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The characters and the situations within these fanfiction stories are not my property. They are the property of J.K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, and others, and are used without permission; challenge to copyright is not intended and should not be construed. No profit is being made from the use of these characters and situations; these written-down imaginings are only presented in an internet forum for the interest of and consumption by the like-minded individuals who enjoy them and recognize them as unauthorized fanfiction only, and are not in any way meant to be confused with the originals NOR presented as authorized materials of these owners.
Summary: Snape sees a challenge before him--one he'll enjoy.
Kinks/Warnings: Non-con. Chan.
Notes: For the Pornish Pixies Fantasy Fest request made by vileseagulls -- "Snape/Harry, chan, sex in a chair, minimal preparation."
Thanks to beta florahart.
It's the mouth.
The mouths of many of Snape's first-years tremble. Others hang slackly, just slightly open, unable even to process his words. (Worthless. Fit only to be ignored.) He's seen a few know-it-alls with a smug little smile--though they often join the preceding group, once the syllabus progresses in earnest. Lucius's stripling sports a pout--no surprise there.
Young Potter's is a thin, hard line.
Did he have no prior history with the brat--and yes, his father's history counts as their history--he would still be lost to the challenge of that mouth. To the need to soften it, turn it to the round O of surprise, or a sob.
But at the moment it is a line, directed at the table and not at him, though Snape knows who is earning that line. Certainly not the contents of the table. It is no difficult task to separate a dead billywig from its sting--unlovely work, perhaps, but not so dreadful a detention that it deserves that hard mouth.
No, the line is all for him. For Snape. For the professor who has dared not to fall under Potter's charisma (oh, yes, even at age eleven, the boy has it, just as his loathsome father had it), and teach him that life is not glided through by way of charm or looks or reputation--not when there are hard unyielding stones in the road like Severus Snape to challenge and trip one headlong. No sidestepping someone like him.
Squelch. Clink. Squelch. Clink. The pile of bestinged billywigs diminishes, bit by bit, as the new piles of discarded billywigs and hoarded stings increase. None quickly enough for Snape. "You're deliberately stalling, Mr. Potter. Even a know-nothing can make faster work of this."
Potter doesn't answer. The line gets harder. And the pace increases.
Snape has kept the sneer off his face so far tonight--now he allows it to bloom. "And so you prove yourself fitting of the label. Your detention is over when your tasks are completed tonight--I would have thought you'd work all the faster, and not permit your resentment to prolong the duty."
"I'm doing what you told me to."
Now leave me alone goes unspoken, too insolent to be voiced and risk earning another detention, or loss of further points from golden-bloody-Gryffindor. Snape knows that he could, with just a bit more prodding, force such a mouthing-off from the boy--but he won't make that mouth change that way, no.
"Then I must assume you do not have the skill to complete this task with any greater speed. How wretched a knowledge." Snape leaves his desk, moves deliberately to stand behind the boy. "Unable even to de-sting a billywig." Potter pauses, but then, when it becomes apparent that Snape does not intend to move, resumes his task. Squelch. Clink. A little faster than before. Surer. Potter isn't going to crack under this small pressure, not in the direction Snape wants.
"Don't tug at them so, boy. Stand up."
Another pause. But then Potter obeys. It's an interruption he didn't expect; Snape thinks the mouth's hard line might have relaxed just that much. Yes. That's what he needs.
Snape moves in, setting one hand on the boy's shoulder to push him forward, just far enough that Snape can step in between him and the chair. He feels Potter tense as Snape's robes brush the back of his body.
"This," and here his arms reach out like two parentheses to trap Potter within, as he picks up a single billywig from the table, holds it up before Potter's eyes, and sets thumb and index finger to the sting, "is the technique." He twists, and the sting separates cleanly, with less of a squelch than Potter's efforts made. He holds it up to show, then drops the sting into its pile. Clink. "Show me." He flicks the useless billywig away, lets his hands drop to the tabletop. Still encircling Potter.
The boy reaches out a hand. Not so sure now. He takes a billywig, grasps the sting, does a twist. It's a passable imitation.
"It would seem that you need monitoring at everything, Mr. Potter." Snape hooks the chair with one foot, draws it under him so that he can keep his hands on the table and sit down. "Again."
Potter's shoulders twitch--evidence of a spine-shiver. Another billywig, another twist.
"Again." This time, when Potter picks up the billywig, Snape's hands come to cover his. Potter almost drops it. "Clumsy child. You haven't the slightest respect for your materials."
"You made me--"
"Be quiet. Not another word." He guides Potter's hands, forces him to extract the sting. It creates no improvement of skill beyond his already acceptable performance, but Snape doesn't have to let Potter know that.
He sets his hands on Potter's hips and pulls the boy down onto his lap. Instantly Potter's hands fly down to the sides of the chair seat, bracing himself to launch from his position. But Snape does not release his hips. "Sit."
"Sit and be silent. Continue what you are doing. When I think you no longer need monitoring, I will release you."
Snape can't see the mouth. But he'd wager it's not so hard a line now.
He can hear Potter's breathing: rapid, trying to calm. The hands take an age to leave the edges of that chair, but at last they do, and Potter's weight shifts forward on his lap as he reaches for the table. Just that shift, and Snape is submitting to the inevitable, hardening beneath his robes, a few mere cloth layers, a handful of worthless molecules, between his prick and the boy's skin.
Potter does not seem to be aware of what he has caused, though he is tense as a stirring-stick, as he reaches for another billywig, twist-softersquelch-clink. Such a long hesitation as he considers whether to reach for the next, as though aware of the commitment he makes--the agreement to continue in this manner, sitting on Snape's lap, until Snape agrees he can get up.
He reaches for the next, and consents. Only to that, but oh, what that alone implies. Snape lets him proceed uninterrupted for a few more.
Then his hands move from Potter's hips and creep under the hem of the boy's robes. Potter doesn't notice this at first--might just think that Snape's shifting in his seat. But then Snape's hands reach Potter's waist, where the boy can feel that even fewer cloth layers separate them, making him jump like a startled bowtruckle. Snape holds him. "I told you to continue."
Slower, this time, to return to his task--but he does, all nervous twitches and a bit of lip-biting that Snape can just see from the side. Snape waits an even shorter time before raising Potter's oversized shirt and going after his zip.
Potter does not startle, not this time. He merely freezes, hands on the table. Snape can hear his shaky inhale, louder even than the sound of the zipper descending. Then: "I--Professor--"
"If you try to leave," Snape says, all brimstone and treacle, "you will forfeit this detention. I shall have to inform the headmaster that you fled detention, and of how defiant a student you are." He tugs at the waist of Harry's trousers and smallclothes, all the way down to the point where Harry's buttocks meet Snape's lap. "How dreadful that would sound. What would he do, I wonder? Would he have you expelled?"
Predictible as it may seem to end on the "e" word, it has the desired effect. Potter freezes again. It's no difficulty to shift the boy's slight weight and push the clothing down below his buttocks.
Potter sucks in his breath again. It's not a whimper; but it's equally sweet to Snape's ears.
"You are hesitating why?" Snape says. "Get on with your task. Show me that you have the wherewithal to act despite a little distraction, Mr. Potter." Even as he speaks, his hands are moving to cup the boy's soft buttocks, squeeze them slightly. "Or I fear I shall have to tell the headmaster of your pathetic performance."
He hears another inhale. In a less stubborn child, Snape would know it for tears. But there is only a tiny choke as Potter lifts his hands to pick up another billywig.
Snape gives Potter's buttocks another squeeze. Under other circumstances, he'd prefer to be birching those nether cheeks. But he'll make up for it, oh, yes. His fingers press in, separating them, laying bare their cleft for his fingers to explore. Potter doesn't even get as far as one billywig sting before having to drop the dead creature and grab at the tabletop again.
"No," he says, and it does catch in his throat, isn't a plea but is not a threat either--it's denial, laid at Snape's door plainfaced. Snape knows the boy has gone beyond any other method of resistance.
His fingers do dip into the cleft of the boy's arse, so hairless, pristine, not even sweat to mar it. Oh, how he would love to have his tongue follow, tasting that barely-flavored crinkle of skin, laying the boy open, seeing if he can provoke a moan from him.
Instead, his spreads his knees--leaving Potter on a less steady perch, but one he still does not dare to spring from--to give his hand more room, and his fingers quest forward, until he is at the pouch of the boy's scrotum: tender, nestled into the crevice between buttocks and prick as if to tempt Snape's explorations into finding just that. By lifting Potter up again, he can push the balls this way and that, forcing them to roll under his finger, and Potter does moan, emits a sound all shock and dismay and guilty discovery in one, and he does not even try to continue as instructed, but clings to the tabletop for dear life.
The small prick is not yet hard, but Snape does not imagine that will take long. There can hardly be a boy who, by age eleven, hasn't discovered the irresistible need to grind into one's mattress or one's hand, and not made the process automatic, stiffening at the first breeze. A pleasant few years during which one needs neither handkerchief or cleaning spells after. No, it shouldn't take long. He caresses the thumb-sized prick, not encircling it but only allowing the tips of his fingers to touch and run along its length, probe at its secret eye, until, as predicted, it stiffens, the head coaxed from its covering, wet with a drop of its own fluid. It's enough like tears to satisfy Snape.
His victim says, "No," again, and this time the "oh" of it is drawn out so long Snape does not even think to place at least one of his hands on a shoulder or around Potter's waist, so the boy cannot flee. His hands stay where they are, learning and conquering the pubescent furrow between Potter's legs, its warmth, its particulars, its responses.
Potter nearly has his face against the table, face angled a little, his gasps directing their humid air at the backs of his hands. Snape can see the fringe of his lashes, outlining his tightly-shut eyelids, and he can also see that the mouth is nothing like a line. Snape thinks about thrusting his tongue in there, as well, widening the separation of lips into the proper O he craves.
But he doesn't need his tongue to accomplish that.
One of his hands continues to massage the hard little prick; the other opens the buttons over his own groin. It takes only a moment for his own cock to be freed, rigid and impatient, and it settles into the snug cleft between Potter's buttocks in the next moment. This time Snape does place his hands at the boy's waist, and it's an appropriate precaution, for Potter shoves himself upright, his hands flying to cover Snape's as though he will yank them away. But Snape tightens his hold, arching his hips to press his prick against the boy's bum-cleft, as if to say--what? That he cannot escape, that it is not so unpleasant a feeling, that it will not be as dreadful as he fears. That it will be every bit as dreadful as he fears. Yes, all of those things.
And Potter trembles, and hitches in his breath again, still no closer to crying, and returns his hands to the table.
Snape uses his hands to part the boy's buttocks once more, allowing his cock the full length of the cleft within which to slide. The head bumps against Potter's scrotum, poking the flesh at its base, lingering there and rubbing. He gets a sound out of Potter that way, more refined than a grunt, not quite so delicate as a moan.
Snape's prick is leaking as well, a needy seepage of precome that should serve well enough for his purposes. He has nothing else to hand for lubrication except billywig guts--definitely unsuitable--and will not interrupt this quiet violation with the obtrusiveness of an accio.
But he decides to have just a bit of pity on Potter and lifts a hand to his own mouth, slobbering spit into his palm, and then returning that hand to the wrinkled pucker between the boy's buttocks, anointing it with the spittle. He does not anticipate getting much penetration this way, but then, he did not expect to in the first place. Not unless he wants to risk physical damage, and he does not. No, Potter's memories of this will be quite sufficient, as far as damage goes.
Potter's fingers dig into the table edge--Snape can hear the skritch--as the tip of Snape's cock lodges against his bunghole, pressing only a little, and then just a little more, opening him only so far as the anal skin, nothing further. Spit and precome eases the way just that much, and it is enough to enfold the head of Snape's prick, the muscle grasping at it quite involuntarily, as it tries to settle into its closed state. Potter is shaking on his lap, against his hands--which Snape has about his waist again, now that his cock is where it wants to be. Though Snape does not simply restrain him; his hands wander up, beneath the boy's shirt, to stroke the peach-bloom skin, find and fondle the little buds of the nipples, caress into the hollows of the armpits. There he finds dampness, and imagines what that immature musk will smell like on his fingers later.
The sound from Potter's mouth tells Snape it's become a line again, but this time because of bitten lips, held tight and mmphed against, over and over. As a substitute for an O, it will serve.
Snape comes not so much by thrusting, but by clenching the muscles about his cock and balls in rhythm to heighten the arousal, and allowing this to rock him against the tightness of Potter's anus, until the sensation on his cockhead reaches a blissful, quivering peak. He ejaculates, clutching Potter's ribs not quite hard enough to bruise, fervent and rapturous as he sullies the perfection of the boy's maiden arse with his semen.
When he can breathe, he assesses the state of the trembling creature in his hands, on his lap, as Snape's prick softens and slips free of its exquisite confines. He would like nothing better than to throw the boy onto the table, face up, and engulf that sweet little prick with his mouth, suck him to helplessness and to orgasm and to that O of a mouth that has continued to elude Snape, just barely.
And then Potter's hand moves with the swiftness of a snake, and strikes him in the thigh. No, not just a strike, a stab--Snape feels the pierce into his bare thigh. Potter's jabbed him with a billywig sting.
If he didn't know that a dead billywig's sting is harmless, Snape would blame the renewed rush of euphoria he feels on that. Oh, he will enjoy breaking Potter, bit by bit. It is too delightful a challenge to be gained all in one day.
Potter is fighting his hands, which still have him about the ribs. Snape chuckles aloud, and the sound seems to stop the boy's struggles temporarily.
"And for the moment," Snape says, and his hands release the boy, "we would appear to be even." He puts a hand to Potter's back, gives a small push so that his intent is affirmed. "Go."
Potter does not wait for further instruction. He is down off Snape's lap, yanking trousers up before his shoes have even touched the floor, and has barely touched the floor before the tail of his school robes are flitting through the door behind his running form.
Snape--who has not had a smile that is not a sneer in so long, he doubts he can produce one--twists his lips into a sneer, and picks the billywig sting from his leg with his thumbnail, flicking it into the pile on the table. Arranging his clothing, he rises, and goes to make a notation in his planner, next to the words Potter, 1st yr.: Detention.
Served, he writes.
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