magic_helmet

I have been glum this past week due to my personal life completely unravelling. (No, it's likely not as bad as it seems, and when it's behind me, I'll likely look back and call myself a wimp for allowing it to consume me as much as it has) But anyway, this was written for me by someone who prefers to remain anonymous. (Thank you, my dearest anonymouse!)

It's dark, it's non-con, it's delicious, and I know of at least one other person who will be loving this (yes, I'm stink-eyeing you hpstrangelove).

Enjoy and if the urge strikes, please comment, as I'm sure my mystery writer will be reading the replies. (PS - if anyone has a suggestion for a name, I'm all ears)


Unnamed Snarry
Rating: NC-17
Warning for Chan, non-con
Summary: Just a darkish little one-shot of Snape bending Harry to his will. (Did I mention this was chan?)
Word Count: 2,032
Posted with permission!



"I hate you," he says. He always says that. I enjoy it the most when he sobs it, but I can never stand his crying for long. I rarely have to. The best thing about children is that they are even easier to please than they are to hurt. A few treacle tarts, fat bits of taffy, or a new toy and his sniffles end; occasionally even overrode with a smile. That never ceases to amaze me; how easy it is to win his affections even after what I've done to him. Even though he knows fully who and what I am and what I will do.

"Come here," I say with an easy wave of my hand. I do not give the order with conviction for I do not care if he obeys or not. I will have my pleasure either way. He's realised this by now - he's stupid, but not brain dead and I watch with amusement as his little fists clench and unclench as he wars in his mind whether to resist me and be punished or submit and be rewarded. Of course, I occasionally mix up the outcome to keep him guessing, not knowing if this time he will be punished for obeying. I love the terror and confusion on his face then; when I change the rules after delineating sharp boundaries between what he must and mustn't do.

His mouth in a thin line, his eyes flashing, he takes a step forward as if he were under the Imperius curse and fighting it every step of the way. I expect him to turn and run from me any moment, but perhaps he has learnt his lesson after what happened the last time he ran from me for he stops beside my chair.

"Kneel." I crook a finger towards my spread legs. He presses his lips even thinner, his mouth now a white line and he narrows his eyes at me, no doubt imagining my death. Others would have long ago beaten the disobedience out of him, but it's my favourite part of him and partly why I've yet to become bored of him. I raise an eyebrow at him, letting him know that I expect him to make a decision soon.

He hisses and I wait for the Parseltongue, which emerges when he's very angry, but it never comes and he kneels, glaring at me as if daring me to hurt him; daring me to force him to continue.

I smile at him and stroke my fingers through his hair lovingly. "Good, Harry. Very good."

Nothing unsettles him more. His green eyes shift between anger and confusion and he swallows hard, his fists in little balls upon his knees.

I lean back in my chair and pick up my book, opening to the page on which I left off. Without looking at him, I say, "you know what to do." I pretend to read but, in truth, I wait to see what he does. I do not know if he knows what to do or even has the capacity to figure out what I desire. And even bigger question is whether he will do it without hearing a command. Time slides by, the clock upon the mantelpiece the only sound in the room.

Then, he shifts and his fumbling fingers find the buttons on my trousers. I train my eyes on my book and ignore him as he pushes aside the fabrics to free my penis from its confines. He wraps his hands around the shaft and licks at the head short, quick strokes of the tongue. He's always been terrible at it, but recently he's got better and now he can deep throat me with minimal fuss although never for very long. I turn the pages on my book and allow my arousal to build slowly. Later I will watch this in the pensieve and admire his green eyes, observe the looks he makes when he doesn't realise he's being watched, and delight in the sight of his small mouth and throat stretched wide by my manhood. I ignore him until I'm close and then I hold his head in place until he's swallowed me down. When I release him, he drops back to the floor, his face flushed pink, his eyes wide, and his chest rising and falling in quick breaths of air. The expression on his face is the same as when I stroked ejaculate out of him for the first time in his young life: surprise, astonishment, shame and yet, a hint of pride.

Should I reward him or punish him? Both equally appeal to me and, unable to decide, I place the book to the side and order him to undress. He glares at me, but his fingers fly over his buttons quickly, pulling off the Hogwarts uniform I dress him in. He throws the clothing carelessly on the floor, an eyebrow cocked as if daring me to punish him. I should tie him to my desk and lash his bottom until it is delightfully red and his face is wet with tears. Instead, I motion for him to stand. When he does so after a moment's hesitation, I wrap my hand around his testicles and he freezes, fear in his eyes. Ever since I mused about castrating him aloud, it's always been on his mind. I jingle the small bits of flesh in their hairless soft sac.

"Look at this little thing," I sneer, flicking his soft penis with my thumb.

It's enough to shame him and humble more than hours of torture will. His cheeks red, he bites his red lower lip and casts his gaze to the floor. I turn him around and push him down to his knees, shoving his head towards the floor. I grab the end of the buttplug buried deep within his arse and wiggle it around, casting a vibration spell on it as I do so. His fingers curl in the carpet and his body shakes. I can't resist smacking his arse, drawing a satisfyingly loud yelp from his throat. I almost lose my patience, yank out the plug, and slide into his unabused hole, but I force myself to wait. I want him perfect when I take him -- stretched enough but not too much and desperate to be filled.

"What do you want?" I ask him as I lean back and watch him tremble, his cock filling and his balls tightening. He hates this part. He won't be able to orgasm until I release the spell I keep around his penis to ensure his pleasure only comes from me.

"I want you to die," he says, but the conviction isn't in the words like it used to be. It's often there outside these moments, but ever rarer within them.

I lift my wand and increase the width of the buttplug by a centimetre. He groans, the sweat on his back glistening in the candle-light.

"What do you want?" I wonder how many times it will take on this occasion. Half of me wants him to hold out until I grow tired and abandon him, while the other half is impatient for him to give in.

At the beginning, he refused to answer but I quickly put a stop to that. "I want to be free," he says, his fingers sliding towards his penis before he catches himself and moves them safely away. It's a new answer, one I haven't heard before, and I file it away to ponder over it later.

"What do you want?" Watching him squirm and pant while he moans and humps the air. The sight fills me with desire but I am a patient man and I will wait as long as it takes.

"I want-" he says. "I want to orgasm."

I'm surprised how quickly he moves to the next step this time, but maybe he's finally learned. He's a slow student, but once he masters his lessons, he doesn't forget them. I slide off the chair and pull him up to his knees. He looks at me, his vibrant eyes filled with confusion since I used to give him release when he said those words. I've set the finish line further this time. I conjure a mirror and grab his chin, forcing him to gaze upon his reflection. To see his pink cheeks and red lips; his small, hard nipples; his red erection calling for my attention. He shuts his eyes and I growl, "look." He forces his eyes open and stares at his reflection, his cheeks turning pinker.

"Look at how hard you are, you little whore." I press my fingertip into the head of his penis and he convulses, the orgasm desperate to come out. "What do you want? Tell me what you want."

"Please," he says, his words breathless. "I want to c- orgasm."

I only allow him to use certain words. He's begging, but it isn't enough. I reach around him to pinch on his nipples; tugging them hard to make them nice and ripe. "What do you want?"

His little mind is churning, desperately trying to figure out where I've placed the bar now. "I want.... I want you to touch me."

He's learning quick. I give him a reward. "Where do you want me to touch you?"

"My cock."

I grab his nipple and twist it hard until he cries out with pain.

"Iwantyoutotouchmycock!"

I squeeze harder.

"I WANT YOU TO TOUCH MY PENIS!"

I release him and rub the injured bit of flesh tenderly. His eyes are dotted with tears, little droplets of water that catch the light from the candles. His face is hardening and if I carry this game further, I know he will be especially disobedient and resentful for days to come. He may even try to strike me. I've allowed him to land a few blows; after all, what can a child do against me? It might be fun; however, it is growing late and I have a meeting to attend tomorrow. I flatten my hand against his chest, feeling his little heart beating like a wounded bird. "Tell me again what you want and, this time, be polite."

His face twists, his eyes blinking rapidly and his mouth thins again. I know he wants to scream his hatred of me and I expect a flood of fury unleashed upon me. Instead, he forces out the words I want to hear. "I want you to touch my penis! Please!"

I drop my hand and stroke him, removing the spell on the second stroke. His eyes widen almost comically huge before they slam shut; his mouth the reverse, as a cry escapes from his throat. He comes in streams, long white splatters that shoot across the floor. I stop the vibration spell and he collapses, barely managing to catch himself on his hands and knees, before his knees give way and he's a quivering mess, curled up on the floor like a kitten.

"Filthy slut," I spit the words as I stand and smooth out my clothing, pretending I despise him for this. His body is trembling more than ever, his face buried in the crook of an arm. I wonder if I will see that bit of pride in his eyes or only shame and, for a moment, I debate forcing him to look at me while he cleans the floor with his tongue. But it's only a passing fancy, and I turn and stride from the room, calling, "clean that mess up," over my shoulder. I hope he refuses. I hope the next time I see him he smolders with rage and fights me the entire time.

I'll leave him at this stage until he's become used to my hand on his penis at his request. I'll touch him anywhere he'll ask. Eventually, I won't let him orgasm until he begs for my cock. Of course, I will refuse him then; only finally taking him when he's convinced that I won't. It may take a while, but with Dumbledore dead and the Dark Lord vanished, I have all the time in the world.