Unexpected 3, by Seeker. Rated NC17. Just borrowing, don't own them. Hopefully nobody who owns these characters will ever read it. I blame Alan Rickman for being so damned sexy.

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Even the greatest revelry must eventually pass, and so it was at Hogwarts. Voldemort defeated, the Forest freed from evil, the minions of darkness burned to a crisp and blown away by the wind, it was time to get back to the duties of the day.

Beginning with the appointment of faculty to fill positions eaten, disintegrated or otherwise blown from existence in the Apocalyptic battle. Since the latest unfortunate to fill the Defense Against Dark Arts position had been one of the first fresh corpses of the final assault, the position was up for grabs. Snape waited, sure, at last, he would get his due. Sitting at the head table, studiously avoiding Harry Potter's unsettlingly attractive and attentive face, Snape glued his eyes to Albus Dumbledore and awaited the pronouncement.

"While it's a tragedy, really, to lose yet another fine wizard to the clutches of doom," Albus droned on, "and we shall miss Jiddletwits -- "

"Twiddlejist!" McGonagall hissed the correction, but Albus floated past. In truth, the poor twit hadn't been around long enough for anyone to learn to pronounce his name properly.

" -- into every cloud a little silver must lie, and in this case that joy is in the announcement of a new Master of the Defense Against Dark Arts. Ladies and gentlemen, students and ghosts, faculty and staff, I give you -- "

Snape preened preparatory to gaining the spotlight.

" -- Harry Potter!"

He subsided as quickly as he'd begun to rise, his knees freezing then crumbling at the sight of Harry Potter, damnable TALL irritating SEXY young YOUNG -- well, he was only twenty-two, which was still (barely) younger than even a chronologically-metamorphosed Snape at twenty-five -- bastard WIZARD -- in so many ways, some of which had been invading Snape's dreams for days now -- stepping forward to the tumultuous cheers of the denizens of Hogwarts.

"Fuck," Snape muttered. It was lost among the noise. Or so he thought.

Until Potter turned directly to him and mouthed, clear as crystal, "Later."

Snape didn't say another word the rest of the night. After dinner, which he barely touched, the rest of the faculty lined up to hand-clasp Potter into his new position. Snape escaped out the back door of the dining hall and went to sulk in his chambers. His rooms, to which he'd changed the password, then lied through his teeth to the headmaster, so NOBODY knew what it was.

He didn't come out 'til morning, and even then, he skipped breakfast and went directly to class. The first three periods weren't too bad, once the obligatory sighs and gasps and moony looks were ignored. He spent lunch in his rooms, munching a scone and salad and wishing the day was over. The fourth period was worse than the morning classes had been, but the final class of the day was by far the worst.

His sixth years, the ones who'd survived the battle, looked disgustingly chipper. Many of them, many too many of them, also looked disturbingly horny. One witch, who really should have known better than to use eye pencil that dark with her dishwater blonde hair, blinked slowly enough at him that even before he got his first sarcastic word out, he read "LOVE YUO" on her lids.

Reining in the desire to correct her spelling, and give her the hint that when writing backward it was best to check perspective from the viewer's right to left, not her own, he cleared his throat and tossed back his head, preparatory to blowing the little bastards out of their chairs with sheer unadulterated scorn.

Three quarters of the class sighed lustily, choking his words on his tongue. The other quarter literally swooned.

He let his head fall forward again, peering through his hair at the bunch of nutters, and wondered if it might be prudent to bring in a bodyguard. Say, Hagrid. Then the memory of the appreciative, lusty grin the gamekeeper had given him last night as he'd walked the grounds before supper came back to him, and he decided that might not be such a good idea, either. God only knew what nasty habits Hagrid had picked up, hanging out with centaurs and other weird creatures.

Letting his breath out with a whoosh, he fell back into habits he'd soon need to change and glared at the class. At least half a dozen of them lunged out of their chairs involuntarily, before catching and restraining themselves. His glare melted into a look of utter confusion.

Three young witches squealed. Several young wizards moaned uncontrollably.

"Enough!" he bellowed. Several more students gave appreciative groans. "We haven't got all class to sit here and have you moon over me. We have work to do!" His jaw snapped shut and his eyes widened, unable to believe those particular words had ever come out of his mouth. A couple of the students who'd previously made aborted lunges strained forward again, as if bound to their seats by invisible leashes that were close to breaking.

Refusing to cede control either to their hormones or his need to have a quiet nervous breakdown, Snape refrained with difficulty from snarling, glaring or sneering, and gave them his very best poker face. It probably resembled indigestion more than anything, given how rusty it was from disuse, since his trusty glare had worked for years. However, it had at least partial effect on the lustful masses, and they settled down to stare with glazed eyes at him.

"Cauldrons!" he barked. They snapped to with all the skill of a highly trained drill team. Or a pack of marionettes. His eyebrow rose. Several students gasped. Hunh. It might work. "Paring knives!" Hands moved, knives were grasped. "Taro root! Beetles! Fish tails! Dandelion! No, not the fluff, the yellow ones. Wands! Page three hundred twelve in your text! Now hop to it!"

And hop they did. Snape carefully didn't smile, for fear it would send some poor idiot into a seizure and put them face-down in their boiling cauldrons. But he had a feeling he'd found his new technique. Merely give his best impression of an SAS sergeant and show them who was in control.

"Who?" a voice whispered close to his ear. Snape looked around carefully, wondering where the devil it had come from, since the nearest student was eight feet away on the other side of his demonstration table. "You?" the whisper came again. Snape looked around for signs of ventriloquism, but all he saw was three quarters of the class industriously mixing crap in cauldrons and the other quarter either mid-swoon or staring at him with their tongues hanging out. "I don't THINK so," the whisper giggled.

That was all the warning he got.

Out of nowhere, so subtly his robes didn't even sway, something opened in his arse. It didn't slide in, it didn't nudge, it didn't prod -- it just appeared, already in, stretching him wide open from hole clear into gut with absolutely no preparation nor prior expectation. His mouth fell open and he gasped before he could stop himself, bending forward to ease the strain and clenching the table with both hands. It was the equivalent of going from tight to fucked in a split second. Split being the operative word.

Immediately upon the sound of his gasp, every student who HADN'T already been staring at him in a lust-induced daze DID. Gritting his teeth, waiting for the apparated-out-of-nowhere truncheon up his arse to move or disapparate, he panted lightly through slitted lips and ground out, "Attend to your cauldrons! NOW!" The last yowl was added to prompt movement, since none was forthcoming, and reaction was slow even when he yelped at them. Those who did return to mixing, chopping and stirring peered at him with what they hoped was discretion and was actually blatantly obvious hunger.

Not that he had time to worry about it. The blockage up his arse had indeed begun to move, but not out as he hoped. Rather, it inflated and deflated, keeping his hole stretched and fucking up into his gut, rocking him on his heels until he stiffened his spine to the point it nearly snapped in order to disguise what was happening at pelvic level. He stood as close as he could to steady, legs spread behind the table, arse-cheeks clenching and releasing under cover of his robes, and stared unblinkingly at the students.

Eventually, when no further indication of activity came from him, all the ones still alert enough to move bent to their cauldrons. Just in time.

Before Snape could so much as draw a much-needed breath of relief, phantom fingers joined the bulk pistoning into him. They plucked at his nipples, at his balls, at the head of his prick now pushing against the underside of the table-top, wetting his robe even through the confines of trousers and pants. His foreskin came in for extra attention, pinched and peeled back and twisted around, and he knew, just knew, precisely who was responsible for his predicament.

"Bloody hell, Potter," he groaned inaudibly, "what are you trying to do to me?"

There was no answer beyond the ghost of a laugh, unrepentant and knowing, that ruffled past his hair. If it had been physically possible, Snape would have unclenched one clawed hand from the table-top and swiped at the air, so certain was he that Potter was in the room beneath an invisibility cloak. No one could manipulate matter that finely from afar. Unfortunately if he moved his hand he'd probably collapse in a moaning heap on the floor, so that was out.

Risking a glance down at his chest, he was relieved to note that the layers of vest and shirt and robe also hid the tips of his nipples, now standing out from his chest from the nipping pressure torturing them. As if his movement was a cue, in that instant, the bulk still reaming out his arse developed ridges, and began to twist as well as pump into him. The grind of the changing texture over his prostate nearly gave him heart failure. With a muffled groan he only kept back by biting his tongue hard enough to taste blood, he humped forward helplessly and tried to come.

Potter must have been waiting for that, too, because as soon as his balls started to draw up, a band wrapped around them, yanking them down and sealing them off, cutting the semen off at the base before it could boil up and out as it so desperately needed to. In the same instant his balls were pulled, a second noose looped around the head of his prick, just below the lips, tightened and pulled the opposite direction.

Tiny blunted teeth dug into the stretched rim of his arsehole, and much sharper teeth bit into his nipples, stretching and twisting them nearly off his chest. The overload of sensation, pain in his chest, arse, balls and prick mated with the incessant battering at his guts and the ecstasy jolting out through his prostate, rocked through him like bolts of lightning. His eyes closed and his mouth fell open, and he would have collapsed if arms recognizable from feel even as the cloak kept them invisible wrapped around his middle, holding him upright.

Dimly, he heard the bell, heard a few of the students offer goodbyes he couldn't spare the energy to answer, then after a shuffling that echoed through his head like a herd of elephants, they were gone. Not for the first time he was thankful for his reputation as a right bastard, even if the new face had turned them on. None of them questioned him, and none stayed after. When the door shut after the last one, he took a whooping breath, barely managing not to scream, balanced as he was between the conflicting pressures at groin, arse and tits.

The lock slid into place, barring the door, and Potter stepped from nothingness as he laid the invisibility cloak aside. Moving up to stand behind Snape again, he dropped a light biting kiss at the side of his neck.

"I think you're ready for me now," he purred, hand pressing unerringly against Snape's hole, the touch galvanizing the dildo in him to previously unattained heights of movement.

Snape whimpered, knees finally going completely, and Harry lifted him from behind, turning him mid-lift to splay him out over the demonstration table. Snape growled. Brilliant. Potter was now taller, stronger, and a hell of a lot meaner than Snape had ever expected to be faced with. As Potter opened his robe and wrapped his fist around Snape's reddened balls, Snape also had to face the fact that he loved it. He certainly made no move to stop him as Potter stripped him, leaving Snape lying in his puddled robe, arms bound by the sleeves of his shirt, pants hanging off one ankle, trousers on the floor somewhere behind them.

Using the ballsac as a handle, Potter lifted his groin off the table. Snape gasped and arched, staring down in helpless arousal at himself as nipple-clamps materialized, fully engaged, teeth biting into his tits, pulling them up and away from his chest. His nipples looked like cherries, red and swollen, and it must have appealed to Potter, because he leaned forward, still holding Snape suspended by the balls, and bit them.

Snape screamed, and a soft ball of material landed in his open mouth, effectively gagging him. Going nearly cross-eyed, he identified it as a gym sock. He gurgled, tongue fighting uselessly to rid himself of the obstruction. At least it tasted clean. His hands reached up to remove it and invisible chains came out of the table, clamping his wrists to the hard surface. He spared a thankful thought that he hadn't been cutting snails on the work table before being jumped in his own classroom.

Then any fastidiousness disappeared as Potter's hand moved to his arse and pulled the dildo out as abruptly as he'd planted it. The thought struck Snape that he was damned thankful Potter was so uncannily good at placement spells, or his arse would look like it had been hit by shrapnel, then fingers, FOUR of them, took the place of the dildo, and it was all he could do not to expire on the spot.

He didn't know when grease had been added to the mix, he could only be thankful it had, as the fingers within him wriggled and turned until the thumb could be tucked up to join them. A second thankful thought occurred, that Potter had an artist's hands and not a farmer's, then the fingers curled into a fist, the fist rammed up into him, his arsehole snapped around Potter's wrist like a plastic band, and had it not been for the sock stuffed in his mouth, his howl would have brought down the roof.

The slide of Potter's forearm against his still-tied balls as he moved his fist in and out of Snape's arse was yet another layer of delicious torment, warming his skin and making the urge to come nearly unbearable. Another clasp had materialized at the tip of his prick, yanking his foreskin up and pinching it closed over his glans, and even had his balls been free, he'd've had a hell of a time coming.

Potter's other hand moved over him, playing with trapped nipples, sending fire through his chest, drumming against his stretched prick, making him squirm, heightening the sensation of the bulk moving in his arse. The blur of agony and pleasure made him drunk, stole his breath and his mind, until he was nothing more than a writhing mass of nerve endings Potter played like a master.

Tears were sliding down his temples into his hair, his fists clenched uselessly over his shoulders, his body completely beyond his control, when Potter finally allowed him relief. The nipple clamps were released, first one, then the other, and he gasped again, sweet fire eating at his chest before being eased by Potter's tongue, washing over and over the abused nubs. Then his balls were unwrapped, each loop easing the pressure, as the clamp released its death-grip on his foreskin and the noose beneath the head of his prick disappeared.

The lack of restraint hurt unlike anything he'd ever felt, as blood rushed into the places it had been denied. He barely knew which to react to first, lightning striking down the length of his prick, up through his balls, and down through his chest at the same time. Hobbled as he was by the fist he still moved in Snape's arse, Potter still seemed to be everywhere, tongue soothing and stimulating nipples then balls then a hot mouth closing over the end of his prick.

It was the last that broke Snape, and he convulsed, finally free for orgasm to take him. Held in place by the fist in his arse and the weight of Potter's arm over his stomach, he arched as far as possible and loosed a stream into the air. Thick white gobs splashed down on his chest, even up onto his face, and he strained and gasped until he had no more air to draw and no more semen to give. With the last spasm, Potter twisted his fist and drew it out, and the abrupt cessation of weight from his gaping arsehole made Snape feel as if he was literally flying.

When he came back to himself, Potter was kneeling on the table next to him, lazily stroking his prick. Once he was certain Snape's attention was on him, he sped up his strokes until he came, mixing his semen with Snape's, spreading it all over him until Snape felt like an overly-frosted cake. Running two fingers through the mess, Potter plucked the sock from Snape's mouth with the other hand then thrust his gloppy fingers in, stroking them over Snape's tongue, scraping the stickiness off with Snape's teeth.

After the parching cotton, any moisture felt like heaven, and this particular wetness went down his throat like nectar. Potter took his time, wiping up more and pushing it into Snape's mouth. Peering down intently, bright eyes owning him, Potter said intensely, "You have no idea the number of times I pictured you like this, spread out over your own work table, naked and taken and covered with my come."

Snape had to close his eyes at the sheer satisfaction in the soft voice, but he kept his mouth open, and continued to lick Potter's fingers until Potter stopped feeding him. As he felt the shackles disappear, he moved his arms down over his stomach, his entire body shaking. Potter moved too, supporting him, lifting him from the table and carrying him bodily into the adjoining room before laying him down on the cot there. Tucking Snape's spunk- and sweat-drenched robe around him, Potter leaned down and kissed him, as possessive a move as any he'd made that afternoon.

"Something to keep in mind," he said when he stood up, looking down at Snape. "You're not in control here, Severus." He grinned, a feral expression that made Snape's skin tingle. "I am."

Snape let him get to the door before he said, with a hint of a whine, "Next time, will you wait 'til after class?"

Potter gave him an unreadable look over his shoulder. "Perhaps," he said, and was gone.

Lying there, too exhausted to move, every muscle that wasn't screaming at him turned to mush, Snape found himself grinning like a fool at the empty doorway. He couldn't wait.

END