Scream, by seeker.

PAIRING: SS/Hagrid

RATING: NC17

DISCLAIMER: no harm, no foul

SUMMARY: Snape loses a bet. It goes downhill from there, as revenge doesn't quite work out.

NOTES: Part of the Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest (Snape/Hagrid pairing and scenario 78. Public Sex).

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It was a simple little bet. It was all Flitwick's fault. There was a reason Snape never participated in social activities as a rule. Of course Hagrid would come up with a move no one in his right mind would expect.

It started at dinner one evening. Snape glared at the Gryffindors, Hagrid beamed at them, Flitwick tittered between them. Hagrid offered a bet to Flitwick that the youngest Weasley brat could refrain from some ridiculous activity or other for the duration of the dinner hour, and Flitwick refused to take it. Snape sneered, reflexively, that of course the brat couldn't act civilized for an entire hour.

Hagrid enthusiastically roared, "It's a bet!"

Happily the roar was drowned out beyond the head table by the usual thundering noise of hundreds of children stuffing their faces. Unhappily, Flitwick heard and made it official.

Snape couldn't very well admit he hadn't actually been listening to whatever it was the brat wasn't supposed to do, so he consoled himself with the unsinkable knowledge that whatever it was, Weasley would fail.

How was he to know the carrot-topped brat had the headache and would sit quietly for the entire eighty minutes they watched him, neither rising to the bait tossed at him from the Slytherin table nor joining in when others responded on his behalf? Why, oh why did Ron Weasley pick that night to be a perfect gentleman?

Hagrid must have bribed him. Or given him the headache. Or somehow arranged it all to work out his way.

Grudgingly admitting, under Flitwick's beady eye, that he lost the bet, he glared at Hagrid while the half-giant figured out what his forfeit would be. He must have been thinking of it in advance, because less than three seconds after Flitwick declared Hagrid the winner, Hagrid gave Snape a bristly beaming grin and said, "I can make you scream!"

"Easily," Snape snapped testily. "The pleasure of your presence alone often drives me to the verge of uncontrollable screaming."

The beam increased. Obviously sarcasm was wasted on the large and dim. Judging by the smothered grin on Flitwick's face at least the small and swift got it. Snape sighed. Hagrid shook his head.

"Time and place o' my choosin'," he declared, still grinning like an idiot. "I get to make ya scream."

Snape awaited further explanation. When none was forthcoming, he stared at Hagrid a moment longer, decided none of it made any sense and he wasn't going to worry about it, turned with a swirl of his robes and swept down to the dungeon to inflict detention on a couple unlucky Hufflepuffs.

For the next three days he kept a weather eye out for poisonous, spiny or otherwise unpleasant creatures in his underwear drawer, classroom, office, plate, chair and coffee mug. He knew as soon as he dropped his guard Hagrid would sneak some noxious insect onto his person or into his surroundings, hoping to surprise Snape into a scream and thereby claim his winnings by humiliating Snape.

Nothing happened.

No tarantulas in his breakfast, no centipedes in his robes, no bats in his chambers. Not that any of them would have made him scream, since he routinely chopped, powdered and ground them for potions. Hagrid didn't beam at him again, seemed in fact to be treating him with the exact same respectful distance he had before the silly little bet. Snape shrugged it off and lowered his guard an nth.

He still checked his socks, his brush, and everything in between, but he was Slytherin. Not to mention a double agent Death Eater on the side of the Order, subject to Voldemort's whims and trying to keep Potter from accidentally offing himself before the final battle. Paranoia was his way of life.

Saturday dawned bright and chilly, perfect Quidditch weather, and Snape made his way to the stands to hiss for his House. Seated in his usual place ... was Hagrid.

He stopped in his tracks. Stared. Glared. Snorted with disbelief.

Hagrid was draped in a Gryffindor scarf, cheerfully oblivious to the loud disapproval from the Slytherins surrounding him, ignoring the three feet of empty space behind, below, and to each side of him. The fact that Gryffindor wasn't even playing that day hadn't seemed to dawn on him. Unfortunately, the bleachers were crammed tightly with students, and the only place left for Snape to sit was behind, below, or beside Hagrid.

Snape refused to sit behind him. Even with the action being above their heads, Hagrid was twice the height of a normal man, and Snape wouldn't be able to see over the bushy black fuzzy head. Sitting to either side would simply encourage conversation. Not on Snape's agenda for the day. He headed for the seat in front of Hagrid.

Before he could get there, four students crowded onto the end of the row, perforce shoving others over until the hole in the row was filled.

Unable to fault the students pushed willy-nilly into the fray, unwilling to physically toss enough student bodies out of the way to make room for himself, and unlikely to find anyone willing to move even under the impetus of a full-force Glare given the circumstances, Snape cursed under his breath. Stomped up the stairs, trampled several students along the row, and plumped down in exceedingly bad temper next to Hagrid.

Just in time, as the Ravenclaw and Slytherin teams flew up after the first toss. Snape ignored Hagrid, stared up in the sky, and followed the flight of the brooms with determined attention far beyond his actual interest in the game.

The Slytherins scored first, a rather acrobatic feat entailing a Porskoff Ploy that led to a pile-up of Chasers, two green robes ganging up on a blue one, a stolen quaffle, and a three hundred sixty degree mid-air flip that bent the rules of aerodynamics (appropriate for a Slytherin feint). Snape was obliged to rise with the other two hundred Slytherin faithful and yell with restrained dignity.

The children were still whooping and hollering when he sat down. Which as it turned out was just as well, since somehow or other Hagrid managed to snag the hem of his robe and toss it back of the bench. Thus when Snape regained his seat he found himself perched in the broad palm of Hagrid's hand.

Between his thighs. Which spread of their own accord when two very large fingers and a thumb pushed out between them.

Snape would have jumped back up and exclaimed in outrage, except at that moment the rest of the spectators re-seated themselves. Being the only one standing would cause a scene, and he wasn't of a mind to do that either. Not to mention the fact he wasn't sure he COULD rise with Hagrid's hand clamped on his private parts.

He tossed his head back, did his best to glare down his nose up at Hagrid, and growled, "What in god's name do you think you're doing?"

Hagrid beamed at him. Wriggled his fingers. Squeezed.

Beneath the rush of blood diving for his nether regions, he dimly heard the jolly bastard whisper, "Making ya scream."

Thankfully, the ambient noise in the stands was such that no one else heard him. Particularly thankful because Snape couldn't do a damned thing about it anyway. Couldn't move, couldn't escape, because incredible long, strong, wide fingers encased him between the thighs from the lower swell of his buttocks to, heaven forbid, his now-swelling prick. His balls were pushed back against his body by Hagrid's second finger, the length of his prick was aligned with the first finger, the thumb applied pressure at the head, while the third and forth fingers set up a rhythmic massage the length of his perineum.

Unaware that his mouth was gaping open and his eyes were wide as platters, Snape clutched handsful of his robes and tried to remember how to breathe.

The sheer audacity of the sneak attack made his mind reel. The adept execution and split-second timing kept it off-balance. The bloody brilliance of the sensations shooting off through his nerve endings and the rapid redeployment of all available blood in his system, including that which should have been feeding his brain, completed the rout.

Rocking in minuscule movements, the most allowed by the serpentine grip on his nether parts, Snape gasped for breath and kept his eyes glued on the sky. His luck was in, as the Slytherin team made several astounding plays and no one noticed that Snape's gasps weren't timed with what was happening with the quaffle and the snitch.

The thumb, as big around as Snape's wrist, rubbed harder and harder circles on the head of his prick as Hagrid stretched his pinkie up along the crease of Snape's trousers until the tip of it pushed against his arsehole. In between, the rest of those huge unexpectedly-talented fingers beat a tattoo upon his perineum. All Snape could do was try not to squirm. All over. And try not to faint.

Too soon it was too much, and he felt a scream begin to bubble up from the bottom of his belly. He tightened his throat, fists tightening until his knuckles showed white, eyes nearly popping from his head as he glanced wildly at Hagrid. Who beamed at him.

Shifted his thumb.

Pressed directly down at the same time he rubbed Snape's balls with his middle finger and poked his hole with the pinkie.

That was it.

The scream escaped, full-fledged and undeniable, as Snape erupted all over his trousers. For once, his notoriously foul luck fell right, as the Slytherin Seeker grabbed the snitch at the same exact moment Snape boiled over like an over-heated cauldron. His scream was lost in the roar of the crowd around them.

But Hagrid heard.

And beamed at him.

Slowly pulled his hand away from Snape's now disgustingly-soaked trousers, giving the twitching prick a last affectionate rub and forcing a whimper from Snape's raw throat. Put his huge paw to his nose and sniffed mightily, then beamed again.

Snape reached down through his robes and grabbed his prick, cursing breathlessly and silently as his prick, intrigued by the way Hagrid's face lit up at the smell of Snape's come, jerked again. Then he watched Hagrid, still rubbing the musky hand on his beard under his nose, get up and lumber away, surrounded by students.

It took a good five minutes before Snape could stand, and another few before he could trust his legs to carry him back to the castle. All the way across the lawn he tried to ignore his shorts sticking to his groin and plotted his revenge. It couldn't end like that. He wouldn't let it. Gryffindor were playing the next afternoon. Snape would have his vengeance.

It was Hagrid's turn to scream.

His sleep that night was haunted with formless dreams that left him hard and twitchy when he woke. Once up and about his daily routine, he found himself becoming aroused at odd times and by strange things.

Staring at Hagrid's beard and wondering what it would feel like to drag his prick through it. Staring at Hagrid's hands as they moved massive amounts of food to disappear behind that beard and remembering what it felt like to have them playing with his body. Glancing out of the side of his eye at Hagrid's arse as the massive man headed out to attend to his duties and wondering if he'd actually have the balls to do what he increasingly wanted to attempt.

Hagrid didn't beam at him over breakfast so much as twinkle smugly at him. Flitwick looked interested but didn't ask, and Snape certainly didn't enlighten him. The morning passed slowly, and too soon it was time to head out to the stadium for the Hufflepuff slaughter at Gryffindor hands.

Taking his chance when he saw it, Snape watched Hagrid stand aside courteously for the children to clamber into the stands. He was on his way to join them when Snape stepped up behind him into the corner under the bleachers and stuck his wand in the small of Hagrid's back.

"Not another step," he hissed.

Hagrid froze, then glanced questioningly over his shoulder. No one else could see Snape, completely hidden as he was by Hagrid's bulk. Snape smiled nastily up at Hagrid, whose smug twinkle dimmed with confusion.

"Look straight ahead."

The bushy head turned obediently. Snape sighed happily.

"Accio crate!" A small crate flew to land at his feet. He stepped up on it, peering round the side of Hagrid's head to make sure he was still hidden. Whipping off Hagrid's coat, ignoring the startled "Hmph!" that earned him, he dropped the material over Hagrid's shoulder into his hands. "Hold that!"

Before Hagrid could ask why, Snape snaked his hands round Hagrid's trousers and undid his belt. Hagrid sucked in a breath but quickly lowered his coat to hide the fact that his trousers were now bunched about his knees. Snape didn't bother with stretching -- his prick would probably feel like a pencil up Hagrid's arse, so he certainly wouldn't hurt him.

The first thrust felt wonderful. The hole enveloped his prick like a great gaping maw, sucking it in and rippling around it. Hagrid made a rumbling, interrogatory noise and Snape huffed, "Hush! Payback!"

Then he couldn't actually say words any longer because Hagrid made a happy sound and clenched his buttocks. All Snape could do was hang on to Hagrid's shirt tails and bury his face against the very broad back, as Hagrid clenched and released, clenched and released, humming happily all the while.

"Who's doing the fucking here, you or me?" Snape finally gasped.

Hagrid chuckled.

Snape gasped again as the temblors making their way through Hagrid's oversized frame shook his encased prick like a terrier with a rat. That was all it took. Snape shot helplessly, arching his back with the force of his orgasm, scream muffled against Hagrid's back.

In the aftermath, when Hagrid finally relaxed his arse and let Snape's prick escape, Snape's bones turned to jelly and he fell off the crate. He watched through dazed eyes as Hagrid shuffled his trousers up, shrugged into his coat, and turned toward him, absently booting the crate out of the way. Snape could do nothing but gaze up at him, robes gaping open to display his spent prick flopping against his thigh, mouth still gasping for air, eyes still platter-wide.

"Tha' was lovely, Severus," Hagrid informed him in a voice only slightly less echoing than a foghorn. "Must do that again soon. Made you scream again!"

A huge paw reached down and yanked him to his feet; another patted his prick fondly then jerked his robes gently closed. Then Hagrid was gone, still humming like an idiot, climbing up the stairs as if nothing untoward at all had happened.

Snape blinked.

Rubbed his prick through his robe before coming to his senses and tucking himself back in his pants, doing up his trousers, and rebuttoning his robe. Shook his head and wandered back to the castle.

As revenge went, it hadn't been the most effective. Hagrid won. Again.

It was not to be borne.

That night, after gritting his teeth through the requisite Gryffindor victory celebration and dinner, Snape returned to his dungeon. Dug out every reference he could find to Giant sexuality, gave it up as a bad deal when nothing beyond cross-species mating rituals were described, found the most slippery lubricating potion he'd ever made, and headed out to Hagrid's hut.

Turnabout time. He would have his revenge! It was Hagrid's turn to scream!

He raised his hand to knock but the door opened before his knuckles landed. Hagrid beamed at him again. Snape sneered and stomped inside.

As soon as the door closed behind him, hands landed on the hem of his robe and stripped him from the bottom up. He was still gawking like a landed fish as those hands efficiently stripped him to the skin, the large fingers sliding over the buttons with surpassing delicacy. He looked up from his own hairy, pale body to glare over at Hagrid.

That's when he realized that Hagrid was naked, too. How had he missed that at the door? His eyes fell on Hagrid's rampant prick, twelve inches long at full stretch and easily five inches around. His eyes bugged. How had he missed THAT?

Oh. Right. The beam. Hagrid beamed at him and all he could see were teeth and beard.

"This isn't going to work," he started to say. Before the words cleared his mouth Hagrid lifted him bodily and sucked his prick down to the root.

Which answered one of Snape's recent obsessive questions -- the beard felt magnificent scrubbing his groin.

Snape's hands came out and buried themselves in Hagrid's thick hair, his legs automatically stretching over Hagrid's shoulders. A meaty hand cradled his arse again, thumb tracing between his thighs up behind his balls and pushing in a rhythm Snape recognized. He bucked involuntarily, and damned if Hagrid didn't start humming again.

It took very little of this before Snape was ready to come. Hagrid's other hand came round to his arse and a thick forefinger worked its way in. The jolt along his nerves from that foray popped him right over the edge, and he screamed like a Muggle horror movie heroine as he pumped away, spilling down Hagrid's throat, his arse clamping down on the finger rooting about up it.

The world swung dizzily, and it took a moment for Snape to realize he'd actually *been* swung about. He found himself sitting on Hagrid's lap, his legs inside the tree-trunk thighs, the enormous prick standing straight up between his own thighs, smashing his prick between it and his belly. Sensitive as it was from being sucked dry moments before, the slick steely heat of Hagrid's prick felt absolutely wonderful against it.

Absently muttering a summoning spell for the jar of lubricant tangled up in his robes, Snape stared down at the single eye weeping up at him and tried not to drool on it. He'd never considered himself a size queen, but there was something ... compelling about Hagrid's prick.

"Give me your hand," he ordered. Hagrid obediently put his palm out. Snape dumped the jar in it. "Don't spill that."

It could wait. First he simply had to have a taste. He wrapped both hands around the stem and leaned forward, lapping all around and over the swollen, sticky glans. Hagrid moved under him, and Snape rode out the movement as if floating over a wave on the ocean, not allowing it to deter him from taking as much of the head of Hagrid's prick in his mouth as possible.

Which wasn't much, but Hagrid seemed to appreciate the effort, if his wordless grunts of approval were anything to go by.

Putting his back into it, Snape began to milk Hagrid's prick with both hands. Giving up on ever getting it down his throat, he instead arrowed his tongue directly into the piss slit, working it in as far as he could. Hagrid tasted good, salty and a little sweet but mainly spicy, and Snape wriggled his tongue in and around like the consummate Slytherin he was.

The jar of lubricant hit the floor.

"Gonna ... crikey! Gonna come!" Hagrid bellowed. Snape stabbed the slit a few more times with his tongue then prudently ducked out of the way as he felt the balls pressing against his calves spasm. He clenched his fists tighter around Hagrid's prick, adding as much pressure as he could, and rubbed his calves together, catching Hagrid's balls between them and giving them a good seeing-to as well.

Hagrid's scream nearly brought the roof down on their heads. Hagrid's spunk nearly drowned Snape, and he was glad he'd had the foresight to close his eyes and mouth before it hit. The great body beneath him shook and swayed, and Snape hung on for all he was worth, still rubbing the emptying balls, still pressing along the shivering prick, only then realizing he was erect again and shoving his own prick down hard into Hagrid's bush.

Before he could bring himself off, Hagrid sighed gustily down the back of his neck and embraced him heartily. Snape bleated unhappily. So close but yet so far, he thought, staring over Hagrid's bulging forearm at his prick, dripping with Hagrid's gooey spunk, waving about needily in the air an inch above the lovely crinkly nest it had been digging through a moment before.

"Ah, wha's that?" Hagrid crooned (loudly) in Snape's ear. "Gotta squirt again? Need a little rub there?"

Before Snape could verbally blast him -- hard as that would have been with the iron bar of Hagrid's arm squeezing all the air out of his lungs -- Hagrid reached down with his other hand. Caught Snape's prick between his thumb and forefinger. Pulled and pushed and pulled until Snape did, indeed, squirt.

And scream.

Blast. Even when he got his revenge ... Hagrid still won.

He was ruminating on the inherent unfairness of it all when Hagrid lifted him bodily again and climbed, still holding him, into the bed. Snape found himself surrounded by a wall of Hagrid, and squirmed to escape.

"Oooh, feelin' frisky, want some more, do ye?" Hagrid asked happily.

Before Snape could make up his mind whether to lie and say no, or say yes and risk screaming again, Hagrid had him upended on the bed, arse in the air, legs spread wide. Held in place, Snape could do more than moan as that bushy beard scrubbed all over his balls and prick, and Hagrid gave his arsehole a tongue-bath that widened it a good three inches from the pressure of the tongue pushing in alone. Eyes closing, fists clenching in the bedclothes, Snape gave up trying to fight it and let himself go.

Trying to keep from going insane at the sensation of Hagrid's tongue reaming out his arse, he looked over at the jar of lubricant, still whole, and wondered how Hagrid would like Snape's arm up his arse, since he hadn't felt the prick. Something to try when his muscles worked again. He might as well. It was going to be a long night, and all he could do was enjoy it.

Then he was coming again, and screaming again, and an instant before his brain melted a thought struck him.

Hagrid wasn't the only one who'd won.

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END