Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: nehaleniaFrom: inamacTitle:
The Holly, the Ivy and the Red Red RoseCharacters/Pairings:
(sort of) tentacle sex, masochism, outdoor sex, magical charms.Other Warnings/Content:
A certain amount of cynical humour (this is Snape).Word Count:
It's New Year's Eve in the year of the Triwizard Tournament. As if Snape didn't have enough to worry about with the return of the Dark Lord, an unidentified spy in Hogwarts and Minerva's plans for a traditional Scottish celebration without encountering Pomona's defensive foliage...Horticultural Notes:
The prompt asked for "rosebush tentacle sex; also Snape as bit of a pain!slut - hot & humourous" Well, I had fun writing this – I hope it meets expectations.
In the year of the Triwizard Tournament the New Year's Eve celebrations at Hogwarts were neither as formal as the Yule Ball, nor as exclusive, since all pupils and staff resident at the school during the Christmas holidays were expected to attend.
Having lent his scowling presence to the opening ceremony and filched a plateful of sustenance from the buffet, Professor Severus Snape was making a discrete return to his own quarters where he intended to spend the evening reading through some neglected journals with a decent malt scotch at his side. He was confident that no one would miss his presence, so long as he remembered to turn up for the midnight fireworks and Auld Lang Syne.
That, at least, was his plan.
He was taking a short-cut through the courtyard when he noticed movement among the rose bushes. By reflex he aimed his wand at the foliage and uttered a blasting curse, fully expecting a couple of students to emerge from their shelter in a state of dishabille. He did not expect the bush itself to retaliate. A long, black-barbed stem uncoiled from the tangled foliage to lay a lash of fire down his back.
His robe parted under the tearing thorns, ripped into two and slid down his arms, leaving him all but naked. Furious, he shot another hex at the rosebush which, far from quelling or destroying it, caused further tendrils to strike out and complete the destruction of his clothes before pulling him into their embrace.
He found himself kneeling, naked, on the thick black loam of the enchanted rosebed, his face caressed by the velvet petals of the flowers, their sweet, heady scent as erotic as the ecstatica
potion of which they formed a vital ingredient. Astonished, he felt the sharp embrace of their thorny stems send a shiver of delightful anticipation through him.
He had not felt like this since Voldemort had drawn fire along his arm to create the Dark Mark, whose burn, after years of quiescence, had lately reminded him how addictive danger and pain could be.
Instead of fighting his way free he leaned forward into the roses' embrace, allowing the sharp thorns access to more flesh, more blood. In preparing her garden - her trap – Pomona must have enchanted more than one species of rose. The stem that had initially attacked him had been the long woody sucker of an old-fashioned rambling rose, but the blossoms that caressed his skin and smeared the blood from the thorns cuts were full-blown heads of hybrid tea-roses. While the root-stock –
Startled, he looked down to see what appeared to be furred green velvet rope coiling itself around the base of his cock and wrapping itself slowly up all seven-and-three-quarter inches of the engorged organ.
He took a long, slow, open-mouthed breath, seeking, far too late, to control his reaction. He dared not touch. What looked like velvet was, in fact, the many-thorned stem of a moss-rose. To touch would increase the agony. And to come, thus wrapped, would be exquisite torture. Snape clenched his fists in the black loam, feeling it oozing through his fingers as semen was oozing from his cock. But it was too late for control. He came, hard and copiously, come mingled with snow to paint the red blossoms white.
It was only then; still bound, still kneeling, still naked; that Snape remembered the staff meeting on the morning of Boxing day.
It had not gone well. Even had most of those present not been hungover (save himself, well prepared with an appropriate potion).
Madame Maxime was thin-lipped with annoyance, presumably about the way her pupils had fraternised with the Hogwarts students, though she refused to discuss her grievance.
Karkaroff was absent, which was a brief blessing. Though the man, for all his whinging, was right. The bloody Dark Mark was
getting stronger. And itching
like fury. Dumbledore would have to be told. And Snape was not looking forward to that smug little conversation.
And Pomona had only been concerned about the fate of her bleedin' roses, though what on earth had possessed her to conjure a rose garden in the middle of winter he would never know. He suspected her of having Malfoy blood. It was just the sort of pointless posturing that Lucius would have spent a fortune on in the Manor gardens.
"Roses are so romantic!" she'd enthused, and got very huffy when he had pointed out that the last thing you wanted around hormonal teenagers was aphrodisiac shrubbery.
"I trust that you do not condone canoodling among the students?"
"I... well, no, of course not..."
"Then you should not have encouraged it by making the roses thornless."
"There was no need for you to blast the innocent bushes out of the way like that," Pomona pouted.
"There was every need," Snape snapped. He smiled thoughtfully, recalling one incident in the garden. "And, Pomona, as Head of Hufflepuff, you might check that Fawcett is quite up to date with her contraception charms."
Pomona looked at him with an expression that would have quelled a mandrake, pulled her wand out of her satchel, and stormed out of the room. "I'll deal with it," she growled. "And I'll make sure that no one
meddles with my roses in future."
And now he knew what she'd meant.
The stems had loosened a little, sated, perhaps, by his response – damn the woman, had she used some cross-pollination with those carnivorous plants of hers? But he was nowhere near satisfied. He caught up his wand, dropped in the frenzy, and aimed another hex at the bush. But this time it did not retaliate. It seemed that there was a limit to Pomona's retribution, or else the roses themselves were replete after their activity. The thorns withdrew, the blossoms furled and he was released to heal himself and leave, lesson learned.
Shivering, though no longer with cold, he sealed the rents in his robe before pulling it back on, rough fabric scraping across his wounds as he strode back to his quarters. The sensation was not unwelcome. In fact each step he took sent another jolt of perverse pleasure coiling through his guts and kept his abused cock interested in the proceedings. He barely noticed the light spilling from the Great Hall as the doors were opened to the night, or the skirl of bagpipe music blaring out at the moment the school clock began to chime out the old year and in the new. The first of the fireworks burst overhead as he passed under the archway that led to the Slytherin dungeons. Well, he thought, as he growled out the password to the guardian suit of armour, let some other fool first-foot for Minerva. He had other business to attend to.
He paused at the door to the deserted sixth form common room. Someone had hung a wreath of holly and ivy there as part of the Christmas decorations. He hesitated for a moment, and a speculative smile curved his lips. The points of the holly leaves looked very sharp. The stems of the ivy rough and subtle. He reached out a hand, still scarred red from the rose-thorns, seized the wreath and carried it off to his quarters.
Yes, Pomona's charm had taught him a lesson, and now he made a resolution to practice what he had learned. It was going to be a happy new year.