Despoiling Harry
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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
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any way meant to be confused with the originals NOR presented as
authorized materials of these owners.
Detention Served
by Amanuensis
Summary:
Snape sees a challenge before him--one he'll enjoy.
Pairing:
Harry/Snape
Categories:
PWP.
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.
Fractionally.
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."
"I--"
"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.
-fin
Despoiling Harry
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