Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: lokifan
From: songquake

Title: In the Stocks at Devil's Snare
Characters/Pairings: Severus/Draco with guest appearances by Charlie Weasley,
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: D/s, stocks, punishment, public humiliation, guests
Other Warnings/Content: No sex; this is a no-penetration club. Draco's disappointed, too. Also, whipping, welting, very minor breath play, use of capsaicin.
Word Count: 2755
Summary/Description: Draco's got a new nickname.
Author's Notes: Thanks to the mods for their generous forbearance. I also owe thanks to the many people who helped me prepare this fic: brainstorming friends, researching friends, betaing friends. You know who you are. Happy Kinky Kristmas, my fellow Deviant!


Draco Malfoy is grateful for the padding on his kneeler and on the stocks. It's a small touch, but a reminder that the point of his position isn't pain—at least the unintentional kind. No, the point is humiliation and his willing submission to it.

Draco had known it was inevitable the very first time he saw the stocks at Devil's Snare: eventually, he'd find himself in them. He was renowned at the club for being a bratty bottom, and Severus, while very attentive to Draco's limits, had given a puzzled frown when he'd first seen them.

A frown like he'd been trying to figure them out.

Now that he is in them, Draco understands his Master's confusion. Even with proper adjustment, the wrist holes are just small enough to keep his hands trapped, and he could probably fold his hands small enough that a little oil would ease them through.

But then he'd be stuck with his hands, arms, and legs free and his head trapped at waist level.

Also he'd be stuck with his Master, already displeased enough to invoke public humiliation, seeing that he is not willing to take his punishment like a good boy.

Draco knows he isn't a good boy, even when he wants to be. It's too hard. But he is trying tonight—if nothing else, he will pretend to be good until he had fooled his Master.

Maybe he could fool himself, too.

Maybe he could be good, at least for tonight.

He knees are growing sticky with sweat against the leather padding. Eugh. He'll endure it, though.

Because he's earned this punishment. And because he wants to show his Master that he deserves to have his collar, currently sitting on a low table just within his peripheral vision, back.

He feels utterly naked without his collar, so naked without it that the stocks are a comfort. If he moves his head in any direction, he can feel the leather pressing against his neck. Not as secure or comforting as the fittedness of his collar, but a beggar in his position can't be a chooser as well.

Draco is used to having the rest of his body uncovered, available for the pleasure of Severus or those whom Severus invites to see it, use it. Tonight that invitation extends to most of the Tops at Devil's Snare.

He is getting chilly, gooseflesh rising on his neck and thighs. Severus is standing somewhere behind him; he hasn't heard his feet move, nor his voice, which occasionally was speaking with other patrons. Draco imagines he can feel a slight bit of warmth from his Master and the movement of air around his robes when he turns to address a new person.

Draco shivers as his Master speaks.

"He is pretty, isn't he?" Severus says silkily. "The trouble is that he knows exactly how pretty he is, and how much others desire him."

"Is it?" replies Severus's companion. The voice is rough and almost-familiar. It unsettles Draco. He shifts his weight on his knees.

Ouch! The smack isn't a complete surprise; Draco knows he isn't supposed to comment with words or movement about the conversations taking place around him.

Still, it burns and he knocks forward, his shoulders hitting the wood of the stocks. He yelps.

It sounds like everyone in the room is chuckling at him, some with sympathy, some with contempt.

Draco's cheeks burn even more than his arse. He's failed at being good again. "I'm sorry, Master," he says, voice breaking as he tries to be heard over the laughter. "I'll be quieter, stiller."

Black swishes to Draco's right and he smells Severus's musk. Suddenly, Severus is face-to-face with him, crouching so they can speak. A buzz surrounds Draco; he isn't sure whether it is his nerves or the hum of a Muffliato.

"You can be good, Draco," Severus says. "What I want from you now is submission."

Draco nods, his neck aching at the awkwardness of his position. "I understand, Master," he says.

"Hm. I don't think you do." Severus pauses, tapping his own lip with his finger. Draco purses his lips in an effort not to reach towards Severus with his tongue. A smirk curves on Severus's face. "That was good, Draco, that you reined yourself in. You might make a good submissive yet." He cups Draco's cheek. "What I want from you is joyful submission. I know you can enjoy yourself during this time, even if you don't get to come."

Draco gasps as he feels something constrict around his cock and balls. He blinks several times, then focusses on Severus. "Thank you, Master, for helping me not to come." He can't keep the almost-resentment out of his voice.

"Oh, you'll really want to thank me in a bit, Draco," Severus says, his voice dark and promising. "For if you come without permission tonight, you'll have to leave off the collar for a full week."

Draco doesn't gasp at that. Instead, he can't breathe. His mouth opens and shuts like a fish's; he feels his eyes widen, but can't see clearly. When he finally responds, it is with a sob: "Master."

The hand on his face strokes him gently before slapping him lightly and gripping so that Draco is forced to look into Severus's eyes. "Shh. You won't fail, Draco. I won't let you." Draco tries to nod, but his neck is tired and his Master's grip strong. "But what will please me is for you to show your gratitude to those who are helping you with your penance tonight. And by the end of the night, I want you to rejoice in your absolution."

It seems like too tall an order to Draco; as bad as he is, and as much as he looks forward to the release he gets from submitting to punishments, he's never felt truly absolved.

Severus's eyes narrow. Shit. Draco was taking too long in consideration. "Draco?" Severus demanded.

"Yes, Master," Draco replies, subdued. "I'll do my best."

Severus huffs again, clearly not sold on Draco's submission. Draco can't blame him; his own mind is getting in the way. As usual.

As much as Draco wants to be good, wants to be worthy of Severus's passion and care and time, he doesn't think he could ever deserve good things. Not as disobedient as he is.

Absolution. What a miracle that would be. Draco rolls his eyes.

A bloke with leather trousers, a freckled torso with a smattering of ginger hair, and a serpentine tattoo (a snake? a dragon?) has stepped in front of him, too close for Draco to make out the features of the man's face. He wonders if it is a Weasley and closes his eyes, breathing so that he doesn't tense in comment. But the man has somehow seen Draco roll his eyes. He grabs Draco by the hair, yanking his stiff neck up against the stocks as he crouches like Severus had the minute before.

Definitely a Weasley, though one Draco doesn't know. Hell, he doesn't know anything right now except that his hair is in someone's hands and his body is there to be used. His glazed eyes stare at the man, almost unseeing. His face feels even warmer.

The man chortles. "Nice flush there, Lord Brattybottom," he says. The energy in the room crackles and hums, and if Draco were able to notice anything but this stranger and Severus, he'd hear laughter at his new nickname. "I see what your Master means about your lack of respect."

Draco swallows. Or tries to; his Adam's apple can barely move within the stretch of his neck.

His knees squeak as he tries to adjust his position. He flinches again as he catches the familiar sting of Severus's riding crop.

Draco's eyes sting as well.

"I'm sorry, Master," he chokes out.

The crop falls again.

"And thank you for correcting me." The Weasley is still holding Draco by the hair, so the words are barely hissed out.

"It seems he can catch a clue," the man says. He's smirking. Draco didn't know Gryffindors could smirk like that; even at Devil's Snare, he has usually chosen not to pay attention to those who hail from that house.

"Indeed," Severus says from behind.

He's definitely put up some sort of spell to block noise, then; usually, it's impossible to hear something said from several feet away. So what laughter exists has come from those who have chosen to focus on their scene.

Draco's cock aches with arousal at the idea. He wiggles a little to relieve it, to no avail.

Severus's crop hits his bollocks. Draco cries out, then whimpers. "Thank you, Master."

Weasley lets go of Draco's hair and Draco head falls; he sucks in air to fill his burning throat and chest. He blinks rapidly, tears squeezing out and creeping down each cheek. He shudders.

"I love how his arse moves when he does that," the Weasley comments.

"Hm," Severus replies. He swats Draco several more times. Draco remembers to thank him for each one and wiggles his arse in appreciation. He doesn't love humiliation, necessarily, but he does love the sting of the crop, and pleasures in taking his licks like a man.

Severus stands before him again, far enough away that Draco can crane his neck up to see him. "Sir?" he asks.

"Draco, it occurs to me that a mere swatting, even a public striping, won't be enough to truly punish you for your misbehaviour," Severus says, fingering his bullwhip. Draco bites his lower lip. He has a love-hate relationship with that whip and the marks it leaves on him for days. "Using them in the past, here and at home, have not actually led to any corrections."

Draco nods. "I'm sorry, Master. I'll do better, I promise."

Severus snorts. "So you've said." He pauses, then looks over Draco's head, back, body. "Charlie, what was it you called my slave here?"

"Lord Brattybottom. I thought it fit," Weasley replies.

The gathered wizards and witches laugh loudly. A slow smile creeps up Severus's face. Draco is both frightened and crushed; usually that sort of smile isn't shared with strangers.

Though he supposes those Severus has invited to participate in Draco's humiliation aren't really strangers.

"Indeed. So, Lord Brattybottom," Severus sneers. "Please advise the crowd of why you are being punished so publicly."

Draco swallows his pride along with the lump in his throat, then thinks better of it; Severus will want him to speak clearly and with strength, despite his position, despite his punishment.

"I didn't...I chose not to follow my Master's instructions while he was out working with a client," Draco says.

"And what were those instructions, Draco?"

Draco feels his face, his chest, hell, even his cock and arse heating with his shame. "You wanted me to finish brewing your specialised lubrication potion, sir, and then to use it to open up my arse and plug it for you. Then you wanted me to kneel before the door to our quarters until you arrived home."

The room is silent. Draco truly had been wicked, wilful, not to follow instructions that would have led to such pleasure for both of them. But the guests don't, can't, understand.

"And what did you do, Draco?" Severus's voice is quiet.

"I didn't want to have to use that salve, sir, so I put off brewing it. I was just finishing the potion when you arrived home." Draco scowls. He really doesn't like the salve Severus had demanded he brew; even the single drop of capsaicin means that his arse will burn for days. If it only gets used in his arse. Draco is familiar with the sensation of it in his urethra as well; Severus sometimes preferred to flavour Draco's come before deigning to suck him off.

And to be truthful, Draco doesn't usually mind it too much when Severus uses the salve on him. But Severus had never asked him to use it on himself before, and Draco hadn't already been in subspace when Severus had left the flat that morning.

"Is this the salve, Draco?" Severus holds up a phial of orange-gold liquid, uncapped so Draco can sniff the contents.

Draco shuts his eyes and takes a long breath. Another shudder wracks his body. "Yes, Master," he whispers.

"And what did you say when I arrived to find you unlubricated, unplugged, and standing upright?"

"I said, 'Sorry, Master, but I didn't have time to finish it.'"

"Which was a lie."

Draco blinks out another set of tears. "Yes, Master."

"Not to mention altogether flippant in tone."

"Yes, Master."

"I do believe that Mr Weasley's new nickname for you is appropriate, don't you?"

"It is, Master," Draco says, his voice cracking. "I was a very bratty bottom."

"Mr Weasley," Severus says, "would you please use your wand to write Draco's new name across his bum, so that everyone can see what he is?"

"It would be my pleasure," Weasley replies.

Clearly, they had negotiated this already, for Draco not only feels the name being added to his skin, but feels it stinging, a shallow welting of his new name on his arse.

Draco gasps, whimpers, and writhes as the words crawl across his skin. As he drops his head to take long, deep breaths, Severus walks behind him. He hears gasps from the crowd.

Then thin fingertips. Severus is tracing the etching of Draco's new name. With the lubrication, it seems, for as Severus's fingers leave each letter, it starts to burn. Slowly, slowly the words heat up until Draco feels "Lord Brattybottom" flaming across his arsecheeks.

It's hot. Both hot like torturous burning and hot like the sexiest, most humiliating thing Draco's ever felt.

"Thank you, Master," Draco says quietly, but everybody hears him.

Severus hums. "I think you need to accept this name as part of you, Lord Brattybottom," he says. "Accept that this is how you'll be known from now on when we play here."

Draco gasps a little. "Sir?" he says.

"Queue up, ladies and gentlemen, if you wish to help Lord Brattybottom learn his new name well," Severus says, sounding like the ringmaster at the Cirque de Magique.

And fingers, strange fingers, so many fingers trace over the welt on Draco's arse. Some of them are bare, some use a soothing oil, some use the infernal capsaicin oil. Draco never knows what is coming next, and he both hates and loves the attention.

By the fourth set of hands, Draco begins to thank his tormentors for reminding him of his name.

By the tenth inscription, Draco just chants his thanks.

By the twelfth, he is both grateful for his cock ring and wondering why on earth he and Severus ever attend "No Fucking" clubs.

And then the strange hands stop, and Weasley is standing in front of him again. Close, too close. Draco can smell the oiled leather of his trousers, feel the heat of his erection right in front of his face.

"Worship him, Draco. Show him how much you appreciate the gift of your new name."

Draco nuzzles the bulge in front of him. Weasley smells good, and he is just beginning to suck at the ginger man through his trousers when he feels the bullwhip against his arse. His mouth opens with his cry, and most of Weasley's bulge forces its rounded way into his mouth.

It is good that Weasley has kept his trousers on; otherwise Draco might suck him in, against the rules. Otherwise, Draco might break his neck as he tried to take a good mouth-fucking while his head was trapped in the stocks.

Severus continues to wield the whip, and Draco's worship of Weasley's cock continues to be enhanced by the repeated impacts. Despite the fact that there is no cock triggering his gag reflex, Draco soon feels tears flowing freely down his face.

And after five cracks of the whip, Severus stops. He rubs capsaicin into the wounds, then runs his hands over Draco's cock.

When he forces a drop of oil into Draco's slit, Draco jerks. If his cock weren't bound, he would come.

He lifts off Weasley's package, for he knows what this means.

He has taken his punishment well. He is forgiven.

Severus will give him both his collar and his release tonight.

"Thank you, Master," he said.

Severus moves forward, kisses Charlie Weasley, then moves down to kiss Draco. His lips taste of pepper.

"You're welcome, Lord Brattybottom," he says.