Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5284037.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Luna_Lovegood/Severus_Snape, Luna/Severus, Snape/Luna, Severus/Luna,
      Severus_Snape/Luna_Lovegood
  Character:
      Severus_Snape, Luna_Lovegood
  Additional Tags:
      Teacher-Student_Relationship, Blow_Jobs, Public_Blow_Jobs, Fellatio,
      Fondling, Under-Desk_Blow_Jobs, Consensual_Underage_Sex, Underage_(16)
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-11-25 Words: 3049
****** Interesting Places ******
by Serpenscript
Summary
     It's wrong; she's a student. He should send her running. But somehow
     he can't muster the viciousness he'd need to use to make her stay
     away.
     Based on the prompt, "Snape/Luna, interesting places to kiss"
He isn't sure why he shoves her under his desk. It's certainly not the first
time she's been in trouble deemed dire enough to warrant a trip to the
Headmaster's Office, not after she became oneof Potter's friends. The Carrows
expect him to be torturing students, so her tears will hardly affect or concern
them.The rest of the staff already know him to be an expert at reducing a
student to tears. So he has no reason to hide her - except that she looks at
him with a hint of panic when he hears Amycus at the entrance, the mechanism
for the rotating stairs grinding into movement.
It would have been wiser to thrust her into the Floo, or to even disillusion
her; wiser even still to leave her standing there, tearstained and frantic,
when Amycus arrived - it would only further cement his reputation in their eyes
and make his position a little less shaky. She's well known for being a friend
of Potter's, and part of the vaunted Dumbledore's Army, after all.
Instead, he grabs her shoulder and shoves her roughly under his heavy
Headmaster's desk- he has the wits, at least, to not be gentle, even if he's
already breaking his own rules by hiding her. It is enough that he is heavy-
handed with her, surely; he pushes her hard enough that she bangs against the
sides and whimpers a little, but by the time he settles himself in his chair
and answers Amycus's knock, she has managed to right herself and crouch in the
tight space.
He glances briefly down at her to arrange his legs around her, and the panic
and tears still on her face make him feel like a royal bastard. But he is a
spy, has too much invested in this and too many lives, and he won't break his
cover even for her, with her long tangled blonde hair and silver-blue eyes.
The space under his desk is cramped enough that he has to spread his knees to
allow her to kneel between his feet, and then his kneecaps press uncomfortably
against the sides of the desk - but the warmth of her body between his legs is
surprisingly pleasant. He can feel her ribs expand when she takes a sudden,
nervous breath when she hears Amycus speak.
Almost before he's come to a complete stop in front of the Headmaster's desk,
Amycus launches into a long-winded complaint on the students' latest trouble-
making, in which Lovegood and Longbottom feature prominently. There is
something about 'invisible paint' and the suits of armor singing terrible
ditties insulting the Carrows, Snape, and the Dark Lord when anyone passes.
It doesn't surprise Severus at all; it's more or less expected behavior from
the DA, and he listens stoically while he ponders how to rid himself of Amycus
- slimy, cruel, petty creature - when something steals his breath away.
Fingers. Young, nimble, slender fingers are caressing his bare ankle just under
his robes, and he is both thankful and disturbed that this happens on the one
day he wears traditional wizarding robes - that is, with nothing beneath. He
moves his foot away sharply to discourage her, and snaps at Amycus, hoping
he'll go away.
He doesn't. Neither do the fingers, which return, and - creep higher. They
caress his calf, the inside of his knee, the sensitive skin of his inner thigh
- and he is frustrated, ashamed, and utterly unsurprised to realize his cock
has hardened at the soft touches well before her hands reach his groin.
"Amycus, I will ensure Hagrid gives them some particularly odious task to do -
I hear the thestrals need feeding, and perhaps one of the students will even
make them a nice meal. But Crucioing the students will make them rebel, not -
not turn to our Lord -"
He hopes the slight stumble to his words isn't noticeable to Amycus, or the
heat he can feel creeping across his face - heat that echoes the warm breath on
his groin, the soft brush of lips against his thigh. He forces himself to
listen to Amycus's whining, but it seems utterly trivial compared to the trail
of light, sensual kisses she is leaving on his body, knee to groin, and he
barely manages to mask his sudden hiss when her cheek is pressed to his
suddenly aching cock. It's obscene - it's indecent, it's immoral, it's an abuse
of his power - but he can't so much as move a muscle to discourage her anymore.
He tells himself it's to protect her; should Amycus discover her under the
table, he would surely jump to conclusions, assume that he condones using sex
for students - or, perhaps using sex to punish students. And it might even
somewhat accurate, judging by what Lovegood is doing - and it feels damn good -
but he's not punishing her, not using her. Which is not - he doesn't - that is
-
"A little bit of Crucio won't hurt them," Amycus whines. "And you won't let
Filch use the thumbscrews or any of the more clever little toys he's got, and
those foul brats are undermining our authority! A few minutes under Crucio and
they'd show a sight more respect, I just know it!"
The only thing that makes the Carrow brother's whining tolerable is the warm
mobile tongue that has begun to shamelessly explore his genitals. The feel of
her lips and tongue teasing his foreskin and swirling around the glans - and
sweet Merlin, the way her fingers tighten on his thighs when she tastes his
precome - is almost surreal.
It's not the first time she's made free with his person before - and he still
doesn't know why he hasn't expelled her, handed her over to the Carrows,
repelled her with words and curses and left her sobbing for her audacity -
No. He knows why - because she looks at him, looks through him and into him
somehow and yet - still touches him. Without revulsion or horror or loathing:
she touches him with every evidence of enjoyment, and it's such a rare gift -
human touch, for who would willingly touch him? - that he can't make her stop.
Even the few whores he's visited have done little to hide their dislike. He
can't muster the true viciousness needed to truly drive her off, and he
suspects she knows it. Must know it, because her advances become more and more
daring.
Were it anyone else, he'd believe she sought things in return for sexual
favors. Exemption from detentions, better grades, protection from the Carrows.
And he suspects that were anyone else to ask her, that she'd say exactly that.
And he is, at least, a more attractive choice than the Carrows for pandering
sexual favors to, if only by the slimmest of margins.
But she hasn't asked him for anything. Not once, even when it's her friends
standing in front of him, battered and defiant from another run-in with the
Carrows. And he has made it clear he won't give her anything in return, won't
be bought with kisses and fellatio and frotting, but it hasn't discouraged her
in any way. It baffles him utterly.
His head is throbbing. No, his cock is throbbing, because Lovegood is stroking
him with her pale delicate hands with surprising skill, and her tongue is - her
tongue is doing things decidedly clever, even for a clever Ravenclaw. Still, he
pinches the bridge of his nose in a good impression of an impending migraine
(instead of an impending orgasm) and snarls at Amycus to shut up and get out
before he shows him why, exactly, Crucio shouldn't be used on weak young
students.
The flush on his face, he thinks, could be mistaken for anger, but his glower
is very real, because he wants to enjoy what Lovegood is doing to him without
listening to the man's petty vendettas against his students. Students he has to
protect, despite the way they hate him and call him traitor and do everything
to undermine him, even more than they do the Carrows.
And the student he fails to protect by rejecting her advances because he is too
weak and too alone.
He bares his crooked yellowed teeth in a very animalistic snarl, and finally -
finally Amycus gets the hint and scurries out, leaving him alone to finally
deal with the very pressing issue beneath his desk. Still, he waits, palms flat
to the desk, and anyone watching might be fooled into thinking that the slow,
deep breaths he takes are simply to calm his anger at Carrow.
But she has begun to suck him in earnest, and oh the pleasure that tingles all
the way to his toes when she closes her mouth over the head of his cock that
first time; he can picture, vividly, the intense concentration on her face, the
way her cheeks will hollow. He wants to tell her what it means, this forbidden
seduction with no price tag attached; he wants to give her the sounds of his
arousal and pleasure, but he has lived this long as a spy, kept alive by the
rules. And this close to the final battle - he knows it must be soon, and he
doesn't expect to survive it - but his rules will, hopefully, keep him alive
long enough to take down a number of Death Eaters with him.
So he stares at the closed door and struggles to breathe slowly and evenly
while her head carefully bobs under his desk, under his robes, slowly taking
his cock a little deeper, attempting to deep-throat him. All the while her
tongue teases and moves against the underside of his prick and she sucks, and
he is as careful to be quiet as she was with Amycus in the room.
Even with him gone, there's still a risk from the portraits seeing and
gossiping - the magic of the Headmaster's position should keep them silent and
loyal to him, but their loyalty to a student's safety could push them to break
that silence. Seeing her under his desk may make them suspicious, but without
visual confirmation there's no proof.
His toes curl in his shoes, and he resists the compulsion to pull her closer,
to tangle his fingers into her hair. It is bad enough that he doesn't stop her
and send her away; it is repulsive that he does not, all for a few minutes of
human pleasure and comfort. He loathes himself for his weakness, but he cannot
stop her - not even for his own soul, he thinks, when she comes to him. His
self-inflicted punishment is to remain passive, to not reciprocate, to not
violate her with his touch and too-eager responses.
He bites his lip hard enough to taste blood when she almost entirely deep-
throats him, and his hands crumple the papers on his desk. They don't matter -
student detention lists waiting his attention, demands from Filch, expenditures
for the kitchens and greenhouses, and - and it is - impressive, how much of his
cock she can swallow while squeezed beneath his desk. She has improved a great
deal, he realises, and he refuses to let himself think on how she has become so
advanced in fellatio (has it really been so often? Or does find others to
practice with, or -). Easier to push the thought aside when her throat is
swallowing around him, her hands fondling his aching bollocks.
It is also impressive that she makes barely a sound when he can no longer hold
still. His hands he keeps flat to the desk, but his ankles trap her in place
and his hips move, hard sharp movements, forcing his cock between her lips
roughly. She gags and chokes but doesn't protest, even when he comes a bare
moment later with a shudder, filling her talented and eager mouth with his
semen.
After the display of skill she's just given him, he's unsurprised when she
swallows it all and licks him clean thoroughly, her tongue searching out every
last trace of salty-bitter come, even under the foreskin. He is, perhaps, a
little surprised by the little happy sound she makes - the first voluntary
sound she's made since he'd shoved her under his desk; he is under no illusions
that his semen is magically chocolate-flavored.
When she is done, she rests her head against his thigh; he can feel her warm
breath and the periodic brush of her eyelashes when she blinks. Even then he
waits until his cock is soft again and the heat has receded from his face
before he pushes his chair back away from his desk. He has to hastily
straighten his robe, though, where her hands have pushed it well up above his
knees to bare his groin.
He forgets his brief embarassment when he glances under the desk at his
Ravenclaw seductress. Her hair is mussed, her face is flushed from the stuffy
air under his desk and, perhaps, from arousal; he thinks he wouldn't mind
knowing she found seducing him arousing, if highly improbable.
Her lips are deliciously reddened and swollen from her attentions. Even with
her eyes red from crying (especially with her eyes red from crying, and doesn't
that make him a monster?) she looks delectable, vulnerable, and - utterly
fuckable.
He means to yell at her. He means to curse her, send her to a detention with
Amycus to take some of the audacity out of her spirit, to make her stop risking
her damn foolish neck toying with him -
"An interesting place to kiss, Miss Lovegood," he says instead. Well, at least
he manages to sneer and glare.
"Is that what we're calling it?" There's only a little cheek in her tone, and
when she crawls out from under his desk and stands up, he sees what the shadows
of the desk had hidden, what he'd managed to forget for a few minutes.
An old, battered soul stares out from a sixteen-year-old girl's eyes. An old
soul that looks at him and sees him, no matter what mask he wears, what he
says, what he forces himself to do for an old man's 'greater good'. Sees the
man instead of the spy - a thought terrifying and wonderful. It's not safe -
for her sake, at least, he doesn't dare reciprocate to even her friendliness,
but oh, what it does for him, to him!
He makes an inarticulate noise - what is it about her? - and touches a bruise
on her cheekbone gently. He yearns to hunt down the one who hurt her, though he
knows he can't. Her skin is soft and warm and she leans, ever so slightly, into
the touch, but after a moment he finds the strength to drop his hand and step
back from her a little. Only years of experience give him the ability to
straighten his robe and throw back his shoulders and glare down at her with icy
disdain - as much as he can muster, after the way she has managed to break
through his defences.
"That will be a detention, Miss Lovegood, for kissing in inappropriate places,"
he says coldly, almost hissing the words with the effort the charade costs him.
"Interesting places," Luna corrects him easily, with no fear. And she smiles at
him - sad, hopeful, anguished, understanding.
He has no idea why she has decided he of all people deserves her attentions. He
is - he is the foulest sort, to allow it. And yet he cannot make himself push
her away.
"You will report for your detention tomorrow, after dinner," he answers
severely. "I am sure you will survive skipping pudding, surely." He remembers
overhearing her say once that she is very fond of pudding - certainly that is
severe enough to keep his cover?
He means to tell her that she will serve her detention with Hagrid, but his
lips move without his control and he says instead, "Come to my office."
"Of course, Professor." She doesn't quite skip to the door, but it's still a
near thing - she moves so fluidly she seems as magical as one of her invisible
creatures. She pauses at the door, still looking flushed and more debauched
than chastized, to look back at him. "Good night, Headmaster." There's
understanding and -something else in her words. Forgiveness? Promise?
He doesn't dare answer her with such familiarity; the walls have ears, have
portraits, ghosts, house-elves.
"Go," he grows, but he stands behind his desk until she's gone and the stairs
have returned to their original position - the only show of respect for her
courage he can give - before he sinks slowly back into his chair. He can smell
her still when he closes his eyes, he thinks, and he groans aloud.
She is a curse. A beautiful, maddening, beneficent curse. And he is certain
that without her, he would have shattered under the strain of his dual role.
And somehow he suspects she knows, and that - maybe - that is why. Part of why.
He doubts anyone can ever truly understand how Lovegood thinks. Luna - he can
at least call her that, grant her first-name basis in the privacy of his head.
She is sullying herself with him. He should stop her advances, make it clear
they are unwelcome - and he gets as far as pulling out a piece of paper to
reassign her detention to Hagrid after all, and is writing out the message for
the owl to give here before he stops.
He needs her. He needs her, and - he laughs hoarsely and rubs a hand over his
tired eyes, then sits there, trying to push himself that last little bit and
just send the damn owl. Surely she'll understand then -
He wrestles with himself, in an agony of grief and need and loneliness and
shame, until well after the sun sets. And then he sits and broods in the dark,
until a house-elf pops in to light the candles. She - an elf named Mipsy, he
recalls - jumps when she sees him sitting alone in the dark office, and flees.
Decisively, he pushes his chair back and stands. He will send the owl, and end
this. He will not have her innocence on his conscience. He will manage a little
bit longer -
He tells himself that, even as he watches the note curl into ash, set alight by
one of the newly-lit candles.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!