TITLE: Apple, Frottage, Verisimilitude
PAIRING: SS/and a few others
RATING: Well, probably NC-17, just for the possibilities
FEEDBACK: jmann@pobox.mondenet.com
DISCLAIMER: Okay. I only own the Writer, all others are the property of whoever created them. And no, I'm not going to name them; that would give the plot (such as it is) away. Oh, and except Mirabella, who also owns herself and www.houseofhobbits.com
SUMMARY: Hmmm, how does one summarize Bad Meta-Fic?
NOTES: Part of the Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest (Third Wave Three Word Challenge: apple, frottage, verisimilitude)
BETAS: The incomparable Westmoon and the ever-patient Kai.
SPOILERS: Yep, so if you still don't know who JKR kills off in OotP, don't read this.
ARCHIVING: The Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest Archive, and later on my web site or live journal. I doubt that anyone else will want it.

Note from Snape FFQ archivist: Once again, Josan has written Lynda and me into a story. See her previous effort from the end of the Second Wave. I shudder to think what she might come up with if we run a Fourth Wave of the Fest... ;-)

"Well, thank you so much, Luthien! What the bloody hell am I supposed to do with those three words?"

She sighs, a little put out, conveniently ignoring the heinous combination she herself has submitted to the Three Word Challenge.

"Let me see."

The Writer is not startled that just a mere breath ago she had been alone in her cluttered but well-resourced office, such as she called the second bedroom of her new apartment. She is used, by now, to that particular voice suddenly appearing out of nowhere. In acknowledgement of the dulcet tone, she leans her head to one side.

The snort is not unexpected. A sonorous voice reads out:

The tall, slim, elegantly but understatedly garbed Writer rose from her deep, forest green leather chair – not approved seating for sitting at a console all day, but such a great find at a local garage sale that she hadn't been able to resist – and, tossing her long mane of tawny hair over her shoulder, shrugged then stretched, reaching for the ceiling with her beautifully manicured fingernails – done in green with silver Slytherin snake decorations – moaning, "The things I do for you, Severus, you sexy bitch, you sex god of Slytherins!"

"Good grief! Not just badly written, but a mere sentence. What is this? Your submission for next year's Worst Opening Line competition?"

The Writer leans over and props her chin on a long, slim hand.

"Stop that," snaps the voice. "It's almost as bad as that rambling, run-on thing you want to pass off as a sentence."

Long sigh. "Severus, what are you doing here?"

"Checking that I am not being submitted to more than the bare necessary indignities of this Third Wave."

"And?"

"So far, all things considered, my dignity seems to be comparatively a little more intact than with the last two. And what on earth is that supposed to be?"

The Writer turns around to see her uninvited guest pointing a long, slim, white but potion-stained finger...

"I told you to stop that." Spoken in a tone that is a little too soft. The Writer gets the message.

"That's Godzilla. My vinyl green armchair. The one I got at the garage sale."

"Vinyl? I thought you wrote leather?"

"Poetic license. Try it. It looks like hell but it truly is very comfortable."

The Writer watches as Severus Snape, obviously skeptical, slowly settles into the deep armchair, a re-upholstered relic of the 50's. After a moment or two, he suddenly nods and relaxes into its depths. "All right." He snaps his fingers and, suddenly, on the small table by Godzilla, there appears a bottle of cognac and one glass – Snape knows the Writer imbibes only coffee. The bottle uncorks itself and then pours out a goodly portion of the strong potion.

A sigh from the chair as Snape sips. "What the hell is wrong with you? You don't usually write such crap."

The Writer sits back in her chair. "It's these three words, the ones in the title at the top of this posting."

Snape looks up, scowling as he reads. "Yes, an odd assortment, I'll grant you, but what about them?"

"I'm supposed to write a story in which they appear. And frankly, I've started several stories and they're all going nowhere!"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, stop sniffling. There's nothing worse than a sniffling, weeping writer. You get tears all over the story and then the ink runs."

"Ink doesn't run on a monitor. My beta would catch that and make me rewrite...Holy shit!" The Writer is astounded to see that the words on her screen are suddenly running up and down, bumping into each other, merging then separating. She turns to face her guest. "How do you do that?"

Severus sips at his drink. "Nothing," he intones, "is beyond the powers of the 'sex god of the Slytherins', don't you know?"

The Writer sighs and hits the 'save' key. "Might as well put them out of their misery. Mine own," she dares mutter, glaring at her guest from under her messy bangs, "seems to have settled in."

"I don't see what the problem is," says Severus, ignoring her slight barb. "You did fine with that Bill Weasley thing you submitted. By the way, thank you for making it sex free."

"Hmmm, hemorrhoids doing better these days?"

Obviously the mention of Snape's hemorrhoidal problems at the end of the last Fest is unappreciated. His glare causes the Writer to look away, wiping the smile off her face.

"Yes, thank you. So nice of you to be concerned."

"Severus, the sarcasm..."

"No, I do indeed thank the Fest Moms. This posting in batches does allow me some time to recover and for the medications to work before I am once more drawn out of my classes to suffer the indignities you writers..."

"Oh, knock it off. We all know it's summer holidays in Britain. I'm certain that Luthien and Lynda set it up this way so that your teaching record would remain unblemished."

After another sip, Snape reluctantly shrugs.

The Writer can't resist. "And no mandrakes or broomsticks this time." She wisely finds something to do, quickly stooping to pick up a scrap of paper off the floor. And just in time as a hex hits the computer screen, which then wisely sends itself into Safe Mode.

The Writer waits until she sees Snape innocently savour another mouthful of cognac before straightening: that was a little too close. Must remember Severus Snape is not known for his sense of humour. "So, are you going to help me with the challenge or are you going to sit there all evening drinking?"

Snape leans his head back on the top of the armchair and stares at the ceiling for a moment. The Writer hopes there will be no comments forthcoming on the dusty cobwebs that decorate said ceiling.

"Drop the capital 'w', you're not that important."

"Yet," mutters the writer, deleting the capitals that follow. Thankfully, Snape is occupied thinking and doesn't comment.

"The powerful Wizard plucked an apple from the tree, passed it over his trouser placket, his hand gesture a verisimilitude of frottage, smiled and took a large, leisurely bite."

The writer rolls her eyes. "Right." Of course Snape would assign himself a capital 'w'. "One sentence. Twenty-nine words. Maybe you didn't read the challenge, but there's a minimum of 1000 words to post."

There is a sudden slight disturbance in the air pressure of the room.

"Maybe you could add me to the story line. I'm certain that, with your more than capable imagination, you could build that up to the required thousand."

The writer blinks.

"Puffery, Mr. Potter? How crass. Haven't you been exiled to Privet Drive for the summer?"

Harry leans over the side of the chair and plants a loud, wet kiss on the Potion Master's cheek. "What, and miss all these opportunities to fuck you?"

"Hands off, Potter!"

"Draco Malfoy? What are you doing here?" The writer can accept the presence of Harry, but Draco? "I've never paired you with Severus."

A long, elegant eyebrow arches in response.

The writer glares at Snape. "How come you let that pass without comment?"

Snape scoffs. "Because Draco does indeed possess a long, elegant eyebrow. Draco possesses a long, elegant anything you care to give him. It's in his nature."

Draco's smile is indeed long and elegant. The writer rolls her eyes. "Forget it. You want Titti, not me." And Draco, leering at Snape in spite of knowing the writer is not going to pair him with his heart's desire, settles on an arm of the chair, occasionally glaring at Harry who has taken possession of the other.

"But just imagine the fun we'd all have if you threw us into the plot as well!"

Snape shuts his eyes as the two who are by him loudly groan dramatically.

The writer shakes her head. "Sorry, Twins, but adding you two to the plot is asking for trouble. I'm not up to your potential shenanigans."

"Thank Merlin for small blessings," mutters Snape.

"Hey! I take offense to that statement!" says Fred/George.

"Yeah," adds George/Fred. "Nothing small about us, Prof!"

The Twins laugh raucously and nudge each other with their elbows. Draco rolls his eyes and even Harry pretends he isn't listening.

But it is obvious that the Twins aren't bothered as they look around for a place to sit. They find a chair, another garage sale find, covered in cat hair. With a shrug George/Fred sits and pulls Fred/George onto his lap. Fred/George drapes an arm around his brother's shoulders and leans in for a kiss.

"Oh, come on, behave yourselves," says the writer, shaking her head. "I don't write you two that way. I paired you off with Black and Lupin..."

"Hmmm, so this is where you write us. Interesting."

The writer shakes her head. Two more step out of the shadows. Lupin is already looking at her books, head bent sideways to read the titles. Black snaps his fingers and then, ignoring Snape's scowl, pours himself some cognac in the glass that he's called up. With a grin, he goes over to the Twins who happily make room for him.

"I thought you were dead, Black," snarls Snape.

"Fanfic," says Black, with a shaggy grin. "Canon may kill me but I still live on for the thousands of fans who refuse to accept my demise."

Snape glares at the writer. "Is this true?"

The writer nods. "When Chris Carter had Skinner kill Krycek, all we did was either ignore that episode, write around it, or, because Krycek was myth-arc, we just explained it away."

"Yes," interjects Draco, "and they did all that based on a lousy script. What?" He shrugs at the looks of astonishment. "So I'm not that busy. I have time to read on the Internet."

"Hoping for a crossover, are you?" smirks Harry. "I can see you with..."

"Spike," says Draco, dreamily.

"I was thinking more along the lines of Porky Pig," counters Harry.

Snape glares at them both until they find their hands fascinating and worthy of examination then returns to the writer. "JKR most definitely dealt with all of those possibilities. To an extent that makes one wonder if she too," Snape scowls at Draco, "wastes her time on the Internet."

The writer shrugs. "You don't know slash writers if you think that one measly canonical death – without even a body, I might add – is going to stop anyone from writing Black slash."

"Bless their hearts," says Black, offering a toast with his glass.

Lupin removes a book from a shelf and begins leafing through. As he steps back, he nearly stumbles onto the floor.

"Make way, make way. Playing through."

A golf ball bounces onto the floor and rolls over by the door. Four short males suddenly appear, golf clubs in the hands of three of them. The fourth seems to be caddying for the group.

"What on earth..." Lupin shakes his head as though trying to clear it.

"Mister Frodo, sir, I think the four iron is what you need."

"Oh, certainly, Sam, if you say so." There is an exchange of clubs and Frodo begins lining up a shot while the others watch.

"Excuse me," says the writer. "Could you wait just a moment? I need to get the door."

Frodo smiles and all the males in the room hold their breaths.

The writer opens the door. Sticking her head out into the hallway, she shouts, "Mirabella! I've found them. They're down here."

"Oh, great," calls down a voice. "I was worried that I'd forgotten to pack them along with everything else. Send them up, will you?"

The writer nods to Frodo who takes his stance over the ball. Much to her surprise, she catches him peering up at Snape through long eyelashes that are the envy of many a slash writer. With a little smile that bodes no good, Frodo wriggles his hips – causing the room to fill with longing masculine sighs – and takes his swing. The ball is hit out of the room, makes a 90 degree angle manoeuver and bounces up the stairs.

Frodo takes a moment to grin widely at his audience, flashing his bluer than blue eyes, thereby sending heart rates soaring and cocks filling. With a not so innocent nod to the writer, who is sadly shaking her head at the salivating males, he leaves the room, followed quickly by the three others of his group.

"Hobbits in plus-fours?" says Snape when he's found his breath.

The writer nods. "P. G. Wodehouse take-off."

"Where are we?" asks Lupin, surreptitiously rubbing himself, his frottage definitely not mere verisimilitude.

"It used to be an old convent. We call it 'The Old Slashers' Home'. Four floors of apartments just for slashers."

Black and the Twins suddenly look very interested.

"Ah," says Black, trying to sound very casual, "any other fandoms here besides HP and LOTR?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Black." Snape rolls his eyes. "We're here to help her with this apple thing, not to..."

"Arrr, apples. When the blood is shed and the curse is lifted, I'll eat a bushel of those."

The writer shakes her head as a pirate with a small monkey on his shoulder appears. Opening the door again, she points to the furthest door at the end of the hallway. "She's still unpacking, but I'm sure she'll take time for you."

Captain Barbossa grins, showing a mouthful of teeth in dire need of a visit to Granger's parents. "Arrr. She always has time for a sailorman."

The Twins watch, fascinated, as he leaves then lean over the sides of their chair, looking into the shadows. Sure enough, two new personages appear. One, a slim young man, sword in hand, rolls his eyes as his companion swishes – for want of a better word – through the room, stopping dramatically in his tracks when he spies the twins and Black. All of whom stand up, smoothing back their hair, their robes, making themselves look presentable.

The writer reluctantly obeys the pirate's determined stare for an introduction. "Jack. Will. Sirius. Fred/George. Though I'm certain that you'll find a way of figuring out which is who."

"Such a...pleasure," titters Jack and, with a bow to the writer – "Third floor, west wing," she adds – he leads his procession out of the room and up the stairs.

"Damn, and I thought the School was weird!"

The writer just nods, no longer surprised. "Hello, Logan."

The man known as Wolverine sniffs the air and immediately locates Lupin who has been watching from the shadows. Who sniffs in turn.

Mouths open and teeth are bared.

The writer wonders if the fact that she's never even thought of this pairing will prevent a fight between the two werefolk. But, as if he couldn't be bothered, Logan disdainfully exits the room, not even hesitating for a pace. Lupin drops the book and follows, shutting the door behind him with a happy leer.

"Sorry," says the writer. "Not everyone's moved in yet. And this room seems to have become Central Station for arrivals."

Draco stands up. "Well, since you have no need of me..."

As he reaches the door, the writer says, "You'll find Buffyfic in the east wing of the second floor."

"Alone at last," gushes Harry as he slips down into Snape's arms.

"I don't think so," says the writer. "I'm pretty well done with you."

Harry looks discouraged.

"But the top floor is filled with people who just adore you."

Harry hesitantly disentangles himself from Snape and sighs sadly. "You save the world from Voldemort and this is the thanks you get. Pushed aside for..."

The writer ignores his attempt to discover whom she intends pairing Snape with next and merely smiles politely. As if she knows!

Harry shrugs, blows Snape a kiss and makes a big production of reluctantly leaving. Once the door is shut, however, they hear him running upstairs, calling out, "Here I am!"

Snape refills his glass and drinks. "Ah, youth."

The writer nods. "Wasted on the young."

Snape finishes off his cognac and sets the glass down on the table. "Well, if you are in no further need of me...?"

The writer smiles. "No, I think this is it. Thanks to you, the three words have been used and this is now more than 1000 words."

Snape smiles and with a small, graceful bow, heads for the door. Just before it closes behind him, the writer offers, "Mirabella may be up on the second floor but she claims her new office is very dungeon-like."

There is a slight pause and then the wri...ahem, the Writer is alone once more.

She turns to her computer. The words on the screen are all behaving themselves. With a small nod of her head, the Writer begins typing.

The elegant hand of an artist reached back to gather the thick tawniness and coil it on her head, holding it in place with a strategically placed sharpened apple-green pencil: "Oh, Severus, if only you'd listen to me, to my words of love, you would know true fulfillment."

~~ And aren't you glad it's the end~~

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