The Good TeacherAuthor: thegildedmagpieCharacters/Pairings:
Pervertibles, nipple play, beggingOther Warnings:
teacher/student, extremes of embarrassmentWord Count:
Percy is in a bit of a sexual pickle, and his Head of House seems safer than Madam Pomfrey.Author's Notes:
Inspired by this Oglaf strip
and much too much cracky threading with pre_raphaelite1
“What have your brothers been doing to you this time, then?” seems to be incontrovertibly the right question, and when Percy Weasley pauses with his mouth halfway open, his horn-rimmed glasses fogged with embarrassment, Minerva thinks she was right as usual.
“Come in,” she tells him, gesturing to one of the chairs before her desk and setting down the sheafs of parchment she was tidying. “Would you care for a cup of tea?” He's up very
late, and after forty-plus years Minerva knows the look of a student who needs to talk, even when it's a Head Boy.
“No, thank you, Professor,” Percy says with hasty politeness. He's still standing at the door.
Thank you. I am in, as they say, a bit of a pickle, Professor, and I don't know who else to come to but you, though of course I would much
prefer to demonstrate that I can handle the problem myself.”
“That is what I'm here for,” Minerva reminds him just a touch archly. “Regardless of whether or not the perpetrator is a sibling. Do
sit, Mr. Weasley.”
Percy takes a breath and starts to shuffle across the room. He is not given to shuffling.
“I am growing a little alarmed, Percy,” says Minerva.
The sound of his given name seems to deepen a blush that, she now sees, is highlighting his freckles. He comes to the chair like a shipwrecked man crawling to the safe shores. Yes, decidedly he is walking oddly, a sort of hitching bowlegged trying-to-be-nonchalant gait that Minerva has seen a number of times on older men, though usually not when she was fully clothed. And – is he holding his robe down?
“Is this a medical problem?”
“Yes – no! No. Not quite the sort of thing I can go to Madam Pomfrey with. With which I can go to Madam Pomfrey,” he corrects himself, and winces. “Er.”
“Do I need to sit down to hear this?”
There's a long, long silence. Minerva sighs shortly, softly, and has opened her mouth to ask again when Percy mumbles, “I'm stuck in a bottle.”
“Pardon?” says Minerva, her eyebrows jumping precipitously toward her hairline. “'mstuckinnaboll.”
“Did you just say that you are stuck in a bottle?”
He's the color of that horrible pink ink that Lavender Brown uses to take notes. “I'm afraid so?”
Now, if Minerva were a good person, she knows that this conversation would wind up going a little differently than it's going to. She would immediately express sympathy, query delicately whether it was that
– ah yes, determine what he had already tried, release him from his torment, hand him the offending vessel with strict attention to not
making any remark about holding onto it for safekeeping, and send him to bed and never ever mention this again.
Minerva has to acknowledge, in the latest of several such acknowledgements over the course of her life, that she isn't a very good person.
So she says, “I don't seem to be seeing that you are surrounded by walls of curving glass, Mr. Weasley, so perhaps you could refine your meaning a bit.”
He takes his glasses off and polishes them vigorously. “I. Ah. Er. It's a certain portion of my anatomy that's the trouble, Professor.”
“I see.” She lets him stew for the briefest of instants, then asks, “The twins or Ginny?”
“Well. Neither. You see. It was a gift. A joke gift. Not the sort of thing that is altogether appropriate.”
“Given that it has wound up on such a portion of your anatomy, I should think not.”
Percy emits a strangled sort of gulp.
“I'm so glad you agree, Mr. Weasley.” Oh, she should stop tormenting him, he's such a bright
pink. She rummages through the costume trunk of her mind for her Good Teacher hat. “Let me see, please, and we'll try to correct the issue.”
The humiliation has him glassy-eyed and staring. “I'm so sorry I have to bring you this,” he says, and twitches aside his robe.
Minerva looks over the desk and stares in silence for a second.
“Well,” she says. “That is … very, very stuck.”
Percy looks about to cry.
She starts around the desk toward him and ventures to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder for just an instant. She does not say there, there
. “It's all right. A certain student –” oh Merlin the slight pushed-aside pang – “came to me in 1976 with a poorly-altered biting teacup attached to his testicles. Was that Amortentia?” Indeed, there are little spirals of steam inside the bottle and the member that's firmly lodged within is beaded with pearlescent liquid.
“As I said, it wasn't an entirely
appropriate gift,” says Percy, somehow managing to sound rather self-important.
well-brewed, however. Given the problem.” She drops lightly and only a touch stiffly to her knees on the well-worn rug beside his chair. Percy's … ah … appendage shows a bleak white ring where the elegantly turned lip of the bottle is holding him fast. What's inside looks swollen and rather considerably like a trapped, vulnerable one-eyed animal … and also looks a touch larger than it probably is even swelling up, given the magnification effects of the glass. Surely Percy Weasley is not that
manly, although she's currently learning more than she ever wanted to know about the deep ginger-biscuit red of his pubic hair. The generous allotment thereof.
“What is the problem, exactly, Professor?” He's now vacillated from pink to white, and his freckles look like burnt biscuit crumbs floating in milk. “I've tried … everything but breaking it … perhaps I should have tried that first. Lubri … cation … and gentle … um ...”
“Application of torque?” she suggests, to save him.
Bleak but grateful: “Yes, Professor.”
“Steam, I expect. The … friction caused the potion to warm. You are not going to like the solution.”
Percy bites his lip and takes his glasses off hastily to polish them again. He's starting to harden a little – well, he does have a woman on her knees at his feet and he probably didn't manage to un-harden again. “What is the solution? Is it breaking it?”
“I'd probably accidentally circumcise you.” It just slips out. She can't bite it off. And they are back from white to pink again – should she measure this as an achievement or feel guilty? “The solution is application of cold to both of the bottle's … its contents.”
“Do it. Please, Professor.”
“No need to beg. But this isn't going to be comfortable.”
“I don't care,” Percy says fervently. “I just want this to be over so that I can tell Pe – the … gifter of the … erm.”
“I didn't hear that syllable at all. Tell she of whose name I have not heard any part that if I catch her at this again, her detention will make the sufferings you are about to go through look like the lazy balmy days of springtime, do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Yes, Professor.” He's nodding rapidly. “Yes, indeed, I will certainly tell … that person. That.”
“Brace yourself,” Minerva says, and produces her wand and runs a fountain of cold water over the base of Percy's damsel in distress.
Percy yawps and turns white again, then moans miserably as frost spiders over the surface of the glass. “Can it go faster? Please make it faster. Oh Merlin's Sunday pants sorry Professor
“Curse if it helps. I've heard worse.”
“Bugger bugger bugger bugger
ack! bugger bugger please oh god bugger bugger.
She's now having to stopper a laugh. Hard. The inside of the bottle fogs over. “Nearly there.”
“Bugger this is not suitable language for a prefect bugger bugger AUGH
With her sleeve wrapped around her hand, she applies gentle back-and-sideways pressure, and the bottle comes free with an agonizing-sounding squidge
. The office fills abruptly with the scent of new ink on old paper, and Nepeta cataria
, and well-tanned dragonhide, and a subtle touch of a certain aftershave which, in the 1940s, was popular with young London wizards.
And semen. Also semen.
“Gahggh,” Percy says weakly.
Minerva efficiently drops the fold of Percy's slightly threadbare robe back over his now-limp extremity. “Take your time,” she says.
And yes, her mind says, to forestall all the jokes if anyone knew about this, which no one does: Yes, she likes her men like she likes her biscuits.
Red hair stirs under the rush of her breath as she wraps both her stocking-clad legs around his waist, the spikes of her heels scraping over his lower back. He hisses but doesn't stop, his forearms pressing her to the wall as his hips roll up to her, bringing him into her again, again. And better, better still, his fingers are at her breasts, cupping and caging them, then pulling her nipples out from her the way she likes, so they stretch to taut cones as her full weight presses her down against his narrow, boyish hips.
She feels his impressive girth stretch her, open her to stinging width that makes her bear down even harder with a purr of satisfaction. The stones of the castle wall are rough against her arse as it clenches, pushing her forward to meet his thrusts. Her hair is slipping into her eyes, but then she sees some of it is red. Is his. The strands mingle like their panting breath.
Her arms wrap tightly around his shoulders, her back arching to Halloween-cat tension as her nipples roll in his fingers. How they'll hurt tomorrow; how it'll be worth it.
She tightens about him, inner muscles she can no longer keep under control rolling slickly over his shaft as her orgasm draws him in harder than ever. He tenses, moans – and stills.
Her heels hit the floor a second later, the strain of holding them up around his waist abruptly too much, and her head lolls to one side for a second, hair askew as she feels the fullness of womanhood and of lust and of stigma overcome.
But Minerva is not a good person.
So it's not long before she speaks for the first time since they began:
“You are hereby bitterly sworn to secrecy, but you will never
guess what your brother managed to do tonight.”