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Whew. So maybe promising that I'd start last night wasn't the greatest idea I've ever had. Coming out of 8 hours of class and moderating a writing workshop later that same evening made me exhausted and, as such, I tried to stay up and... failed. So! Whether you like it or not, the ficcing shall begin now. <_< Barring an interruption at nine when I go to the bookstore to buy my last textbook. That said, onto the first one, right?
<b>Title:</b> After the Lesson
<b>Written for:</b> <lj user="isiscolo">
<b>Warnings:</b> dubious consent, smut
<b>Word Count:</b> 1000
<lj-cut text="After the Lesson">
<i>"I'll talk to you after my lesson, Karkaroff," Snape muttered, but Karkaroff interrupted him.
"I want to talk now, while you can't slip off, Severus. You've been avoiding me."
"After the lesson," Snape snapped. </i>
Snape took his time shutting the door. Karkaroff stood in the middle of the room, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He watched warily as Snape turned, black eyes glittering with anger, with resignation, to look at him.
"You always were among the densest of Death Eaters, weren't you, Igor?"
"That is not funny, Severus," said Karkaroff, voice straining at the words. "This is serious."
"Oh, I agree." Snape regarded him with something of coldness and approached. "And I am still waiting for you to take it seriously."
Karkaroff tensed, hand finding the desk behind him, talking a faltering step back as Snape neared. "What – what do you mean, take it seriously!" He laughed, a harsh, barking thing, and flashed panicked grey eyes behind a faulty smile as Snape, sallow skin and darkened gaze, caught Karkaroff's wrist fast, and hard. “He is coming, Severus.”
“Yes,” Snape agreed, and his expression was sharp, steely. He tugged wrist and arm to him and approached Karkaroff further. “And you run about like one with his head cut off. It is not the time to run, Igor.”
“It is the perfect time to run!” Karkaroff’s mouth twitched, his stubbly grey goatee curling with the start of a cold, helpless smile. Snape’s fingers dug deeper into the skin, but Karkaroff did not wince, not even as Snape drew himself almost flush against him, against the desk.
“You fool,” Snape hissed, and twisted Karkaroff’s arm so that Karkaroff winced, and was forced to turn about to spare himself a broken limb, and Snape pressed his advantage, planting feet firm on either side of Karkaroff’s beside the desk, hip hard up against black-robed hip, his wrist pinning the bulk of Karkaroff’s lean, older weight over the desk, papers and inkwells and all. Karkaroff’s wisp of a beard just grazed the far side of the desk, and he moaned once before regaining his senses and shutting up, body poised and shaking in Snape’s grip. “Those who run will make themselves more visible to Him,” Snape continued, voice firm and hand firmer against the pinned arm, grip tightening whenever Karkaroff made to move.
“Those who run will be in His sight. And for that – not for the trial, not for doing what Slytherins doing best, not for saving your skin all those years ago – He will find you…” Snape’s lean mass, bony and lithe, rested against Karkaroff’s backside. He shifted, and Snape shifted in turn, until hard consequences found their rest at the ridge, and Snape’s free hand ghosted cloaked, shuddering backside to ruck up robes, ankles latching firm to ankles in the interim. “He will find you,” Snape repeated, as he watched Karkaroff turn his head away, eyes shut and shuddering, swallowing heavily at the new pressure, the thick black cotton to skinny, tapering thighs, to the trail of grey-white hairs that ran down from Karkaroff’s spine, along and twisting through the crease of his arse to curl all the more around his scrotum, small and hard and hanging tucked against the side of the desk. “And He will kill you,” Snape promised, and his voice was low as his hand found his own robes, and did them less a disservice, parting folds only enough to spring long, thin cock, the paleness of it, the quivering, from grey pants and blackest robes.
“So,” he said then, and the world seemed to hang unbreathing with Karkaroff, the tenseness of his body, the twitch in his shoulders as he restrained himself, fighting between thoughts of a broken arm and this newer madness.
“Severus, don’t do this.”
“I?” Snape’s lips curled in a slow, dark smile, the gesture falling useless as it reached his eyes. “No, Igor. You are mistaken.” And he reached for phial in an upper pocket, and slicked himself cold and swift before laying his still-smooth palm to the hardness, the gauntness of Karkaroff’s arse, the hip and the clutch of it. “You do this,” said Snape, and he bowed over Karkaroff’s back, fingers dug tight in the skin of Karkaroff’s arm, nails rivaling the burn of the Mark, his own growing hot already from nearness, from friction. He laid mouth to Karkaroff’s ear and continued, rocking up hard against him, against crease, thrusting in about the whitish hairs, the emaciated slope: “You do this entirely to yourself. You let me in.”
And Karkaroff caught his breath, throat constricted, eyes shutting tight in open-mouthed silence, a desperately unheard cry, as Snape laid himself thick inside, cock fuller now when put to the test against withered frame and tight, unfamiliar yield of flesh. Snape exhaled low, his hand not relenting on Karkaroff’s twisted arm, his abdomen against the small of Karkaroff’s back and pressing firm against it. And then Karkaroff did not struggle, did not seek to throw Snape off, because now he understood the truth of it, at least in part, and so Snape, eyes shut, sloping nose to the back of Karkaroff’s grizzled hair, fucked him long, and hard, and silent, balls slapping against the taut of older thighs, breaths and torsos sliding a paper rustle across the desk. A clock ticked slow and unobtrusive, faint in the far-ground, and Snape came in tableau, in a sharp exhale and a shuttered gaze, breath burning to the tendrils of hair at the back of Karkaroff’s neck.
He let go of Karkaroff’s arm soon after. Both were sluggish from the blood-rush, and tired. Karkaroff rose quickly, dropping robes over semen-streaked crease, his own penis a small and less pressing matter now that their discussion had been concluded. He did not look Snape in the eye, and Snape turned to select texts for class from the far wall. That Karkaroff would run regardless was fact to the both of them now. Snape made no move to protest as Karkaroff, hand brooding to his twisted goatee, lurched at last for the door. It was enough, thought Snape later, that Karkaroff had to limp, just a little, in his retreat.