J.

Somehow, it has come to this.

Layers of petticoats and chemises, and two bodices are long-doffed and stuck to the floors and stools, all across the bedroom.

The bed itself is if only tidy.

And then.

Them.

Julia still hasn't lost her shawl to the evident brawl. Poppy shifts in the room's chilly air underneath Julia, clearly regretting open drawers and touching the cold bedcover with her bare back, but she doesn't move a lot; confusion is in her gaze as her eyesight, a little hazy but put straight across from her, is stuck to Julia's nipples, wrinkly in the cold of the room.

"Are you sure it still hangs on me?!" Poppy asked with a demand; something itched in the base of her neck but her hectic moves to remove the itch met a smooth surface of a slightly goosebumped skin.

"Yes. I can see its bum. Sit still," Julia advises. With a flick of the wrist — and being hissed at when a tiny black dot leaves the skin — she touches Poppy's cleavage expectantly, eyeing any other dots and sensing any unusual textures, dust or prickles.

No lines of rush runs along Poppy's skin or faint lines of bones, but an invisible rush could still hurt — and it did. Poppy hisses, incessant, until Julia takes her hand away.

Before climbing onto bed wearing nothing more than a pair of open drawers, — practically in the buff, — they were eagerly sorting items in the adjacent cupboard.

The little room was supposed to be a storage area for ash, soap scraps, bits of threads and ropes, nailheads, and other little nifties; a cupboard general. Yet somehow, maybe during moving away and out of their family homes, might be during hectic renovations or revisions of other cupboards, or literally anything else, few potions ingredients were placed in there and forgotten about.

Worst of it, they started to stink.

Empuzzled one day by a strange stench, all three of the girls, they were set to find the source. Imelda had a training session to attend, however, so Julia and Poppy were left to deal with it before her return.

It went fine until the old jar, brimming with old porcupine needles, still bearing a sticker with expiration date and year at Hogwarts, suddenly busted in Poppy's hand, sending few long but brittle needles in the general direction of her chest.

Julia picked most of them away before noticing Poppy became itchy.

Too itchy.

Long story short, needle dust and particles glued to their hands and clothes. They doffed everything hectically, picked what they could from both the clothes and their bodies, and…

"How will we clean up the room?" Poppy wonders. "After we are thoroughly bathed and scrubbed, of course," she adds with a wink, darts below Julia's eyes for a second, and jumps back at her face, a little more rosy than she already was just a moment ago.

A thought of tongues running across her muscles, feverish kisses and hands, restless with her breasts, was a rare guest to Imelda's well-satiated, experienced mind. Catching herself on thinking about such mundane things felt… strange, if you will, inappropriate for someone who's teeth regularly tug on bellies and thighs and dabble cunts with tongue as often.

Imelda wasn't a girl anymore.

There was very little she didn't know about a woman's body, in fact, she did know it too well.

And yet.

Crushed. Squished. Weighed down by her own blast of an ideation.

For Poppy and Julia to notice their lovely pest became strangely slight was a matter a time.

Of course they would pick her up, just to ensure she wasn't dreadfully ill again, and immediately pin down like a some curious bug to a display, to pull its weak legs and spread its translucent wings. It was something Imelda would commonly do herself; she cherished these flustered looks from underneath the trembling eyelashes, and did she adore seeing loves of her life relaxed and ready for her, accepting her, dragging her down into their pillow clouds of darkened heavens that was their bedroom.

Except the girls weren't researchers or scholars; their interest and the rest of the devious design were utterly and completely carnal: they wanted her wanton and to bury her in the cloud-soft bedding.

Imelda couldn't object.

She could only guide and mention one shameless wish after another.

"Poppy," Julia sighed eventually, evidently head full of ideas, "what are we doing wrong with her?"

"Do we do her enough, you think?"

"You don't," Imelda chimed in.

"Correct. You're stealing us too often."

"Not my problem. You are too gorgeous, you two," Imelda scoffed.

Poppy sounded assured, "So would be our treatment. Julia fears me for a reason, do you remember?"

Julia was persistent, but could… underdeliver, save something for a grand dessert. Poppy, at the other hand…

Julia could never say no to a good fuck-all even if it meant she would be bed bound for the following day or two.

Her reaction wasn't an exaggeration.

Imelda also couldn't walk or sit, albeit for less.

"I do," Imelda said.

"So do you want me?" Merlin she sounded so… grivois. "Or don't you?"

The girls were waiting for her response, but their wait was far from leaving her to steam with her own lewd thoughts. Their hands were stuck to her body, so were their lips, and so were their bodies, and Imelda couldn't even embrace them: hist fingers were stuck clenching the sheets and blankets under their humble and timid, awaiting caresses.

They were also avoiding kissing or sitting their fingers too close to her nearly-imploding cunt.

Poppy whispered, "So what do you say?"

Sinking in pillows and a blanket, clinging onto her dress haphazardly and whining about work still had to be done, Julia was hers.

She had other plans for the evening, evidently. But she also looked dreadfully exhausted after dinner—a few small meals put together with haste.

Imelda thought it wasn't work that needed her attention. It was her ordinarily beaming fiery spirit requiring a slow rekindling. Yet, Julia was hesitant. Willing, but too uncertain, wary she wouldn't be able to finish in time.

Imelda inquired, "What is it you need to do anyway?"

"My tables. I am presenting my work to Weekly Potioneer in a month. Everything has to be in order by then."

"Sure it can wait for a few hours?"

"No?" Julia said, expectant Imelda would have to retreat and leave, to their mutual chagrin.

Imelda had other plans.

And she was happy with her success; she heard nothing but whimpers from Julia and saw little else than surrender on her face. Tables could wait. Even Imelda could spare her a day or two. Her own unseemly priorities?

Imelda caught her palm in her own and buried it in the blanket, and said, smirkingly, "Stop fighting me, it's daft as may be in your situation. I see both your lips from here."

"Oh please," Julia pouted. "You talk too much."

"Late to your desk? Unless it comes with paddles to fling me out, you are in a perfect position to start giving me a head each time you feel drowsy and in a predicament of, well." Imelda looked around quickly. Julia's dress was pieces stuck to every corner of the bedroom. "You are not dressing up until morning."

Julia whined.

Poppy only wanted to wake up the girls.

The breakfast was steaming on the table, minor chores put out of Julia's way—the night before she looked fatigued—and Imelda's gardening miscellanea and clothes were ready to be worn. They deserved few more hours of sleep after yesterday's coastal ride, yet. Poppy didn't want them to sleep until afternoon and feel even more fatigued after that their bodies, slumberous just like their heads, would thump aimlessly on the floor.

So by seven thirty in the morning Poppy stood by the bed and was ready to announce it's a day.

Or a breakfast, Poppy thought.

Without her, the two would usually find each other in their sleep and cuddle. That morning, they remained as Poppy left them, hugging a warm but a void.

Maybe it's still too early.

Maybe they require rest.

Maybe another hour then, decided Poppy and hurried to adjust the blanket just a tad bit upchin.

Once her steady hand touched the duvet, it was grabbed and just seconds later the two's hands reclaimed her to her previous void of warmth. Unbelievable. They weren't asleep—they couldn't be asleep, how else could they act so fatuous.

Their heads quickly took Poppy's upper chest for a pillow.

Their hands took her breasts for hand pillows.

"Your breakfast will become cool," Poppy said, dumbfounded. She also had time to change into her morning gown—but only to be put back to bed. "Wake up, even for half an hour, girls!"

"Why did you bewitch pillows," Imelda asked. Julia frowned, "Poppy isn't a pillow, you've yet to open your eyes, yet such a pestilence."

"I'm not getting anything done with you two, it seems."

Poppy, bit with regret, awaited what would come for a retort. She only meant an endearment. Perhaps her own half-awakeness didn't allow her to sound a little bit less… ambiguous.

However, it seemed to work, as Imelda slithered first to her side of the bed, then sat, stretched and stood to pick up her towel. She sighed, "You are absolutely getting everything done with us and fine, we'll have it your way. Wake up, Jools. Julia. She isn't—"

"It wasn't what she meant. I'm not letting go of her. Go eat your breakfast."

The blanket and Julia were gone in a moment as Imelda swooped them to the bathing room.

Well.

Imelda was patient.

She waited for the off-season, helped with the Christmas party, carried over to the little celebration of the New Year, snuck gifts to every guest, signed an awful amount of the Holyhead Harpies postcards only to hear Julia's, "I can't stand up anymore, I'm exhausted", and Poppy's, "The next couple of weeks will be relatively free", after they paved the path to the bed with their dresses and were hungrily kissing each other on the mouths for long and sweet eons, that were tens of minutes, right after they had been finally left alone and freed from any celebratory obligation as hosts, Quidditch stars, and "upstarting" researches. Imelda regretted no one was standing behind her; her pussy clenched with a metal-welding force as she heard this.

She, too, was on the verge of exhaustion.

Few licks would be enough to make her melt into the sheets.

She was certain the ordeal was mutual. If Julia was wet, Poppy must have been dripping soaked, and they were ready to fall asleep rather than being bludgeoned to sleep with the sheer force of their own climaxes.

Unbelievable.

So Imelda said.

Julia wasn't impressed, "What a dirty mind."

"She isn't wrong though," Poppy chimed in, "Don't lie to us, Julia."

"I am truly exhausted and it isn't an exaggeration."

"I'd be too if I'd only kiss my broom," Imelda urghed, "Stools and chairs, in your case. Don't suppose I can kiss it better, no?"

"Shut up."

Imelda snorted as Julia flustered and her lips slowly became a thin line under adorably rosied cheeks.

"Sure I can," Imelda concluded, "So lay back. Fall asleep if you want. We'll have few weeks to make up for it."

She noticed Poppy curling up a strand of her hair.

"Everything fine, Pops?"

"If she falls asleep, me's next. I'd rather this evening to not end until I call it off."

Such a tease, she wanted to say. But fine.