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Professor Snape's storage room is a potioneer's wet dream.
It has everything one could possibly want, from the classic lacewing flies to the extremely rare unicorn tears. You poke about the shelves, your wandlight shining onto treasure after treasure. Damn, if you had time and the guarantee that it wouldn't come back to haunt you, you'd steal just about everything in there.
But you don't have time. Three minutes and forty seconds before his wards reactivate. And you're only here for one thing and one thing only.
You find it right where you expected it would be, stored in the 'G' section. Everything is always properly alphabetized with Severus. There's only one vial of it. He'll know someone took it. He'll suspect you the moment he sees you dive underwater for the Second Task. You'll deal with the fallout after.
Winning that Task is more important.
You pocket the vial of gillyweed.
Now to leave the scene of the crime. You turn to the door—and it creaks open.
There's a second where time stops and you fully contemplates the magnitude of your fuck-up. Severus is going to walk in here, find you with his precious gillyweed, and kill you. Well, not actually kill you, but you'll wish you were dead, which is functionally the same thing. You are royally screwed.
Then time starts again, and it all happens.
"Ah," Severus says, looking you up and down, dark eyes pinning you to the spot as he flicks the lights on. "Of course it's you. Who else could be trespassing in my ingredients cupboard at one in the morning?"
"Could have been Harry Potter," you say.
"Even he has more sense than that."
He closes the door and steps forward. Prowls forward, like some kind of large beast who has cornered its prey. He's wearing his usual frock coat, all draped in black and silver, light glinting upon the buttons, which means he wasn't sleeping, which means you're doubly fucked because he's always in a terrible mood when he stays up this late.
You inch back, but there's nowhere to go. Your back hits the ladder. Something flares dark and pleased in his eyes.
"Tell me what you took."
You shake your head.
"Nothing. I didn't have time."
He clicks his tongue.
"What did you take? Last chance before I drag the truth out of you."
He doesn't say how he'll do it. A dozen possibilities flash through your mind, all equally bad.
"I didn't—"
He's on you before you can finish your sentence. He grabs you, pins your wrists above your head, and presses the full length of his body into you, trapping you there. He towers over you, and you gulp as you meet his gaze. Slowly, he peels your wand from your grasp and slides it into his pocket.
"Now, shall we try this again?"
He switches his grip on your wrist to a single hand and tips a finger under your chin.
"What—"
Slides his finger along the column of your throat, a languid glide.
"—did you take from me—"
Strokes a line between your breasts, then lower.
"—you little thief?"
His hand is beneath your skirt. His nails scrape at the soft flesh of your inner thigh, and you stifle a moan. As always, his touch ignites your senses.
Oh.
That's the kind of mood he's in?
You can absolutely work with that.
"I took… one hour of sleep from you, possibly more," you say, giving him a challenging look.
His nostrils flare. He spins you around in a quick motion. There's a whisper of leather as he removes his belt, and then he's looping it around your wrists and tying you to the ladder, the rung so high you have to strain on your toes to keep upright. A yank of his arm divests you of your skirt. Another and he pulls your knickers to mid-thigh.
His palm lands on your arse.
It lands hard, with a sharp crack and a jolt of bright pain. You gasp.
"Tell me," he growls.
His hand comes down again. He's not going slow. He's not giving you time to adjust either. He's going to get his answer, one way or another.
When you stay silent, he delivers another hard smack. Your breath whooshes out of your lungs. You tug at the belt, but his knot is secure and it doesn't budge. Your toe curl as he smacks your rump once more. Heat flickers under your skin. The sounds of his hand striking your backside echo between the cramped walls of the cupboard—decidedly filthy.
Everything about this is filthy.
Professor Snape has a student tied to his ladder and is spanking her.
And not just any student.
"Ah, fuck," you whine, your entire body jolting with the next blow.
His hand fists in your hair. He applies pressure, nearly lifting you off your feet.
"Shall I use more extreme measures?" he whispers into your ear. "Mmh? What would loosen that tongue? Perhaps I should make you kneel and employ your mouth to a far better use than spouting lies."
He's too good at this.
No matter your resolve, you can never last long. Your nerves are crying out for relief, your cunt throbbing to the fast pace of your pulse, arousal a brutal storm in your blood.
"Gillyweed! Fuck, I took gillyweed—"
He hums. His hand smooths along your scalp and travels down your back. He palms your arse, rubbing circles against your sore skin.
"My good girl," he says, his voice nudging the inside of your ear like smoke. "You only had to ask. I would have given it to you."
You knew that. Of course you did. He couldn't refuse you anything.
"I didn't want to ask. Didn't want any favoritism. I want to win this on my own."
"And so, after my clever, beautiful daughter recklessly placed her name in the Goblet of Fire and was chosen as Hogwart's Champion, she sneaked into my cupboard to steal from me. How is this better?"
You reply with a groan. The situation speaks for itself.
"I have extracted a confession from you," he says, squeezing your arse greedily. "Now I need to punish you."
"Are you going to give me detention, sir?"
You nearly nail thescared student voice. Nearly, because there's far too much arousal in there. The words are correct. The tone says fuck me already.
"No," he says. "No detention. I'm going to make you come on my fingers, and then I'll have my fill of that tight little cunt and send you back to bed with my come dripping down your legs."
You close your eyes at the image, your breathing stuttering.
"Any objections?"
"No," you rasp.
He spears one long finger into you. You groan, walls fluttering around him. He works you in tight, precise strokes, his thumb skating against your clit as he drives his finger inside you. Blood thunders through your veins. Severus is a hot, large mass at your back, the hard line of his cock pressed against your hip, his fingers—plural now—plunging into your slick cunt with no mercy. You squirm and you whimper, caught in a spiral of escalating pleasure.
"You're dripping onto my hand," he says with a mean, delicious swirl of his thumb on your clit. "Always so wet for me. Always so responsive."
You clench around his fingers. He chuckles and angles them differently, sliding them in and out of you at a slower pace.
An unacceptable pace.
Time to break out your secret weapon.
"Dad—"
He growls behind you. His hips rock against your arse, his cock dragging against you through his clothing. That always gets him. It's better than please, this word.
"Dad," you moan again, knowing you're winning.
"Fuck. Come on my fingers first. Come for me and you'll get my cock."
You're so close. It doesn't take much to topple over the edge. He brings you there two thrusts later, his fingers deep in your cunt, his thumb all but grinding against your swollen clit. You drench his hand with a rush of slick as you shudder through a long orgasm. Breathing cut off, stars bursting in your vision, you soar.
You're still halfway through the swell of pleasure when Severus pushes into you.
He hisses as he sinks his cock to the hilt. The steady pressure of that first thrust wrenches a keen from your throat. Heat flares anew in your belly, your cunt spasming around his girth. There's a slight burn, the stretch always on the side of too much. God, he's so big. And yet you take him—every time.
"That's it," he grunts. "Good girl."
He draws back and fills you again, hips rocking languidly. Once, twice, a third time. Slow and lazy, testing you.
But that's just the start.
"Brace yourself. Daddy needs to let off some steam."
You grip the ladder. He shifts behind you so he can better hammer into you. Then he does.
Fucks you hard, in brutal, pounding thrusts.
He wrecks you, handling you roughly, the smack of your bodies a concussive sound in the cramped space. The wool of his trousers chafe your arse and thighs, and the burn against your sore skin adds a bite of pain. Each pump of his hips comes with a slick squelch, your cunt dripping more slick all over his cock. His hard thrusts jolt you.
You hold on, letting him use you.
He's not talking anymore. He's emitting quiet grunts, his breathing raspy, his hands anchored at your waist. You love it when he gets like this. So lost in the pleasure he finds between your thighs that he loses speech altogether and communicates via grasping hands and moaning groans.
He leans in closer, curved over you, and sucks a mark at your neck. Branding you. That'll be on full display tomorrow. People will speculate your secret boyfriend gave it to you.
No one will know the truth—that your father's mouth made this hickey while he was fucking you like an animal.
He groans into your skin. You strain against him, a low whine streaming from your open mouth.The pleasure climbs to a nearly unbearable peak before it breaks all at once. You convulse silently, coming on his cock, her cunt squeezing him in brutal spasms.
His nails dig into the flesh of your hips. His grip hurts as he delivers his last couple of thrusts, fucking you through every tremor. Then he curses and spills inside you, shuddering hard. Wet heat lashes at your insides, his cock throbbing as it delivers its load deep in your cunt.
You slump into your bonds. He softens against your back for a second before he regains his footing. You wiggle your hands and he unties you. The belt has left deep red marks on your wrists. You examine them, a thrill lighting up your insides.
"How will you explain that, mmh?" he asks, eyeing them as well.
"I'll find a way."
Satisfaction smolders in his black gaze.
You put your clothes back on. His come drips down your thighs, as promised. It's uncomfortable and sticky, and yet you're not going to clean yourself up. Not yet. Not when it turns you on this much.
He hands you your wand. Kisses you, soft and slow and so gentle no one would believe their eyes if they saw him. He's only like this with you.
"Be careful on your way back," he says. "Peeves is lurking around the portrait of the dancing trolls."
You nod.
"What about the gillyweed?"
He smiles, the bastard.
"Keep it. You've earned it."