FICLET: Nameless, HP/SS, NC-17
Title: Nameless
Pairing: SS/HP
Rating: NC-17
Summary: He isn't Harry Potter. He isn't.
Notes: 30_kisses ficlet, written for theme #6, between the dream and the reality. 356 words.
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Whispers like kisses. The password on his lips, the wards around his body, the robes off his shoulders, the sheets on his skin, the slickness inside him. And then he's waiting silently, his face buried, hidden in his arms, and he tells himself he's someone else. He's someone else and he's waiting and when he finally feels cold hands at his hips, cold thumbs spreading him open, he can tell himself he's no one at all. Snape hates Harry Potter, can't possibly want Harry Potter, let alone want to fuck Harry Potter, and so he's just some nameless boy in Snape's bed with his face in his arms and his arse in the air. Snape probably doesn't even know who he's fucking, probably is surprised every time he walks through the door after a night of supervising detentions, probably isn't quite sure what to do with a naked, nameless boy just waiting there, silent and hidden and exposed. But Snape's so greasy this is probably his only option and he opens his robes and spreads the boy open and slides inside so easily that Harry has trouble telling himself he hasn't been here before. But it's easier with every stroke of Snape's cock, because Harry Potter hates Snape and there's no way he'd just bend over and take it, not like this, and so the only explanation is that he's not-can't be-isn't Harry Potter. He isn't. It's someone else making those noises, someone else wanting this and taking this and liking this, someone else so desperate it only takes one quick pull, someone else shooting come all over Snape's bed. And Snape makes it easy-and Snape never makes anything easy so sometimes he can pretend this isn't even Snape-and doesn't say a word, doesn't make a noise as he spills himself inside and pulls away, walks away, doesn't look back. And then it's back to the whispers, to the sheets on his skin as he slides off the bed, the robes on his body as he shrugs them back on, and he knows they're the only kisses he's ever going to get.
Pairing: SS/HP
Rating: NC-17
Summary: He isn't Harry Potter. He isn't.
Notes: 30_kisses ficlet, written for theme #6, between the dream and the reality. 356 words.
##
Whispers like kisses. The password on his lips, the wards around his body, the robes off his shoulders, the sheets on his skin, the slickness inside him. And then he's waiting silently, his face buried, hidden in his arms, and he tells himself he's someone else. He's someone else and he's waiting and when he finally feels cold hands at his hips, cold thumbs spreading him open, he can tell himself he's no one at all. Snape hates Harry Potter, can't possibly want Harry Potter, let alone want to fuck Harry Potter, and so he's just some nameless boy in Snape's bed with his face in his arms and his arse in the air. Snape probably doesn't even know who he's fucking, probably is surprised every time he walks through the door after a night of supervising detentions, probably isn't quite sure what to do with a naked, nameless boy just waiting there, silent and hidden and exposed. But Snape's so greasy this is probably his only option and he opens his robes and spreads the boy open and slides inside so easily that Harry has trouble telling himself he hasn't been here before. But it's easier with every stroke of Snape's cock, because Harry Potter hates Snape and there's no way he'd just bend over and take it, not like this, and so the only explanation is that he's not-can't be-isn't Harry Potter. He isn't. It's someone else making those noises, someone else wanting this and taking this and liking this, someone else so desperate it only takes one quick pull, someone else shooting come all over Snape's bed. And Snape makes it easy-and Snape never makes anything easy so sometimes he can pretend this isn't even Snape-and doesn't say a word, doesn't make a noise as he spills himself inside and pulls away, walks away, doesn't look back. And then it's back to the whispers, to the sheets on his skin as he slides off the bed, the robes on his body as he shrugs them back on, and he knows they're the only kisses he's ever going to get.