Title: 800 words on a Potions Master's Equipment
Summary: PWP, What the Potions Master gets up to behind closed doors... 'Damn those brats! How dare they speculate on his sex life! Although they did have invariably depraved ideas, which appealed to his inner Death Eater...'
Right. Damnit. For Salazar's sake! Merlin's Balls! Since he'd been presented with the idea, it had twirled around in his subconscious, leading to well… rather graphic and quite frankly indecent dreams. Unfortunately Occlumency didn't work or perhaps he didn't want it to work, which was a possibility he was desperately trying to shy away from in his own mind. He had to use the word desperate to describe himself, didn't he?
Severus Snape, Potions Master, Spy, 37 years old, slumped against the wall in his bedchambers. He couldn't do this, no matter what anyone said, no matter that… he hadn't had any decent sex in well… quite a while. It was tempting, all he'd have to do would be to go into his lab, grab it, and be gone… and become absolutely well fucked for the first time in over a decade. He wasn't going to do it. Right. He sneered at himself ineffectually. Damn those brats! How dare they speculate on his sex life! Although they did have invariably depraved ideas, which appealed to his inner Death Eater and he was going to stop reading Muggle psychology books, inner Death Eater indeed. Bah.
The lanky dark haired man straightened up from his position against his wall, sighed, which was something he only allowed himself to do in the privacy of his well warded rooms and left to go to his laboratory. It wasn't long before he returned and he sat on his bed staring at the object in his hands. He sighed again. May as well get it over with.
He paused. Shuddered. Then slowly but carefully divested himself of his clothing, gone were the robes of a potions' brewer, gone were the starched white Victorian shirt and black slacks. Finally he removed his underwear and went back to the bed all the while steadfastly ignoring what lay in the centre. How was he going to do this if he couldn't even look at the damn thing! Maybe he shouldn't, but…He felt his cheeks flush. Great, he refused to believe he was blushing over something as simple as this.
He slid under the covers, which were plentiful, a result of living in the dungeons in a castle conveniently placed in Scotland; and waved his wand, dimming the wall sconces, leaving only the banked hearth in the opposite wall providing any considerable amount of light, or heat for that matter. He resisted sighing for a third time. Right. He was a Death Eater, He could do this, it isn't so depraved that it was out of his reach, metaphorically speaking of course.
He closed his hands around the slender shape; cast upon it two spells, an animation charm being the second, and couldn't quite stifle the moan that erupted at his thoughts. It had been such a long time, and he hadn't had anything like this in a long time, and it really was true – all the blood was rushing from his head and it really did affect his brain function. Damn, now he'd almost be feeling sorry for all the brats who suffered classes and exams during puberty, that breeding ground of hormones, pun intended. Ignore the brats, a certain part of his anatomy was demanding his attention, and that took far greater precedence than any sympathetic feelings he was just about developing.
He arched his lower body up and spread his thighs, pushing the now slick and animated potions vial against his entrance, it twitched gently in his hands releasing another moan when he thought about that inside of him. He eased it in slowly at first, before bringing himself to an almost upright position and seating himself on it firmly letting gravity do the work. The animation charm did its' work wriggling just so, and brushing against his prostate he cursed aloud, in a good way of course.
Anyone looking upon this scene, would have discovered a pale, sallow skinned, thin and battle scarred middle aged man, cheeks flushed, half-sitting, half-lying on his bed, covered to the waist with a quilt, a rapturous expression on his face as one arm was bent behind him bracing his awkward looking position and the other disappeared beneath the quilt, the motions going back and forth, until he finally voiced an exultant cry, and his hand stopped moving and he collapsed fully onto the bed. He gasped a moment later, only to curse, something about animation charms, before panting and moaning once more, all the while attempting to curse. Damnit, where was his wand, but Oh, that was good, so very good, and maybe he should wait a while before finding his wand, he had a vague wonder about death by over stimulation during sex, but ignored that in favour of grasping himself once more and oh Merlin that felt good.