Author’s Note: Dedicated with much glee to Switchknife, whose wonderfully perverse observation encapsulated something of why this pairing is such a joy to me:
'Most Porn in Fewest Words? LOL, thank you so much!!! That award, however, belongs to Professor Snape, for: "Detention, Mr Potter." There is nothing, and I do mean nothing, that can spark as many smutty images as that. Especially in that smoky voice...'
And to Isis, for her icon 'My fandom's on all fours in Snape's office.'
"Detention, Mr Potter."
I mean, it's so bloody clichéd!
I've tried, very subtly, to find out: is it just me? I don't think somehow that this is the normal practice at Hogwarts, with its reputation as the best British school for wizards.
Or maybe it is. Maybe Professor Dumbledore's an evil overlord. Maybe the whole thing's just an elaborate cover-up, riddling the place with cold secrets and empty tunnelled eyes. Maybe these dirty little secret meetings are happening on *every* *single* *level*.
My eyes feel like they're going shifty and suspicious. I refocus them on my cauldron.
Three little words.
Shiver, shiver, shiver, go my shoulder blades, and I grasp onto the edges of my desk to stop the trembling. He always acts the same after he's said them. But I can tell from his intonation.
I am counting out tiny pinches of St. John's Wort into the brewing mixture, and I *concentrate*.
One and two and three and four -
Snape's gonna do you on his office floor -
Oh *God*.
I look at Ron. He looks back at me, straight-faced. My pulse immediately decides that the 'at rest' zone is no longer the place for it, and leaps for 'frantic exertion'. Does he know, does he suspect - anything?
"Alright?" I murmur, casually checking his eyes again. Ron nods, tersely, then flicks his eyes at Snape, on the prowl.
"Bloody Potions," he mutters.
Sagging in relief against the desk isn't an option, I remind myself. Of course Ron's pissed off, it's his and just about everyone else's least favourite lesson. And I get the secret special extended version, in Snape's office. God, I *hate* him!
Why hate him when you can't do anything about it?
Fuck off, reasonable voice, I growl.
Harry, Harry, Harry, continues the voice, sounding irritatingly like Gilderoy Lockhart. If you make up your mind to get the pleasure out of it, you might surprise yourself, you know.
It sets me off-balance, and I listen to Snape's voice rebuking Seamus. *Smoky*. I learned that word to describe what he does with his voice, after overhearing a conversation between some second-year Slytherin girls.
("...I'm just saying, if you close your eyes, and hear that voice...'specially when he's putting some Gryffindor down."
"Yeah, if you nicked his voice, right, and then put it in someone else, 'cos it's so - I dunno..."
"Smoky," suggested another girl, lowering her voice and putting on a siren's drawl.
Shrieks of laughter from the other Slytherin girls.)
I'd passed on, rolling my eyes. The word 'urghhh!' wasn't strong enough.
It's quite disturbing to find that I sort of agree now. A cultured, dark, resonant voice. And with so much control. It's a fact that Snape can't simply *say* anything, he has to whisper or hiss or spit or sneer every word.
And it's equally a fact that his tongue is very controlled, to produce those kinds of sounds. Controlled, as it slides over mine, occasionally. Controlled, as it glides languidly over my cock.
It's true, I've always felt guilty, ever since this started. Since Snape, right royally pissed off at my recent Quidditch triumphs and general all-round notoriety - not that I ever wanted it - decided to 'take me down a peg'. The best way to do it was to immobilise me. Good thing he did, otherwise he'd have been probably hit with an Avada Kedavra. I'd never have thought having Snape's cock up my arse would...well, the shift happened very gradually.
It's wrong, it's sick, it's perverse, my mind recites. But it feels so *good*, retorts the Lockhart-voice.
I finally admit it. It feels good... fuck you, Snape, but it does feel good.
Get the pleasure out of it, the voice says again.
Okay then, I will.
I'm going to let go.
Snape feels it in the air, in my demeanour, as soon as he spell-locks the door. He turns to me, and pauses. I look up at him in my most clear-eyed manner and I don't resist, not when he orders me to strip, as usual, not when he takes my wrists and with a soft cord ties them behind my back. I thicken for him and I bend over, legs braced, my upper body lying on the desk and my arse stuck invitingly in the air.
"Wait, Potter," he commands. He turns me around again and grasps my cock without hesitation. He flicks it and sees it grow even more.
"What is this, boy?" he sneers down.
Him and me. He sneers down, I scowl up - our relative positions. I'm always beneath him, always below. The sooner I get on with accepting that, the better.
He speaks again. Smoky. The term hovers in my mouth and I enjoy it, momentarily distracted. But my unaccustomed hard-on and lack of defiance are starting to bother him.
"What is it that you are planning, Potter?" he whispers, leaning forward like he always does, until our faces are barely far enough apart to be legal. I do what he always wanted to do on those occasions - I know it, I'm not stupid any more - and press my mouth to his, running my tongue along it, trying to get inside.
He stiffens in shock, takes his mouth back, and slaps my face. I still look at him, although the reflexive tears start in my eyes.
He stares, then swiftly I am spun around, pressed down on the desk. His robes rustle with quick, furious motions. He accio's the lubricant.
"I am going to make you regret that, Potter... insolent, impertinent boy..."
I am riding on Snape's soundwaves, so caught up that I stay silent to hear every last word, even when he's hard and forcing into me. My arse is aching. I realise: I want this.
As he goes in, I gasp and arch back against him. Yet another move he wasn't expecting.
His hands tighten, enraged.
"Potter..." he hisses as a threat. Then I bear down, and smile with pure satisfaction at the groaning.
"Potter, stop this at once, do you hear...?" but his cock is mine now and I ride on it, moving slowly back and forth in ecstasy that communicates itself to him. It makes Snape's hands disobey his brain's command to grip me harshly, so that the fingers stroke soft instead, down my spine. I purr and he snatches them back, but the damage is done. A few more thrusts of my hips - panting, sweating, shuddering Snape comes into me and I fly, wrenching a bound wrist free to grasp his unresisting hand. I wrap it around my heavy throbbing cock, jerking up and down and leaning back against his supporting chest, a word spilling over from my lips.
"Snape..."
There, I've said it. The enemy's name, in ecstasy. His power's gone now; I have it in my hand, and he knows and pulls out quickly, glaring.
He can do no more, though.
I am above and he is below.
*Nd*.