"Forfeit," Severus/Minerva, Hard R
(Hee! Well, I know this one isn't against the TOS, at least. Middle-aged sex!)
Title: Forfeit
Author: kethlenda
Rating: Hard R
Pairing(s): Severus/Minerva
Word Count: 1960
Summary: Every year, the stakes are the same.
Warnings: snarky dialogue, temporary Dom/sub situation, light bondage
Authors notes: Written for wizard_love 2007. Thanks to sionnain for the beta.
"Flattened in that last match by Slytherin, I couldn’t look Severus Snape in the face for weeks..."
The paper airplane sails high above the jubilant Slytherin contingent on the other side of the pitch. It arcs high above the pitch itself, unseen by the two knots of students there: the ones in green, embracing and chanting their own praises, and the ones in red, slowly leaving the field with heads bowed. Minerva's hands are open to catch it; she knows what it will say. Every year, the stakes are the same.
She unfolds the paper and finds its contents to be precisely what she expected. It seems we've trounced you. You know what this means. Meet me in the dungeons at eleven. S.
Minerva purses her lips and nods briskly to herself, then Vanishes the note. It's not the sort of thing she would want the children to find, should it fall from her hand or her pocket on her way back to the castle. She passes her defeated team as she leaves the stands. "You did your best," she says. "I'm proud of you. Better luck next year."
It is ten o'clock when she reaches her rooms in Gryffindor Tower. Plenty of time to change. She knows Severus is celebrating with the Slytherins in their subterranean dormitory, and she feels her lips twist in distaste. It's been too long since Gryffindor last won. Too many years of Severus having the upper hand in their little arrangement. All the same, however, she knows she will enjoy their tryst once it begins. She has learned over the years that tension falls away when the dungeon door closes. It is a welcome respite from the stresses of teaching and of governing her House.
All the same, she wouldn't mind making Severus kneel to her again. She hasn't had the chance, not since Charlie Weasley graduated. She smiles, imagining what he would look like bound--and more importantly, gagged--so that he couldn't make those cutting comments of which he was so fond.
She strips down to her utilitarian beige bra and knickers. They simply will not do. She tells herself that she's not dressing to please Severus, but only to help ease herself into the mood. This mollifies her independent streak. She strips out of the frumpy things and takes a moment to relish the cool evening breeze from the tower window as it caresses her bare skin. It's been a hot day, and a long one, watching her Lions lose in the most drawn-out Quidditch final she's seen in some time. Their fate was sealed early, yet a game cannot end until the Snitch is caught, and she privately wonders whether the Slytherins deliberately ignored the Snitch to prolong the agony.
There is a secret cache in her bottom drawer, beneath the countless repetitions of beige and practical, and she rummages through it now, her hands sliding through silks and satins. She decides on the red shot through with gold thread: bra, knickers, garter belt, and silken stockings all matching. She sets them aside, to wear after she has bathed. Another smile curls her lips as she pictures the expression she will see on Severus's face: desire and wrath mingled as he takes in the sight of the slinky underthings and realizes she has dressed in the colors of her own House. Besides, red goes well with black hair, does it not?
She conjures a bath and sinks into it, letting the aches and pains slip away from her body, savoring the feel of her long hair released from its tight knot and swirling around her in the water. She sighs in uncomplicated joy. She feels rather like her cat-self on a sunny window ledge. She feels young again, reminded that beneath her sober robes and her professorial dignity she is still a red-blooded woman.
After her bath, Minerva dons the red lingerie, then throws a modest robe of tartan over the ensemble. She steps into a pair of sensible black boots; they don't quite go with the lacy things, but the floors in the dungeons are cold.
Thus attired, she descends to what she thinks of as Severus's lair, and knocks at the heavy wooden door. She half-expects to find his apartments empty. Last year, he stayed late at the Slytherin celebrations. She'd had to wait outside his door for nearly an hour and field questions from students who walked by. She'd invented some story about helping him write O.W.L. study guides. She is not sure the same story would fly a second time.
As it turned out, however, it didn't need to. The door creaked open, and Severus nods in acknowledgment. "Come in."
She obeys, and closes the door behind her.
"As usual, you will find that the door is locked to anyone but you and me, and that it and all the walls have been placed under Silencing Charms. We are safe from prying eyes." He has already poured himself a glass of blood-red wine. For her, he takes down a bottle in the shape of a voluptuous woman, and pours two fingers of golden liquid into a much smaller glass for her.
"What is that?" she asks.
"Damiana," he says. "From Mexico. It is believed to have aphrodisiacal properties when consumed by women."
She smiles wryly. "A potion to...ensnare my senses, then?" He blinks, startled, and she chuckles. "Don't think I'm not aware of that bit of purple prose to which you subject your first-year students."
"You are fortunate, Minerva, that our little session has not yet begun, else I would need to punish you for your insolence." Yet there is the slight hint of a smile playing about his lips. She would know if he were truly angry. Most of Scotland would know if he were truly angry. "I assure you, it is not my intent to drug you. I rather hope I can...ensnare you...with my own efforts, and that the drink will merely provide, perhaps, an additional frisson."
She meets his eyes. There is a glimmer there of good humor, but also the smoldering hint of lust. She thinks, as she often does, that he seems much more handsome here in the dungeons. In the sunlight, beneath the bright sky, he always seems awkward and out of place. Here, his pasty complexion, oily hair, and sober black robes seem to fit. It is easy to cast him in a drama played out only behind her own eyelids, in which he is the sinister Byronic villain and she the innocent at his mercy, despite the fact that she is the elder by many years. And he is most certainly a safer actor in this private drama than some of the men Minerva favored in what she calls, with an eyeroll and a theatrical shudder, My Irresolute Youth.
She sips the drink, and feels heat burn its way down to her vitals, feels an answering heat building in...other places. A third heat scorches her cheeks as she says, "I do believe you are right, Severus. The drink will not be required. However, I must admit it is quite tasty."
It seems to take hours for the two to finish their drinks, and for Severus to finally ask, "Shall we begin, then?"
"Yes," says Minerva.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good girl. Now, remove your robes."
Minerva sets down the glass and pulls her robes up over her head, then removes the ugly, sensible boots. There is a subterranean chill in the dungeon, but the alcohol seems to warm her skin from within, and she feels only slightly cold as she stands in her underwear and bare feet.
Severus raises one eyebrow when he sees the color scheme. "You fly the banner of a loser," he says.
She smirks. "I'm no more a fair-weather fan than you are when my side has a good run of it."
His lips twitch and for a moment she half-expects him to laugh, but he controls his reaction and keeps his expression stern. "Did I say you could look me in the eyes like that?"
"No," she replies, and when she sees the eyebrow lift again, she corrects herself. "No, sir."
He nods. "Lie down on the bed."
She obeys, stretching out comfortably on her back atop the emerald-colored duvet. He takes his time tying first one wrist and then the other to the curlicues of the headboard; she watches his potion-stained fingers weave the ropes this way and that, pulling them tighter.
"I don't know why you don't just use Incarcerous like normal wizards," she can't resist saying. "Sir."
"Any fool can brandish his wand about and conjure up a serviceable rope. To do the thing properly, however, requires skill."
She'd known he would say something of the sort, and within the parameters of their game, she loves the acid edge to his voice that only annoys her in real life. She relaxes into the bonds as Severus finishes the last few knots.
He straddles her, one leg to either side of her chest, one hand on the headboard helping to support his weight. He opens his robes with the other hand. He is nude beneath his robes, and already hard. "I think I have just the thing for that overactive mouth of yours," he says.
Minerva knows what he wants, and complies. She darts out her tongue and licks him up and down, and when he presses impatiently against her lips, she takes him into her mouth. It's difficult to do a truly good job of it in this awkward position and without the use of her hands. Then again, the simple knowledge that she cannot be perfect under these circumstances is balm to her in some inexplicable way, as though the weight of having to be good and wise and competent has been lifted from her. She is only herself, flawed yet desired anyway, and she loves this.
Severus groans as she sucks him, and for a moment she thinks he will finish like that, but instead he pulls out of her mouth, then removes his robes. He explores between her thighs with his fingers, finding her wet and ready, and nods, as though confirming a hunch. He covers her with his body, hot and alive but so thin that she bites back an exhortation to eat once in a while, damn it. His stringy hair falls around her face like a curtain as he thrusts into her. She arches from the bed to meet his motion. Her desire is still building when he chokes out a great groan and spills inside her.
He takes a few moments to catch his breath after pulling out, then smiles. She is pleased to see him so relaxed, knowing he rarely allows himself to unwind enough to smile.
"You've been a good girl," he says. He strokes her tangled hair, and caresses her clit with the other hand, circling deftly and ever harder until she peaks, shuddering beneath his hand, and lets herself fall into delicious lassitude.
Severus rises, tidying himself and slipping back into his robes. He unties the knots that bind Minerva to the headboard. He turns his back then, ostensibly fiddling with an unraveling thread in his garments, so that she cannot see his expression. "I'm rather glad," he says, "that the final match was not Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff."
"Indeed," she says. She wonders if he's smiling again, but she can sense that he's putting Severus aside and stepping back into Snape, and so there's little chance he'll let her see if she is right. "That would make for a rather dull June, would it not?"
Title: Forfeit
Author: kethlenda
Rating: Hard R
Pairing(s): Severus/Minerva
Word Count: 1960
Summary: Every year, the stakes are the same.
Warnings: snarky dialogue, temporary Dom/sub situation, light bondage
Authors notes: Written for wizard_love 2007. Thanks to sionnain for the beta.
"Flattened in that last match by Slytherin, I couldn’t look Severus Snape in the face for weeks..."
The paper airplane sails high above the jubilant Slytherin contingent on the other side of the pitch. It arcs high above the pitch itself, unseen by the two knots of students there: the ones in green, embracing and chanting their own praises, and the ones in red, slowly leaving the field with heads bowed. Minerva's hands are open to catch it; she knows what it will say. Every year, the stakes are the same.
She unfolds the paper and finds its contents to be precisely what she expected. It seems we've trounced you. You know what this means. Meet me in the dungeons at eleven. S.
Minerva purses her lips and nods briskly to herself, then Vanishes the note. It's not the sort of thing she would want the children to find, should it fall from her hand or her pocket on her way back to the castle. She passes her defeated team as she leaves the stands. "You did your best," she says. "I'm proud of you. Better luck next year."
It is ten o'clock when she reaches her rooms in Gryffindor Tower. Plenty of time to change. She knows Severus is celebrating with the Slytherins in their subterranean dormitory, and she feels her lips twist in distaste. It's been too long since Gryffindor last won. Too many years of Severus having the upper hand in their little arrangement. All the same, however, she knows she will enjoy their tryst once it begins. She has learned over the years that tension falls away when the dungeon door closes. It is a welcome respite from the stresses of teaching and of governing her House.
All the same, she wouldn't mind making Severus kneel to her again. She hasn't had the chance, not since Charlie Weasley graduated. She smiles, imagining what he would look like bound--and more importantly, gagged--so that he couldn't make those cutting comments of which he was so fond.
She strips down to her utilitarian beige bra and knickers. They simply will not do. She tells herself that she's not dressing to please Severus, but only to help ease herself into the mood. This mollifies her independent streak. She strips out of the frumpy things and takes a moment to relish the cool evening breeze from the tower window as it caresses her bare skin. It's been a hot day, and a long one, watching her Lions lose in the most drawn-out Quidditch final she's seen in some time. Their fate was sealed early, yet a game cannot end until the Snitch is caught, and she privately wonders whether the Slytherins deliberately ignored the Snitch to prolong the agony.
There is a secret cache in her bottom drawer, beneath the countless repetitions of beige and practical, and she rummages through it now, her hands sliding through silks and satins. She decides on the red shot through with gold thread: bra, knickers, garter belt, and silken stockings all matching. She sets them aside, to wear after she has bathed. Another smile curls her lips as she pictures the expression she will see on Severus's face: desire and wrath mingled as he takes in the sight of the slinky underthings and realizes she has dressed in the colors of her own House. Besides, red goes well with black hair, does it not?
She conjures a bath and sinks into it, letting the aches and pains slip away from her body, savoring the feel of her long hair released from its tight knot and swirling around her in the water. She sighs in uncomplicated joy. She feels rather like her cat-self on a sunny window ledge. She feels young again, reminded that beneath her sober robes and her professorial dignity she is still a red-blooded woman.
After her bath, Minerva dons the red lingerie, then throws a modest robe of tartan over the ensemble. She steps into a pair of sensible black boots; they don't quite go with the lacy things, but the floors in the dungeons are cold.
Thus attired, she descends to what she thinks of as Severus's lair, and knocks at the heavy wooden door. She half-expects to find his apartments empty. Last year, he stayed late at the Slytherin celebrations. She'd had to wait outside his door for nearly an hour and field questions from students who walked by. She'd invented some story about helping him write O.W.L. study guides. She is not sure the same story would fly a second time.
As it turned out, however, it didn't need to. The door creaked open, and Severus nods in acknowledgment. "Come in."
She obeys, and closes the door behind her.
"As usual, you will find that the door is locked to anyone but you and me, and that it and all the walls have been placed under Silencing Charms. We are safe from prying eyes." He has already poured himself a glass of blood-red wine. For her, he takes down a bottle in the shape of a voluptuous woman, and pours two fingers of golden liquid into a much smaller glass for her.
"What is that?" she asks.
"Damiana," he says. "From Mexico. It is believed to have aphrodisiacal properties when consumed by women."
She smiles wryly. "A potion to...ensnare my senses, then?" He blinks, startled, and she chuckles. "Don't think I'm not aware of that bit of purple prose to which you subject your first-year students."
"You are fortunate, Minerva, that our little session has not yet begun, else I would need to punish you for your insolence." Yet there is the slight hint of a smile playing about his lips. She would know if he were truly angry. Most of Scotland would know if he were truly angry. "I assure you, it is not my intent to drug you. I rather hope I can...ensnare you...with my own efforts, and that the drink will merely provide, perhaps, an additional frisson."
She meets his eyes. There is a glimmer there of good humor, but also the smoldering hint of lust. She thinks, as she often does, that he seems much more handsome here in the dungeons. In the sunlight, beneath the bright sky, he always seems awkward and out of place. Here, his pasty complexion, oily hair, and sober black robes seem to fit. It is easy to cast him in a drama played out only behind her own eyelids, in which he is the sinister Byronic villain and she the innocent at his mercy, despite the fact that she is the elder by many years. And he is most certainly a safer actor in this private drama than some of the men Minerva favored in what she calls, with an eyeroll and a theatrical shudder, My Irresolute Youth.
She sips the drink, and feels heat burn its way down to her vitals, feels an answering heat building in...other places. A third heat scorches her cheeks as she says, "I do believe you are right, Severus. The drink will not be required. However, I must admit it is quite tasty."
It seems to take hours for the two to finish their drinks, and for Severus to finally ask, "Shall we begin, then?"
"Yes," says Minerva.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good girl. Now, remove your robes."
Minerva sets down the glass and pulls her robes up over her head, then removes the ugly, sensible boots. There is a subterranean chill in the dungeon, but the alcohol seems to warm her skin from within, and she feels only slightly cold as she stands in her underwear and bare feet.
Severus raises one eyebrow when he sees the color scheme. "You fly the banner of a loser," he says.
She smirks. "I'm no more a fair-weather fan than you are when my side has a good run of it."
His lips twitch and for a moment she half-expects him to laugh, but he controls his reaction and keeps his expression stern. "Did I say you could look me in the eyes like that?"
"No," she replies, and when she sees the eyebrow lift again, she corrects herself. "No, sir."
He nods. "Lie down on the bed."
She obeys, stretching out comfortably on her back atop the emerald-colored duvet. He takes his time tying first one wrist and then the other to the curlicues of the headboard; she watches his potion-stained fingers weave the ropes this way and that, pulling them tighter.
"I don't know why you don't just use Incarcerous like normal wizards," she can't resist saying. "Sir."
"Any fool can brandish his wand about and conjure up a serviceable rope. To do the thing properly, however, requires skill."
She'd known he would say something of the sort, and within the parameters of their game, she loves the acid edge to his voice that only annoys her in real life. She relaxes into the bonds as Severus finishes the last few knots.
He straddles her, one leg to either side of her chest, one hand on the headboard helping to support his weight. He opens his robes with the other hand. He is nude beneath his robes, and already hard. "I think I have just the thing for that overactive mouth of yours," he says.
Minerva knows what he wants, and complies. She darts out her tongue and licks him up and down, and when he presses impatiently against her lips, she takes him into her mouth. It's difficult to do a truly good job of it in this awkward position and without the use of her hands. Then again, the simple knowledge that she cannot be perfect under these circumstances is balm to her in some inexplicable way, as though the weight of having to be good and wise and competent has been lifted from her. She is only herself, flawed yet desired anyway, and she loves this.
Severus groans as she sucks him, and for a moment she thinks he will finish like that, but instead he pulls out of her mouth, then removes his robes. He explores between her thighs with his fingers, finding her wet and ready, and nods, as though confirming a hunch. He covers her with his body, hot and alive but so thin that she bites back an exhortation to eat once in a while, damn it. His stringy hair falls around her face like a curtain as he thrusts into her. She arches from the bed to meet his motion. Her desire is still building when he chokes out a great groan and spills inside her.
He takes a few moments to catch his breath after pulling out, then smiles. She is pleased to see him so relaxed, knowing he rarely allows himself to unwind enough to smile.
"You've been a good girl," he says. He strokes her tangled hair, and caresses her clit with the other hand, circling deftly and ever harder until she peaks, shuddering beneath his hand, and lets herself fall into delicious lassitude.
Severus rises, tidying himself and slipping back into his robes. He unties the knots that bind Minerva to the headboard. He turns his back then, ostensibly fiddling with an unraveling thread in his garments, so that she cannot see his expression. "I'm rather glad," he says, "that the final match was not Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff."
"Indeed," she says. She wonders if he's smiling again, but she can sense that he's putting Severus aside and stepping back into Snape, and so there's little chance he'll let her see if she is right. "That would make for a rather dull June, would it not?"