Title“ "Dismissed"
Author: Beizy beizy18@optonline.net
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Word Count: 1500
Warnings: Harry is fourteen.
Notes: Written for the lovely yanks02. Who is a dirty, dirty girl. Inspired by the potions storage closet scene in the GoF movie. Because we all know that this is the way it should have ended.
"Did I not say that you were dismissed?" Snape asks, lips thinning.
He'd stood outside the door that had nearly broken his nose for a long moment before deciding to charge back in—and why not? In this particular case, he was innocent.
Harry steps inside and closes the door behind him. "We haven't been brewing Polyjuice. I don't think it would be fair if we were blamed for it, Professor."
"Nonsense," Snape breathes, setting the veritaserum carefully in its place. He descends the ladder. "Utter nonsense. You lie no better than you thieve."
His voice fills every corner of the closet. The tension that always comes with their bickering is as oppressive as the heat, which, in this small space, becomes quickly unbearable.
Snape takes a step toward Harry. "Winning," he growls, "as life goes on, necessitates more than the honed ability to filch gillyweed from a professor's closet. You can't even control your anger here, in this rather tame situation."
Harry presses his back to the shelves; a thousand retorts come to mind, each as weak as the last. He can't help but breathe faster; Snape has always rendered him incapable of containing his emotions. He shuffles to his left and a sudden pain goes up his leg—some pointy bottle has caught the back of his leg, jabbing the sensitive skin behind his knee. Before he can even process his mortification, he's gone down on one knee with a sharp gasp of pain.
Brought out of a level stare by this bit of clumsiness, Snape steps back. His nose wrinkles. "Pathetic, as usual. You are dismissed. Perhaps you'll be able to manage an exit correctly this time."
How to get out of the closet gracefully? He has already made a complete fool of himself. He squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them. In front of his eyes Snape's hips swim, smooth and slender and cut tight by black robes. His other knee settles on the stone, warming it from cold to cool. At least he's got his balance.
Brow furrowing, Snape drops his wrists to his sides—white and black cuffs wink in the corner of Harry's vision. There are fine lines of something dark beneath Snape's fingernails.
"A bit of boomslang skin in exchange for favors of another kind, Potter?" His nostrils quiver. "The way of things in the Gryffindor dormitory, I've no doubt. Perhaps some time you might ask your dear Lupin—"
"Don't talk about him that way!" Harry barks. How ridiculous it must be to say such a thing when one is on one's knees in front of a professor.
Snape's mouth quirks cruelly—as close to a smile as Harry has ever seen—as he takes a handful of Harry's hair in his right hand. "You will not speak to me in that tone." His fingers twist a little, drawing up hairs by their root from Harry's scalp. For a moment Harry thinks Snape is going to drag him up by his hair and throw him headfirst into the corridor.
His breathing grows frantic again. His eyes drift over the immaculate black cloth in front of him. He hasn't fled and Snape isn't moving him. He can't make anything below his neck work. It's so hot, so close in here. His skin boils.
Without thought, he presses the flat of one hand to the rise in Snape's robes. He can hear as well as feel Snape inhale. Those dark eyes are looking down at him, calculating, wanting to know how much of this is a joke, wanting to convey that, if it is, Snape refuses to be taken for a fool.
And then Harry begins rubbing the heel of his palm up and down the unmistakable bump in the robes in front of his eyes.
"Stop," Snape hisses, tensing.
Harry presses until the tips of his fingers go white, finding the faint shape of Snape's prick under the cloth and tracing it down to where the robes aren't as tight. He lifts his eyes and stares at Snape, tongue wetting his bottom lip.
"Professor," Harry says, softly, shifting on his knees to let his own cock fall freely against his thigh. He's never done this before, never thought of doing it, beyond one or two feverish daydreams that left him just as disgusted as he was aroused.
His fingers look so pale against Snape's robes that they're almost gray. He unbuttons and pushes aside the robes, layer after layer, still not thinking, barely breathing, until Snape's erection bobs, half-hard, just in front of his lips. If he had been thinking, he'd have been sure that Snape was going to haul off and smack him. But then, if he had been thinking, he'd not have stayed on his knees in the first place.
Still, there is this knowledge. He made Snape—
Oh.
His cock throbs. He falls forward, tongue first, licking a stripe up the length. Snape's fingers tighten against his skull. Harry wraps a fist around the hot prick, stroking it away from Snape's body, watching in morbid fascination as the head darkens and pokes out.
He pushes the foreskin back down the shaft, twisting his wrist. Snape's cock curves as it hardens, presenting smooth, rounded glans. His mouth fills with saliva. He wants it in his mouth, suddenly and fiercely. He wants to taste it, wants it stretching his lips. He wants to sink forward and bury his face in the wiry, musky-smelling hairs.
He's fully hard in his trousers but doesn't dare break the silence by moving to touch himself. He's petrified with the desire to do it; surprised by the knowledge that he won't.
"Open," Snape hisses.
Harry drops his bottom lip and Snape's cock slides wet and hard along his tongue and into his mouth, pressing the inside of one cheek before Harry shifts and lets it go toward the back of his throat. It feels unbelievably good but, more than good, it feels right, as if he were meant to have this, meant to suck it, meant to take whatever—
His throat contracts when the head of Snape's cock goes too far. It's spongy against his tonsils. A soft gag combines with a moan, sending shivery recoil up and across his shoulders. Snape's other hand comes up, and now he is fully holding Harry's head in place. Harry wants to move his hands, his tongue, draw a reaction, but this is too much; embarrassment combined with sharp arousal ruins him.
He tightens his mouth, sucking hard, and begins mouthing up and down, tiny noises flowering in the back of his throat. Snape inhales, robes rustling, and thrusts back in time, filling Harry's mouth to the point of gagging and then back.
Harry moans, bringing up one hand to fist Snape's cock. There is little grace to it once Snape truly begins. Harry is no more than a set of pursed lips at waist-level as Snape fucks his mouth, hips pistoning rapidly, balls tapping Harry's chin. The dull, wet noise of prick sloshing into the wet cavity of a mouth fills Harry's ears—low, close, and obscene. He gets the impression that Snape wants this to end as quickly as possible.
Snape makes no noise until the very last moment. He thrusts forward so hard that Harry is pushed into the bottles at his back. Harry chokes and gasps and scrabbles one hand along Snape's hip as the ability to breathe is denied him, as the bottles rattle behind. His face is buried in Snape's pubic hair. His throat clamps desperately around the head of Snape's prick, struggling to clear the passage for air. He moans, cheeks clamping down, feeling the vibration hum across the throbbing flesh. He's going to suffocate.
Gobs of thick, creamy come fill the back of his throat; he's so repelled by the taste that he cannot swallow. And then the warm, choking fullness is gone and Harry leans forward, come dribbling in a thick stream down his chin and onto his robes.
Panting, he rests his forehead on Snape's hip.
Snape watches the saliva and come run down his chin.
Harry whimpers, instinctive rebellion and the need to come clashing in his brain. Need wins out after a heartbeat of debate. He curls a hand between his legs and nearly falls to the stone with relief. Gasping, he leans into Snape's leg and humps his hand, squeezing and pulling through the cloth, hips pumping wildly. It takes little more than a minute. He jerks, drooling onto Snape's robes. He can feel the come shoot, strand after strand, trickling down his thigh; his cock throbs as it spends itself. He reaches farther, squeezing his balls; and farther still, squeezing the sensitive skin just behind.
When he can breath again he realizes that his arms are clutching Snape's knees bonelessly.
"Off," Snape commands, stepping back. Harry resents the easy, unashamed way that Snape refastens his robes. He falls forward, spitting whatever is left in his mouth onto the stones. "Go."
This time, he doesn't hesitate. He gets to his feet, clatters through the doorway, and runs for the nearest staircase. His mind spins.
He still has so many stolen ingredients to pay for, after all.
End