
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/318670.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Severus_Snape
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Severus_Snape
  Additional Tags:
      BDSM, Dom/sub, Sensory_Deprivation, Facials, Dirty_Talk
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-01-12 Words: 827
****** Fragments ******
by starcrossedgirl
Summary
     Harry shouldn't enjoy it so much.
Notes
     Non-canon compliant from OoTP onwards. Also, titles are hard!
     Disclaimer: JKR would never write anything of the sort; luckily, I am
     not her!
     Additional Warnings (highlight to view):
     Possible hints of dub-con, depending on how you read it.
Harry shouldn’t enjoy it so much.
He tells himself this each night as he wavers, wrapped in his cloak, outside
the solid oak door: that it’s twisted and wrong, filthy and sick. That surely,
this time, he’ll come to his senses; he’ll turn on his heel, stride away; he
won’t look back.
He always knocks.
The problem is that he can’t keep a hold on those whys, once he’s inside. He
compiles lists in his head -- never on paper -- during class, during dinner,
sat in the library. He considers telling Hermione, in the hopes that her
outrage might serve as a reminder, but he can’t bring himself to speak.
As soon as he’s here, none of it matters, and tonight is no different. The dark
blankets him; under the familiar weight of the blindfold, he feels no shame.
The rough-woven threads of sheets whisper against his thighs, his back, his
arms. He could not name their colour if forced to at wand-point, but that’s
unimportant; here, under Snape’s hands, he doesn’t need to see, doesn’t need to
look over his shoulder every step of the way. Here he needs only to listen, to
feel, to obey.
He shouldn’t enjoy it so much, that last part in particular. But although his
heart thunders inside his ribcage as though it might burst, he welcomes each
leap of his blood, the maddening anticipation of what will come next. Snape’s
words twine around him, like ivy, or perhaps Devil’s snare. Sometimes, they
cut, like the sharp bite of nails down Harry’s sides, like the twist of a
nipple, like (ohGod) the burn of the switch. Sometimes, they soothe, like the
lips to his brow, like the arms, holding him up. Sometimes, they coax, like
Snape’s tongue against his palate, like his fingers, sliding hot-slick inside
Harry until he begs and begs and begs some more.
(Snape never fucks him.)
Always, they guide Harry. They carry him, in their mellifluous constancy, to
that point he can never predict but which always arrives; in concert with
Snape’s hands and mouth they unravel him, they destroy him, every time. Harry
loses track of the actual words, then, through the rushing of blood in his
ears, through the cacophony of his own, shallow breaths, but that’s all right,
too. Snape seems content to watch him writhe and moan, and possibly cry, and
this, Harry can easily do.
As if he has a choice.
Snape only falls silent, when he is close. It took Harry a while to figure it
out, amidst the sweet-guilty rush of Snape’s hand urging his own into the right
pace or the overwhelming heat of Snape’s cock down his throat, of fingers
twisting in Harry’s hair. Tonight, though, it goes like this: with Harry flat
on his back, sweat-soaked and trembling, when Snape withdraws. He almost misses
the rustle of cloth, too caught up in the loss of those hands to keep his hips
from surging towards nothing; then he feels the quiet and it ceases to matter,
like everything else. His fingers claw at the sheets, wanting, needing to touch
-- himself or Snape; it’s all the same. It’s disconcerting, all of a sudden,
not being able to see, before there’s the slightest hitch in Snape’s breathing,
and then it’s nothing short of torturous. His own gasps seem too loud, so he
swallows them back, until he can hear nothing but the tell-tale rasp of flesh
sliding on flesh, the shuddering, endless rhythm of Snape’s breaths, until
blood-warm liquid lands on his jaw, his cheek, his lips.
Harry exhales, finally, but it comes out more like a whimper. “Look at you,”
Snape says, trailing his thumb through the mess and over Harry’s mouth, and
Harry sucks it in, desperate for something, anything, just more. “Slut.”
Harry shouldn’t enjoy it so much, Snape calling him names. But he can’t help
it, just as he can’t help arching up into Snape’s fingers as they trail down
his sternum, just as he can’t help sobbing himself hoarse when Snape grips him
and makes him go to pieces, murmuring filth into his ear all the while.
He can never quite remember, in the midst of it all, how it began. Sometimes,
in that moment right after, when he’s lying there blind and flayed open, he
wonders if it went like this: a drop of something in his morning pumpkin juice,
a subtle suggestion. Then Snape pulls him close and whispers words Harry can’t
bear repeating, words he could never believe anywhere else, from anyone’s lips.
---
“I hate you,” Harry mutters, when Snape gives him detention the following day,
even though it was blatantly Malfoy who cast the first spell. He barely hears
Hermione’s impassioned speech from his side, he’s glaring so hard.
Snape sneers at him and calls him pathetic, before stalking away.
It’s okay, though. Perhaps it’s wrong and it’s sick and it’s twisted, but they
both know that this -- this is the lie.
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