Slip of the Tongue by seeker

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Two days into pre-term preparations and Severus Snape was ready to hex the new DADA teacher into the middle of summer.

"How am I supposed to concentrate on presenting syllabi for idiotic, lazy children, with oblivious fellow faculty with no more self preservation instincts than lemmings on the beach, Death Eaters dropping in on me at all hours of the night, that bloody dunderhead doing more harm than good with his utter lack of any glimmering of intelligence, and all you can offer is --"

"Gumdrop?" Dumbledore offered on cue.

Had Snape been the screaming type he'd have been echoing all the way down to the dungeons. As it was, he sat so upright in the chair he might as well have had a broomstick up his bum and glared so hard at his Headmaster it was a wonder the flowing white beard didn't combust under the heat of his gaze.

"Biscuit? I've the tasty chocolate ones with chopped up hazelnuts," Dumbledore urged.

Snape managed not to growl and snap at him, but it was a close thing. Held in check ONLY because he had the sinking feeling Albus knew precisely what he was doing and enjoyed every second of making Snape lose control.

So he wouldn't.

Instead he carefully sat the fragile china cup, still full of steaming tea, on its fragile china saucer, folded his arms over a breast he wasn't ashamed to admit was heaving with indignation, stuck his nose in the air and glared down it at Dumbledore.

A pretty impressive feat, given the proportions of his nose, and the fact that not only was Albus three inches taller than Snape, he was sitting in a raised chair on a raised dais behind a massive desk. Effectively, Snape was looking down his nose at a face a foot higher than his. Still, his nose was up to the challenge, and so were his beady, irritated, black, fire-shooting eyes.

Dumbledore sighed. "I couldn't offer you the position, Severus," he rumbled, hurrying on before Snape could demand to know why not. "Too much obvious good will toward you would lead to suspicion, and you must stay in the shadows to remain so outstandingly useful in what you do."

Snape grumped. Dumbledore's smile turned from wistful to encouraging. Snape inched his nose up higher and glared a little more hotly.

"True, Gilderoy isn't the most adept at the Dark Arts --"

"Or anything other than self-aggrandizement and continual primping," Snape interjected.

Dumbledore ignored him. As usual. "--but he does effectively take the spotlight off anyone else on the faculty --"

"By force, if necessary," Snape sniped. That earned him a look, half reproach, half laughter.

"--which can only be to our advantage. To YOUR advantage."

All right. So the old man had a point. Still ... "He's inept. Dangerous. Incredibly dense." Snape reached for his cup and took a sip of tea.

"But rather cute, don't you think?"

The tea splattered in a fine spray across the front of Dumbledore's desk. Snape stared at the Headmaster in abject horror as Dumbledore patted his sprayed beard with a serviette and smiled benignly.

"You will keep an eye on him, won't you, Severus?"

It wasn't a suggestion.

Given his orders, Snape did what he always did. He bit his tongue, refused enough candies to induce a diabetic coma, and stalked dramatically back to his dungeons. It was going to be a long year.

A very long year.

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Gilderoy Lockhart surveyed his domain and smiled. Beautifully. All was well with the world. His picture was appearing in Witch Weekly and the Daily Prophet on a regular basis; he had several pictures with that irritatingly publicity-shy boy The Great Harry Potter, and he outshone the scruffy little bastard in all of them; no students had actually died in any of his classes; and he had An Admirer.

The fact that The Admirer was Severus Snape, the polar opposite of him in every way, was icing on his own particular personal cake. He, Gilderoy the Gorgeous, sparkled with light from his golden hair to his perfect teeth to his spangled robes to his shining boot tips. Snape, dramatic flaring raven of a man that he was, sucked all the light -- not to mention the oxygen -- from the room simply by walking past it, much less entering it. He swooped, he skulked, he was all dark eyes and dark hair and dark glower, and absolutely not photogenic.

Plus, he was sexy as hell.

Perfect to be Gilderoy Lockhart's lover. All that contained energy, that great dramatic flair, that NOSE -- promising SO much in the package department -- and he never spoke without sneering, never allowed photographs, would never horn his way in on the spotlight that should by rights always shine on Gilderoy the Great.

Besides, he was incredibly shaggable.

Sneer he might, and did, continually, but if one were to pay no heed to the cutting sarcastic comments -- and Gilderoy never paid attention to what Snape SAID, since he didn't understand the vast majority of it -- the voice itself was sex incarnate. Add the voice to the air of a smoldering volcano poised to erupt, hands that looked like they could drive a man clear past ecstasy with the same ease as they gutted a newt, and an arse one could bounce a knut off and have it hit the ceiling ... well, enough said.

It was time Gilderoy let it be known he Was Available to His Admirer.

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It was bad enough when he'd had to watch the dunderheaded git, Snape snarled internally, but now he was being watched in return, and it was untenable. The bloody moron had taken to posing now, every time Snape came within spitting distance, and oh, but the temptation to do just that was almost unbearable.

Spit, or hit Lockhart with something large, blunt, heavy, and preferably with nails pounded through the end of it. Sharp ends first.

That would definitely undermine his attempts to remain invisible, however, so Snape ground his teeth hard enough to give him mandibular difficulties and tried not to visibly cringe when Lockhart began to ... well, it appeared as though he was being courted.

In the most passively aggressive suit it had ever been his displeasure to endure.

Sex for Snape had always been straightforward, if rare. With Lucius, the times were few and far between -- particularly once Narcissa got wind of it -- but still not anything Byzantine. Lucius would walk over, say, "Let's fuck," and they would. Or "bend over," same end result.

With Remus, it was more in the way of a howl at expeditious times of the month, until Snape figured out precisely what those howls presaged, and why Remus was so infernally oral in his fixation. After the incident in the Shack, Lupin never got near Snape's privates again.

Too bad, really. He'd been one hell of a cocksucker.

The one and only time with James had been such a disaster neither one of them had been able to look at the other for days, and two weeks later Potter started dating Lily. It was lowering to think he'd literally scared the other boy straight.

He didn't even want to think about Voldemort. Sex with the Dark Lord was much like being mauled by a very large, rotting gerbil with incredibly foul breath. Happily since becoming discorporeal, he hadn't bothered much with Snape. Voldemort had other relief closer at hand. Served Pettigrew right for being such an arse-kisser, the little rat. Still, when he'd been wanted, it had been obvious. "Sssssnape! On your kneeeeeeees!" didn't leave a lot of room for interpretation.

So Lockhart was a puzzlement, and one that left a bad lingering aftertaste in his brain when Snape thought on it too long. Not that he could get away from it. Once the bloody fool decided he wanted Snape, and with Dumbledore's explicit command keeping poor Snape in place, there wasn't anywhere for him to hide.

At mealtimes, Lockhart would crowd him at the table, with his shiny robes and his shiny teeth and his grating voice, all combining to give Snape the migraine before he could choke down the bare minimum sustenance required to keep himself alive and escape. After hours in the faculty tea room, Snape would claim his chair by the fire and bare his teeth at any oncomers, and Lockhart would come on despite the clear and present danger. A time or two -- well, every time -- Snape rather hoped Lockhart would swish a little too enthusiastically by the fire and go up in flames. He even had a gasoline charm waiting for just such an opportunity. But Merlin protected idiots and children. So Snape's students, and Snape's stalker, were both quite well protected.

Eventually, it became too much to be borne. The final straw came at dinner one Friday evening, as Lockhart leaned so far over into Snape's private space he might as well have been sitting in Snape's lap, and Snape happened to glance up and see Harry Potter smirking at him.

That was it.

Snape's scant supply of patience dried completely up, his wit at its end, he unclenched his jaw far enough to hiss the two inches between his mouth and Lockhart's ear, "Bite me!"

Then he rose with enough force to fling Lockhart back into his own chair and ... stalked, yes, he stalked, he didn't flee, no, he didn't ... ran from the dining hall to his safe secure solitary dungeon.

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Had he been looking behind him when he ran from the room, Snape would have seen a sight guaranteed to strike fear into even the bravest, or darkest, heart. Gilderoy Lockhart stared after his fleeing form with a mixture of admiration, calculation, and unadulterated lust writ large across his face.

Of course, to Gilderoy the Gifted, it was his seduction technique that had His Dear Admirer so befuddled he couldn't wait until a decent interval had passed before he fled to make all ready for his Beloved. Lockhart licked his lips, plopped his chin on his hand, and thought of all that his Darling had let slip in those two terse words.

So, Severus liked to be bitten. Beautiful. Lockhart's smile turned more than a tad feral. Perfect. Gilderoy liked to bite.

Taking his time, planning his evening, he finished his dinner in a leisurely manner and made time to pose with a few of his students, beaming and gleaming, before going to his chamber to freshen up. Opening a trunk, the contents of which he'd feared he might have to wait much longer to use, not expecting Severus' enthusiasm, he carefully picked over his extensive supply of equipment, setting aside several. Then he put some back and took out others. Then he put some more back and took out still others. Finally, satisfied, he wrapped them all up in a bundle with several long silk scarves, gathered his wand, checked unnecessarily one last time to ensure all was perfection with his appearance -- it was -- and began the long journey to the dungeons, where His Darling waited to be bitten.

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Haven. At long last. Ignoring the exhaustion pulling at him, as it was more mental than physical and he was quite used to dictating terms to his brain and having his body obey, Snape stood in the center of his chamber and closed his eyes. He had several options. He could do some work on the experiments simmering in his laboratory. He could create several quizzes to spring on unsuspecting students the first week of term. He could catch up on his professional journal reading, as he was falling behind due to having to deal with idiotic fellow faculty, dunderheaded DADA instructors who were neither competent in the Dark Arts nor qualified to be instructors ... he could drink until his eyes crossed and fall into bed.

The last option sounded best.

He was reaching for the wine when his door thundered open, slamming against the opposite wall. Whirling on his heel, wand to the ready, he was struck dumb and frozen in place by the impossible sight of Gilderoy Lockhart in all his eyeball-dazzling glory. Pomaded and brushed and sparkling from head to toe.

Snape was still trying to shake off blindness from light refracted off all the sequins when Lockhart ... pounced on him.

It had been so long since anyone had pounced without first hexing or cursing him that Snape was once again caught off-guard. There was so little actual threat attached to Lockhart Snape couldn't quite wrap his brain around the fact that he was under attack. Consequently, Lockhart had most of Snape's buttons undone before Snape realized he was supine on his own bed.

"What the bloody fucking hell do you think you're doing?" he shrieked with no pretense to dignity.

"Doing as you requested, darling," Lockhart trilled incomprehensibly at him.

Before Snape could seek clarification, undoubtedly useless since Lockhart's mind was approximately the consistency of undercooked pudding, Lockhart did the unexpected. Again. He dumped a bag that rattled much like a mechanic's tool kit on the bed beside Snape. Snagged Snape's wrists and tied them to the bedposts. While Snape was staring, slack-jawed, at his bound hands, Lockhart, giggling happily to himself, yanked Snape's legs apart and tied them to the posts at the foot of the bed.

"Wha-- ... Gah ..." Snape tried to protest. Truly, he did. Except that every time he started to form a word, Lockhart bit him.

First on the nipple, strangling a reiteration of Snape's original question in his throat. That led to a strenuous round of sucking, shorting out many of Snape's brain cells. Just as he gathered enough of his thoughts to say Lockhart's first name, as formality might be inappropriate for use when a man was laying a trail of love bites across one's torso, Snape managed the first letter when Lockhart bit him again.

Right on the end of his prick.

So much for higher brain function. Snape had no idea how Lockhart had discovered his weakness, since Snape himself hadn't realized it was one, but as Lockhart dropped biting kiss after kissing bite from Snape's shivering neck to his widely-spread thighs, Snape found himself making several noises he'd never heard any human make.

Nor animal, for that matter.

None of them resembled words. In the slightest.

"Oh, lovely, lovely, lovely," Lockhart babbled as he latched onto the side of Snape's throat and raised a welt so deep and wide Snape would have to wear a collar up to his ear lobes to cover it. All Snape could do was writhe and gibber.

"Oh, sweet, so so sweet, oh, sweet," Lockhart blathered on as he bit a row of bruises down Snape's chest, dallying over his nipples until they were swollen and more tender than they had ever been. Snape arched and groaned like a dying man.

"Oh, tasty, quite tasty, oh, tasty indeed!" Lockhart brayed as he nipped and chewed from Snape's pelvic bone to his balls down between his arse cheeks and up the length of his prick. Out of his mind by this point, Snape screamed, "Suck me already, you useless sack of shite!"

Lockhart drew away completely. Snape sniveled. Perhaps he'd offended him. Then Lockhart dived on him and swallowed him down to the bush, and Snape sighed in relief before yelped like a dog with his paw caught in a trap. He should have known Lockhart was too stupid to offend. He'd had no way of knowing Lockhart chewed when he sucked.

It was a good thing the ropes magically retied the knots as they came undone, because otherwise those perfect golden curls would be dangling in bloody clumps from Snape's clawing hands.

It felt so incredibly good and hurt like a son of a bitch. Snape wasn't the least surprised to realize he was more than a bit of a masochist. After all, he had chosen Lucius of his own free will. Rather. Which showed a real talent for self-torture from the beginning. Still, he'd had no inkling Lockhart would have such a talent for ... using his teeth.

With a slurping sound much like a toddler with a lolly, Lockhart nibbled his way up the length of Snape's prick and let it pop from his mouth. Snape had only just gotten a great gasping lungful of air into his starved lungs when Lockhart bubbled, "Wonderful!" and bit the end of his prick again.

Hard.

Then chewed.

"FUCK!" Snape screamed like a banshee in heat and came like an uncapped geyser. Lockhart made no comment, as he was too busy trying not to drown.

Eventually, Snape stopped spasming and collapsed on the bed, feeling as if he'd stood on a Muggle highway and been run down by several lorries in a row. He looked blearily up into Lockhart's shiny face, spunk dripping off his now less-than-perfect but still annoyingly perky curls, opening and closing his mouth several times without being able to make a single coherent sound.

"Are you ready, then?" Lockhart asked gleefully.

Snape blinked at him.

"For your next request. Really, you're such a blunt man. So ... so to the point. No roundaboutation with you, oh, no."

Still babbling inanely away, he tapped the ropes twice and flipped Snape over onto his belly with more verve than Snape expected, given that he was turning a deadweight, and it was Lockhart, after all. He was still pondering this when the first loud slap echoed across the stone chamber and, an instant later, a deep burn made itself known across his right arse cheek.

"Holy hell!" he shrieked again, his voice a little rusty from screaming himself hoarse moments before, when he'd come so hard he'd nearly given himself a nosebleed. Then another crack, and a slashing pain to match across the left cheek, then another, crossing both.

And so it went.

Snape was in shock. Lockhart was spanking him. Well, actually, cropping him, and who would have expected that little kink? For half a heartbeat, Snape actually felt a little sorry for the students who were going to have to suffer this idiot, then reminded himself firstly, that corporal punishment was no longer allowed at Hogwarts -- he sighed with regret at cherished childhood memories-- and secondly, that they were students and bloody well deserved anything coming to them.

Then the crop was switched out for a broad-bladed paddle, and all attempt at rational thought fled, moaning in pleasure in the face of the warmth jolting all the way through his arse. Not to mention the fact that he was hard again, a minor miracle, but not altogether surprising given his normally celibate state and his newly discovered affinity for Lockhart's heavy hand.

And his teeth.

Which he now put to good use biting all over Snape's well warmed, cross-hatched, welted arse.

Snape was bucking like one of Hagrid's wild beasts by this point, when Lockhart upped the ante by suddenly plunging two fingers into his hole and twisting. Given that he didn't stop biting the entire time and Snape couldn't stop jerking about on the bed, it made for quite an exciting interlude. Snape was nearly coming when Lockhart made another unannounced complete withdrawal. By this time too many of his brain cells had been sacrificed for any decent name calling, so Snape reluctantly gave up hope of insult and merely whined needily until Lockhart returned.

Prick first.

"Yes!" Snape yelped. "Fuck me! Harder! Harder! Deeper!" God, Lockhart had a tiny prick. It wasn't nearly enough. Unable to help himself, he asked pitifully, "Are you in yet?"

Lockhart bleated and spurted, and Snape growled like Lupin at his high-moon finest. "MORE!" he demanded.

Luckily for Lockhart's continued existence, given the state of insensible need to which he'd reduced Snape -- not to mention how mean and vengeful unsatisfied Slytherins could be -- one of the toys in his tool box turned out to be a dildo. A fine dildo, a good ten inches long and with a hefty girth to it. Plus, it bent at just the right angle to ram a man's prostate into heaven.

Which Lockhart then proceeded to do.

Whilst resuming biting again, all over Snape's arse, all along his thighs, even nipping at his sac, crushed against the mattress as it was.

All of which was just what was needed to scratch Snape's itch. By the time he came again he'd broken free of the ropes and was on his knees, arse in the air, arms wrapped about a pillow in which he'd buried his face, hoarsely shouting encouragement as Lockhart fucked him to within an inch of his life with the monster dildo and bit him until he was toothy bruises from his waist halfway to his knees.

When Snape came the second time, he felt like the top of his head blew off. Arse clenching around the dildo, fists tearing into the pillow, mouth wide open and screaming for more, he humped up and pushed down, spunk shooting across the linens as he came without another touch to his prick.

It was lovely. Incredible. Wonderful.

"Darling!"

Oh, God, it was Lockhart.

Snape gave up the fight and fainted dead away.

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"Darling?"

Gilderoy peeked at his Dear Fucktoy, wincing a little at the rings of bite marks, flail marks, and streams of drying semen all over the man. True, Snape had his own unique style, quite attractive really, but at the moment he looked wrecked.

Casting a weather eye over Snape's unconscious body, Gilderoy felt a tiny smirk curve his perfect lips. He had to admit, long, lanky, hairy, pale, streaked with sweat and semen, hair all over the pillow, arse bright red, hole gaping around the Big Daddy Dildo -- one of Gilderoy's own favorites -- and limbs all akimbo, Fucked Senseless was a very good look for His Admirer.

They'd have to do it again. Soon.

"We'll have to do this again, soon," he told Snape, regardless of the fact that Snape was incapable of hearing, since anything that went through his head had to come out his mouth. He had few thoughts, and had the requisite need such men have to share those that did occur to him. Any audience would do. Even an unconscious one.

Reaching down, he grasped the Big Daddy firmly and attempted to pull it free. Snape's arse wasn't going to give it up without a fight, and Lockhart twisted and tugged until it finally popped out. Through the struggle, Snape, even unconscious, gave little yips and sighs. Gilderoy smiled fondly.

Such a Wanton Slut, his Mantoy turned out to be. He'd have to tell him so, when next they met, when Snape was awake again. Perhaps over breakfast the next morning.

Packing away all his toys, absently patting Snape's arse affectionately, he dressed in his robes and cleaned his curls and made certain not a hair was out of place as he left the dungeons. Once back to his own chamber, after stopping twice for photos and autographs, although he did have to chase one of the boys down a short distance before gifting the lad with his signature -- those Gryffindors were so shy! -- he stripped off his spangled robe.

Sprawling languidly on the bed, he smiled again, his teeth glinting in the candlelight. Wrapping one hand around his still rampant prick, since Snape had unfortunately fainted before he could lend a hand, Gilderoy stared dreamily off into the distance and indulged in his favorite fantasy. An old favorite with a new supporting actor.

Himself, on stage, surrounded by adoring sycophants ... er, fans ... his hair falling in perfect curls around his boyish face, his blue eyes sparkling, his skin clear and silky, his body fetchingly displayed ... as Severus Snape, His Admirer, knelt at his feet between his artfully splayed thighs, wrapped his hair around Gilderoy's prick, and pulled. Looked up worshipfully, uttered several reams of poetry in praise of Gilderoy's brilliance, and pulled again.

To thunderous applause, Gilderoy came.

Sighing happily, Gilderoy wiped himself with a towel and dropped it on the floor for the house elves to clean up. He closed his eyes, snuggled into his pillow, and decided he really looked forward to the rest of the term.

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Breakfast was hell.

For one thing, Snape couldn't sit still. Even with what remedies he could dose himself with, and he damned well refused to see Pomfrey about his arse, it was like sitting on a sharpened steel grate. For another, as soon as that blasted Lockhart came in the room, his prick, bloody stupid mindless piece of meat that it was, sprang to attention. Finally, and worst of all, the randy peacock not only sat next to him, but then began to rattle on about what a wonderful couple they made and how he couldn't wait to have another rendezvous and do it all again.

Flitwick, Hooch and McGonagall gave him identical looks of complete shock, then Snape was appalled to see money exchange hands. Hooch looked quite smug afterward.

He was simply going to have to kill them all.

Or perhaps just himself.

Or maybe just Dumbledore.

Still undecided, he stormed away from the breakfast table and hid in his laboratory until he could safely sneak up to Dumbledore's office. Not that he would admit he hid, nor sneaked, although he did indeed do both.

Once there, snarling, "Gummy worms!" at the gargoyle who then cowered from him, Snape paced as fiercely as he could given that his gait was decidedly lopsided. Once Dumbledore joined him, he thankfully gave up the painful and useless exercise to try the even more painful exercise of trying to perch on the chair to which Dumbledore waved him.

He was still silently whimpering and trying to balance on the balls of his feet without his arse actually touching the seat cushion when Dumbledore gave an inquiring rumble. Snape looked up.

Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling.

That did it. He had to kill Dumbledore. He opened his mouth to say exactly that when it hit him that he couldn't kill Dumbledore. For one thing, Dumbledore wouldn't let him. For another, of the lot of them, Dumbledore was the least expendable.

"Please," he begged, unashamed. "Kill me now."

The twinkle disappeared in a wave of shock. "Erm," Dumbledore said very slowly, "toffee?"

"Or I'll simply have to kill Lockhart. No one would miss him. Truly. Honestly. Who would miss him? I wouldn't! You wouldn't! Nobody would! OUCH!" he yelped as he forgot for a moment, in the heat of his plea, and sat down directly on his abused bum. He popped back up to his feet, alternately glaring balefully and staring pleadingly at Dumbledore.

Before Dumbledore could say yea or nay, or ask him when he'd lost his mind completely and why, Nearly Headless Nick floated into the room. Snape growled. Bloody Gryffindors. Even after they were dead they kept popping up at the most inconvenient times.

"Quick! Come quickly!" Nick blared. "Someone has frozen Mrs. Norris, and Filch is out for blood." Dumbledore raised his hand, twinkle back in his eye, but Nick plowed on. "Oh, by the way, the Chamber of Secrets has been opened."

Then he floated away, leaving Dumbledore, no twinkle to be seen, staring in shock at Snape, who was staring right back at him in equal disbelief.

Snape closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again. "It'll wait," he conceded.

Dumbledore nodded and swept out the room, Snape at his heels. It was going to be a very long year. He wasn't looking forward it. Any of it.

END