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harry potter fanfiction

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The Session

Snape/Harry comment porn gone completely awry. Switchknife wrote Severus; Atrata wrote Harry.

Snape/Harry  |  NC-17  |  4,100 words  |  July 2005
warnings: chan


*grabs your wrist and pins it to the pillow*

Oh no, you don't. Your mouth belongs to me, boy, as does every word that comes out of it.

Ask nicely, and you might just get what you want.



Please, sir, I can't-- I don't-- it doesn't matter. Please, anything, whatever you want. Just. Use me. Oh, god.

*tries to hold still*


So apparently the most intolerable of brats can be taught a little respect, simply by applying some judicious--

*squeezes fingers around a certain... appendage*


But you won't get out of your lesson that easily, boy. You must learn to ask for what you need.

In plain words, this time. More of that pitiful blubbering won't help.


*arches off the bed, hissing*

But, sir, I don't-- I don't know. I just-- I want you. I want to feel you. Your hands, all over me, inside me. Your nails, your teeth, your tongue. Your -- fuck -- your cock. Your cock inside me. I just-- please, sir. Anything. Everything.



*draws back quietly, hands shaking*

That's... that's better. Adequate. You still have--much to learn, but--


Turn over. Knees apart so I can see how hard you are.

And don't touch yourself until I tell you to, or I'll bind your wrists again.


*swallows audibly*

Yes, sir.

*hurries to turn over, body trembling*

*spreads legs slowly and pushes arse into the air, hands fisting desperately in the sheets, cock hanging hard and heavy*


*runs hands down your back*

You look lovely like this, you know: smooth and moist-skinned and hot, spread out and aching, trembling like the whore you are.

What would your father think if he saw you like this, I wonder? He'd be revolted, wouldn't he?


No use struggling against me now. Not when I'm almost inside you, when you want it so very much.


Oh, come now. What happened to that well-trained docility?

I could make you come like this, couldn't I, fucking you in long, hard strokes and whispering in your ear just what a scoundrel your father was--how he was too short-sighted to even protect his own family, how he was too much of a fool to save his own life. I could make you come even as you snarl, even as you writhe and push back and push away and hate me, and you'll promise yourself that you'll never fall into my trap again, you'll never be subservient to me, but then you'll be coming and it'll feel too good, and you'll be back here in a week's time, half-hard from waiting, on the verge of giving in again simply because you didn't have a cock up your arse for several days together, simply because I--wasn't fucking you--like I am--now.


*pulls away, panting, watching you collapse onto the bed*

Look how you've dirtied the sheets, boy. They're wet with it, with your come, your semen, and you stink like a Knockturn trollop. Blinking away tears, as if you had any right to look unspoiled.

I hope you're properly humbled, looking at yourself. At your soft cock still flushed with satisfaction, at the semen still splattered on your thighs.

James Potter's little boy. You just came to the sound of insults, insults well-earned by your father's name--tell me, did you enjoy it? Enjoy it as much as I did?

*leans in for a kiss, but pulls back at a snap of teeth*

--Tsk. Another session wasted.

But I know you'll be back, Potter, because you know who you are--what you are, even if you try to deny it, even if you resist me when I start training you again.

You're a slut. You need humiliation. Some justified scorn after all that adulation you receive--something that makes you feel like the nothing you are, the nothing you always will be.

A bitter medicine, isn't it?

But I make it taste sweet.


Sweet? There's nothing about you that's sweet, no matter what you say. What you make me say. You're so impressed with yourself, making me come while you snarl insults in my ear, like I heard a word you said. Like it's so hard to make me come. Like mine's the only cock soft with satisfaction or the only semen splattered on my thighs.

You think I'm a slut? Fine. Maybe I am. Maybe I begged a little too eagerly, but you didn't put up much of a fight, did you? You're no better than I am, Snape, lost in some stupid schoolboy grudge that's got nothing to do with me. None of this has anything to do with me -- like it could, when you don't have the first clue who I am -- but I'm not the one who needs to figure that out.

Bitter medicine. Something like that.


Oh, it has nothing to do with you, does it? I don't know who you are?

I know exactly who you are, Potter--if I didn't, you wouldn't be here. I know what you need better than you do--and if I gain some satisfaction out of it, some small taste of vengeance, what of it? I'm not the one begging for this, pleading for it, coming back time and again despite protestations to the contrary. I'm not the one--surrendering--

And you didn't hear a word I said, hm? No, of course not--that's why you spat and fought, that's why you sobbed and hit back and still couldn't keep yourself from twisting, from crying out, from working yourself onto my cock.

You're an endless source of amusement, Potter. Self-denial of the highest order--watching you delude yourself has always been a hobby, and I certainly won't complain if it gets me results such as this. The scent of your come in the air, the curve of your spine under sweat.

No, I didn't put up much of a fight. Because I didn't need to--because I was the victor, and the victor need not fight his own spoils.

Perhaps you'll be grateful to me one day, Potter. I'm giving you a grudge of your own.


I don't know if Harry wants to scream or cry.


I can make him scream again. If you want. In every single note on the scale. ;)


Atrata. Or possibly Harry.
Oh, I've no doubt of that. If I want. What's that got to do with anything?


Switchknife. Or possibly Severus.
The illusion of choice is more important than choice, my dear. The first lesson any Slytherin learns.


So I'm supposed to pretend I think it matters? More self-delusion for your entertainment? Yeah, I want it. Is there a point to admitting it beyond bringing you off? Sir?


The point, you stupid boy, is to understand yourself. Until you do, you won't know your limitations--and until you know your limitations, you'll keep endangering yourself.

That I gain pleasure from it is incidental. Observe: I do not deny my own thoughts.


Congratulations. Did you miss the part where I didn't deny mine, either? I'll repeat it, then, just in case, and I'll even ask nicely: Yes, sir, I want it.

For that matter, I don't think I ever said I didn't. And just because I don't always feel like admitting it to you doesn't mean I won't admit it to myself. Lying to you isn't the same as lying to myself. That seems like something you'd know, Mr I-know-everything-about-you-Potter.

And, please: Endangering myself? I do it every time I come down here, so don't pretend you care.


My, my. Such vaunted sarcasm. I wonder who you learned it from.

Does it occur to you how ridiculous you look, pulling away from me on this bed, covering yourself with damp, sticky sheets? Such a sudden onset of decency is rather worrying, considering your normal behaviour when you're here.

What do you think you're doing, I wonder? Hiding yourself from me, when I've touched every inch of you? Withholding yourself from me, when you know that I could take you again?

Foolish child. Flinching and heating up again as soon as I draw near, your skin as warm as if it hid the sun. --Don't pull away from me, boy. You don't know how sweet you taste when you're angry like this, when you think you can bite the hand that strokes you, that cups you, that brings you to gasping hardness again.

... Your river of words seems to have stilled now. Useless words, thinking to argue with me, thinking to prove me wrong. Lying to me, but you can't, can you? Despite your desire to do so.

I know you too well, Potter. Ungrateful whore that you are.

The only thing you endanger when you come down here is your pride. What I endanger, when I protect you everyday, is my life.


My pride? I thought we covered that, too, somewhere back around please, sir, please, I want your cock inside me. But I don't think we're even talking about me anymore, are we, sir?

The hand that brings me to hardness. I'm a child, as you're so fond of pointing out, so that's not really a challenge, is it? But you-- you think you deserve this, don't you? Think I owe it to you to hang myself on your mercies and spread my legs. Is it because you protect me? Well, I never asked for that, and I'm not going to pay for it. Call me ungrateful all you want, but one's got nothing to do with the other.

Don't hide. Don't pull away. Don't argue. Now who's begging? They sound like orders, Snape, but I know what they really are.


Why, you-- You--

--Perhaps I've been too gentle with you. Too careful. Mindful of your damnable youth, but you really do need a lesson in manners, don't you? A little pain, perhaps, to remind you of your place.

Don't wince now that I have you pinned to the bed--delicate Potter, precious Potter, idol of the world. Do you know how much pain I protect you from? This is a mere fraction of what they could do to you, boy, a mere fucking fraction--they'd take you by force, not after preparing you like I do, making you moan like I do. Do you think Lucius Malfoy would be given to patience? Given to teaching you the lessons I teach you? I keep you away from them all--away from--they won't touch you--

And you dare to question. You dare to question whether you owe me anything, when you very well know that you do--you owe me your body, boy, you owe me your life, you owe me every breath from that parted mouth, every arch of that straining back. You owe me the smoothness of you, the salt of you, in blood and semen and sweat and tears--you owe me this pain of entering you, you owe me this struggle against my arms.

You owe me. You owe me-- Everything--

I'll make you beg, boy. I made you beg me to fuck you, before--now you'll beg me to let you go. And you'll still come, damn you, despite the agony of it, because that agony is nothing compared to what I--what I--


What you what? You can't say it, can you, although it's nice you-- god.


Nice you finally decided to follow through on your promise to make me scream. Every note on the scale, was it? I think you -- oh, fuck. I think you missed a few.

But I'll beg, if that's what you want. I'll beg you to fuck me, beg you to take that stamina potion so I have to beg you to stop. I'll beg you to let me come even when I can't, when I'm dry, when I'm bruised and battered and bleeding. Yes, sir, I'll beg. But not because I owe you anything.

You think. You think because I come down here pleading and half-hard, surrendering, you think it means you've won. But I notice you didn't try to deny that you're begging, too. You think I don't know that if I tried to stay away, you'd only come after me, you'd only drag me down. You think I don't hear the possession, the ownership in your voice, the ownership you call entitlement.

And you call me self-deluded.


That's right, I own you, Potter, and I don't deny it; why deny the truth? You know it as well as I do, so don't pretend otherwise--how dare you deny it when you're shaking like this, trembling like this, whimpering as I take you in my mouth and force you to hardness again? Tender and hurting, sore and open, you still can't say no to me--you can't, because you need this, because you belong to me more thoroughly than you've ever belonged to yourself.

If you try to stay away. Is that what you're saying? But you try, don't you, every time you stumble out of here with the bile of rage in your throat? You try, but you can't--and you must come back here, you must, because you need the wide, clean burn of my fist, you need to be cored and torn open and broken--you need the erasure of your self by this fire of shame, of lust, of surrender.

My phoenix. Destroyed time and again, night after night, only to rise from the flames.

I don't come after you, boy, because I don't have to; I don't claim ownership because it is any need of mine, but because it is a simple fact.

You belong to me. Slut. You've as much as admitted it.


As much as? Why don't I spell it out, then: I belong to you, sir. Is that what you wanted to hear? Because we both know I always give you what you want. You say this has nothing to do with any need of yours, like you're some-- Like you're not--

No. Fuck you, Snape.

You do need me. Me. You expect me to believe that you'd put your life on the line for anything less? So you can call in the favour, spread me open and drain me dry? I know you think I'm stupid, Snape, but that's a little much.

I'm not here because you own me, or because I think I owe it to you. I'm here because you want me here, you keep me here, shackled to the bed or the wall or your body, screaming on your cock, your fist, your vicious fucking tongue.

But what would you do to me, I wonder, if I didn't come back? Care to find out?


You say this has nothing to do with any need of yours, like you're some-- Like you're not--

Oh? What am I not, Potter? Scared of saying it, are you?

I've had enough of you, brat. Get out. Yes, take those clothes I've thrown at you--demure little schoolboy robes, hiding the body of a whore.

What? Shocked into silence, now? You're here just because I keep you here, aren't you? Well, then. Leave. I'm not keeping you anymore; I'm not keeping you here with my fist, with my cock, with my vicious fucking tongue.

Let's see how long you can stand it. Staying away from me now that I'm letting you go--let's see how deep that pretense really runs, that pretense of false independence. I won't touch you again until you come down here and touch me first--until you spread my thighs and suck me and fuck yourself on my cock, admitting to the fact that you're the one who needs this, the one who wants it, the one who asks for it every time.

--Don't open that whorish mouth of yours, Potter, don't reach out to me now. You asked for proof, didn't you, of my not needing you? Well, now you have it.

Get out now that you've come, now that you're wet between the thighs from where I've been inside you--throw on those robes and get out of here, back to your cold, clean, solitary bed.

I won't touch you again, Potter. I won't touch you until you beg for it.



I don't know what makes you think my bed is solitary. I'm lovely, you said -- do you really think you're the only one who's noticed? The only one who knows? How... quaint.

And no, maybe they can't make me come the way you do, maybe their cocks aren't as big, their hands aren't as-- Maybe their skills need some work. But I can teach them, sir, everything you taught me when you didn't think I was paying attention. I was. And you've made sure I know what I like, haven't you?

Oh, yeah. I think I'll stand it just fine.


Quaint, Potter? How easily you parrot my words. Do you even know how much of you has been shaped by me?

... But no matter. Your transparency is--amusing--and yes, I do have my ways of knowing whether you tell the truth or not. I know very well that your bed is solitary, and that when you curl around your prick at night and stroke it to orgasm it's me you're thinking of, not some bumbling child.

Yes, you do look lovely. Half-dressed like that, indignant, poised at the edge of my bed as if waiting for me to pounce in rage. Waiting for me to take you back.

But I won't, Potter. Not unless you ask me to. You see, I've just realised how much you exhaust me, and it's not the sex--it's your godforsaken impudence, and dealing with it is simply a waste of my time. Perhaps I should take one of the Slytherin boys again, who know what an honour it is to be favoured by the house of Snape; Zabini would suit me well, I think, dark-eyed and long-legged as he is. As pretty as you are, in many ways, and a damn sight more obedient.

--Oh. Is that a flash of jealousy I detect? Don't turn your face away to hide it, now.

Yes, it's a pity he isn't quite as... eager... as you are, but he has other advantages. Such as a mouth that knows when to shut up. And hands far more clever than yours, not Quidditch-calloused and rough as a peasant's. He's known me longer than you have, Potter, and his skills certainly don't need work.

You're quite right. Perhaps it is better you leave, and find your fictional, adolescent companion instead. I've lost patience with you. With the scent of your skin, the taste of your sweat--no longer novel enough to merit the trouble you put me through.

Go on, get out. The door's over there, and your shoes are by the bed--which I notice you're not getting out of, by the way.

Why, is anything the matter?


... no. Yes. I don't--

*finishes getting dressed*

Fine. You're right. My bed's solitary. It's not like you've let me spend any time in it lately. And yeah, it's you I think about. So what? Just because I--

*slips shoes on*

Zabini's not as eager as I am? Looked in a mirror lately, Snape? No one's going to be as eager as I am.

*walks around to the side of the bed and kneels carefully at your feet*

And I am eager, you know. I don't want to leave, and I'm sure you know that, too. But I'll go if you tell me to go, and if I do, my bed won't be solitary for long. You say you know when I'm telling the truth, so you know I'm doing it now.

The trouble I put you through. You started this tonight, Snape. I came to you and I begged and I did everything you told me to do, everything you wanted. And you couldn't just-- you had to bring my father into it. My dad's dead, Snape, in case you hadn't noticed, and I'm not him.

So go on, kick me out; I'll land right in someone else's bed. You keep saying I'm a slut, so let's find out. Just because I'll think of you while someone else fucks me won't change the fact that it's a different cock inside me. If that's what you want, say the word. We both know I can be obedient if I want to be.


Perhaps... perhaps there's hope for you yet.

*reaches out, touches the collar of your shirt, slips fingers into your hair*

And I am eager, you know.

Yes. Just like this. Leaning into my touch, your eyes closing despite themselves. You were frightened, weren't you? That I'd let you leave, that I'd just let you slip through my grasp after I've--earned you. The right to keep you.

Oh, you can be obedient, but I had to know how much--I had to make you admit that you belong to me, only to me, despite the worst of what I can do to you, say to you, to make you hate me. So that you'll never--never think of--

Obedience wasn't enough, Potter. Your surrender wasn't complete, not so long as you hid it from me, tried to conceal it with lies. Not so long as there was your precious father between us, but I've proved that even he won't keep you away, haven't I? Now you know how much you need me. Now you admit it.

... And why are you trembling, boy? You've done what you needed to do. You've admitted that you're here of your own free will, not because I'm keeping you; you've admitted it, and now you may stay.

Come here. Yes, up here, astride my lap, so that I may speak into your ear.

You won't be obedient because you want to be, Potter. You'll be obedient because you need to be, because that is the only way for you to exist. When you're with me. When you're in my bed, or in my classroom, or in my office and kneeling like you are now, waiting for me to fuck you.

Now you understand it. Now you understand it--now you know that you're mine.

You've learned your lesson well, today. Perhaps this session wasn't a waste after all.


You-- you bastard. You utter, unmitigated bastard. You think you can just-- that I'll--

Earned the right to keep me, have you? Is that what you think? Didn't we just have this conversation? Didn't you just rant and rave about how you're not keeping me here? About how I'm here of my own free will? Which is it, Snape? You can't have it both ways. You can't--

I'm yours, yeah. You can pull me up on your lap like this and yes, I'll hike up my robes and work your cock inside me, fuck myself on you like the whore you think I am, the whore you've turned me into. I've said as much, over and over and over again, and if you would just fucking listen to me for once, rather than-- rather than letting your stupid goddamn grudges block your hearing. I'm not the one who put my father between us, Snape. That brilliance was all yours.

So, yes. I belong to you. And yes, I'm here of my own free will, for all you did your worst. But you are keeping me here. You're keeping me here and holding me here and fucking me here and I'm letting you.

You think I'm too young to understand. You think I can't see it. I may belong to you, Snape. Severus. But you belong to me, too.


Ah, yes. Never did ownership feel so... Soft. Tight.

*moves hands to your hips and sighs*

Keep talking, Potter. Your shuddering, angry words into my ear--not that they matter anymore, except to remind me of what a--yes--child--you are.

I can have it as many ways as I want, Potter. Have you in as many ways. Regardless of the worst I throw at you, regardless of your hate. That was the object of today's lesson, and as long as you've learned it, I find that I can't--slowly, boy, there's no rush--can't quite mind your impudence. For now. Not while you're like this.

... and I'm letting you.

Hm, yes, you are. Notice the self-contradiction there? Your claim that I'm forcing you to stay, and yet that you're here of your own free will; which is it, Potter? You certainly can't have it both ways.

And you are too young to understand. Too young to understand that it doesn't matter, not when you're panting like this, arms around me and face buried in my neck, riding me in slow, even surges with your cock hard against my stomach, leaking against your robes. Saying my name, when I haven't given you--leave--to do so--

Say it again, Potter. Dare... to say it... again--


I will-- I will-- I'll--


I can have you, too. Any-- way-- I want. Severus.





Fluid 960 Grid System, created by Stephen Bau, based on the 960 Grid System by Nathan Smith. Released under the GPL/ MIT Licenses.