Harry Potter: Harry/Snape
Written For: reversathon
Request: Harry/Snape. Hogwarts era (between book 5 and 6), forced bonding with non-con and nasty stuff. Would love it if the bonding needs to be kept secret, but its effect on Harry is clear to his friends so they get suspicious etc. No fluffy endings, but some hope at the end would be cool. Darkfic please! No bottom!Harry
Rating: NC17
Warnings: See Request and be warned. non-con/dub-con; will be chan in countries where age of consent is 18.
Word Count: ~2900
Author’s Notes: 1. Acknowledgements to my two incredibly helpful betas, dacian_goddess and stellastars
“No.” Harry’s voice was firm, but his eyes were desperate as he looked at Professor Dumbledore. “No… Please,” he added in almost a whisper.
Dumbledore’s eyes were sad.
“There is no choice, Harry. This… bond is your last hope. Lord Voldemort is more powerful than we imagined. I can’t protect you. Neither can the Dursleys.”
The Dursleys had never wanted to protect him, thought Harry resentfully. But the Headmaster had placed him with them without giving them a choice, just as he now placed Harry into the care of Severus Snape.
“There must be something,” Harry pleaded.
The Headmaster was still and silent for a second, apparently lost in his own thoughts.
“If only there were, Harry, it would be done. This is the only option we have.”
Harry wanted to say a final, definite “no”: wanted it so much it hurt. But he couldn’t frame the word. Choice. He had no choice.
“There is one last thing.” Professor Dumbledore’s voice jerked Harry back into the present world.
“Uh?” he said, stupidly.
Dumbledore’s brows contracted.
“In order for this to work, you must be in charge of this bond. You must be the controller.”
“What do you mean?” Harry had asked, bewildered.
He was soon to understand.
***
“You agree, Severus?”
Dumbledore’s voice was kind but he was clearly utterly determined. Harry thought that he would not have been able to refuse. Remembered, angrily, that he had not been able to refuse.
“I understand and agree.”
Snape’s voice was tight and bitter. He could feel no more unnerved than he was, Harry thought. Unbreakable bonds were one thing - sleeping with the man you loathed more than any other save Voldemort… that was quite another.
Shit, he thought; and then, as Snape’s baleful glare rested upon him, wondered if he’d said the word aloud. Voldemort was the only reason he was doing this. Now that the time was upon him, he wondered if he wouldn’t prefer to die. He was a sixteen year old virgin, and- Fuck. The second expletive was as strongly felt as the first. Dumbledore had impressed on him the need for silence, but how was he going to keep something like this - something as awful and important as this - from Ron and Hermione? How?
Harry realised that his top lip was bleeding as his teeth had unconsciously bitten into it. The taste of blood was disconcertingly familiar and… relieving. It gave him a sense of himself.
“I will leave you now.”
Professor Dumbledore’s words broke the agonising cloud of thoughts surrounding Harry. He looked pleadingly at Dumbledore, but already the Headmaster had drifted firmly from the room. From the room - Snape’s dungeon. The room in which Harry had already spent so many tortuous hours. But none more tortuous than this.
“And so, Potter,” jibed Snape, “it is just you and me.”
It sounded more like a challenge than a statement.
“Yes,” said Harry; and then realised that the word had been so badly croaked as to be unrecognisable. He coughed. “Yeah,” he said, stronger.
“Go ahead, then.” The sneer was pronounced. “Get on with it.”
Fuck. It echoed even more loudly in Harry’s head. In order to build this unbreakable - necessary - bond with Snape, he had to fuck him. In the most painfully literal sense of all. He knew, looking at Snape’s face, that the man was approximately as keen for this as he was himself.
Yeah. Not at all.
“Okay,” Harry said, willing his voice to stay calm.
The words No! Bloody hell, no! came into his head but he bit them back sharply. There was a sick feeling in his throat as he looked at Professor Snape. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He must. And he had not the faintest idea where to start.
“Um…” he said, his eyes meeting Snape’s in a look somewhere between plea and revulsion.
“Um?” his Professor echoed, eyebrow raised.
Harry clenched his teeth, all of his hatred and mistrust of Snape returning in the time it took for his adversary to speak that word. Snape was not going to make this easy for him in any sense. He was mocking Harry, just as he had mocked Sirius and led him to his death. He’d loathed Sirius, and he loathed Harry. Why was he doing this? How had Dumbledore made him agree to it? What sort of twisted bargain was this anyway?
“I hate you,” snarled Harry.
He lunged towards his opponent (for this was not love; this did not even claim to be love, not even attraction: this was war) and thrust him against the wall of his own dungeon, angry, punishing lips pressed against Snape’s. For a moment he felt hard resistance, as Snape pushed against him, his fingers digging painfully into Harry’s shoulders. Then, it seemed, Snape relaxed, allowing Harry to deepen the kiss - the bond that neither wanted.
Harry tried not to think about the fact that he was up close and personal with Professor Snape; tried not to shudder as he realised what he was doing - and worse, what he was going to do. A wave of bile washed through him, making him choke and pull away.
“Had enough already, Potter?”
Bluntly? Hell yeah, and more. It had been more than enough before they’d even begun. But the taunt sufficed to quell Harry’s feeling of sickness enough to force him to pull himself together.
“No,” he said grimly.
He would see this through. He had to see this through. Was Snape trying to provoke him into giving up, or (worse thought still) provoke him into action? Either way, it was his - Harry’s - life that was on the line; and whatever Snape’s motives were, Harry had a few good reasons for living - one big one going by the name of Voldemort. If Snape was on the side of the Order, then this connection would be highly useful. If he worked for Voldemort, even more important to tie him down to an unbreakable bond with Harry. Even if it did mean a relationship with Snape that went far further than any liaison in Harry’s past.
He realised that he had made no additional move towards Snape, and that the Professor was looking at him with typical aversion.
“Why did you agree to this?” Harry asked suspiciously.
“That, Potter, is none of your business.”
Okay, so he was supposed to fuck someone who thought that his motives for being involved with Harry were none of Harry’s business. There was surely something paradoxical about that.
“Whatever.”
If Snape had given a reason, would he actually have believed him anyway? Probably not. He looked over at his teacher, sallow of face and greasy of hair, and tried to imagine that it was Ginny standing there. Or Ron; or Cho. Or - bloody hell, anyone, quite frankly, except for Severus Snape. Someone he felt at least passingly attracted to.
“The bond works better if there is no… subsidiary… magic used,” Snape informed him coldly.
What?
Oh.
There was a horrible moment when Harry realised what Snape was saying. He meant that Harry had to get it up for himself, not rely on spells. Harry saw a faintly malicious curve to the other man’s lips. On some level, Harry thought bitterly, Snape was enjoying this: enjoying Harry’s discomfort, if not what was due to follow.
“Right,” said Harry tightly.
“But then,” drawled Snape, “you are a teenager. It should provide no problem for you. My pleasure is irrelevant.”
Harry swallowed another feeling of queasiness at the thought of providing Snape with sexual pleasure. The thought of Snape having sex with anyone was pretty repellent, let alone…
“Right,” he said again.
It seemed Snape was going to wait for him to make all the moves. He didn’t look like he was going to assist Harry in any way whatsoever. Harry had a suspicion that he was waiting with anticipation for Harry’s failure to perform. And Harry was damned if he was going to give him the satisfaction.
“Undress, then.”
If Harry had to feel stupid and embarrassed, why shouldn’t he turn the tables? Let Snape know how it felt like to be stared at and appraised.
“As you wish.”
Black eyes were fixed on Harry’s. Snape was not going to shirk by avoiding eye contact. His long bony fingers began to unbutton his robe, slowly and with precision. Then the gown was shrugged from his shoulders, and Professor Snape stood naked before Harry.
Harry swallowed.
He had been expecting Snape to have something on underneath; not to go straight from clothing to nudity. Did he (Harry wished he could shut his mind up) always dress like this? Even when taking class? Did he never have anything under his robes?
Harry felt the first twitch in his groin. He bit the inside of his cheek, wanting the thoughts to stop, wanting not to find them appealing. Yes, okay, he was going to have to fuck Snape, but he really didn’t want to want to. Thank God for loose clothing: in his Mugglewear of jeans, his erection would have been rather too obvious (unless he was wearing one of Dudley’s more recent cast-offs, which tended to look more like skirts when he wore them, there was so much baggy material). With robes, at least there was something left to the imagination.
Snape’s eyes were still cold and unblinking; his lack of arousal evident. Harry felt an angry wish to see Snape at a loss - panting and begging beneath him. That would show him what it was like to feel humiliated. Unbidden, a memory of his father taunting Snape in their teenaged days came back to him, and his face contracted as he tried to rid himself of the thought. He was not like that: he didn’t want to humble Snape for the sake of it - all he wanted, he thought anguishedly, was a level playing field.
“It is somewhat cold down here,” Snape said pointedly.
“It’s your fucking dungeon.” Harry hadn’t intended to say it aloud, but the words slipped out despite himself.
“It may have escaped your notice, Potter, that I am usually dressed.”
Harry clenched his fists.
“So what you’re really saying,” he said brutally, “is that I should hurry up and fuck you.”
“I would probably not have expressed it in quite those terms, but that is the general position.”
“Looking forward to it, are you? Is it the most action you’ve seen?” Harry couldn’t seem to stop himself.
Snape’s eyes narrowed.
“That,” he spat, “is none of your business, Potter.”
Harry swallowed. Now he came to think about it, he really didn’t want to know the answer, either.
“Just turn round,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to look at you, okay?”
He saw a flash of pure, icy rage flit across Snape’s face as he obeyed, and wondered - once again - what on earth had possessed Snape to agree to this. But in some ways, the reason was irrelevant: what mattered was completing this… bond. Harry pulled at his robes to expose himself, and realised that he was already half-hard. The tube of lubrication stood suggestively on the teacher’s table, and Harry squeezed some onto his right hand, rubbing himself to full firmness. His mouth felt suddenly dry, as he looked at Snape, who was facing the dungeon wall, his back ramrod straight and tense.
What was he supposed to….? How was he supposed to…? What the hell…?
“Oh God,” he murmured under his breath, his throat compressed with anxiety.
“Use your fingers first, Potter.” Snape sounded more uptight than Harry had ever heard him.
Oh. Right.
No, so very not right. He was supposed to stick his fingers… there? He sidled towards Snape, slopping more lube onto his hand as he went. It was difficult to stay hard under the circumstances. Nervously, he moved his fingers towards Snape’s hole, poking gently at his anus.
“If that’s the best you can manage, you might as well stop now,” his Professor remarked edgily.
For God’s sake, it was bad enough trying to do… what Harry was trying to do… without a running commentary from Snape. Irritably, Harry pushed the fingers hard inside Snape, unnerved by the way the ring of muscle grasped around them. He didn’t know quite what he had expected, but this was not it. The Professor sighed grumpily.
“Slide them in and out, Potter.”
Harry obeyed, but with mounting rage. Snape was doing all he could to put him off, but it was not going to work. He stroked his wilting erection with his other hand, massaging himself until he was stiff again. Then (he wanted to shut his eyes, but he needed to see what he was doing… Don’t think about what precisely it is that you’re doing, just do it, he told himself firmly) he pressed himself up against Snape’s entrance and forced himself in. Snape was tight, tight around him, and…
“Please, take your time.”
The sarcasm in the Professor’s voice was obvious; but it put the last flame to Harry’s anger.
“I’ll do what the hell I like,” he said heatedly, pushing further inside Snape.
Snape grunted - whether with pain or contempt, Harry wasn’t sure; and suddenly Harry was thrusting into him, again and again, fierce and angry.
“Why did you agree to this?” he repeated breathlessly.
He put his right hand, still sticky with lubrication, around Snape’s cock, forcing his adversary to hardness. This was not about lust but about control, success - winning. If Harry failed to come… he lost. If Snape showed a total lack of arousal… Harry lost. But if Harry could force himself on Snape - force Snape into an erection they both knew he didn’t want… Harry would have fucked Snape in more ways than one.
“None… of your… business,” Snape gritted once more.
Snape’s forehead was pushed against the cold wall. Veins stood out on his neck. His hands flexed then clenched in turn, his erection burgeoning despite himself; and Harry could see that Snape was suffering under this assault: suffering humiliating, unwanted pleasure. Harry’s left palm was strong against his back, forcing him forwards.
Snape gasped as Harry ran his nails sharply down his back, breaking the skin. He wanted to hurt Snape; punish him for the fact that he was alive when Sirius was dead; but at the same time shame him by his own physical response to Harry’s fucking. Harry’s right hand rubbed up and down Snape’s shaft until the older man was taking heavy gasps of air as he struggled to contain his reaction. Harry thrust in time with his strokes, barely aware of what he was doing; thinking only of the need to make Snape endure a gratification he didn’t want to show. He had ceased to think about himself, though in a dark recess of his mind he was aware that the feeling - the tight clenched muscles of Snape’s arse around his cock - was… somewhat more satisfying than he would have liked; that with the right person, this might be incredible; and that even with Snape, this was edging perilously close to pleasure.
Without thinking, Harry bent his head to the broken skin on Snape’s back and ran his tongue down the scratches. There was a salty taste of Snape’s sweat, combined with the bitter iron-like taste of the blood. It tasted weird but not unpleasant; not rancid, as Harry had imagined it might be.
There was a sharp indrawn breath from Snape, and once again Harry was brought back into the moment, into what it was that he was doing. His hatred of Snape overflowed again, and he bit down on the man’s shoulder as he drove into him again, his hand never ceasing its motion.
Snape shuddered, and came; and as he spurted over Harry’s hand, Harry found himself reacting, a tearing orgasm that made him gasp and gasp again for air. His head sank forward against Snape’s shoulder as he tried to regain some sense of self, of where and who he was; of what was happening. And Snape himself had his hands flush against the wall as if relying on it to keep him upright.
This was not… Somehow, this was not what Harry had expected; not how he had thought it would be. He had hated Snape. Hated him with a passion and fervour that had flowed through every moment of their bonding. He still hated him; the thought of what they had just done made him feel sick to the heart. Yet the worst of his anger against the man had dissipated, somehow, with his climax. He felt empty - shaken - scared - depressed… but not angry. Not now.
Harry pulled out and Snape slowly turned around. Their eyes met in mutual dislike, but there was something else there in addition. For like it or not - and it was clear that neither liked it - there was a bond between them that could not be broken.
They would have to learn to live with that, too.
Request: Harry/Snape. Hogwarts era (between book 5 and 6), forced bonding with non-con and nasty stuff. Would love it if the bonding needs to be kept secret, but its effect on Harry is clear to his friends so they get suspicious etc. No fluffy endings, but some hope at the end would be cool. Darkfic please! No bottom!Harry
Rating: NC17
Warnings: See Request and be warned. non-con/dub-con; will be chan in countries where age of consent is 18.
Word Count: ~2900
Author’s Notes: 1. Acknowledgements to my two incredibly helpful betas, dacian_goddess and stellastars
“No.” Harry’s voice was firm, but his eyes were desperate as he looked at Professor Dumbledore. “No… Please,” he added in almost a whisper.
Dumbledore’s eyes were sad.
“There is no choice, Harry. This… bond is your last hope. Lord Voldemort is more powerful than we imagined. I can’t protect you. Neither can the Dursleys.”
The Dursleys had never wanted to protect him, thought Harry resentfully. But the Headmaster had placed him with them without giving them a choice, just as he now placed Harry into the care of Severus Snape.
“There must be something,” Harry pleaded.
The Headmaster was still and silent for a second, apparently lost in his own thoughts.
“If only there were, Harry, it would be done. This is the only option we have.”
Harry wanted to say a final, definite “no”: wanted it so much it hurt. But he couldn’t frame the word. Choice. He had no choice.
“There is one last thing.” Professor Dumbledore’s voice jerked Harry back into the present world.
“Uh?” he said, stupidly.
Dumbledore’s brows contracted.
“In order for this to work, you must be in charge of this bond. You must be the controller.”
“What do you mean?” Harry had asked, bewildered.
He was soon to understand.
***
“You agree, Severus?”
Dumbledore’s voice was kind but he was clearly utterly determined. Harry thought that he would not have been able to refuse. Remembered, angrily, that he had not been able to refuse.
“I understand and agree.”
Snape’s voice was tight and bitter. He could feel no more unnerved than he was, Harry thought. Unbreakable bonds were one thing - sleeping with the man you loathed more than any other save Voldemort… that was quite another.
Shit, he thought; and then, as Snape’s baleful glare rested upon him, wondered if he’d said the word aloud. Voldemort was the only reason he was doing this. Now that the time was upon him, he wondered if he wouldn’t prefer to die. He was a sixteen year old virgin, and- Fuck. The second expletive was as strongly felt as the first. Dumbledore had impressed on him the need for silence, but how was he going to keep something like this - something as awful and important as this - from Ron and Hermione? How?
Harry realised that his top lip was bleeding as his teeth had unconsciously bitten into it. The taste of blood was disconcertingly familiar and… relieving. It gave him a sense of himself.
“I will leave you now.”
Professor Dumbledore’s words broke the agonising cloud of thoughts surrounding Harry. He looked pleadingly at Dumbledore, but already the Headmaster had drifted firmly from the room. From the room - Snape’s dungeon. The room in which Harry had already spent so many tortuous hours. But none more tortuous than this.
“And so, Potter,” jibed Snape, “it is just you and me.”
It sounded more like a challenge than a statement.
“Yes,” said Harry; and then realised that the word had been so badly croaked as to be unrecognisable. He coughed. “Yeah,” he said, stronger.
“Go ahead, then.” The sneer was pronounced. “Get on with it.”
Fuck. It echoed even more loudly in Harry’s head. In order to build this unbreakable - necessary - bond with Snape, he had to fuck him. In the most painfully literal sense of all. He knew, looking at Snape’s face, that the man was approximately as keen for this as he was himself.
Yeah. Not at all.
“Okay,” Harry said, willing his voice to stay calm.
The words No! Bloody hell, no! came into his head but he bit them back sharply. There was a sick feeling in his throat as he looked at Professor Snape. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He must. And he had not the faintest idea where to start.
“Um…” he said, his eyes meeting Snape’s in a look somewhere between plea and revulsion.
“Um?” his Professor echoed, eyebrow raised.
Harry clenched his teeth, all of his hatred and mistrust of Snape returning in the time it took for his adversary to speak that word. Snape was not going to make this easy for him in any sense. He was mocking Harry, just as he had mocked Sirius and led him to his death. He’d loathed Sirius, and he loathed Harry. Why was he doing this? How had Dumbledore made him agree to it? What sort of twisted bargain was this anyway?
“I hate you,” snarled Harry.
He lunged towards his opponent (for this was not love; this did not even claim to be love, not even attraction: this was war) and thrust him against the wall of his own dungeon, angry, punishing lips pressed against Snape’s. For a moment he felt hard resistance, as Snape pushed against him, his fingers digging painfully into Harry’s shoulders. Then, it seemed, Snape relaxed, allowing Harry to deepen the kiss - the bond that neither wanted.
Harry tried not to think about the fact that he was up close and personal with Professor Snape; tried not to shudder as he realised what he was doing - and worse, what he was going to do. A wave of bile washed through him, making him choke and pull away.
“Had enough already, Potter?”
Bluntly? Hell yeah, and more. It had been more than enough before they’d even begun. But the taunt sufficed to quell Harry’s feeling of sickness enough to force him to pull himself together.
“No,” he said grimly.
He would see this through. He had to see this through. Was Snape trying to provoke him into giving up, or (worse thought still) provoke him into action? Either way, it was his - Harry’s - life that was on the line; and whatever Snape’s motives were, Harry had a few good reasons for living - one big one going by the name of Voldemort. If Snape was on the side of the Order, then this connection would be highly useful. If he worked for Voldemort, even more important to tie him down to an unbreakable bond with Harry. Even if it did mean a relationship with Snape that went far further than any liaison in Harry’s past.
He realised that he had made no additional move towards Snape, and that the Professor was looking at him with typical aversion.
“Why did you agree to this?” Harry asked suspiciously.
“That, Potter, is none of your business.”
Okay, so he was supposed to fuck someone who thought that his motives for being involved with Harry were none of Harry’s business. There was surely something paradoxical about that.
“Whatever.”
If Snape had given a reason, would he actually have believed him anyway? Probably not. He looked over at his teacher, sallow of face and greasy of hair, and tried to imagine that it was Ginny standing there. Or Ron; or Cho. Or - bloody hell, anyone, quite frankly, except for Severus Snape. Someone he felt at least passingly attracted to.
“The bond works better if there is no… subsidiary… magic used,” Snape informed him coldly.
What?
Oh.
There was a horrible moment when Harry realised what Snape was saying. He meant that Harry had to get it up for himself, not rely on spells. Harry saw a faintly malicious curve to the other man’s lips. On some level, Harry thought bitterly, Snape was enjoying this: enjoying Harry’s discomfort, if not what was due to follow.
“Right,” said Harry tightly.
“But then,” drawled Snape, “you are a teenager. It should provide no problem for you. My pleasure is irrelevant.”
Harry swallowed another feeling of queasiness at the thought of providing Snape with sexual pleasure. The thought of Snape having sex with anyone was pretty repellent, let alone…
“Right,” he said again.
It seemed Snape was going to wait for him to make all the moves. He didn’t look like he was going to assist Harry in any way whatsoever. Harry had a suspicion that he was waiting with anticipation for Harry’s failure to perform. And Harry was damned if he was going to give him the satisfaction.
“Undress, then.”
If Harry had to feel stupid and embarrassed, why shouldn’t he turn the tables? Let Snape know how it felt like to be stared at and appraised.
“As you wish.”
Black eyes were fixed on Harry’s. Snape was not going to shirk by avoiding eye contact. His long bony fingers began to unbutton his robe, slowly and with precision. Then the gown was shrugged from his shoulders, and Professor Snape stood naked before Harry.
Harry swallowed.
He had been expecting Snape to have something on underneath; not to go straight from clothing to nudity. Did he (Harry wished he could shut his mind up) always dress like this? Even when taking class? Did he never have anything under his robes?
Harry felt the first twitch in his groin. He bit the inside of his cheek, wanting the thoughts to stop, wanting not to find them appealing. Yes, okay, he was going to have to fuck Snape, but he really didn’t want to want to. Thank God for loose clothing: in his Mugglewear of jeans, his erection would have been rather too obvious (unless he was wearing one of Dudley’s more recent cast-offs, which tended to look more like skirts when he wore them, there was so much baggy material). With robes, at least there was something left to the imagination.
Snape’s eyes were still cold and unblinking; his lack of arousal evident. Harry felt an angry wish to see Snape at a loss - panting and begging beneath him. That would show him what it was like to feel humiliated. Unbidden, a memory of his father taunting Snape in their teenaged days came back to him, and his face contracted as he tried to rid himself of the thought. He was not like that: he didn’t want to humble Snape for the sake of it - all he wanted, he thought anguishedly, was a level playing field.
“It is somewhat cold down here,” Snape said pointedly.
“It’s your fucking dungeon.” Harry hadn’t intended to say it aloud, but the words slipped out despite himself.
“It may have escaped your notice, Potter, that I am usually dressed.”
Harry clenched his fists.
“So what you’re really saying,” he said brutally, “is that I should hurry up and fuck you.”
“I would probably not have expressed it in quite those terms, but that is the general position.”
“Looking forward to it, are you? Is it the most action you’ve seen?” Harry couldn’t seem to stop himself.
Snape’s eyes narrowed.
“That,” he spat, “is none of your business, Potter.”
Harry swallowed. Now he came to think about it, he really didn’t want to know the answer, either.
“Just turn round,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “I don’t want to look at you, okay?”
He saw a flash of pure, icy rage flit across Snape’s face as he obeyed, and wondered - once again - what on earth had possessed Snape to agree to this. But in some ways, the reason was irrelevant: what mattered was completing this… bond. Harry pulled at his robes to expose himself, and realised that he was already half-hard. The tube of lubrication stood suggestively on the teacher’s table, and Harry squeezed some onto his right hand, rubbing himself to full firmness. His mouth felt suddenly dry, as he looked at Snape, who was facing the dungeon wall, his back ramrod straight and tense.
What was he supposed to….? How was he supposed to…? What the hell…?
“Oh God,” he murmured under his breath, his throat compressed with anxiety.
“Use your fingers first, Potter.” Snape sounded more uptight than Harry had ever heard him.
Oh. Right.
No, so very not right. He was supposed to stick his fingers… there? He sidled towards Snape, slopping more lube onto his hand as he went. It was difficult to stay hard under the circumstances. Nervously, he moved his fingers towards Snape’s hole, poking gently at his anus.
“If that’s the best you can manage, you might as well stop now,” his Professor remarked edgily.
For God’s sake, it was bad enough trying to do… what Harry was trying to do… without a running commentary from Snape. Irritably, Harry pushed the fingers hard inside Snape, unnerved by the way the ring of muscle grasped around them. He didn’t know quite what he had expected, but this was not it. The Professor sighed grumpily.
“Slide them in and out, Potter.”
Harry obeyed, but with mounting rage. Snape was doing all he could to put him off, but it was not going to work. He stroked his wilting erection with his other hand, massaging himself until he was stiff again. Then (he wanted to shut his eyes, but he needed to see what he was doing… Don’t think about what precisely it is that you’re doing, just do it, he told himself firmly) he pressed himself up against Snape’s entrance and forced himself in. Snape was tight, tight around him, and…
“Please, take your time.”
The sarcasm in the Professor’s voice was obvious; but it put the last flame to Harry’s anger.
“I’ll do what the hell I like,” he said heatedly, pushing further inside Snape.
Snape grunted - whether with pain or contempt, Harry wasn’t sure; and suddenly Harry was thrusting into him, again and again, fierce and angry.
“Why did you agree to this?” he repeated breathlessly.
He put his right hand, still sticky with lubrication, around Snape’s cock, forcing his adversary to hardness. This was not about lust but about control, success - winning. If Harry failed to come… he lost. If Snape showed a total lack of arousal… Harry lost. But if Harry could force himself on Snape - force Snape into an erection they both knew he didn’t want… Harry would have fucked Snape in more ways than one.
“None… of your… business,” Snape gritted once more.
Snape’s forehead was pushed against the cold wall. Veins stood out on his neck. His hands flexed then clenched in turn, his erection burgeoning despite himself; and Harry could see that Snape was suffering under this assault: suffering humiliating, unwanted pleasure. Harry’s left palm was strong against his back, forcing him forwards.
Snape gasped as Harry ran his nails sharply down his back, breaking the skin. He wanted to hurt Snape; punish him for the fact that he was alive when Sirius was dead; but at the same time shame him by his own physical response to Harry’s fucking. Harry’s right hand rubbed up and down Snape’s shaft until the older man was taking heavy gasps of air as he struggled to contain his reaction. Harry thrust in time with his strokes, barely aware of what he was doing; thinking only of the need to make Snape endure a gratification he didn’t want to show. He had ceased to think about himself, though in a dark recess of his mind he was aware that the feeling - the tight clenched muscles of Snape’s arse around his cock - was… somewhat more satisfying than he would have liked; that with the right person, this might be incredible; and that even with Snape, this was edging perilously close to pleasure.
Without thinking, Harry bent his head to the broken skin on Snape’s back and ran his tongue down the scratches. There was a salty taste of Snape’s sweat, combined with the bitter iron-like taste of the blood. It tasted weird but not unpleasant; not rancid, as Harry had imagined it might be.
There was a sharp indrawn breath from Snape, and once again Harry was brought back into the moment, into what it was that he was doing. His hatred of Snape overflowed again, and he bit down on the man’s shoulder as he drove into him again, his hand never ceasing its motion.
Snape shuddered, and came; and as he spurted over Harry’s hand, Harry found himself reacting, a tearing orgasm that made him gasp and gasp again for air. His head sank forward against Snape’s shoulder as he tried to regain some sense of self, of where and who he was; of what was happening. And Snape himself had his hands flush against the wall as if relying on it to keep him upright.
This was not… Somehow, this was not what Harry had expected; not how he had thought it would be. He had hated Snape. Hated him with a passion and fervour that had flowed through every moment of their bonding. He still hated him; the thought of what they had just done made him feel sick to the heart. Yet the worst of his anger against the man had dissipated, somehow, with his climax. He felt empty - shaken - scared - depressed… but not angry. Not now.
Harry pulled out and Snape slowly turned around. Their eyes met in mutual dislike, but there was something else there in addition. For like it or not - and it was clear that neither liked it - there was a bond between them that could not be broken.
They would have to learn to live with that, too.