interrupted breakfast: there's a dark-haired man in a bathrobe sitting at a table and he raises an eyebrow at Dean.

"Dean Winchester," the blond man tells him, and then says to Dean, "I'm Lucius Malfoy, and that's Severus. Dean's here for some custom work."

Dean knows his cue when he hears it. He sets the case on the table and opens the clasps. The Colt gleams dully in the California sun. Malfoy reaches for it with the eager, expert fingers of a born hunter. Dean watches him check it over, knows there's nothing outwardly extraordinary about it: without the last bullet it's nothing more or less than a beautiful piece of machinery.

"You've fired it?" Malfoy asks him after a moment. "It's been used recently."

"Yeah," Dean says. Doesn't give him anything. "I've fired it. It handles like you'd expect." He hands the man the last bullet. Their last life. Malfoy passes the gun to Severus and takes it. He rolls it on his knuckles like a magician perfecting a trick, but his eyes are unfocused. Severus looks the gun over dutifully, but without any of the other man's passion, and hands it back to Dean.

Malfoy sighs, and sets the bullet down on the table. "I can get you another thirteen bullets," he says. "But it won't come cheap."

"You can?" Dean asks before he means to. It comes out a little squeaky. "How?"

"Oh," Malfoy says vaguely. "I know people who can do interesting things. I'm sure you understand, don't you, Dean? You know people like that, too, don't you?"

"Leave him alone, Lucius," the other man says sharply. "It wasn't his war."

Malfoy just smiles. Dean thinks that whatever the two men are to each other, it's something with history behind it, and he wonders whether, if he and Sam live long enough, if they'll have this someday.

"I have a friend who can turn back time," Malfoy says, and Dean knows he's telling the truth. "It comes in handy sometimes, but it's risky--hence the price."

"I need the bullets," Dean admits, but he tries to keep it from sounding too desperate. "I thought maybe we could work something out."

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

Dean bites the inside of his cheek to keep from blushing. "I have some stuff in the truck," he says. "I heard sometimes you're willing to trade."

"Fair enough," Malfoy says. And, to Severus, "You coming with?"

"Christ, no," the other man says. "You have fun." He shifts stiffly in his chair, like a man favoring broken ribs might, and Dean wonders what the deal is. Knows better than to ask. He picks up the Colt and the last bullet and follows Malfoy out through the house and unlocks the back of the truck.

Malfoy whistles, looking at the selection. Dean's got all the good stuff, John's assortment and everything Bobby salvaged out of the Impala, too. He knows it looks impressive. It should: it's all that his father left behind, guns and sons.

"You're loaded for bear," Malfoy says, and selects the most valuable half-dozen or so, and a couple of the knives. "There's a range in the basement. Let's see whether you've kept these babies up."

Walking into that basement is like walking into Mecca. Malfoy has a Super Trap backstop, customized to fit the house and guaranteed to stop anything short of heavy artillery. He has a wall lined with steel cabinets full of weapons. He has more ammunition than a gun shop. He drops ten cartridges into the magazine of John's Ruger, and pushes the magazine back into the frame. Chambers the first cartridge, raises the gun, and fires all ten shots before Dean can finish saying, "Shouldn't we have earplugs, at least?"

There are five paper targets at the end of the range, and he's drilled them all: one heart shot, one head shot. Dean's good with a gun, but he isn't that good. Not even Elkins was that good. Not even John Winchester. "These are nice and all," Malfoy says into the silence, "but they aren't really what I want from you. I can get guns anywhere."

"What is it you do want?" Dean asks, and Malfoy smiles slowly, like he thought Dean would never ask. It's hot. Maybe not as hot as the thing with the gun, but. And then Malfoy's pushing his back against the wall, kissing him hard, his knee wedged between Dean's thighs.

For a moment Dean wants to fight, wants to explain this wasn't part of the deal. And then Malfoy gets his jeans open as expertly as he fired the Ruger, and he palms Dean's cock through his underwear, and Dean forgets all about trying to get away. He's hard, instantly and embarrassingly, and Malfoy grinds their hips together like he's going to fuck Dean through his clothes.

Dean's been fucked before, and he didn't care for it. So he can't explain why he turns around when Malfoy tells him to, or why he lets Malfoy tug his jeans down around his ankles. He whispers, "Christo," against the cool steel of the gun case, and Malfoy laughs and bites his shoulder. And then Malfoy's pressing a finger into him, and Dean wonders what he's using for lube, and hopes it's not WD-40. Malfoy adds a second finger, and despite himself Dean cries out, because as much as this hurts, it feels good, too.

It scares him how empty he feels when Malfoy pulls them out. He stands with his cheek pressed against the wall and his eyes closed, empty hands clenched at his sides, while Malfoy crosses the room to get a condom. He waits, trembling, while Malfoy shoves himself inside: if Malfoy's calloused fingers were big, his dick is enormous, because this just hurts. He waits for the pain to subside a little, and he thinks Malfoy is waiting, too.

But there's something hard pressing against his chin. He can't see it from this angle, but he knows what it is. Dad's 9mm. He doesn't move, doesn't even breathe, but Malfoy must be able to sense the difference. His mouth is on Dean's ear, practically, when he says, "My finger's on the trigger. One wrong move from you and I'll blow the side of your face off." Dean was hard before, but he's a whole lot harder now.

Malfoy rocks inside him, tiny thrusts that don't quite reach the parts of Dean that want touching. His cock is hard against his stomach, and the gun is hard against his chin, and he doesn't dare touch himself and Malfoy doesn't have a free hand for a reach around. When Malfoy starts to thrust in earnest, he knows it doesn't matter. He's close, he's so close, and Malfoy licks his neck and moves his hips just so and just as Dean is about to climax Malfoy pulls the gun clear and fires it. Dean comes, and he's fairly sure Malfoy does, too, but it takes all of his concentration just to stand up: his ears are ringing and his eyes are full of stars.

Afterward, when he can hear again, he's furious and exhilarated both. He cleans himself off with the towel Malfoy gives him, his heart still beating like a hammer in his chest.

"I'll have your merchandise by Friday," Malfoy says, grinning like a madman.

"You'd better," Dean grunts, but he doesn't mean it. He needs the bullets, but he'd have done that for free.

Summary: When Dean needs ammunition, Lucius helps him out. But he doesn't do it for free. HP/ Supernatural crossover (Dean Winchester/ Lucius Malfoy) NC17.


They fly into Darfur in the back of a cargo plane, sitting on the floor next to boxes of pilfered guns and ammunition. It's very, very cold and Snape is tired and his bad shoulder aches. He's half asleep with his arm propped on a crate of land mines when Lucius slides a hand under his flight jacket and vest, inside the open collar of his shirt. His fingers are like ice, but he says, "Hey, soldier, want to fuck?" in a voice like Spanish fly.

Even with it, Snape almost pushes him away. Lucius is sixty years old, for Merlin's sake. He ought to be able to last three hours without molesting everyone in reach. There's something about genocide that turns Lucius on, but there's something about small spaces that turns Snape right off. He's sick of doing this in helicopters, in the front seat of troop transports, in the cloakrooms of Muggle dictators, even once in a submersible.

But he's waited too long to say no, he doesn't want to fuck, he wants to lie down with Lucius warm against his back and an actual pillow under his head, and get a couple of hours of sleep. Lucius's mouth is on his neck, his fingers twisted in Snape's hair. Neither of them have shaved in the last week and they're both wearing a couple of layers of clothing apart from the Kevlar, but Lucius grinds against him like a teenage boy at a dance club and Snape's body starts to stir.

The plane is old, and uneven, and loud, and Snape slides down so that he's lying on his back with Lucius on top of him, his hand braced against the splintered wood of the nearest box, thrusting up as much as he can, getting just enough friction. It's far too cold even to unzip, but much as he'd like Lucius's mouth on him he knows he doesn't need it. They're over the Sudan now, and the smoke from the engines smells like burning children.

Lucius pushes against Snape's thigh and rubs Snape's cock through his trousers. His breath is warm against Snape's throat. He's rough, almost too rough, when he's like this: pleasure straying over into pain. But though Snape might have minded earlier, and though he'll certainly mind later, just now he doesn't mind at all. His neck itches, his shoulder burns; he closes his eyes and shoves himself against Lucius's hand and comes.

Lucius shudders one more time and goes still, and Snape thinks drowsily about rolling out from under him and doesn't move. If nothing else the vest should keep Lucius from crushing his ribs. It's not very different from the jobs they did for the Dark Lord, when they were younger than Lucius's grandson is now. Lucius always wanted to fuck first, even then. He falls asleep, and this time he doesn't dream of scorched earth and dead children.

Summary: Some things never change.