
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/331393.
  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:
      Light_BDSM, Silence_Kink, Dom/sub, Plot_What_Plot, Established
      Relationship
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-02-01 Words: 1139
****** Speech is Silvern ******
by starcrossedgirl
Summary
     For keyairreem's prompt: golden/smother/table.
Notes
     This one's pretty much non-canon compliant with Book 6 & 7.
Harry doesn&#x2019;t know how he always ends up in situations like this.
Fine, that&#x2019;s a lie -- he knows; he knows only too well. It&#x2019;s his
utter inability to back down from a challenge like any sane person would. Most
of the time, he doesn&#x2019;t overthink it too much; after all, courage is a
Gryffindor trait. Sometimes, though -- times like this -- he&#x2019;s convinced
it isn&#x2019;t courage so much as sheer, utter lunacy.
&#x201C;Tonight&#x2019;s lesson is that silence is golden,&#x201D; Snape had
said, length of silk sliding over his hands. &#x201C;Would you prefer to be
gagged, or would you rather do without?&#x201D;
There&#x2019;s always a lesson, with Snape. Harry should probably resent it,
but he can&#x2019;t bring himself to. It would be so easy to blame Snape: after
all, Snape stripped him of his clothes, tonight; Snape pushed him onto his back
on the table; Snape used the defunct gag to tie his arms down, instead.
It was Harry, though, who walked down the stairs to Snape&#x2019;s office,
Harry who -- predictably, foolishly -- said, &#x201C;Without&#x201D;, who
shivered when Snape&#x2019;s lip curled in response. It was Harry who kicked
off his shoes (Snape never kneels), Harry who leant into the wood, who lifted
his arms.
Snape didn&#x2019;t make him do any of those things. No, the truth is quite
simple: Snape merely offers and Harry leaps right ahead.
The silk encircles his wrists, deceptively soft. Harry knows he need only say
the word and it will vanish, but he welcomes its strength, welcomes how it
holds firm to his tugs, as he writhes. Without it, temptation would overwhelm
him; he&#x2019;d smother his cries with his hand, his fingers, his palm, and
that... well, that&#x2019;s not true silence, at all.
Funny, how cheating is out of the question, here.
It&#x2019;s getting harder, though. More and more, he&#x2019;s biting his lip
to stifle the sounds which long to break free, which fill his throat tight to
bursting. He can&#x2019;t tell how long he has fought to remain silent -
- minutes, perhaps, hours or years. When he&#x2019;s with Snape, time always
contracts, splits down the middle, expands: each moment too slow, all moments
combined far too fast, never enough.
Snape&#x2019;s barely touched him -- at least nowhere to warrant the mad rush
of his pulse, but that much is par for the course. Normally, Harry would be
begging by now, a litany of half-broken vowels and sounds, please, touch me,
fuck me, oh God. Without words, his body does all the talking. Snape&#x2019;s
fingers trip down his sternum and Harry arches his spine until he fears it is
breaking; his hips chase the blunt scrape of nails; his legs part to the tickle
of hair.
If this goes where he thinks it is heading, he might just die.
It doesn&#x2019;t, however. He breathes and breathes and breathes through
Snape&#x2019;s tongue trailing the v of his thigh, breathes so hard he misses
the signs. Then Snape thrusts two fingers inside him, curls them and twists
them and lifts them with unerring precision, and Harry can&#x2019;t help it;
the whimper flows from his throat like the moon pulls the tide.
The fingers leave him, immediately. A heartbeat, and Snape&#x2019;s hand covers
his mouth, pressing down.
&#x201C;Shh,&#x201D; Snape says. &#x201C;You were doing so well.&#x201D;
Funny, how ready he is to give praise, when they are here.
Harry pants into the weight of Snape&#x2019;s palm, hot-damp exhales, tastes
the salt of his skin echoed within each inhale. He smells the sharp tang of
lube on Snape&#x2019;s fingers as they curl round his jaw, seeks his eyes,
holds them and clings as he clings to the silk stretched taut under his thumbs.
&#x201C;Just a little while longer.&#x201D;
A little while might well be forever, but it&#x2019;s easier, with Snape
staring at him, to nod, to give in. This time, at least, he knows what will
happen, when the fingers retreat, slide smooth into him, once more. His whole
body jerks, but there&#x2019;s only Snape&#x2019;s eyes going dark,
Snape&#x2019;s lips parting slightly, the faint flicker of Snape&#x2019;s
tongue tracing their line. There&#x2019;s only the thunder of Harry&#x2019;s
own breaths, resounding too loud in silence, the rhythmic creak of the desk
while Snape fucks him and fucks him and fucks him, and yet never fucks him at
all.
A little while is an eternity, until it is not. The silk slithers away with the
fingers, leaving Harry bereft, and then time moves too fast, all of a sudden,
in blurred snatches of motion: Snape&#x2019;s hands at his robes and on
Harry&#x2019;s hips, hauling him close; one swift, killing thrust which slices
him open.
Harry would sob, if he could. He lifts up, instead, on arms that are shaking;
Snape slams him back down. He holds Harry firm, right over his heart, pressing
him flat to the desk and for a moment, it seems too much. Harry scrabbles for
purchase, nails finding and losing the grain of the wood, slippery from his own
sweat; Snape&#x2019;s hand feels cold, unforgiving. Harry grabs for it,
intending to push it away, but Snape&#x2019;s skin is not cold but blood-warm.
Snape&#x2019;s pulse races the pace of his thrusts and Harry follows it up,
wraps his hands round Snape&#x2019;s arm, and then, it is an anchor. It is an
anchor just like Snape&#x2019;s gaze, which never leaves him; together, they
keep him steady, let him sink into the sway as Snape fills him again and again
and again. Together, they siphon the sounds from his chest, each moan, each
whimper, each cry, so he gives himself over until there&#x2019;s only the
pleasure, the bright knife of Snape&#x2019;s cock inside him, the voracious
heat of Snape&#x2019;s eyes. Of course, it can&#x2019;t last; before long and
he&#x2019;s trembling, clamping down on Snape&#x2019;s arm. Snape wrenches him
up and then he&#x2019;s kissing Harry, surging against him as they tremble
together, as everything turns white-hot and slow.
For a moment, they&#x2019;re perfectly still, breathing each other. For a
moment, Harry thinks he might cry, but to his surprise it&#x2019;s not tears
that burst free but laughter, peal after peal. He can&#x2019;t seem to control
it as it rattles right through him, drowns him in waves until he is shaking and
trembling anew. For a moment, he&#x2019;s terrified by it, overcome, convinced
that he&#x2019;s losing his mind. But Snape lifts him off the edge of the desk,
guiding him down to the floor; Snape wraps around him, sinuous like twine, and
it&#x2019;s okay, then. Harry can smother his laughter in the rough wool of
Snape&#x2019;s robes while Snape&#x2019;s fingers stroke through his hair and
soothe down his spine, while Snape murmurs words which mean nothing, until
Harry finds his way back to calm.
Perhaps he&#x2019;s crazy to thrill-seek like this, but the truth is quite
simple: Harry jumps, knowing Snape -- Snape will catch him.
Every time.
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