Mature content.
A/N: This fic was originally written as a single unchaptered story, so I apologize for the somewhat awkward chapter breaks.
Chapter Seven
Shaking, Harry kept his wand on target. Serrated edges hooked Snape's clothes, yanked him upright. Body stiffening, he was hauled higher up the wall, higher still, heels straining off the floor. Thorns tacked him flat, arms pinioned to either side. A length of briar caught him around the ribs. Drifts of petals cascaded down, white on dark wool, on black denim.
The entire wall vanished beneath a sea of roses. The mass heaved, and pulses of magic burst like small lava bubbles around Snape's body. A tight-furled bud like an eyeless white snake slithered over his left shoulder and burst into bloom. White ruffles unfolded at his throat, pearly and pulsating, layers snarled with strands of black hair. Snape's head arched back as a rose tried to cram itself into his mouth before disintegrating in a heap of glossy, silky snow.
Outlined in glowing blooms, Snape hung. He didn't fight. Beneath his limp fingers, clusters of white, unstained petals turned red, drop by drop.
Then it was just Snape, blossoms gone, briars too, Snape hanging alone still pinned to the wall, his clothes twisted and puckered, the mere tips of his long toes brushing the floor. The air smelled of blood, and the smell was sweet.
Harry was too hard-pressed to gloat properly over Snape's plight. Spitting fire – through his wand, out his pores, breathing it like a dragon – he fought to keep the room from bursting into flames. The ghosts thronged inside him, harsh as smoke. He struggled to master them, to master himself, to stop death blazing out of him in jets of fire.
Eyes bloodshot, he glared at the long, dark body spreadeagled against the bedroom wall. By God, he could destroy this house. He could sweep his arm around the room and watch the flames blossom. Snape was in no position to stop him. He could burn it to the ground, make it flare and dance, watch its timbers rupture and fall crashing, booming, just like the Ministry. He could stand inside the fire, as he had that night, gouts of smoke blurring through the caved-in roof, mingling with the desolate fog.
He'd been alone at the end, just charred bodies for company. He'd been screaming, he remembered, his friends fled or burned, Voldemort ash or so near as didn't matter. Around him the flames had rumbled and seethed, cut through with a high-pitched hissing whine. Harry heard it still, those nights he lay wakeful. Pieces of his clothing had started to blacken, breaking away like sheets of scorched newsprint.
Then a figure had appeared out of the smoke.
Harry'd never told anyone, and part of him still believed he'd been delirious. A Death Eater had come striding through the fire, directly to his side. The white mask had bent over him, absent eyes glinting in the shadows. Too weak to fight, Harry had crab-walked backwards on his heels and palms, gasping, protesting. The man had pushed him down and covered his forehead with one hand, and what was Harry supposed to do? He'd been crazed by ghosts, by guilt, and fuck, he'd just killed a Dark Lord, and –
And it had been soothing at first. Astonishing, how one hand could lift the burden of terror off his exhausted heart. It had been the only kind thing in that whole experience of hell. The windy roar of the fire had died down, his body had cooled, and just like that he'd been able to breathe. Harry had been so intensely grateful that he'd clutched the man's hand and sobbed, "Thank you. Thank you." He'd trusted that hand. He'd mistaken it for a promise that everything was going to be all right.
At first. And then something had moved inside his skull. He'd cried out, then, at the pressure, as a singleminded magical intrusion pushed deep into the core of his being, exploring, splitting him open, pushing layers aside. Harry hoped never to feel pain like that again. Agony had radiated through every nerve in his brain, along with a sucking, clinging horror. The invader had kept on until he found what he was looking for. He'd stopped, gathering power. Then his magic had – pulled, and that was when Harry had started to scream.
He'd kept screaming, unable to stop. It had felt as if a – a parasite with tentacles and mandibles and hooked legs were being dragged out of him inch by inch, extracted by sheer magical force. In the death grip of the invading magic, the thing in Harry's brain had scrabbled to stay put, scoring his sense of identity with its own furious will to live. Its writhing limbs had left bloody furrows behind, scarring some essential part of him. The part that had been capable of trusting. The part that hoped.
The black-sheeted figure hunched over him had staggered up. His wand flashed, and a volcano had erupted in Harry's skull. Something seething and malevolent and alive had exploded outward, molten to the touch, utterly grotesque.
The ejection of this loathsome presence was the last straw. It had scorched Harry's consciousness beyond enduring. Or perhaps it had been the heat of the fire battering at him now that his human shield was gone. For a second, he'd blacked out. When the world – the burning world – came back into focus, he'd caught a flicker of movement that wasn't fire, and instinctively reached his arms out for help.
There'd been none. Only an emotionless white mask, black robes billowing behind a ragged, snapping curtain of gold. The flames had screened Harry's view, leaping and subsiding, warping the air with a heat-haze. The office carpet had shriveled, and the floor under it had seared his shoulders. He'd glimpsed the shadowy flap of a sleeve, like a carrion bird rising from the soot and split flooring.
With a great sweep of his arm, the Death Eater had pitched something across the room, into a corner where some Ministry clerk's desk burned like tinder.
Harry'd heard a smack as the object made a mushy landing. Pale green flames had started weaving upward, and a wet crackle arose, popping and sizzling like bacon on a skillet. The smoke in the room had become flavoured with rot. He'd gagged, and a frightful whistling started, like a mad tea kettle on the boil. A series of strange, demented vowels had shrilled upward, struggling to become words.
The Death Eater had aimed his wand. An earsplitting shriek of wordless rage had exploded in flaming shrapnel as a section of the ceiling roared down, burying the desk in fiery rubble.
Shuddering all over, smeared with tears and snot and soot and blood, Harry had lain helpless, wondering if he'd be next.
The man had wiped his hands on his robes and lifted them to his face. Turning, then, he'd simply faded away. In his wake, a white disk had come clattering across the room, bounced once, rolled over, and cracked in half. The Death Eater mask. The man who'd worn it was gone.
"Wait! Help me!" Harry's face had been sticky, masked in blood. He'd started crawling over the splinters and cinders and sticks of broken furniture, but the fire had blocked his way. There was nobody there, and he'd been too exhausted to Apparate. He'd been alone in a building stinking of death, more fire than stone, more ash than wood, the air so hot that his clothes had spontaneously combusted.
Then sparks roared over him, "Accio Harry Potter!" and the next thing Harry knew he was outside gasping in the cold night air, heavy black robes bundled around him, and there'd been Order members all over the place, spells whacking and sizzling, shouts ringing in his ears. He was being carried. Oh God, it was like heaven. He was being held.
The harsh cry, "Drop him! Don't move or we'll Stupefy!" had smashed through his fragile shell of safety. Heaven had reverted instantly to hell. The arms clutching him inside the warm robes – Harry still remembered the heartbeat banging against his cheek, reminding him he was alive, alive – had tightened for a moment in denial, then let go. They'd let go, spilled his brokenness right out onto the pavement. He remembered falling into a ring of fire, bones jarred, glasses knocked spinning from his nose. He'd been coughing. His own robes had covered him in cinders, and all he'd wanted to do was crawl away from the light.
The way had been barred by two black leather boots. In the red-gold flicker of the burning building, he'd rolled over, blinded, body swarming with ghosts.
He hadn't needed to see. He'd been there before, in the dungeons of Hogwarts. He already knew at whose feet he lay screaming.
He hadn't died that night, although to this day he sometimes crawled in his sleep. But just because he fell out of bed on a regular basis didn't mean he had all that much interest in dying. He'd things to do, right? He had Ron to look after.
A shame, that. He could have taken Snape with him.
Fine, then. He'd settle. It was enough to see the Dark bastard snagged, ensnared, too stunned to speak a single horrible word, too much at Harry's mercy to be a threat to anyone. Mercy. Harry's breathing accelerated. Smoke trickled from the tip of his wand.
Snape's head was tilted back, his scalp in disarray. Something rooted through the oil slick of his hair. Harry shuddered. He didn't need to see the thorns to know what they were doing. They'd pierced his own skin often enough. Bastard ought to flinch, at least; his stillness wasn't natural.
Something dark and wet welled suddenly at Snape's hairline, anointing his pale brow, and began dribbling downward. It detoured along the side of Snape's nose and crawled within touching distance of his lips. On his sunken cheeks, in the candlelight, the colour was ghastly.
Harry swallowed and his fury began to clear.
He lowered his wand. As if awaiting his signal, the wards began to tear loose, and the unresisting body sagged downward. Hearing the jumper rip, then rip again, Harry gulped. He was sweating. He rubbed his forehead and forced himself to stay calm.
Tiny shreds of black wool littered the floor, amid glass shards and rose petals. Snape went to his knees with several muffled thuds and nothing at all of his usual grace. Thorn-tangled, his hair branched out behind him and then fell, lock by lock, across his bent shoulders.
Harry trembled. Right, this was it. This was what he'd hoped for, wasn't it? Severus Snape kneeling, head bowed until his hooked nose risked catching splinters, his torn hands supporting him on the worn floorboards. Snape's breathing filled his ears. He remembered standing silent, watching the bastard sleep, marveling at each even, ordinary breath.
Well, Hermione had warned him. Lupin, too. Why hadn't he listened? Whatever Snape had done, whatever he deserved, Harry was the one who'd just unleashed the full force of his magic against an unarmed man.
Then Snape lifted his head. He focused through the narrow part in his hair, his expression through the gap bone-hard and bone-white. "I knew it," he exhaled, voice crackly as scorched paper. The crooked stripe gleamed, dividing his face. "I knew the Dark Lord had willed you his sins. No wonder you're so angry with me for keeping you alive. You're mad with guilt, Potter."
"Stop talking," Harry said. A cinder of rage popped under his heart. His insides felt pitted with these tiny, nasty scars. "Don't you know when to quit?"
"Even choking on my own blood, I'd still find the means to tell you what I think."
Bold words, sure, until it came time for Snape to rise from his knees. Then the git was forced to shut his trap and save his energy. Especially since, at the first attempt, he had to sink back and try again. Harry knew better than to offer to help. With a whisper, he cleaned Snape's face of blood and banished the sticky patches from his hair. Otherwise he didn't bear looking at.
Upright, Snape swayed for a moment, glaring dizzily like a drugged hawk. He was clearly waiting for Harry to mock him. When no remark was forthcoming and it seemed reasonably certain his knees wouldn't give way, he wrapped the tatters of his dignity around him and placed his feet carefully amongst the glass and white petals.
"Optimistic to imagine you could free yourself of your ghosts by killing me, don't you think?" he said in passing.
"I wasn't trying – I didn't – " Snape gained the bedstead while Harry was still babbling. Seeing him brace himself against the newel post with his fingertips alone, Harry was by his side at once, demanding, "Let me see your hands."
The sheer wattage of rage that flared in Snape's face would have incinerated a lesser mortal.
"I'm sorry," Harry whispered. "Yes, I'm haunted, okay? You don't know what it's like."
Death Eater incarnate burst off Snape in waves. "Clear your self-pitying arse out of my way, you presumptuous little Gryffindor prick, or by all that's unholy, I'll Cruciate you where you stand. I'm in no mood to pander to the Boy Who Whinges."
Harry backed off. "I wasn't going to hurt you."
Snape expelled a sibilant breath and continued onward, his movements slightly freer, his steady, cat-like tread carrying him to the cabinet. Harry listened to the sucking kiss of the stopper being jerked from the decanter, heard glass clink, watched Snape's head tilt back as he washed down his anger with firewhisky. His view of Snape's jumper, tufted with threads and gashed in places all the way to his waist, gave him some idea of what the man's back must look like.
Then Snape set his drink down and turned, leaning against the cabinet with folded arms. "For Merlin's sake, Potter. Why aren't you gone?"
"What? I don't know," Harry admitted, wanting to cry ghosts, fire, Ron. He knew he should take a hint, but feared that if he Apparated back to Grimmauld Place he'd inevitably end up causing a scene. "I don't know."
"Too bad for you, then." Snape's smile was as cold as the winter night outside. "I do."
Arms still folded, he raised the fingers of one bloodstained hand to his thin lips and began slowly stroking back and forth, as if deep in thought. Brooding, he stared straight at Harry. Rage and pain had left his eyes dilated. The effect was disturbing. Harry watched that pale, willow-boned hand trace Snape's mouth from side to side, outlining its shape, leaving smears of blood, and he began to feel as if he were back on that staircase, struggling to resist the sensation of falling. Stripped of his billowing robes, Snape was thin. The Muggle clothes streamlined his body and made him look, in their own way, just as forbidding.
Harry knew, for a certainty, that he ought to go. Get out of there now. There was no love lost between him and Snape, and he was exhausted from all the fire and loathing.
"I recall you asking me to remove my jumper," Snape said, and Harry's insides flipped. "Claiming to want another look at my 'collar', as you so delicately put it."
It wasn't a question, but Harry nodded anyway. He wished passionately, but in silence, for a shot of firewhisky. In a startling flash of memory, the vibration of Snape's heart passing through soft wool and into his lips swamped his senses. Or more specifically, his prick. A surge of embarrassment poured through him, but he refused to examine what it might mean, to be so acutely aware of his crotch while standing in Snape's presence.
Then his tormentor said, "So what would you offer me in exchange? An illicit delivery of potions ingredients? A promise to keep me in food and drink?" He crooked a meditative eyebrow. "Actually, Minerva's been extremely good about ensuring that my palate doesn't die of boredom. Otherwise the budget the Ministry's allotted for my upkeep would run only to bangers and mash twice a day, plus the occasional ale. On that front, giving credit where it's due, Draco's been the soul of generosity, buying off his conscience with varietal wines. Or anything else I'd prefer to drown my sorrows."
Harry bit his tongue. His stare was drawn helplessly across Snape's bottom lip in the wake of a slow, trailing caress.
Snape's hand stilled, and he smiled faintly through his fingers. "Obviously the rumours going around Hogwarts that the Sorting Hat considered you for Slytherin House were a gross distortion of the truth. You couldn't strike a bargain to save your life." To Harry's intense relief, he lowered his hand. "We'll just have to see, then, won't we?"
See what? Harry wondered. Then Snape grabbed the hem of his jumper and pulled up. The utterly inane thought pierced Harry's mind, Help, he's going to kill me! After which, thinking became the least of his worries.
Halfway up, Snape hesitated, his movements slowed by the need to work loose the fabric stuck to his mangled back. Thus Harry was left staring at his flat white stomach. The knowledge churned through him: Snape has a body under his clothes. It's always been there. Now I'm going to see it. That's his belly, okay. It's not deformed. It's just – God, he's pale. None of this makes sense. I am staring at Snape's skin.
For the love of God, look away!
He did not look away.
For an instant, when Snape was drawing the jumper over his head, arms upraised and spine slightly arched, all Harry could do was endure the impact: the amazing way it pulled Snape's stomach concave, the horseshoe arch of his ribs casting shadows, drawing out of his waistband a slight spicing of very black hairs. His chest was stretched to the utmost for Harry's dumbfounded perusal, the layer of lean flesh over bone a scarcely adequate padding. There were some scars and a few new welts and scratches, red pinpricks beading along the skin. Athwart each flat breast was a nipple like a thumbprint of blood, and around each dark center grew a circle of wild black hairs. The effect of these on Harry was much as if he'd walked into a static-electric hex. Every fine hair he owned anywhere on his body came erect in response, and any place any one of them brushed the surface of, say, his thick winter robes, sent an agony of sensation back through his nerve endings and nearly electrocuted his cock. This rude appendage was already feeling five times larger and heavier than Harry had ever known it; the very tightness of his underpants threatened disaster.
His groin pulsed, and he wailed inwardly, Fuck. I'm going to come just from seeing Snape's nipples.
It was either that, or spring across the room and –
Suck them. For a moment Harry thought he might lose the few spoonfuls of stew in his stomach.
Then the grim head emerged from the confining turtleneck, dishevelled hair scattering limply onto Snape's bony shoulders. The contrast of oily black tickling naked white skin was so unbearably erotic to Harry's overburdened senses that he couldn't keep down a squeak.
Snape stared at him, poker-faced, as he peeled the ruined jumper off his wrists. It hit the floor unnoticed. Harry was too busy cataloguing things he'd missed during the first shockwave, things like the ink blots of hair under Snape's arms, drawing attention to the curvature there, the wings of muscle. Harry was no stranger to the mystery of armpits, or nipples for that matter, he'd seen plenty of them in the boys' showers at Hogwarts. He couldn't have said why this hollow-eyed, ugly man, his body gaunt as a greyhound's, could break through his inhibitions, his barriers, the cold horror of his ghosts, and appeal directly to his groin.
It didn't bear thinking about. So, for however long he stood in this room, he wouldn't. Thinking was overrated, anyway.
Impatiently, Snape leaned back and shook each length of hair behind his shoulders, tucking unruly strands over his ears. "Potter. Get on with it before I throw you from the house."
A second earlier, Harry would have doubted his ability to walk, let alone in a straight line. Now, his attention re-directed to the black filigree banding Snape's throat, he came forward as if under Imperius, heavy robes undulating around him. Switching his wand to his left hand, he nerved himself to stand within touching distance of Snape's nakedness.
At Hogwarts, the Potions master had always been covered in layers, flowing and enfolding, from his neck to the ground. Seeing Snape in shirt sleeves would have been disturbing enough. But nudity, Harry was just now beginning to realise, made everything erotic. It made candlelight erotic, Snape's belted black trousers erotic, the scuffed leather armchair off to one side a seat of impending pleasure. It lent a tingling charge to everything, a crackle of possibility.
Right now it made the very act of breathing indecent, lewd and beautiful beyond Harry's comprehension. He forced himself not to look at the narrow belly rising and falling, or the slight swell of chest that raised Snape's nipples just enough to attract the eye. Even so, he noticed that each of the nipples, no longer flat, had grown a bump, a tiny, enticing nub hardening in the middle. Extremely precise, in a very Snape-like way. Which meant either that Snape was cold, despite the warming charm in the room, or he was – Harry tried not to think it too loudly, though his entire body thrummed with the word – aroused. Severus Snape was aroused, and shirtless, and Harry willed his hand to please stop shaking as he reached up –
Gasping as Snape, with no warning, caught his wrist and wrung it.
"You said look, not touch." Snape's voice had always been deep, but there was something extra to it now, a kind of dark purr, nearer a rumble, the sound of something much larger than a cat. He'd used his left hand, and Harry couldn't help but slide his glance down the wiry forearm, searching for the Dark Mark.
"I just want to see how they – " Harry floundered, at a loss for words. "How it works. What kind of magic they put into it." He edged nearer the truth. "What it feels like."
"Oh, well, in that case," Snape said, still in that strange, dark tone. "By all means, let us give you what you want," and he pulled Harry forward one step. For a moment he frowned at the subtle map of old scars, the traces of Umbridge's spite. Then he rested the knuckles of his other hand against Harry's neck and stroked up the underside of his jaw, so gently it made Harry's chin tremble.
Cool fingers fanning out around Harry's throat, Snape said, "This is what it feels like."
He clamped down, hard.
Harry wheezed. Snape's hold tightened, slowly strangling him, his fingertips nearly meeting at the nape of Harry's neck.
Harry thought at first it was a test. He didn't really believe that Snape would try to choke him. But within seconds he could feel himself thrashing for air, the skin around his sockets growing tight, his eyes bulging. Snape was crushing his windpipe. Blackness speckled Harry's vision, and a terrible pressure built in his head. Panicking, he raised his wand.
Snape's grip slackened immediately, though he didn't remove his hand. A bit dizzy as blood hammered his skull, Harry coughed at the burn of air, the swelling pain of bruised ligaments. But for some reason he didn't baulk at letting that hard, brutal hand support the weight of his pounding head. When Snape's fingertips kneaded the sides of his jaw and a muttered spell eased the soreness in his throat, it never even occurred to him to explode in rage. Panting a bit, he simply waited.
"Never be so foolish as to ask for that again," Snape whispered. He still gripped one wrist. Harry nodded, his jaw moving awkwardly in the cradle of Snape's hand.
Several seconds of staring passed between them before Harry rasped, "My turn."
He was halfway convinced that Snape would refuse, but the weight at his throat lifted and Snape leaned back, bracing himself on the cabinet. Guiding Harry's arm forward, he allowed it to rest alongside his neck.
The tattoo was warm, pulsing with life. Harry could feel the magic of the runes even before Snape let go, leaving him awkwardly petting the black curlicues. They were practically breathing into each other's faces. Snape studied Harry in thin-lipped silence as he traced the intricate pattern, shifting suddenly to look over Harry's head as an errant thumb strayed down into the depression where Snape's collarbones met in a dip and a careless finger grazed the lobe of his ear. He finally closed his eyes as Harry pocketed his wand and brought his other hand into play. It showed extraordinary trust, Harry had to admit. Especially coming from an ex-Death Eater who viewed the most innocent slip as a violation of privacy.
But throttling Snape as payback wasn't on the programme.
The collar was fascinating. It tickled and hummed very faintly against Harry's palms, and as he'd hoped, the twining, serpentine shapes could be discerned by touch, raised in shallow relief around the white throat. They felt as smooth as Snape's skin. Harry followed the interlocking designs with his fingertips, leaning forward, and breathing into the faintly humid area under the smoky curtain of hair. He'd never experienced such a haze of lust. Not just his cock, but his bulging bollocks, his hands, lips, his entire body, were achingly aware of all the places he wasn't touching Snape. The sleeves of his robe trailed down Snape's bare chest, and they both twitched. Harry kept swallowing and nervously wetting his lips, trying to keep his tongue occupied, when all it wanted to do was lick. The points of Snape's nipples had the tight look of berries about to burst, ripe enough to leave a red smear on anything that touched them. Good Christ, he wanted those in his mouth.
As he let his hands wander, Harry noticed that there was something familiar about the runes. Their surface tension, he decided. They affected him in much the same way as an unknown ward might. Eyes closed, he concentrated on the magical weave. Clearly the creators of the collar had never imagined anyone having any desire – being desperate enough – to touch Snape. A Death Eater, a murderer, never mind his acquittal. Perhaps this was why Harry found divining the signature no more difficult than any other ward he'd faced.
Blinking, he fondled the pale throat possessively, emboldened by his knowledge of the right technique to use. Snape swallowed; Harry's hands greedily drank in the spasm. He leaned closer still and saw the black sigils separate into stylised serpents of greater or lesser length, intertwined and rippling, making their rounds.
Whoa. His hold clenched slightly as he fought the impulse to jerk his hands away.
The instant stiffening of Snape's shoulders recalled him to his task and the delicate issue of Snape's permission. His fingers whispered a quick apology along the narrow jaw, and he realised Snape had been holding his breath when a careful exhale ruffled his fringe. He almost rested his cheek against the place where his fingers had touched, but stopped himself in time. Was he really so keen to court disaster that he'd give Snape a reason?
He focused on the runes – the snakes. The longer he watched, the more he caught the flicker of minuscule tongues. Merlin, no wonder it tickled.
His eyes widened when a delicate serpent just above his left thumb, with one quick strike sank its fangs into Snape's throat. As he stared, more of the animated runes followed suit, biting in an apparently random manner before gliding onward in their preordained tracks. A rush of gooseflesh swept over him. How must that feel?
On a sudden whim, he rested his lips against Snape's throat and whispered in Parseltongue.
Snape bucked against him, practically scrambling upright. His hand caught Harry's jaw, forcing him back with a growl of, "Potter, what in the seven hells do you think you're doing?"
Startled, Harry put out a hand to balance himself, and it landed squarely on Snape's chest. "Trying to help you, believe it or not," he mouthed, hampered by the pressure squeezing his jaw. Unable to resist the opportunity, and figuring Snape might throw a tantrum no matter what, he rubbed his hand up and down Snape's nipple, feeling the nub of flesh yield when pressed, finally betraying himself utterly by trapping it with one finger, caressing it with his thumb as if punishing his own prick with curt, flicking strokes.
Which wasn't far off the mark. The excruciating weight between his legs was so intense, Harry was grateful for the fingers muzzling him. They provided the grip on reality he needed to silence a groan. Best not to let Snape see the depth of his extremity. It took all his years of knowing what a vicious git this man was, and what a maniac Snape could be when provoked, not to risk groping the front of his trousers. Harry was dying to know how far gone Snape was, to hold throbbing in his hand the evidence of a bulging erection.
The mere thought of Snape having a cock was both revolting and dead thrilling. Mostly he wanted to see whether squeezing it could make Snape lose control. Because he had no doubt, looking into his face, of the state of Snape's groin and the strain it was placing on his Muggle zipper.
"Reckless child," Snape breathed in his smoke-laden voice, making no move to dislodge Harry's hand. Not even when Harry, inspired by the frustrated longing to jerk his own cock, twisted the hard red bud in his fingers. Snape's nostrils flared, and he bent forward with hooded eyes, as if taking Harry's measure. Looking head-on at the hooked nose and prominent bones, Harry knew he'd awakened the hunting instincts of someone who'd been cooped up and kept down for far too long.
He's going to kiss me, skittered through his mind. He almost panicked, his fantasy shattering into confused fragments. Snape's head tilted and he turned Harry's face forcibly toward him. Then his open mouth brushed over Harry's pursed lips, breath warming his skin. Harry stiffened, but Snape's unyielding grip held him still. The tip of Snape's tongue swiped at a corner of Harry's mouth, traced the shape of his upper lip, teeth grazing the opposite corner. Snape's lips parted, pulled Harry's bottom lip in between them, isolating it for individual attention. He laved and rolled and sucked it, taking his time.
As Snape released his prize, now tender and swollen, Harry gave in, and Snape's thin lips forced his mouth wider, entirely open for the tongue that moved into him. The heat of it collided with his own, demanding, as Snape had always demanded, that he respond to his abrasive presence. Harry kissed back, knowing he wasn't very good at it but not caring, trying to give Snape whatever this mutual flight from sanity required.
Fuck, this was – fuck. His mouth was crammed full, his chin slippery, and Snape's hair was getting in on the act. They both reached up to swipe it away. Their hands bumped and tangled together. Snape forced Harry's arm down, holding it there as they kissed.
Snape tasted of firewhisky and tongue, just tongue, slick and insinuating, thrusting around Harry's teeth and bruising his lips, not brutal exactly, more famished, exploring with such intensity that the inside of Harry's mouth rocketed to the position of second most erogenous zone on his body. Their teeth clicked together more than once. Snape growled whenever his nose or Harry's glasses got in the way. Intent on adhering to Snape's mouth, afraid the spell would break if he let go, Harry clung and devoured, using his teeth to keep Snape's attention. Snape crushed him a bit, and Harry pressed forward, seeking more. At last, bending his head back, Snape clutched Harry's skull and fucked him with his tongue in steady, ferocious strokes, as if determined to suck the taste of him down to the dregs.
Doing his best to pump in rhythm with this assault, Harry finally tore his mouth away, hating to give up the drowning, druglike submergence but coming all at once and unable to swear and kiss at the same time. He convulsed against Snape's leg again and again, creaming in deep, wrenching spurts, soaking his pants, sobbing and almost hysterical with a release he hadn't experienced in months.
He came to with one hand locked in Snape's hair and one arm around his waist, still straddling Snape's thigh. He'd been so utterly absorbed in keeping the kiss going that he hadn't stopped to consider the advisability of riding Snape's leg to orgasm. When the leg had presented itself, he'd climbed aboard. Now, shaken and panting, he removed his mouth from the runes shivering around Snape's throat. He left behind a smear of saliva.
One of the snakes, rising in an S-shape, flashed its tongue daintily, tasting.
Crotch still throbbing, Harry peeked upward. Snape stared back, his face flushed and unreadable. Oh gods, this was so far outside the realm of anything Harry knew how to deal with. Embarrassment didn't begin to cover it. Snape was still hard, his crotch radiating heat. Harry had only to arch forward to feel its imprint against his leg. Though dizzy and uncoordinated, he rubbed against the rough swirl of hair on Snape's chest, smelling sweat as he laid his cheek there. Giving in to a need he'd felt since Snape had pulled the jumper over his head, Harry tasted the red oval fringed in black, then molded his lips directly onto the nipple and bit down.
He heard Snape hiss, and was just feeling pleased with having got a reaction, when the leg supporting him suddenly straightened and Snape stepped back, dumping Harry onto the floor.