FIC: One Gold Galleon, Neville/Severus, Severus/Other (NC17) Title: One Gold Galleon Author:serpenscript Prompt:"I should be horrified that a former student sees me this way; that a former student rents my body by the hour and fucks me. But his hands are gentle and he does things – he doesn't say anything, but when he leaves I feel more like a human being and a bit less like a thing to be used, despite the galleons he leaves behind." Pairing(s): Severus/Various, Severus/Neville Word Count: 3,600~ Rating: NC17 Warnings: verbal humiliation, suggestion of past violent partners Disclaimer:Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made. Notes: I selfishly wrote one of my own prompts, because the idea stuck in my head and begged to be written. Much love to my beta C., who caught all my verb tense switching and smoothed things out for me. Summary: Reduced to prostitution, one particular client makes Severus feel things he thought he was incapable of.
I used to think there were few things worse than being a spy; few occupations so humiliating and hazardous. While I crawled in front of the Dark Lord and dissembled and writhed under the Cruciatus and wondered when I'd be found out and killed – or tortured insane – I thought the lowest floor-scrubbing drudge had a better position than I.
Being a prostitute makes me long for my spying days.
The Ministry was merciful, of course. I'm 'free' – technically – no Dementors haunt my days and nights, no chains keep me in a cold, bare cell. I still have my wand, my magic, my life and my sanity.
But the restrictions on me are endless and chafing. I cannot leave Knockturn Alley except on Mondays, when I may shop for necessities in Diagon Alley – and I must wear an armband when I do so, alerting those around me of my fallen state. I can – theoretically – brew, but the 'dangerous ingredients' I am not allowed access to lest I attempt to poison someone (even myself) is so ridiculously long I am convinced many of the 'dangerous ingredients' made the list only by dint of being a choking hazard. The only thing I am allowed to brew is my own personal lubricant.
And tea; thank Merlin for tea.
While I have my wand, it's wrapped with so many restrictions – I can cast cleaning charms, mending charms, mild healing charms, warming and cooling charms, Aguamenti and Lumos – but that's about the extent of it. Protego is, apparently, dangerous. Merlin forbid I defend myself against those seeking revenge against the Big Bad Death Eater!
The restrictions on gainful employment are ridiculous to the extreme; suffice it to say, at the end of it I can either turn my toes up and sell my organs on the black market – or whore myself.
I wish I could choose the former. Every day I wish it – but then that damned survival instinct kicks in, and I find myself on my street corner, wearing a thin, knee-length robe, nothing underneath it – easy access, I've learned, is key to getting it over with quickly.
For my own sanity, I do have some limits: I don't kiss. I don't do face-to-face. I won't moan or pretend having someone's cock up my arse is the pinnacle of delight. I won't crawl, I won't call anyone Master or Lord, and I won't do (or be done by) anything on four feet.
I'll do pretty much anything else.
No one rents me for my looks; I'm too tall, too thin, too pale, too greasy. My body tells my history in a littering of scars, and many of my clients gleefully add to them, eager to carve their mark, claim their pound of flesh from the Death Eater spy.
For a handful of knuts and sickles, I let them.
"What's the price for a fuck?"
I glance at the pouch against the brick wall, mentally counting today's coins. Three more sickles will not only pay for a room tonight, but the cheapest meal on the menu at Rosmerta's. "Five sickles."
We haggle, before we settle on three. He's a obviously either a Hufflepuff or Gryffindor; a Slytherin or a Ravenclaw would have realized I wanted three to start with.
I rattle off my list of rules, then ask where he would like to go to fuck me. Most people rent a room for a half-hour; there's a cheap inn on Knockturn just for that reason – for all the whores, I mean. Not just myself.
"I want to fuck you right here," the man grins, smug brainless bastard. "Take your robe off, turn around and put your hands against the wall. I want everyone to see me fucking you!"
"Because there are so many people present in the Ally at this hour," I snark, "and every last one of them is, of course, avidly curious about your sexuality and the fact you must resort to a whore for your jollies."
The man's face darkens, and I immediately regret my tongue. Old habits die hard – and I always pay for each sarcastic comment dearly. But I cling to my sarcastic side all the same; sometimes it feels like it's all that's left of myself.
"Think you're clever, do you?" the man snarls, and it's all I can do not to roll my eyes. "Well, I think I have a better use for your tongue – I think you should suck me. Get me nice and wet – all the lubricant a whore like you needs. You're probably loose enough for the Hogwarts Express, aren't you?"
I suppress a sigh and drop to my knees when he pushes me down, grunting a little as my knees impact with the rough cement. Like the rest of me, my knees have no padding.
I wish I could charge him first, then give him a horrible blow job - maybe employ a little more tooth than comfortable - accidental, of course. But I’m a Slytherin, and a spy at that; no one will trust me with their coin until they’ve received what they’re paying for.
His cock, when he frees himself from his trousers, is uninspiring; more long than thick, ruddy and wrinkled with a heavy foreskin and a salty-bitter smell. With practiced – well, not ease, but familiarity – I take his cock between my thin lips, covering my crooked teeth, and suck it gently, working my tongue against the underside. While he's still only half hard, I swallow as much as I can, licking and covering his shaft with saliva – while I can of necessity deep-throat, I avoid it whenever possible. It gives them too much control over my access to air.
He hardens quickly, fingers tangling in my hair and pulling sharply, hips thrusting until I am forced to swallow him deeply, taking him into my throat, nose mashed unpleasantly into the coarse hair at his groin. He smells of nervous sweat and salt, and when he lets me up to breathe I wrench my head away and glare at him, though most of the effect is lost when I must glare up at him.
He smirks at me, not at all bothered by my glare.
I stand, knees dimpled and stiff from the rough concrete, and shrug off my robe. I've gotten used to the occasional round of public nudity, though my particular corner of Knockturn isn't exactly main thoroughfare. And while I am not entirely comfortable in my own skin, I am at least resigned to the looks I've been given.
A deep breath while I strengthen my Occlumency, and – there. I pull up my mask, the one that hides my emotions. Most of them aren't here for the sex, not when there are cheaper, prettier whores to be had. They're here to get under my skin, to bask in my humiliation, and I won't grant them that no matter how low I sink.
"Go on, then, hands against the wall, arse out – " the man brays, wrapping a hand around his waving prick and stroking it.
Again I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes as I silently obey, pressing palms against the rough brick of the alley wall and spreading my feet a comfortable distance. I arch my back just enough to ease the angle of entry. A moment later, the man's blunt cock is nudging between my arse cheeks; he thrusts, and easily slides in. I've been a whore now for almost a year; I've lost count of the cocks, fingers, hands, and assorted objects I've been fucked with. Preparation or not, his pathetic cock doesn't draw a sound from me.
Nor am I particularly humiliated by how loose I am; I grew inured to that insult months ago. Being fucked without proper lubricant is the greater annoyance; loose or not, spit isn't a proper lubricant and his thrusts chafe. At least it's just a waiting game now; when he starts to speed up his thrusting, I ignore the way his hands bruise my hips and clench around him strongly. He climaxes a bare moment later – no records in stamina, thank Merlin.
I endure him panting hotly in my ear for a moment longer before straightening; he takes the hint and steps away, pulling free abruptly. Warm semen begins a slow seep between my cheeks, but I ignore it for now, picking up my discarded robe and slinging it over my shoulders. I do not attempt to hide that his pitiful fucking did nothing to arouse me.
His eyes narrow, but he stuffs himself back into his trousers and buttons himself up without comment. He plunges his hand into his pocket and pulls out the three sickles, then drops them on the ground. One rolls towards the drainage grate, and I'm forced to dart out and snatch it before it's lost – Accio is one of the 'dangerous and restricted' spells, after all.
However, by the victorious look on the man's face, it amuses him greatly to see me scurry after a single dropped sickle. It amuses him more when I pull out my wand, and it takes three attempts for the cleaning spell to remove all the semen. Did I mention the restrictions on my wand make my spell casting weak nearly to the point of non-existent?
When he walks away and turns around the corner, I am three sickles richer – but I feel cheaper for it.
* * * * *
He comes once a week, always when I'm close to ending my shift, usually when I'm short a few coins. Maybe he knew I'd turn him away if I didn't need the coins – I still have some choice, after all. Longbottom would be one of the very last people on earth I'd want witnessing my humiliation.
The first time he showed up, it was cold and rainy – the damp had got everywhere, and even the most stalwart shoppers were staying indoors. The few coins I'd earned would barely amount to the cheapest hot meal on Rosmerta's menu, much less cover a bed and a roof for the night. He'd stood and looked at me for the longest time while I dared him with my darkest glare to comment on my bedraggled state.
He'd held out his hand, with a galleon – a whole galleon! – in it. He didn't ask my prices. "I've rented a room at the motel, and had dinner sent," he said, and searched though I did I couldn't find any mockery or amusement in his eyes. "I'd like to hire you for the remainder of the evening."
Not rent, not buy. Hire. It's amazing how humanizing the difference is. I swallowed and looked at the coin. What would he demand of me, for a whole galleon? What humiliations would he subject me to? "What services do you want?"
"Services?" Longbottom blinked, and raindrops fell from his eyelashes – ridiculously long, curling lashes for a wizard. "Oh. Sex, I suppose. Maybe a blowjob. Fingering. Touching."
None of those were so bad, I thought. And I'd have the warmth and relative privacy of the motel room.
I resisted snatching up the golden coin and nodded. "Fine. Lead the way."
But he hadn't humiliated me. He hadn't hurt me. He had, in fact, given me the first pleasurable orgasm I'd had in this line of work. And then he'd told me the room was paid for the night, and I was welcome to stay til morning.
Without him; he rented the room for the night for me.
I've made enough galleons to cover a room – today was a 'good' day in terms of earnings. Which means by the end of the night I am fucked raw, physically and emotionally. One of my clients got out of hand, and my back is covered with bloody scratches, my hips with bruises. There's a purpling bitemark on the juncture of my neck and shoulder, and despite repeated cleaning charms I feel filthy and used.
Part of me wants to turn him away when he shows up; I can cover the cost of a room tonight, with a little left over to eat. Bad enough for the strangers, enemies, and once-allies to rent me; somehow it's worse because it's Longbottom. Because if anyone deserves their pound of flesh it's this boy.
But he comes and stands in front of me and just looks, and when he opens his hand with the usual gold galleon there, I follow him to the motel without protest.
The room is always set up the same: covers turned back, jar of lubricant on the nightstand. He keeps the lighting dim, but I've never got the sense it's to hide my body from him, nor to hide his body from me. It's easier to disrobe in front of a former student in the dim light, so I don't question it.
"Lay down on the bed, on your back."
He respects my rules – he doesn't kiss me, doesn't fuck me face to face – but he does touch me, warm strong fingers smoothing over my skin, roughened digits rolling and plucking at my flat nipples until they harden into tight peaks. He licks them, laving them with broad swipes, before drawing them into his mouth and suckling.
Only when he's teased both to almost unbearable sensitivity does he relent and lick and suck and nibble his way down my hollow stomach – he doesn't comment when my stomach embarrassingly growls – and then his breath is hot and humid on my cock.
No one else touches me for the purpose of giving me pleasure. But he wraps his warm calloused hand around my hardening cock and licks at the head and smiles when my breath whooshes out of me; smiles, and licks again and again, until I can't hold back a whimper at his teasing.
Anyone else would humiliate me for my lack of control, but Longbottom doesn't seem to even notice it, intently focused on the clever things his tongue is doing all over my cock. And when he tires of that he takes me in his mouth, lips tight around me and sucks, tongue wiggling and pressing in all the right places. He moves his hand up and down my shaft as his head bobs, and when I gasp a warning, he doesn't stop.
He moves his hand away and opens his throat to me, completely, until his nose is brushing my groin, and then he swallows, throat hot and wet and tight around me, and he hums in enjoyment when I explode into his mouth. He licks his lips once he's sucked me dry and sits up.
Nor does he demand immediate reciprocation, despite the prominent tent in his trousers; in fact, he's never asked me to deep-throat him, nor for any kind of fellatio at all. He gives me several minutes to bask and get my breath back, and when I am completely flaccid he nudges my hip with his hands.
For a long moment I hesitate, suddenly embarrassed by the bruises and scratches littering my back and hips. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but every time I expect to see malicious glee at my tarnished state, or at least smug satisfaction.
I only see weary acceptance of who and what I am, so after another moment I roll over.
Once on my stomach I spread my legs for easy access, and he reaches for the oil. The familiar scent of sandalwood and musk fills the air as he warms some of the oil in his hands, and then he smoothes it over my shoulders and down my back and over my hips with sure strokes. The oil stings, then tingles - signs the oil has a healing spell infused into it.
And then he kneads and rubs and massages it in, tirelessly searching out and relieving sore spots and knotted tense muscles, neck and shoulders to lower back and buttocks. He only stops when my skin has absorbed the oil and I'm completely relaxed into the mattress, scratches healed and bruises faded.
He casts a cleaning charm on his hands – I envy how easily he does so – then reaches for the lubricant, opening the jar and coating his fingers in the clear, slippery substance. His fingers slip between my arse cheeks and gently circle my entrance, spreading lubricant, before one finger gently breaches me.
The first time he'd rented – no, hired me – I'd tried to tell him I didn't need to be stretched or prepared. I'd been fucked all day, I was already open and ready – I wanted him to fuck me and get it over with.
He'd still insisted, and after so many weeks I don't argue anymore. For all his ineptitude in Potions (which is largely my fault, I know) his fingers are careful and skilled. He spreads oil around inside me with one finger before adding a second, and then he strokes and scissors and stretches and gently teases me, fingers playing on my prostate, until my cock starts hardening again – in one night! – and I have to shift a little, draw one knee up a bit, to ease the pressure on my cock.
Longbottom adds a third finger and presses all three deeper, fucks me with them, until my fingers curl into the bedsheets and my hips rock of their own accord and my face flushes at my shameful eagerness.
He never comments on it, nor on the way I whimper at the sudden emptiness when he pulls his fingers away to slick his cock.
He kneels up on the bed and pulls me to hands and knees, and then his blunt cock is nudging at my entrance. But instead of simply plunging ahead, he always asks.
When I nod, he presses in slowly. I know his cock well enough that I can visualize it without looking; the smooth,dark reddish skin, lightly veined; the wide mushroom head. The shaft flares then tapers just below the glans, impressively thick and quite respectably long.
He stops when he's fully sheathed inside me and his hips are pressed to my arse, letting me adjust to him. All the other times I'm fucked during the week, every other time I'm breached, I feel invaded and used. Longbottom's careful penetration and attention to my comfort makes it different. It feels good to be filled, to feel him pressed along my back, thick shaft stretching me and holding me wide open.
When I've relaxed, he begins to move – slow teasing strokes that draw almost completely out, then sliding slowly back home. Each slow stroke he angles to brush against my prostate, and he keeps this up for a seemingly torturous forever until I rock back to meet his thrusts, needing it harder, faster.
His hands never stop moving – curling around my hips, brushing against my cock, smoothing down my thigh, tracing my ribs and side, rubbing encouraging circles at the small of my back, and then he slowly builds in speed and force until I'm rocked forward with each thrust, all my senses narrowed down to his hands, his cock, his breath on my neck, the delicious friction, the tension coiling in my groin.
I always shatter when he wraps his hand around my shaft and strokes me hard; between his cock battering my prostate and his hand on my cock, I never last long. When I cry out sharply and spurt warm fluid over his hand, he supports me until I stop trembling, hand pumping my shaft with increasingly gentle strokes until he wrings the last of my orgasm from me.
Only after I've come twice – twice, in one night, with one client – does he carefully press me into the bed and let go of his self-control, hands bracing himself over me, fucking me senseless into the mattress.
Even then, I don't feel used. When his bruising thrusts lose their rhythm and he stiffens, when I hear him hiss my name, when I feel his cock pulse inside of me, I don’t feel used. Even when he pulls out and his warm semen seeps out of my gaping, loose arse – I just feel well-fucked in a satisfying way.
He gets up after a few moments and dresses, then lays the gold galleon on the nightstand next to the bed, pocketing the oil and lubricant. "The room's paid up for the night, feel free to stay." He pauses for a long moment at the door, but when I don't say anything he opens it and steps through.
And then he's gone.
It was several weeks before I realized what that pause meant – that he wants me to ask him to stay. That maybe, he's offering me something more than money for sex. That thought keeps me awake many nights.
I should be horrified that a former student sees me this way; that a former student rents my body by the hour and fucks me. But his hands are gentle and the things he does to me - when he leaves I feel more like a human being and a bit less like a thing to be used, despite the coin he leaves behind.
I wonder sometimes what he'd offer if I gave him a chance, if I gave any sign I'd be receptive to more. I wonder if I'd be a kept man, or something more. I wonder what it would be like to give up whoring myself, to only ever feel one person's hands, one person's cock.
I tell myself I can't give up my independence. This meager existence is hellish at times and bearable at best – but I scrape by solely by my own efforts.
The real truth is, I'm afraid of what he offers. Next week, I promise myself, curling on my side and wrapping my arms around the pillow. Next week, I'll tell him.