
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11476299.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Regulus_Black/Severus_Snape
  Character:
      Regulus_Black, Severus_Snape, Evan_Rosier
  Additional Tags:
      Marauders'_Era, Underage_Drinking, Hand_&_Finger_Kink, Semi-public_hand
      jobs, Community:_rarepair_shorts
  Collections:
      Rare_Pair_Shorts_-_Wishlist_Event_2017
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-12 Words: 1350
****** Grip ******
by humanveil
Summary
     It only takes the touch of a hand.
Notes
     Written for the 2017 Wishlists Event at Rare Pair Shorts on LJ, for
     the prompt combination Regulus/Severus, hand/finger kink. Hope you
     like it!
     Originally_posted_here.
Deft fingers, flipping through pages. Long digits splayed out across the back
of a book. A nail, clipped short, scratching over the jut of a wrist bone.
Absentminded.
Beautiful.
Regulus is done for.
It had started with a study session -- pale hands holding a ladle, stirring
slowly, the ligaments rippling beneath flesh -- and, well. It was downhill from
there.
It is inexplicable, Regulus thinks. He doesn’t know why it affects him so, but
it does. Like he’s transfixed; an unknown force keeping his gaze there, drawing
it back every time he dares look away.
Inconvenient.
He wouldn’t call Snape a graceful person, no one would. Sneaky, slimy, seedy,
sure. But graceful? No. His personality is too blunt, too harsh. His body too
bony. His actions too, too... well. Him, really.
But still, there is something. Something about those hands that captivates
Regulus. So sure of themselves, so skilled. Books, potions, spells—
He can’t help but wonder how far that skill extends.
Snape tutors him -- not out of the kindness of his heart, but because Slughorn
has asked, and because Regulus gives him a few galleons each time. But these
days, well. Regulus pays more attention to the hands than the book they hold,
the potion they work on.
Often, he walks away not having learnt a thing.
It’s almost a problem.
                                       *
Or, definitely a problem.
“Why do you pay me to do this if you’re not going to pay attention?” The words
are tired, bored.
They snap Regulus out of his trance. He looks up, blinks. Tries not to look
guilty. “What?”
A sigh, tired. Irritated. The book in his hand falls to their table, thumping
quietly. Regulus looks over his shoulder to make sure Madam Pince hadn’t heard.
“I’m not going to tutor you anymore.”
“What?” Panicked, almost. Regulus winches internally. He clears his throat and
tries again, attempts to not sound so pathetic this time. “Why?”
“You don’t listen.” Blunt, to the point.
“Sure I do.”
“Really?” Severus deadpans. “Alright. What goes in after the moonstone?”
“Uh.” Fuck, Regulus thinks. Fuck, fuck. These sessions -- they’re the only time
he can get Snape to be alone with him. Or be near him at all, really. He
doesn’t want to lose that. “Dandelion root?”
Another sigh, louder this time. Snape’s hand twitches. Like he wants to rub at
his temple, Regulus thinks.
“You’re as much of an idiot as your brother.”
Annoyed. Definitely annoyed, but. Well. Regulus sort of takes it as a
compliment. He knows Sirius isn’t that much of an idiot, despite some of his
actions.
“I—” he starts, but he can’t stop Snape from leaving.
Fuck, he thinks again. Fuck.
                                       *
He stays for the winter holidays that year. To study, he tells himself. But,
well. At least he had good intentions.
Snape stays, too. Always does, Regulus notices. Like he doesn’t want to go
home. Must be bad, he thinks. Because he never seems to enjoy staying much,
either.
Rosier stays, too. And— that’s always fun, Regulus has come to learn.
He comes back one night to a near empty common room, only a few of the fifth
and sixth years sitting around. He has two bottles of firewhiskey in his hands,
another held under his arm, pressed against his torso. There’s a shit eating
grin on his face.
No one asks how he got it. No one asks anything, with him. That’s just Evan,
they’ll say. And, well. It’s true.
Regulus sits in his armchair, right in front of the fire. He likes it, here. It
gives him a full view of the room. Allows him to watch, unnoticed.
Rosier goes to Snape first, handing him his own bottle and oh. Oh. It’s almost
delicate, Regulus thinks. The way the wrist bends. The way his fingers curl
around the bottle’s curve. The way they hold the neck, like it’s no effort at
all.
Fuck.
He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable.
He’s called over eventually. Regulus can’t decide if he’s glad or not.
Evan points to the spot between him and Snape, pulling him down with a giggly
Come on, Reggie.
Already drunk, then.
McNair is there, too. And some sixth year girl he’s never learnt the name of.
She smiles at him, surprisingly cheerful. He smiles back.
“Here.” A bottle is placed in his hand, the glass cool to touch. Regulus looks
up at Snape, starts to say thank you, but stops.
The liquid burns. Bitter. Not his favourite taste, but still nice. Still
drinkable.
The night passes in a blur. The fire crackles, flames shining in the corner of
his eyes; hues of orange and red. Beautiful. They heat his face, add colour to
usually pale skin. The alcohol helps, too. He’s pretty sure his cheeks are
tinged pink. Snape’s certainly are.
They talk. Joke. Their interaction less strained than usual. It’s nice, Regulus
thinks. He’s glad he stayed.
And then the girl disappears with McNair, and then the common room is empty
save the three of them. And then—
“Regulus wants you to fuck him.” Said like it’s no big deal, like it’s a
perfectly normal thing to say.
That’s just Evan.
Two heads turn in sync. Shocked. Embarrassed. Perhaps a little turned on.
Regulus can feel his face heat. His eyes widen.
“What?” Evan asks. He doesn’t understand their surprise. “Everyone knows. We
have bets.”
He takes the bottle from Severus and tilts his head back, throat moving as he
swallows another swing.
Bets, Regulus thinks. Bets. He looks ready to strangle something. Preferably
Evan.
“What.” And that’s Snape’s voice. Flat and indifferent. Not letting on what
he’s really thinking.
Bastard, Regulus thinks. Can’t let anything be easy.
“Yep.” He ends the word with a loud pop, lips turned in a smirk. So he’s
realised what he’s done, Regulus thinks. And he’s happy about it.
Bastard.
“It was funny at first,” Evan says, and Regulus is definitely going to kill
him. “But it’s annoying now.”
Severus looks at Evan. Regulus watches him from the corner of his eye. His
bottom lip is held gently between his teeth, his eyes narrowed. Like he’s
trying to figure something out. And then he turns. Looks right at Regulus.
“Is it true?”
And, because the alcohol has destroyed any sense he may have had, Regulus’
first instinct is to blurt: “It’s your hands.”
Evan is grinning again, now. Head hovering above Snape’s shoulder. He reminds
Regulus of Sirius when he does that.
“I’ll be off,” he says. Cheerfully. Like he’s trying not to laugh.
Kill him, yes. Regulus is definitely going to do it.
                                       *
Or, maybe not. Maybe he owes Evan a couple of favours. Because now Snape’s
hands are on him, and, fuck. If it isn’t the best thing Regulus has ever felt.
They’re pressed against one of the armchairs, Severus’ body above his. Regulus
has his shirt bunched up around his waist, his trousers hanging around mid-
thigh. It’s messy, rushed. But so, so good.
Snape’s fingers are curled around his cock, the pressure fucking brilliant.
They’re definitely skilled, Regulus thinks. If a bit inexperienced.
It’s almost torturous. Snape squeezes, rubs, pulls until he’s a panting,
moaning mess. And then he stops, replaces the steady pressure with feather
light touches. With the pads of his fingers trailing over sensitive skin. With
the faintest brush of a nail, almost enough pressure to hurt, but not.
Fuck.
“This is what you were thinking about,” he says. Not a question, but a
statement of fact. “In our sessions.”
“Yes.” Moaned. Breathless. Regulus wants to scream it. He doesn’t, but his hips
buck up, into the heat of his hand. Friction.
“You should have said.”
The words are followed by a finger moving up his shaft, across the vein,
circling the head. Severus presses his thumb against the slit, collects the
precome, and drags his hand back down.
Experimental.
Regulus comes -- eyes wide and staring, a strangled swear on his tongue, his
stomach jolting, his legs shaking. White, thick come splatters on his stomach,
his shirt, Severus’ hands. He licks his lips.
Yes, Regulus thinks. He definitely owes Evan something.
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