Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: mywitch
From: kelly_chambliss

Title: From a Baby
Characters/Pairings: Severus Snape/His Hand Plus Other Useful Tools
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: wanking, watching
Other Warnings/Content: misuse of magical artefacts
Word Count: ~2500
Summary/Description: Bertie Botts helps Severus Snape get into the Yuletide spirit.
Author's Notes: Dear Recipient, you asked to be surprised about the "who," so I decided to let you have the fun of surprising yourself. My grateful thanks to my most skillful of betas and to the tireless mods.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Give it back, you wanker!"

"Who're you calling a wanker, wanker?"

The annoying student voices shrilled along the corridor, and Severus Snape, on his way to the Great Hall, rolled his eyes. How charming. Just what one wanted as a starter for dinner -- insults, dunderhead-style.

"It's mine!" insisted the first voice. "Give it back, or I'll -- "

A shout of derisive laughter went up from what was apparently a small crowd.

"Or you'll what?" jeered the second voice. "Hex me? Ooooh, see how scared I am!"

Well, at least the idiots had provided him with the perfect entrance cue. Snape rounded the corner, robes a-billow.

"How scared are you, then, Pucey?" he said. "Do tell me. I'm all agog."

They froze at the sight of him. The resulting tableau consisted of one of Snape's fourth-years, Adrian Pucey, holding something out of the reach of a pink-faced first-year boy in -- of course -- Gryffindor robes. Surrounding the main characters like a black-hatted Greek chorus were a mixture of older Slytherin and Ravenclaw students and two more distraught-looking first-years, a spindly Gryffindor female and an androgynous Hufflepuff.

Blinking incongruously down on them all were the many fairy lights of Flitwick's ludicrously-overdone Yule decorations.

Holiday irony. The perfect touch.

Snape glared wordlessly while Pucey slowly lowered whatever it was he was holding and slipped it into folds of his robes. It was at least a passable performance of nonchalance, and Snape gave him credit for showing some bravado, however useless it would prove to be.

"Professor Snape, good evening," said Pucey. "Uh, we were just having a little fun, sir. . ."

"So I heard,'" Snape drawled. "After all, nothing could be more fun than trading sophisticated sobriquets like 'wanker,' could it?

"Er, no, sir?" said the Gryffindor boy uncertainly.

Ignorant little moron. Snape ignored him and held out his hand to Pucey. "I will take charge of whatever it is that you've been 'having fun' with, if you please," he said, then added, "or if you don't please. Either way."

Slowly, Pucey drew out a long, thick, red- and white-striped candy cane.

Snape raised a mocking eyebrow. "This is the mighty challenge you've set yourself for fourth year, Pucey? Battling first-years for peppermint rock?"

Pucey flushed. "I just wanted -- " he started.

"It's a Bertie Botts Every-Flavour Cane!" chirped the Hufflepuff. "Only the first part is peppermint. Every new layer is a different colour and tastes different! You just have to suck it."

Predictably, the older students snickered, and Snape distinctly heard someone whisper, "suck this, wanker."

He ground his teeth. Clearly, he had spent insufficient time this term striking terror and submission into students' stupid hearts.

Well, that omission would be remedied forthwith. Raising his wand, Snape made the initial motion of a stinging hex and smirked at the resulting chorus of yelps. He never actually had to deliver the curse; their little minds did the work for him. Perhaps he wasn't losing his touch after all.

"Get out of my sight, the lot of you," he hissed in his deadliest whisper. "Or you'll be spending detention in my dungeon with the leeches, learning what the word 'suck' really means."

They fled as one, and Snape allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. As he was always telling Minerva, who lost her temper with the dunderheads at least ten times a day, managing students was easy.

As easy -- if he could be pardoned for literalising a metaphor -- as taking sweets from a baby.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

By the time Snape reached the Great Hall, the din was already at headache-inducing levels. But the roasted chicken and potatoes looked appetizing, so sparing only a brief moment to regret not having thought to request dinner in his rooms, he took his accustomed chair between Minerva and Flitwick and began loading his plate.

"What's that you've got there, Severus?" asked Albus, peering over his glasses at peppermint stick Snape had dropped on the table.

Pomona Sprout leant over to shove her oar in. "Ooh, that's a Bertie Botts Every-Flavour Cane!" she announced brightly.

Snape scowled. "Why does every Hufflepuff seem to feel compelled to tell me that?" he demanded.

"I used to get a giant candy cane in my Christmas stocking every year," butted in Rolanda Hooch, reaching across two plates to take up the Bertie Botts and squint along the side of it as if it were some sort of red-and-white-striped broomstick. "I never managed to eat it, though; always found something else to do with it."

"Something else to do with it?" said Sprout, incredulous. "Like what?"

"Oh, like baton-twirling," Hooch said, demonstrating and nearly overturning half the water goblets on the table. "Or a sword," she went on, making such a sudden lunge at Flitwick with the candy cane that he jumped and knocked over a goblet on his own.

"Or a wank," Snape could have sworn he heard a voice say behind him. He whipped his head around, but no one seemed to be nearby, just old Filch plodding along with a bucket and mop, no doubt to clean up some student mess. And it couldn't have been Filch, anyway. Surely not. Probably just Peeves.

No one else was paying attention; they were all turned towards Flitwick and his spilt water. "Oh, I do beg your pardon," he was saying, murmuring a quick clean-and-dry charm over the tablecloth. "But no harm done, no harm done." He deftly whisked the peppermint cane from Rolanda's hand and gave it back to Snape. "And it's good to see you getting into the Yuletide spirit, Severus."

"Perish the thought," Snape muttered.

Minerva laughed. "Perish the thought, indeed. Of course you never feel any Yuletide spirit, do you, Severus? That must have been someone using polyjuice at the staff Hogmany party last year. . .you know, when Aberforth and that person who looked just like you drank all that wassail and sang 'Auld Lang Syne' with their arms around each other's shoulders."

Damn her. Did she have to bring that up? He'd not been singing because of any "Yuletide spirit"; he'd just been so fucking relieved that the whole nightmare of Christmas was finally over.

"Oh, yes, that was sweet, Severus," said Sprout, adding her clueless insult to the injury. Minerva snorted into her tea.

Quickly finishing his dinner, Severus pushed back his chair and stood. The hell with pudding; his colleagues were welcome to it, and he hoped they choked. Minerva especially. Some "friend" she was.

But he'd barely made it to the foot of the high table when he heard her call after him, "Severus? You forgot your Bertie Botts Every-Flavour Cane" -- and he had to wait while the whole school watched her Levitate it over to him. It was either that or have the blasted thing follow him out of the Great Hall like a pet crup. That was just the sort of idiocy Minerva would find funny. Gryffindors had no sense of subtlety.

He snatched the cane from the air and strode out of the Hall. Bugger the lot of them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Finally reaching his quarters, Snape flung himself irritably onto the sofa in front of the fire and let the damned sweet fall to the floor beside him. Merlin, but he hated Christmas.

"Accio Ogden's," he growled, and when the bottle floated over to him, he took a swig without bothering about a glass, just the way his da used to do, and waited for the warmth to calm him.

He didn't often indulge in spirits while alone in his rooms (there were limits to how much like his da he was willing to be), but sometimes it was the only way to deal with the whole endless circus that was this bloody school.

Gradually the firewhisky did its job, and by the time he'd had another drink or two, Snape was feeling almost mellow. There was a pleasant tingle in his stomach that spread gradually to his cock, which in turn gave a little twitch as he let his thoughts wander to the image of a certain nicely-curved arse that had taken up residence in his mind's eye.

It wasn't an arse that he had any physical access to, in the general run of things; it was available to him only at a distance and always covered by the folds of a school robe or Quidditch uniform. . .but distance meant that he could look his fill, storing up visions of smooth gluteal muscles in motion that he could think about later, playing over and over in his mind as his cock rose higher and higher.

He began to think that he might actually be able to bring himself off. It wasn't often that he could relax enough to come, but tonight the whisky and the image of his favourite arse were working. He could do this alone, which was much preferable, really, to the messiness of having to deal with actual human beings, particularly the human to whom this particular arse belonged, who was as infuriating as he was arousing. Such an arrogant, tight little. . .

"Ahhh," Snape murmured, opening his flies to free his cock. The cool air caused a delightful shiver, and he began to stroke himself gently. Gradually the image of the arse -- and its annoyingly hot owner -- faded, to be replaced by an equally-enticing pair of naked breasts. Well, in truth, he'd never actually seen these breasts naked in the real flesh, but he'd fantasized about them countless times. Normally, like his favorite arse, they were covered by who-knew-how-many layers of cloth (women's clothing was a mystery to him, frankly), but even robes couldn't conceal the roundness of these tits, the way they rose and fell and quivered when their owner was righteous or impassioned, as she so frequently was. (Often, he admitted, because he himself goaded her with sneers and snide remarks.)

Snape imagined himself pushing the robes off her shoulders, shoving aside that thick hair and any silly undergarments she might be wearing, and taking those no-doubt-creamy globes in his hands. . .

"Urgh, unnnn," he grunted, his actual hands pulling roughly at himself now as the back of his mouth flooded with that sweetness that a stiff cock and hot friction so often caused.

And bizarrely, that sensation made him think of the ridiculous candy cane still lying on his floor. Could Filch -- or whoever the hell it had been -- have been right? Could that useless thing be a wanking tool?

Grabbing it from the floor, Snape Vanished its wrapper in an instant and muttered a spell to widen the crook to accommodate his width. He was no Hagrid in the cock department, obviously, but he was no girl's wand, either, no matter what Black had claimed.

The smooth, cool stick felt good on his hot flesh, and it quickly grew slick against him, leaving red streaks on his skin, until he swore that he could even taste the damned peppermint. . .no, now it was something else. . .spicy, like cloves. . .

The cane, he noticed, had changed color; the stripes were now a dark, burnished orange, and the prickle in his cock intensified, the rich scent and taste combining to make him even harder, he could feel his hips starting to buck as the thought of another cock came into his head, one bulging in a set of breeches that were tight to the point of obscenity, because the cocky bastard whose prick it was had to know how the sight of him affected Snape, how the thought of those breeches opened, that rod unleashed. . .

"Mmmmm!" Snape groaned yelled, close, so close now, the candy cane moving up and down in a blur, turning green, the scent of wintergreen oil filling the air, his cock beginning to burn. . .argh, damn, this was starting to hurt. . .

"AAAAHHHHH!" he yelled, just as an amused voice said,

"Severus? Is this a bad time?"

Merlin's fucking drawers! He'd forgotten to close his firecall access after his last talk with Lucius. Now, not three feet away from him, smiling sardonically from the fireplace, was the head of Minerva McGonagall.

"Sorry to interrupt," she went on, having the nerve to act as if she didn't notice that he was sprawled on his sofa, his legs splayed, his erect and throbbing -- and green -- cock being held upright by a smeared candy cane. "I just came to see if I could retrieve my young Gryffindor's Every-flavour Cane from you. I had planned to remind you that even for Slytherins, there is no particular triumph to be had in taking sweets from babies. . .but that was before I realised that you had important plans for it."

The corners of her mouth were definitely twitching, and Snape silently dared her to laugh. Close to coming he might be, but he could still cast an accurate boils hex.

"I'll buy the brat a new one," he gritted.

"Generous of you," said Minerva solemnly. "Well, I won't take up any more of your evening, Severus. No doubt you have a lot to do. If you're as busy as I am, you won't know whether you're going or. . .coming."

"I suppose you think that passes for wit," he muttered, but her head had already disappeared from the fireplace.

Snape lay still for a moment, his eyes closed. Fuck fuck fuck. Just his damn luck; he couldn't even enjoy a pathetic solitary wank in peace. And this time he'd been so close. . .

Suddenly he realised that he was still close. Despite the excruciating interruption, he remained hard. The pain of the wintergreen oil on his prick had faded, to be replaced by a jolt of pleasure, the sweet turning yellow as his mouth flooded with the delicious tart bite of citrus.

He pumped the cane harder, this time imagining himself writhing on a bed with all three of the objects of his fantasies. . . he was being stroked and fucked and taken by the owners of the tight arse, the pert breasts, the thick cock. . .

And then he was coming, hard, his own cock exploding, his world dissolving into a golden haze of mindless sweet sensation.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gradually, Snape's bones returned to his body, and his brain returned to his skull, and with the arrival of thought came a realization:

He had just experienced the best fucking wank of his life, bar none. And meddlesome Minerva notwithstanding -- woe betide her if she ever uttered a word about this -- for once it had been easy. Dead easy.

As easy, he thought, as he removed the now-purple, sticky sweet from his groin, as taking a Bertie Botts' Every-Flavour Cane from a mewling Gryffindor.

And almost as much fun.