Antonin Dolohov in the DADA Classroom with an Enchanted Mirror Title: Painting Author:ceria Character: Antonin Dolohov Location: DADA room Object: enchanted mirror Other Characters: Various members of the OotP, implied chan Rating: R Warnings: thoughts about murder Word Count: 640ish Disclaimer: JRK owns them and makes all the profit, not me. Author's Notes: Thank you for betas.
Fools, he thought, peering into the Defence room through Malfoy's mirror as he skipped his final class before N.E.W.T.s. Soon enough he would have to return it – was he that close to finishing school? Meanwhile, Antonin wanted to enjoy his time while hiding in the DADA Professor's office. Using the mirror, Antonin spied on the various firsties as they learned, the professor guiding their delicate wand motions.
That sly mongrel, he used lessons as an excuse to stand behind the children, his large hand coveting their tender flesh. His other hand touching their fragile shoulders, the curve of their back or if he was really daring, wrapped around their tiny waist. The professor painted a picture of trust and confidence for those little ones. Yet Dolohov could see what he really did, touching them in their innocence for his own pleasure.
Maybe he should come here and apply for such a teaching position. He already knew what he'd teach the little ones. Even if they would learn little about defence and more about art. Indeed, they could become his tapestry.
Come here, little one, that's right, get down, bend over. Let me touch you. No, it won't hurt. All I want is your bare skin beneath my hand, around my fingers. I want to see that smooth back of yours, devoid of marks. For now.
With a sigh, he unfolded his legs and reached beneath his robes. The very thought of canvassing scars onto those foolish children, those pureblooded lemmings, made him shiver with joy.
Wrapping one hand around the base of his cock, he tugged on the skin of his balls with the other, twisting it. Delicious pain. He set the mirror in the crack on the desk, watching the classroom as Dearborn tried some spell, the Professor shaking his head, leaning closer, a warm hand hovering over thin shoulder. There was no finesse to his touch – he wasn't an artist at all. Antonin shook his head, knowing how he would do it. First, you had to gain their trust. That was often the easy part though his cock wilted at the thought of being polite to the mudbloods out there.
Their trust would turn to fear soon enough. It was easy to imagine discipline for the wayward brats. First, he would bare pale alabaster, brown cocoa or pink shell for his caress. The untouched, smooth skin, naked of scars and Dark Marks. Groaning, Antonin thought about the truths he'd draw across their skin in shades of crimson. The welts he could raise, the scars he could give. The murals he could build upon them.
That simple Weasley boy who couldn't stop staring at the delicate Prewett girl, Antonin wanted to taste him, to leave enameled scars across the back of his shoulders. Wanted to show him the beauty of pain, to see him writhe beneath him, the lash of the whip applied across the buttocks, the delicate skin blushing with color, streaming with blood.
A canvas of skin, being twisted and bent until they screamed with pain. They'd learn beneath him that pain meant desire, and he'd give them his desire all right. Roses to match the velvet of skin and thorns to scar them.
What he wanted do to them. His balls were tight with desire, his cock hard with need. He wanted their blood right then, to dip his fingers into it, to paint his cock with their aching bodies. Then they could see his swelling tip emerge, engorged, between his wet fingers, the leaking come mixing with the blood, all of it a canvas for his artistry. Their cries would be the final touch, the scars, his signature.
With a loud cry, Antonin came, his need temporarily fulfilled, the white and clear mixing against his dark robes.