Whoopee Cushion, by seeker.
PAIRING: SS/Firebolt Broomstick
RATING: NC17
DISCLAIMER: no harm, no foul
SUMMARY: Draco gets distracted and his broom
bears the brunt of it.
NOTES: Part of the Severus Snape Fuh-Q Fest
(Snape/Broomstick pairing)
<><><><><><><>
Not many people know that brooms are
semi-sentient.
Fewer still know that they bond with their
owners.
Very few at all know what can happen when
one goes ... a little astray.
Draco Malfoy certainly wasn't prepared for
his to get a mind of its own. Or rather, to read his, and act on it when he
couldn't. If he'd known he surely would have been mortified. Or turned on.
Probably both.
It was just as well for Severus Snape that
he didn't ever find out, then, wasn't it?
<><><><><><><>
Snape stared up at his House Team, getting
the pants soundly beaten off them by the bloody Gryffindors as usual, and
sighed. He'd been working one-on-one with young Malfoy the past year, for
several reasons, the most pressing being that the boy was almost seventeen, the
time when the Dark Mark would be placed, and it was Snape's last chance to
build some resistance into Draco's soul. But the one lesson Draco had never
learnt, and probably WOULD never learn, was patience. It was obvious in the way
he chased Potter, the increasingly desperate (and illegal) moves he made. The
illegality wasn't a problem; their ham-handed execution was.
Then the snitch was sighted, the chase was
on, and the match was lost as Potter swooped down like an eagle on a trout and
caught the blasted snitch before Malfoy got within spitting distance. Not that
it stopped him. They were too far away for Snape to read Draco's lips, but he
knew a hex when he saw one thrown. He rose automatically to his feet, as if he
could physically intervene, because he knew it would backfire, but alas he was
outside the playing field. He could only watch as Potter laughed, waved the
snitch at Draco, and mouthed something back.
What looked like a mighty gust of wind
caused Draco's Quidditch robe to billow, and his broom bucked, before spiraling
lazily down to the ground, listing rather drunkenly to the side, disregarding
Draco's ranting and yanking at the handle. Snape sighed. Too little, too late.
He climbed down from the stands and walked over to where Draco stood, still
cursing his broom.
"It's not the Firebolt's fault,"
Snape hissed at him. Draco's head swung up and he swiveled around. His sulky
face and fiery eyes made Snape sigh again. Would the boy never grow up? Or was
he so much his father's son there was no hope at all for him? He reached out to
lay a hand on Draco's shoulder, but the boy twisted away. Muttering something
under his breath, too low for Snape to make out the words, he stomped back
toward the broom storage shed and threw his Firebolt inside. Snape rolled his
eyes.
His fate, to forever be cleaning up after
the Malfoys. Following along behind, Snape took a moment to place the racing
broom carefully on its rack. When he touched the handle, it seemed to shimmer
under his hand for a moment, as if sighing. Snape stilled and stared. Running
his fingertips gently over the surface, he tested the Cushioning Spell. It felt
warm, somewhat squishy, as if it had a fever.
"What in the world has Potter done
now?" Snape murmured. The broom shivered, then went quiet. Snape shook his
head, patted the broomstick absently, then left the shed and headed back to the
Slytherin dorms. Perhaps he could catch up with Draco in the common room and
see if he could calm him. Talk some sense to him. Get through the haze of anger
and arrogance to the boy beneath, and try once again to save him.
Severus Snape, he sneered at himself, patron
saint of lost causes.
<><><><><><><>
In the darkness of the broom shed, a fine
ash handle quivered beneath the diamond-hard polish coating it. The day had
been difficult. Its owner had been angry, frustrated, and it had striven its
utmost, but failed. Then at the end, a jolt of energy had gone through it,
dizzying and dazing it. Once safely on the ground, it had tried in vain to calm
itself, attuning itself from birch tail twigs to the tip of its handle with its
owner's aura.
Then a second bout of dizziness hit as that
aura abruptly lightened then darkened, unrequited love and rampaging lust
shooting through it. Already off-balance from the disruption in its Cushioning
Charm and the disharmony between itself and its owner, the Firebolt had no
defense against inappropriate emotional absorption. It was wrenched up from the
ground, thrown in disarray into its shed, and rescued by the kind touch of the
one who had inspired the flash of lust. That hand had hovered over it, calming
it, the aura of the hand's owner resonating with the charms woven throughout
the broom, claiming it in a way its owner had never bothered to do.
Pressure built up. It had been created to
serve, to respond to thought as well as voice or manual command, to do whatever
its owner wished practically before the wish was enunciated. It was also
compelled by this new being, partly in response to its owner's desires, partly
from a desire of its own it was never meant to feel. The two conflicting urges,
to serve its owner and go to the one who had comforted it, nearly split the
Firebolt in twain.
In the end, it negotiated the division the
only way it knew. It gave into the wishes of its owner and sliced through the
night air, seeking the one both it and he wanted.
<><><><><><><>
Well, that had been a complete waste of
time, Snape grumbled internally. Young Malfoy was avoiding everyone, and given
the temper the lad was in, everyone was avoiding him in return. Everyone but
Snape, who finally gave up in more than a bit of a temper of his own. He knew
Draco was a spoiled brat, but still he had a soft spot for the boy, and Snape
didn't want to see him fall into the darkness. But he couldn't very well follow
the boy into his bedroom, and once Draco slammed off to bed, Snape was left
with no choice.
He returned to the dungeons, puttered for an
hour on an experimental potion, read and laughed sarcastically at a few
articles in the Professional Potioners Journal, and went to bed himself. A few
hours later, in the dead of night, a whisper of sound woke him.
There was someone in his bedroom.
Moving incrementally, he shifted until he
could gaze through slitted eyelids around his room. He didn't see anyone. Not
that it meant there was no one else there; invisibility cloaks were all the
rage this year, thanks to the Potter brat. He wouldn't put it past the little
bastard (not that he was so little anymore, but the mental image hadn't changed
all that much since Potter was eleven) to sneak into his bedroom for a little
mischief.
Shifting further still, until he was on his
side, facing the door, he inched his hand toward the edge of the bed. If Potter
was anywhere near, and given his predilection for putting his arse in a sling
he'd probably be hanging right over the bed, Snape would be able to snatch the
cloak off and --
His train of thought derailed completely as
something cold, hard and snub-nosed tipped up his sleeping robe.
"What the bloody hell --" he
squeaked, then the robe was tossed over his head and he found himself in smothering
cotton darkness. His arms raised and he flailed wildly, trying to escape the
net of his nightclothes now cast over him.
Before he got very far in disentangling
himself, something bristly and oddly twiggish smacked his bum, causing him to
yelp and jump. Then it poked at him, and he found himself flat on his belly,
wondering how he got there. An instant later, he successfully fought the cotton
material away from his face, though his arms were still bound up around his
head. Then he froze.
The something that had first rooted about
under the hem of his robe was now pushing gently against his arse hole. And he
had nowhere to go. He couldn't go forward; the bed was in the way. He couldn't
go to either side, because God knew what it was knocking at his back door, and
for all he knew it could turn him to mincemeat if he moved. He certainly
couldn't go backward, because that was where the ... the ... the THING was
coming from! So he lay there and tried not to hyperventilate, mentally
recalling and discarding every spell he'd ever learnt to repel invaders.
As he was invaded.
The thing breached him, surprisingly gently,
and he forgot to breathe at all, concentrating instead on what was going on behind
him. Whatever it was, it didn't seem to wish to hurt him, as it moved with
extreme delicacy in order not to damage him. It was long, and hard, and bigger
than he'd thought it was at first. His mind flashed to Potter again, only this
time the mental image carried a dildo the size of a broomstick. To his utter
bemusement, not a little appalled by it all, Snape found himself getting hard.
Then the thing moved back. "About
time," Snape muttered, as he'd begun to think the thing was going to keep
going 'til it straightened out his entire gut. Before he could make a move,
however, it thrust back in. "Ye gods!" he yelped.
It had good aim. That had felt amazingly
good.
Still shoved it, it began to vibrate. Snape
whimpered, and found himself thrusting back. Mortified and ashamed, just
knowing it was Potter doing nasty things to him (and probably taking pictures
for his whole bloody House to enjoy) he tried his damnedest to ignore what was
happening to his hindquarters, and his unfortunate uncontrollable reaction to
it, and fought his arms free of his night robe.
With the material pushed back down around
his chest, he could twist about far enough to get a glimpse of the person
fucking him with ... whatever the hell he was being fucked with. His eyes
bugged to see no one was behind him. The hard length inside withdrew and shoved
forward, and Snape's head swung back as his eyes clenched closed. Catching a
moan behind his teeth, he fought the waves of pleasure cresting through him as
the thing moved again, and again. Wriggling his hips, he managed to get to his
knees. He had the vague idea he could crawl off the bed and escape.
That was the plan, anyway. The reality
turned out to be quite different.
Up on his hands and knees, he had a better
view of the bed behind him. He nearly fainted when he finally realized what was
crammed up his fundament, methodically fucking him mindless. A broom! A
Firebolt! It tried to go even further inside as his position shifted, and pain
lanced through the pleasure. He wasn't the only one on that bed who was
mindless, and if he didn't do something soon, the bloody broom would literally
spit him.
Thinking fast, hard to do when his brain was
melted sludge and all his blood was busy in his prick, Snape cast a
malleability charm at the broom. It caught at the twigs, causing the birch to
soften and weave, then shimmered down the length of the ash handle. The wood
shivered as the charm passed through it, and moments before it would have
caused actual damage, the handle softened and curved.
Snape gasped and hunched. It felt
ridiculously good as it conformed to the contours of his insides, fucking him
further and deeper than he'd ever been fucked in his life. The slightly
hysterical thought hit him that it all gave new meaning to superbly smooth action,
not to mention one hell of a ride. Then the broom was twisting and writhing
inside him, and he gave up any aspiration to thought, letting his body do what
it had to do.
Which, in this case, meant writhing all over
the bed like a wanton slut as a Firebolt Broom fucked him into oblivion. With
the suppleness gained from the malleability charm, the broom bent like a lover.
Snape could feel the cushioning charm flattening over his arse cheeks, then
squeezing along the handle of the broom until it could slither inside him as
well. The additional cushion of air compressed along the ash handle eased the
hard battering his arse was taking from the broom, but also stretched him
unlike anything he'd ever felt.
The tail twigs swept over his thighs, adding
a scratchy caress that oddly, perfectly balanced the reaming above, and the
entire haft of the broom vibrated like a cat purring. Random thoughts continued
to appear out of the dazed void that was Snape's mind, phrases like 'pinpoint
precision' striking as the handle glided against his prostate, or 'acceleration
from zero to a hundred fifty' as the broom sped up its thrusts.
His hand slid down and began to pull at his
prick, aching as it was from the battering up his arse. His other hand crept
round his flank to find the smooth handle leading to the birch bristles that
were welting his skin. As soon as his fingertips touched it, the broom seemed
to swell, quiver and speed up. A jingle he'd heard on an advertisement when the
Firebolts made their debut swam through Snape's head. "Turns at the touch,
obeys thought as well as grip, knows what you want before you know it yourself
..." There was much to be said for truth in advertising. Another
hysterical chuckle rose to the surface, and he clamped down on it, trying to
stifle it.
The trouble was, he clamped down on
everything at once, and it was too much to handle, either for himself or the
broom. His teeth clenched, his hand fisted around his prick, his arsehole
clamped around the Cushioning Charm, squeezing the handle, which in turn
shuddered inside him. Burying his face in the pillow to smother a completely
insane cry of "Whoopee!!!!!!" Snape came so hard he nearly hurt
himself.
He was gasping for breath and trying to find
the scattered remnants of his mind when he felt the broom move sluggishly
within him. Instinctively, he reached back and tugged, feeling the malleability
charm fading, desperately needing to get the bulk of the handle out of him
before it straightened. The broom responded to his alarm with alacrity, pulling
out in a long smooth motion that had him gasping all over again, and had the
end of the handle nudging questioningly at his arsehole.
"No, I am NOT ready for round
two," Snape panted. The broom shook itself, the rustle of the bristles
sounding oddly disappointed. "Please," he continued, refusing to
admit he was begging a broomstick, "go back to the shed. Leave me
be."
Another drawn-out shake, this time soundly
strangely sad, then with a whistle of displaced air the Firebolt zipped out of
his bedroom, presumably heading for the shed behind the Quidditch pitch. Snape
very carefully rolled onto his side, out of the large wet spot on the sheets,
and blinked disbelievingly into the darkness.
He'd had many unusual things happen to him
in his life. Werewolf attacks, Dark Lords, Aurors with grudges, deceptions
piled on deceptions, but that had to be one of the weirdest of them all. If not
THE weirdest. He was still wondering how on earth he was going to face Draco
the next day, much less the Firebolt at the next match, or even if he'd be able
to walk at all given how thoroughly the broom had ridden him, when he finally
fell asleep.
<><><><><><><>
In the darkness of the broom shed, the
Firebolt waited. Having had a taste of sentience, it wasn't about to give it
up.
Not when it tasted that good.
<><><><><><><>
END
Firebolt specs courtesy of the Harry Potter
Lexicon (http://www.i2k.com/~svderark/lexicon/brooms.html):
* streamlined, superfine handle of ash,
treated with a diamond-hard polish
* hand-numbered with its own registration
number
* tail twigs of birch, individually selected
and honed to aerodynamic perfection
* unsurpassable balance
* pinpoint precision
* acceleration of 150 mph in 10 seconds
* unbreakable Braking Charm
* when you pick it up then let go, it hovers
at exactly the right height to mount
* turns with the lightest touch, seems to
obey thought rather than grip
* superbly smooth action