Life's A Bowl of Cherries

by Bernice

"Snape gets caught with his pants down".  Pairing: Snape/Flitwick. Notes: In the movies Snape wears pants, but it is established in the first book AND the fifth book that he doesn’t. Cherries are dedicated to Snaples. Thank you to Lizbee for demonstrating the angry macarena. Much thanks to Calemiri for a very thorough beta!

The home was a picture postcard gingerbread house, and it felt almost picture postcard small to Snape as he ran through the rooms, partially crouched, bending to avoid banging his head on the door lintels as he tried to find Flitwick before any of the others.

Middle of winter, freezing cold, short notice, And He Who Should Not Still Be Alive And Making Snape’s Life Even More Miserable had decided to send a message to Dumbledore by sending him the half-human Charms Professor’s body wrapped up like an early Christmas gift.

As a duelling champion, Flitwick would be hard to kill, but He Who Had His Head Up His Arse believed his Death Eaters would be able to manage it. And the large amount of cherry syrup and gin Flitwick was inclined to imbibe when left to his own devices should work in their favour as well.

In his youth, Snape had learned everything he knew about magical duelling from Flitwick, and despite his current prowess, Snape maintained a healthy respect for the diminutive professor. He’d been cursed in the knees and ended up knocked on his bum too many times not to take Flitwick seriously as an opponent. Wand at the ready, Snape charged into a small sitting room draped with twinkling fairy lights (real fairies, of course), and overly filled with small, uncomfortable chairs covered with a bright, rosy red cherry pattern.

He barely had time to see Flitwick bounce up from his chair - martini glass with a few cherries on a stick in hand - and wobble over to see what the disturbance was before he heard the footsteps of other Death Eaters pounding up the corridor behind him. With no time to cast a silencing charm himself, he flipped up his mask just enough to let Flitwick see who it was, before he swirled his robes over the small man, engulfing him in black fabric.

Another Death Eater stuck his head through the door, bent almost double, and Snape turned his head, keeping his body facing forward, "He’s not in here, check upstairs."

"Come on," grunted the other Death Eater, out of breath after having tried to keep up with Snape’s frantic head long rush, and Snape awkwardly turned, hoping Flitwick would catch on quickly and keep himself as hidden as possible under Snape’s robes.

Never slow, Flitwick was hunched up, standing on Snape’s feet, his head tucked down between Snape’s knees, trying to keep himself hidden. Snape knew his robes would hide most bumps, and lumps would be put down to his bony knees, but he hoped Flitwick’s probable state of inebriation wouldn’t cause him to act too carelessly. No one would believe Snape had three feet, for example.

Still hunched up, hopping slightly to keep Flitwick hidden, Snape joined his cohorts in their hunt, casually vandalising a few things on the way in order to keep up appearances. Flitwick’s taste in gewgaws was horrendous, and Snape had no compunction about letting a few bizarre and vulgar statuettes hit the floor. Happy smiling cherubs, little muggle-style leprechauns, grotesque, smiling china cats. He picked up a porcelain bowl of cherries, prepared to hurl it out of a window, looking forward to the shattering, breaking noises.

"Look at this hideous thing," he snarled at a passing masked figure.

"Vile," his anonymous companion growled back, "The little turd deserves to die just for that. What is with all these cherries? Cherry furniture, cherry curtains, cherries cherries cherries!"

"He’s a freak," answered Snape, shortly, and hefted the bowl again as the other death eater left the room to continue the hunt.

"Not my bowl of cherries," squeaked Flitwick from somewhere near mid thigh, "please, Severus."

"Shhh!" hissed Snape. Both their lives would be forfeit if anyone heard his passenger’s plea. But he put the bowl back on the table anyway, sneering at it disdainfully.

Snape stalked awkwardly around the house, looking intensely into cupboards, peering under the stairs, poking his wand behind curtains and cabinets, smacking his head on the ceiling a couple of times, then met up with the others out the front of the house.


"Someone must have tipped him off," their leader for the evening whined, "The Dark Lord will not be pleased."

"He couldn’t have had any warning," Snape pointed out before anyone could accuse him. "We were only told of this raid a few minutes before he sent us here. Flitwick must have run out of the building when he saw us apparate onto the lawn."

Sighing mournfully, the lead Death Eater stood and pondered for a while, and they all knew that He Who Would Have Their Guts For Garters would be handing out some unpleasant punishments tonight. "You," their erstwhile leader pointed to a masked figure who was using his finger to put the dark mark on a frosted window, "and you," he pointed at Snape, "keep guard out the front here in case he returns. You two," he pointed to another couple of black garbed figures, "take the back of the house. Kill Flitwick on sight. We’ll report back to Lord Voldemort and see what he suggests"


This is the problem with having He Who Cannot Think His Way Out Of A Soggy Bag Of All Flavour Beans in charge, Snape thought. Stupid plans. As if anyone in their right mind would think Flitwick would come back tonight, with four Death Eaters surrounding his house. Once again Snape cursed his stupidity in following along with his friends when he was a teenager. Letting his desire to be ‘one of the gang’ override his common sense in pledging himself to someone who took half an hour to explain his motivations over the simplest of issues. It had taken months to realise that although Voldemort may have been tall, dark, and handsome, and strangely charismatic, he was most definitely not the pointiest wand in the shop when it came to Machiavellian plans or evil schemes.


Snape wished, fervently, that he hadn’t been following wizard tradition earlier in the evening, and had instead put on a pair of muggle pants as Flitwick’s exuberant hair brushed against his privates. Then again, standing in the freezing snow with nothing on under his robes bar a pair of soft leather ankle boots, at least Flitwick was a warm body against cold skin. His fearful puffs of breath were heating Snape’s inner thighs with little gusts of hot air.

It wasn’t as if Flitwick hadn’t seen Snape in all his glory before, but that had been twenty years ago. It was the occasional misfortune of being a teacher in a boarding school to be inflicted with the odd naked student. Either crying in the showers or stripped of robes and dignity after some particularly unfortunate prank or misfired hex and running through the school halls. But even so, having Flitwick quite so intimately close to his privates was not Snape’s idea of maintaining a cool professional relationship.

The other Death Eater, Triton Pantonus, Snape guessed – it was hard to guess under the mask without much conversation – stamped his feet, and rubbed his fingers briskly, and Snape copied him as much as he could with another man on his feet. The cold seeped into his gloveless hands, making his fingers ache.

"Stop fidgeting, Severus," Flitwick’s voice drifted up, "I’m gonna fall off your feet..."

With dread, Snape realised that Flitwick was still quite firmly sozzled. How many Cherry syrup drinks had the little man drunk before they’d arrived? He wondered why Flitwick was alone and getting drunk in the days before Christmas. It was Snape’s own province to spend his time moping about his lack of family and friends over a bottle of Old Ogdens, not the popular and well liked Flitwick.

A small hand appeared out of the bottom of Snape’s robe, luckily on the opposite side from where the other Death Eater was standing, and with all the care of the very drunk placed the martini glass on the snow, upside down.

A minute or so later, the hand appeared again, this time stabbing into the snow next to the glass the toothpick that had held the cherries.

Snape groaned quietly, knowing full well that if, in his drunken state, Flitwick gave himself away, both of their lives would be brought to a brutal end. But Flitwick settled again, and Snape surreptitiously tried to manoeuvre Flitwick just behind his calves, under a flare of robe fabric, between himself and the wall. Flitwick settled down a little, and Snape moved around, trying to make it look like it was himself causing his robes to move about, and tried to ignore the arms that wrapped around his thighs.

Flitwick’s hands rubbed up Snape’s thighs, brushing the short black hairs there the wrong way, giving Snape even more goose pimples on top of the cold. He wished he could tell Flitwick to keep his hands still without giving them away. He wondered how loud Flitwick would yelp if he gave the Professor a small kick, but dared not really risk it.

Snape shifted again as Flitwick massaged his knees. It was disconcerting, but at least Flitwick’s busy hands were keeping him warm. That must be why Flitwick was rubbing his thighs so firmly, Snape decided, to try and warm him up. How thoughtful of the Charms Professor, considering the circumstances, Snape thought, to help keep out the chill. The small hands stroked up and down his thighs, and Snape almost relaxed into the motion. He thought to himself that since he had enough common sense not to antagonise someone who could hex him into next week, he and the Charms Professor had always got on reasonably well, but he’d never really thought their relationship would quite stretch to thigh massages.

They did occasionally play chess in their off duty hours, and Flitwick would share the latest information on charms research, or perhaps drop in to request a special potion now and then. It wasn’t unknown for Flitwick to seek him out for help with a crossword puzzle now and then. It certainly wasn’t known, though, for Flitwick to be free with his hands. Maybe a pat on the arm, as high as he could reach, but never a tickling rub to Snape’s inner thigh. Snape shifted again, and wondered if he looked like he was dancing, as he tried to evade suddenly very personal fingers.

Flitwick was reaching further, his touch gently stroking, smooth careful circles, and getting ever higher.

Snape stood on his toes as Flitwick reached through from behind, and tried to disguise it as stretching, but Flitwick did not take the hint, and Snape gasped in mingled horror and surprise as he felt his balls gently tickled. He jumped a little, on the spot, and tried to wave Flitwick’s hands away from his tender areas. His gestures became quite frantic as Flitwick tugged a little at the small spattering of black hair that decorated Snape’s bollocks.

"Are you all right over there?" his Death Eater cohort asked, raising his voice to be heard over the wind, which was whipping into small flurries the snow that had started to fall.

"I’m fine," Snape snapped back, cursing under his breath.

"You look like you’re doing some kind of angry macarena."

"Angry what?"

"Dance. Don’t dance angry, Snape, you’ll have an accident," the other Death Eater chuckled.

"Shut up, you idiot. I’m trying to keep warm," Snape wasn’t quite lying, but he was getting warmer by the second and Flitwick’s tickling fingers became ever bolder.

Desperately Snape tried to think of a charm to repell the other Professor’s questing fingers. Some kind of anti drunken short person charm, or oversexed leprechaun obstruction charm. Of course, the only person who would probably know of such a charm was the very person he was hoping to discourage. He grabbed his wand, pointing it at his privates, hoping he didn’t magically castrate himself in the process and prepared to hex Flitwick into next week.

Just as he’d finally decided on the correct words, Flitwick’s fingers slid down his shaft and a small thumb delicately rubbed over his sensitive slit. Snape felt his temperature soar and his vision blur as Flitwick displayed an amazing talent for deflecting the worst of Snape’s ire. Snape wiggled and made another attempt to dislodge Flitwick’s hand, slightly more half hearted than before. He certainly wasn’t cold anymore.

He stopped trying to think of a charm and just stood still, at last, and let Flitwick explore where he would. He did, though, drop his hands to his front, in order to obscure any obvious uprisings. He wondered, should he be unsuccessful, if he could convince Triton that he was simply thinking about He Who Probably Shouldn’t Be Thought Of For Masturbatory Purposes. After all, if his fellow guard reported that back, it would probably go down well with old He Who Should Have Used Some Moisturiser Before He Got Such A Scaly Face. It would certainly give him a big ego boost and do Snape’s reputation no harm. But it was off putting to think of He Who Was Like a Bucket Of Ice Water while Flitwick’s gentle fingers were probing that sensitive spot just behind Snape’s balls.

Surprisingly strong fingers (who would have thought holding a wand all the time would make them so strong) rubbed Snape’s miracle mile tenderly, stroking softly, and Snape all but leaned into the touch, growling happily, just a little, under his breath. He wondered if it had been as long for Flitwick since he’d touched someone intimately as it had been since Snape had been touched.

He spread his legs a little wider, to allow Flitwick to get to grips with Snape’s front parts a little easier, just bending his knees slightly, knowing it would curve his back just so that his buttocks would be presented at their best. Snape knew he was no looker in the face department, but he’d rarely met a gentleman of the ‘robe lifting persuasion’ able to resist Snape’s other charms. He’d turned his back on a number of unwilling partners in order to change their minds, and by the hiss of indrawn breath that came up from a few inches beneath the buttocks in question, he knew that Flitwick also was drawn in by their firm, pale, perfection.

Sliding his gaze sideways, Snape checked on the other Death Eater, but Triton seemed involved in trying to find a way to blow warm air on his fingers without actually removing his mask.

Snape’s own breath was fogging the air around him so much it was getting hard to see.

He was puffing enough steam now to rival the Hogwart’s Express!

Exploring hands cupped Snape’s buttocks. Around, over, squeeze, around, squeeze, over, Flitwick found a rhythm both soothing and arousing, squeezing Snape’s buttocks as if testing their ripeness, then soothing the small pains his finger tips made as they pressed into Snape’s skin. Flitwick’s hands would ease forward now and then and continue to stroke and pet in front, pressed concealingly downwards by Snape’s hands. This was definitely a good way to get warm, Snape thought, as his temperature soared. He wondered if it was getting warm under his robes for Flitwick as well. Snape imagined it must be starting to feel like sweat lodge under there, in such an enclosed place.

Certainly, Flitwick’s fingers were starting to get very warm, indeed. His hand was almost as small as a child’s, but as it wrapped around Snape’s shaft, it had an adult man’s strength and delicacy of touch. Those small, nimble fingers formed themselves into a circle and caught under the corona of Snape’s shaft, popping it through again and again until Snape felt he must be going cross eyed at the intense sensation. He cleared his throat frantically to try and hide his little choking moans.

Small, determined fingers tickled at Snape’s back passage, and with precise twitches, wiggled their way past the ring of muscle that clenched to keep them out and pressed inwards. Two slender, resolute fingers eased their way in, despite Snape’s efforts to wiggle away.

"You all right there?" Triton called over.

"Fine." Snape refused to even look at the other man.

"If you need to go use a tree...?"

"I’m fine!" Snape barked.

"No need to bite my head off," mumbled Triton, who turned his back on them both, stamping his feet again.

An unmistakable chuckle emanated from Snape’s clothing, which again he tried to cover with a cough. He stamped his own feet, and tried to stretch away from Flitwick’s explorations, but Flitwick was determined. The fingers were not probing deeply, Snape wondered if they even could, but they were gently sliding in and out in time with the stroking in the front and it was almost soothing in a way.

Closing his eyes, Snape swayed just slightly in concert with the rhythm, concentrating on the warm pleasurable feelings that emanated from Flitwick’s giddy explorations. He was nearly there, gliding along towards completion, when Flitwick started to sing. Quite softly, really, but very definitely: "Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells."

Snape realised that he could not maintain a coughing fit long enough to cover the noise, and started to sing in time, just loud enough to drown out Flitwick’s cheery carol.

"Good idea, Snape!" Triton said, "That’ll help pass the time. Jingle all the waaaaay." Triton joined in. Slightly off key, but blessedly loud. So much for stealth Death Eaters, thought Snape. At least, if questioned later by He Who Would Be Extremely Pissed Off, he could blame Triton’s singing for scaring away the Professor (conveniently ignoring it wasn’t Triton that had started it).

Flitwick’s fingers probed in tempo with his singing, and Snape found his notes just a little strangled on "DAAAAA HAAAAAshing all the way..."

The worst was, as they were all having fun in their one horse open sleigh, Flitwick removed his fingers, and replaced them with something else. Now opened up, there was nothing to stop the tiny, round balls of something being pushed up into Snape’s body. One, two, three. Tiny little... cherries, Snape realised. Flitwick was pushing the cherries from his drink, obviously carefully saved, up inside of Snape’s body. Snape squeezed down, trying to push them out again, but Flitwick’s fingers pushed them resolutely further in.

Triton changed tunes, and had launched into O Holy Night, a song where Snape had no idea of the words, although he mumbled along to disguise the fact Flitwick was happily singing along with his would be executioner. Flitwick only paused to mutter a charm, which, to Snape’s horror, caused the cherries to replicate. The initial three that Flitwick had put inside of him, became six, then nine, then he was definitely hitting the high notes in this song as the cherries filled him to bursting, squishing against each other, leaking juices, and pressing against some incredibly sensitive places inside.

Finally Flitwick stopped his ridiculous caroling, but replaced that activity with one even more dangerous, he started to lick at the cherry juices where they escaped. Snape shivered and groaned slightly, and stopped singing – leaving that to Triton – as Flitwick’s busy tongue started to lap the leaking juice from Snape’s thigh, humming in contentment.

One hand stroking Snape’s shaft firmly, adding a sweet little twist every time it got to the head, the other holding one buttock, squeezing firmly, and pulling it away so his eager tongue could go in deep, Flitwick started to try and eat his cherries.

Snape found himself faking a coughing fit to cover his own squeaks and groans as that nimble tongue explored and pressed inwards, hooking out tender morsels of the fragile fruits. Triton’s singing was enthusiastic and welcome as it drowned out the snuffling, greedy sound of Flitwick’s feasting. That tongue kept sliding inside, wiggling around until it found a red treasure, then hooking it out again, each little trip like an anal bead being forcibly pushed past Snape’s sensitive nerves.

Standing on his toes, Snape tipped his head back, shoulder’s almost leaning against the vine covered cottage walls behind him as he let the fabric of his robes cover Flitwick’s activities. His body bent and taut as every sensation focussed on his groin, those talented, tiny fingers, and that invading tongue.

He gasped and groaned, and as Flitwick sucked out a particularly succulent cherry, and Triton hit a particularly high note, filled Flitwick’s hand with his helpless emissions. He caught himself, one hand against the freezing wall to stop himself falling over, and was horrified to hear a high voice pipe up with, "Mmmm... cream for my cherries. Yummy."

"What was that?" Triton stopped singing to ask.

"Nothing," Snape mumbled, his tongue thick and unco operative. "Forgot the words."

"Oh, bugger this for a game of soldiers," Triton grumbled. "It’s nearly dawn, and that little Professor isn’t coming back. I think the Dark Lord has forgotten us as well. I’m going home. Let the others know, will you? Thanks for the sing song!"

Triton apparated with a ping, and Snape all but collapsed onto the ground. Flitwick peered out from under the folds of black fabric, and wobbled up to where Snape panted with hands in the snow, to brush Snape’s hair out of his eyes with sticky, cherry juice covered fingers.

"Let’s go back to Hogwarts, Severus," he spoke quietly. Sounding suspiciously sober. "I won’t be able to stay here for a while, it’s not safe."

"What makes you think you’ll be safe at Hogwarts?" Snape growled, eyes glinting.

Flitwick grinned broadly, "Oh, you could have stopped me any time. Be honest, you can’t resist a nice, juicy ripe cherry any more than I can!"

"Oh, be quiet."

"Actually, Severus. Since it’s not safe here in England with He Who Can’t Be Named trying to kill me, I think I’d like to go away for Christmas," Flitwick chirped, mischief glinting in his bright eyes. "I had no plans, you never have any plans. Let us take a nice vacation somewhere warm and exotic. Will you come with me? I’m sure cherries are in season somewhere in the world!"