Starvation
by Pluto pluto @ umbrellastudios. com
Rating: R
Fandom and Pairings: Harry Potter; SS/LM, SS/RL
Status: Complete
Date: 7/25/02
Archive: ask for permission
Author's website: http:www. umich. edu/~lizcheng/
Summary: Sometimes the skin starves.
Disclaimers: These characters don't even remotely belong to me, but to JKR and
co! And it's out of love, I swear.
Notes: Thank you to Cymraes for the unexpected but definitely appreciated Beta.
~*~
Starvation
There was a peculiar way that his skin starved for touch, laying quiet until it happened, the memory lingering deeply after.
Intimate touch: not simply a brushing of elbows in the hallway, a sharp bumping of knees under the table. Not necessarily dramatic either-- three fingers laid on the shoulder, one callused fingertip brushing above the fabric of a tight collar; hip pressed to thigh for the briefest moment on the pretense of sitting too close; whisper of lips on a jawline otherwise caressed only by limp black hair.
One small touch then, and without warning flared the sheer crawling loneliness of air on his body instead of hands. Snape dressed himself in more layers, heavier clothing, gloves and scarves even indoors; but the skin at his waist remembered the wrap of hand warm through his robes, and the brush of the scarf only drew further attention to the hunger of the skin of his neck.
He could stand perfectly still when he wanted, perfectly painfully still, but he was aware of the heavy wool and cotton stirring lightly around him even as he stopped. He was unable to put it out of his mind, the brush of fabric worn so fine and thin it was like silk on his skin, of hands so rough in contrast.
He starved. He became a desperate man, filled with want in a way he had long banished, frustrated and angry that he had come to this. He had wanted it to stop, cursed and pushed, but in the end the devouring hunger had over come him. Skin on his skin, rough where he was gentle and gentle where he was rough, nothing but a few clumsy caresses in a dark corner where the children couldn't see. He had escaped by pleading classes, and fear of getting caught; but now his body sang, thirsting for more. He locked himself in his dungeon, refusing to come out if it wasn't absolutely necessary.
He tried his own hands but it wasn't the same. Worse, it left him only needing more, only reminded of nails scraping the inside of his forearm, lips on his pulse.
He caught himself sucking on the inside of his wrist while considering the ingredients for a potion. After that he made sure his sleeves were buttoned, and came down to mid-palm. When Dumbledore put a hand over his own in a certainly fatherly gesture, he jumped; luckily the old man knew he had never liked to be touched. The resultant teasing was nothing he wasn't long accustomed to. But Hagrid sitting oppressively next to him at dinner, meaty thigh leaning too close to his own, had left him stammering excuses and hiding a hard-on worthy of a hormone-riddled teenager.
His reaction to Hagrid was the last straw. He supposed it was what pushed him to his hands and knees before Lucius Malfoy. Lucius didn't touch him in the small ways, only shoved him down and took what he needed, gave what Snape needed. Skin on skin, fingers buried too intimately for words, blood and sweat mingled with bitter sex.
After all, any touch was better than none. And a loveless touch was better than one full of promises that could never be kept.
He lay down in his bed with hate in his heart and revulsion in his eyes, and he let his legs be spread, because his skin starved, because it could remember fingers whispering through his hair.
They never said a word, he and Lucius, never spoke and never kissed; except Lucius always kissed the mark on his arm, the only thing they had in common besides overmuch affection for Draco Malfoy. The intimacy of the gesture drove Snape mad and he almost sent Lucius home the first time he did it (as if he could send a Malfoy, the Malfoy heir out of his bed). But Lucius only held on and laughed and kissed him again, and his skin seemed to radiate a burn from the contact of wet lips on the sweating crook of his arm.
Lucius never touched him in any other way than sex. He was better than Snape and took great pains to remind him of it. Snape preferred it that way. The touch seemed more controlled then, less controlling; he could almost ignore that his body demanded it while his mind denied it. He could almost ignore that memory of (pressed against a stone column, surprised and furious, but he hadn't been touched like that in years, not since school, not since Lucius had gotten married, not that Narcissa was any obstacle but it revolted him to think of himself as a side dalliance, he was better than that) the touch.
His knees hurt from the heavy wrinkle in the thick blankets on his bed. His palms itched, he clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. If Lucius leaned forward he would sometimes feel the tickle of hair on his back, brushing, a gentle caress; he would always press back until Lucius straightened, until the momentary kindness disappeared, until it was merely two bodies rutting in an oversterile room.
Some days he would let Lucius wrap a hand around his throat and choke him until his cheeks went cold and his vision started to black. When he came like that he was nearly euphoric, all semblance of sanity momentarily crushed out of him along with his breath. But it never lasted, and when Lucius let go he coughed and choked and thought that next time he wanted the fingers to bury themselves into his skin, tearing out his desire, the need in him.
In school he wore his high-necked robes anyways, so no one, not even Albus Dumbledore, saw the finger shaped bruises on his skin.
He would sometimes stand in front of a mirror and trace them, and think that the visible memory was no worse than the memory of that other touch, the one that had left no marks.
But it was not enough, it was never enough; finally he introduced Lucius to another dalliance, prettier and younger, and watched his only source of touch leave him without a thought. He tried brewing a potion that might drive those desires right out of his head, but it only made him sleepy. He would not risk falling asleep on his desk in the presence of the Gryffindors, especially Potter.
So sleepless, he stood in that unfortunate corridor, and scowled from the shadows as children chased each other by. As the hours grew later he handed out detentions; but eventually even the worst of the children slept, and he only stood there alone. He put his head back against the stone, frowning and sighing.
It was madness, he thought, that a simple touch had undone Severus Snape.
"You've won," he said aloud to the stone walls. "You've won, but of course, you aren't even here to enjoy the results of your little victory. "
He spat Remus Lupin's name, and stormed past the open window, cursing the full moon.