Snape’s footsteps in the outer room are a deep, steady murmur of stone and sole. Curled beneath the sheets Harry tracks the sound; Snape entering, settling his things, a pause by the sofa where Harry’s bags slump wearily together, and then closer. In a moment the door is opening, a streak of candlelight and Snape enters the gray, filtered moonlight of the bedroom. Harry shuts his eyes before Snape looks to him, feeling something twist in the unplottable space between his stomach and heart.
In a quiet rustle of cloak Snape moves over to him. Then two callused fingertips are brushing against Harry’s forehead, sliding slowly down his cheek. He struggles to hold on, but the pretense of sleep is lost in the flicker of eyelashes and sigh his lover’s touch pulls from him.
“You’re home early.”
Harry says nothing, grateful the question is implied, not direct. In place of an answer he pushes his cheek against Snape’s hand, turning enough to brush his lips against the fingertips. The action, or maybe Snape’s touch, uncoils a tightness he hadn’t realized was there. Silently he sucks in the tip of one finger, scrapes his teeth against it in the way Snape always likes.
The hand against his lips tenses, forces him to turn back and meet Snape’s eyes.
Even in the bare light of the room, those dark eyes seem to pierce through him, and for an instant it is too much. Harry’s mind recoils with a rush of sound; heartbeat, breath, the train-like screech of something escaping, or coming to. His lips part, but it is his eyes that plead with Snape to leave matters well enough alone, not to question him.
Against the sudden chaos of thought is the steady pressure of Snape’s searching gaze, and quick as they began the thoughts fracture and shatter. Harry feels a rush of heat through his face, and bows his head slightly. It is not his place to deny Snape anything he might ask. Pushing away regret and shame at his lapse, he lifts his head again.
He sees the faintest twitch of Snape’s lips before the man kisses him.
When they pull apart Harry‘s arms have come up to circle around Snape’s neck. The buttons of Snape‘s robe press against his chest like benchmarks mapping the plane of his body. Closing the distance between them again he kisses his way down Snape’s jaw, toward the spot on his neck that is certain to make the breath catch in the man’s throat. He is almost there when the instruction comes.
“In the bathroom, on the top shelf, is a red bottle; go get it.”
With one last kiss Harry pulls back and climbs off the bed. His feet are silent against the thin rug.
In the bathroom mirror he is dimly surprised by the serene half-smile on his lips, but looks away quickly so he can keep it without feeling like a fool. He finds the bottle at the back of the shelf, heavy, frosted glass the length of his hand and almost as wide with smoothly curving sides that tempt him to lift the great stopper and smell its contents. Holding the bottle, one hand poised to remove the stopper, he casts an uncertain glance over his shoulder towards the bedroom. At this angle there is nothing for him to see in the darkness beyond the door and so he turns back to the bottle. Without a directive he does not know if there will be repercussions for smelling the contents. His fingers tap hesitantly, once, twice before he returns to the bedroom.
When he enters, Snape is sitting on the bed, leaning back against the headboard in nothing but his trousers. Harry pauses until he is signaled with a nod to join the older man.
“Prepare yourself with that.”
Harry sets the oil on top of the trunk at the end of the bed, then climbs up, his hands and knees sinking into the cotton sheets. One or two crawling steps and he settles himself on all fours across the foot of the bed. Twisting slightly he reaches back, over, to lift out the stopper on the oil, realizing as he does so that it extends down into the depths of the bottle. The slowly tapering glass glistens with the liquid as it’s revealed and Harry unconsciously licks his lips. Brief hesitation over where to set the stopper, coated as it is, leads to an idea, and he turns back to face Snape, wicked smile on his lips, question in his eyes, stopper in his hand. A small nod is all the permission he needs to bring the stopper back, positioning its slick tip at his entrance.
The first touch is cold, sending a shudder through his body that escapes as a sigh. He brushes the blunt tip around his pucker in tight little circles, his eyes closing at the thought of something that hard inside him. It does not take long before his own teasing has become too much, and he pushes the tip in just enough to breach the first ring of muscle. He pauses only briefly before pressing it in further, sliding almost the full length in before forcing himself to slow down. Moving slowly is difficult. His whole body flushes hot with the sheer feeling of rightness in preparing himself under Snape’s watchful eyes. Forcing his breathing to slow, deep breaths he shifts, spreading his legs a bit more, moving the arm supporting him to a more stable position. Only then does he look over, meeting the other’s eyes as he pushes the stopper in to its hilt.
Snape watches him coolly, looking to most of the world unmoved by the sight before him. But Harry is not most of the world, and so the aroused glitter in the man’s eyes, the way his hands rest over the waistband of his trousers, fingers just brushing the hardness tenting them, does not go unnoticed.
Harry’s own cock has been hard for some time now, but throbs in response to the sight of his professor’s veiled length. For an instant in his head the feel of the stopper inside him and the memory of Snape inside him merge into one, and he bucks forward. With a moan he pushes back, increasing the pace of his thrusting, watching Snape the entire time. His breath has grown ragged before Snape even opens his trousers, slowly exposing his rigid cock. Harry bites his lip to stifle the moan of want at the sight. Mocking him, Snape strokes himself, twice, quickly in time with Harry’s thrusts. The move makes Harry gasp, a drop of pre-come escaping to land unnoticed on the sheets.
When Snape strokes himself again, unhurried, Harry groans.
He stops thrusting immediately, but leaves the stopper in, its plug-like shape working perfectly.
“Come here, and bring the bottle.” Snape’s voice is even deeper than normal, edgy with sex in a way Harry once remarked could probably bring off everyone in his classes at once.
On his knees, bottle in hand, Harry moves towards the other man. Snape takes the bottle from him and douses one hand with the oil before placing it on the bedside table.
Snape pushes with his non-oiled hand at the waistband of his trousers, “Get rid of these.”
Harry obeys, drawing trousers and pants down slowly less for effect and more because he refuses to take his eyes off the sight of Snape stroking his erection, rubbing his thumb across the top in slow circles that Harry’s hips ache to mimic. He tosses the clothes to the floor and crawls his way back up to the professor, trying not to groan as the stopper shifts inside him. His prick brushes against Snape’s body and Harry finds himself fighting to keep from rubbing against the man like a cat. Once he’s within reach Snape’s hands rest against Harry’s hips, guiding him into position. Drawing the younger man down for a kiss, he reaches back at the same time, sliding the stopper out slowly, refusing to let Harry out of the kiss even as the boy gasps and moans into it. He releases Harry only once the stopper is free. With a muttered cleansing charm he places it on the side table and again takes hold of Harry’s hips with both hands, guiding the younger man down. At the first touch Harry groans, a half-swallowed, reluctant sound. He tilts his head back, and Snape doesn’t look up to see his lover worrying his bottom lip between sharp teeth.
Snape’s whole body seems rigid with control. Harry can feel the tense muscles in his lover’s arms as he’s lowered down onto Snape’s prick. It’s almost tortuous, the slow descent, and Harry can picture clearly the expression of tightly reined pleasure as Snape’s cock is surrounded by thick heat. With one long stroke Snape sheaths himself fully, then pauses to give Harry time to adjust. He reaches up, one hand cupping the back of Harry’s head and drawing him forward till their foreheads touch.
“I want you to ride me.” Snape kisses him, making a point to draw Harry’s lip from between his teeth with a slight nip. Releasing him and settling back, Snape’s hands go to rest firm but unmoving on Harry’s thighs.
In the few seconds that Harry hesitates he knows Snape can read his confusion and uncertainty at the unusual command. He feels the pressure of even this small measure of control as a near physical weight against his chest. But Snape has never guided him wrong, and as he looks at the unyielding features he finds himself again giving in to the demands, his body relaxing and beginning to move.
They fuck leisurely, Harry trusting that if Snape wants things faster he’ll say so. Their hands move over each other, brushing a nipple here, scratching lightly there, but they watch each other’s face, silent except for the wet sound of flesh on flesh and steadily increasing breathing. Harry’s face alternates between a concentrating, hesitant determination and want, occasionally broken by the flicker of a grin when a bolt of pleasure goes through him. Snape’s expression stays the same as always except for those reactions he cannot help – the glaze of lust over his eyes, the parting of his lips as his breathing increases, the flush and faint shine that spreads over his skin. He moves one hand up, sliding it from Harry’s hip to curl around the base of the young man’s neck. Harry’s eyes flutter shut, his head tilting back, baring all of his throat. Snape strokes his hand up just an inch or so, firmly. Harry swallows, body shuddering in a way that vibrates down through Snape’s own nerves and back again, a closed circuit or sensation.
“Please, oh, please,” Harry whispers. Snape has never asked why this particular word is always his cry of choice, and Harry suspects he doesn’t care beyond the pleasure it gives him to hear his lover beg. Tonight the pleas are barely audible as if this cry he cannot stop understands his reluctance to disturb the silence.
Snape moves the hand on Harry’s throat up to his jaw pressing just enough to force his chin down. Harry’s face comes into view again, flushed and panting, sweat glistening on his brow, and the hot air of his breath as another plea escapes him.
“Come for me, Harry.”
His body tightens as the demand registers, and Harry lets out a frustrated groan.
“Come for me, Harry.”
Snape’s eyes meet his, and Harry can feel the disappointment rising in himself like a dark tide trying to pull him under. It has always been his weakest point, coming on demand, with Snape’s cock still tense for release inside him. His hands slow in their explorations of Snape’s skin, his hips falter in following the other’s rhythm, and he wants to apologize, for slipping, for failing, for not being worthy.
He can tell by the look in Snape’s eyes that he’s close -- then it seems to shift, growing hard with a familiar determination that quells the tide in Harry.
Harry gasps on the next thrust, part from the physical sensation and part from the words Snape practically hisses, his voice making them sound both dirty and rich.
“I want to feel you as tight as possible around me.” He drops the hand at Harry’s chin down to stroke over his cock, “I want to watch you licking your seed off my fingers when I come inside you.”
One brilliant fissure of heat breaks through him and Harry’s back arches, mouth open for a cry like a flare in the silence as he spills his release on Snape’s hand and stomach.
Snape slams into him, nearly going over the edge even as he raises his hand to Harry‘s lips. Harry’s body is shuddering still with every thrust, but he licks at Snape’s fingers greedily, eyes closing as he sucks one long digit into his mouth.
With a sharp, nearly reluctant moan Snape comes, the one hand still on Harry’s hip gripping tightly, forcing the younger man’s body down as he slams up, cock pulsing with his release.
They stay joined for a minute, each looking at the other regain his breathing. Then a grin flashes across Harry’s face and he laughs quietly, voice still low from arousal. Snape watches him and says nothing. It is always like this, the bubbling of Harry’s laughter. In a moment or so it will dissipate, though the grin will work its way back in brief instants when Harry cannot keep it away.
When the laughter has subsided this time, Harry trails his hands down Snape’s chest, twirls a finger lightly through his cooling seed. He hmms contentedly, before moving to raise himself from Snape’s softening prick. With a low-spoken cleansing spell he curls up next to his lover.
Snape toes the sheet up till he can reach it and pulls it to sit around their waists.
“Now,” he says at last, interrupting the thinly settled quiet, “why were you home early?”
Harry tenses beside him, his hand stilling its stroking of his lover’s chest. Snape waits patiently for Harry to decide whether this will be worth a battle or not.
Tilting his head slightly in its position against Snape’s chest Harry looks at the ring on his finger, twirling it around with his thumb, looking for a place to begin.
“Thank you for the ring.”
Snape says nothing in response.
“I- we were all opening our Christmas gifts, I didn’t want to wait, not with- it was just- “
Harry stops, sighs, and after a moment, begins again.
“It was strange, being with them. I love them but it -- I -- didn’t feel real, so I opened it when everyone was opening gifts. Hermione noticed. And Ron.”
“Mm,” Snape says, the sound full of the sense of foreboding those names raise in him.
“There was no name on it, and it was Slytherin colors… they thought it was dangerous. Hermione wouldn’t let me have it, so I told them.” He pauses, and his next question is soft, anxious “is that okay?”
“It makes no difference to me; you may tell the entire world if you wish.”
Harry raises his head, turning to look at Snape. The weight of the man‘s words is not lost on him, and there is a startling sense of relief, release, happiness - and other, less identifiable emotions.
“Thank you,” he says at last, for lack of anything more adequate.
Snape grunts, dismissing it.
“That does not explain why you were early.”
Harry lies back down, his head feeling heavy with recent memory.
“Hermione, she wouldn’t let it go, she said it didn’t make sense. You and I. So I explained it, I told her. Everything.”
Here he takes a deep breath. When he continues, his voice is quieter, laced with the finely strained threads of unshed tears.
“She said it was wrong. That it wasn’t right for me- for us- she said I hated myself, and that if I didn’t then I wouldn’t want you to,” a slight hesitation, “hurt me … that I need help. She refused to give me back the ring, said you were only trying to subject me to your will, that she was going to hold onto it and we would talk and she would get some professional to speak with me, get me set right.”
Snape reaches over with the arm not resting around Harry’s shoulder to take hold of his hand, turning it till he is looking at the ring gleaming in the dim light of the room.
“She relented, it would appear.”
Harry doesn’t respond immediately, and in the silence there is the growing sense that they are delicately balanced at the apex of something indefinable. He can see nothing forward or backward, merely has the sense of the metaphorical ground preparing to slide them into new territory.
“She warded it into her suitcase. I- while everyone was eating dinner- I went in and took it. I left then… tonight... didn’t tell any of them because I didn’t want them to stop me.”
Snape absorbs this information slowly, his steady, deep breathing his only sound for a time. Eventually he shifts, turning them until Harry is beneath him.
“This means so much to you?”
Harry doesn’t want to answer, isn’t sure how to. He turns away, but gives in even as he does so, nodding.
“Are you in love with me?” There is no mocking and no hope in Snape’s voice. Nothing to tell Harry what answer he would prefer.
Biting his lip, Harry turns back to meet the other man’s eyes.
“I love this.” He reaches up, running his fingers lightly down Snape’s cheek. He’s frightened of giving the wrong answer, and certain Snape can see the fear in him. “I love being yours.”
Snape takes hold of the hand against his cheek, moving to press it by the wrist into the pillow above Harry’s head. For all that they have done, this remains an unspoken favorite of both.
“Mine? Is that what you want?” Snape’s voice is almost feral, a dark layer to it Harry has never heard before.
“Think carefully, Mr. Potter, understand the consequences of your response.”
“I understand,” he answers quietly.
“Do you? You understand that I would do with you as I choose, when I choose? That I would expect you to serve my wishes above all others? ‘Mine’ is not the way for an easy life; I will demand that you are with me body, mind and spirit. You will be my consort, servant, friend, researcher, lover, pet- whatever role I assign you at whatever time. You understand all this?”
Harry’s eyes are wide, rapt, and he can only nod his agreement.
Snape strokes Harry's cheek, putting their lips close together before continuing, his voice full of promise. “You are a powerful wizard, Harry, famous and possessing all those traits pleasing to an employer or lover. Are you truly prepared to entrust all of that, everything you can be, to me?”
Snape studies him, the same precise, measuring look Harry has seen him use to evaluate the worth of potions ingredients or the work of others. He has the urge to squirm, terrified that Snape will see something he doesn’t like, will decide he doesn’t want him. It’s arousing, the uncertainty, knowing that Snape could break him with as little as a word now. And he would break, he thinks, staring into unforgiving eyes.
It seems forever that he is subjected to this scrutiny, and though he resists every urge to squirm or speak, eventually he cannot stay silent, his words coming out in a quiet, bubbling babble. He presses his lips closer still to Snape’s, brushing against them, not quite daring to claim the older man’s as he pleads quietly.
“Please, let me be yours, please.”
Snape's eyes widen a fraction before he closes the distance between their lips completely, his tongue snaking into Harry’s mouth to twine around his own. The kiss is fast, forceful, and just as Harry is moaning into it Snape pulls away, moving directly to suck sharp and strong against the sensitive base of his throat. The touch of his mouth, the realization of what it means, sends a slow wave of adrenaline-laced relief through Harry. Their chests press together, then stomachs, pricks, legs, and the temporary touch is not enough. Harry wraps his legs around Snape, pushing their bodies together.
The hand not pinning his to the mattress moves up, threading between the strands of Harry’s hair and tightening, pulling his head back and to the side to expose more of his throat to Snape.
They grind against each other, but Harry is more aware of the mark he can feel coming to life beneath Snape’s lips than he is of the movement of their hips or the renewed arousal in his cock. If he were trying, he wouldn’t be able to remember anything before now; his mind caught in what feels like an explosion so vast it takes millennia and is over in a blink.
Snape thrusts his own hips one last time and then goes rigid, his mouth never letting go of Harry’s throat even as the position blocks his cry of release.
Then Harry’s own orgasm is there, ripping through his body like fire, seeming to extend more from the branding pleasure-pain at his throat than his prick. He comes with one hand a tight fist in the sheets, one hand raking claw-like across Snape’s back, and a strangled “Oh, god.”
Harry shivers in aftershock as reality returns with the cool dungeon air, sweat-damp cotton sheets and slick of their release between them.
Snape relaxes his body and pulls his mouth away from Harry’s throat to look him in the eye.
“Mine.” It sounds like an order, powerful and possessive and threatening all at once.
Harry rolls his body against Snape’s once, slowly and affirms needlessly, “Yours.”