FIC: "Necessary Surrogates" (SS/HP, R)
Title: Necessary Surrogates
Author: Penumbra (pen_and_umbra)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: SS/HP
Rating: R
Word count: ca. 1800 (complete)
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.
Feedback: Commentary, feedback, and constructive criticism are heartily welcomed.
Summary: "The straight set of his shoulders is almost painful to see when I know he is the Atlas that holds me aloft."
Notes: Boring meetings make me think of angst and boyporn; I've also been running through various war scenarios for my epic SS/HP fic that'll never see the light of day at this pace. This ficlet came out of those ponderings.
Necessary Surrogates
by Penumbra (c) 2004
When he fucks me, I think he fucks Voldemort. Dumbledore, too; it's revenge, not weaknesses of the flesh, that moves Severus Snape to sodomy.
The bruised muscles of my thighs are on fire and my head is at an awkward angle, but he makes me not care of such things. He's fucking me like it's a divine imperative and that's all I care.
His touch is exquisite, gentle, a wonder in precision. I've watched him touch his knives and ladles the same way, reverently, when he works; he holds his wand in that same loose, perfect grip that he now has on my cock. His consideration is for me but, alas, not because of me: he goes to these unknown lengths of tenderness because they're the antithesis of all that Voldemort is and what this war has made of us.
"Mind your head, Harry," he whispers to me. His other hand is in my hair.
I breathe through my teeth and my pain. "I don't care about my head," I pant, trying to push back to feel more of him inside me.
"I do."
He won't let me move; he does things at his own pace. "Oh, you bastard..."
His cock is like twenty lashes from a bullwhip, painful and bone-deep and hard enough to split me in half. It's the only thing that makes me feel alive these days.
We are both Dumbledore's blunt tools, and that's the sort of fate that tends to bring people together, even when they are as mis-matched and broken as we are. The difference is that his fate is of his own choosing and mine is not; thus, it was I who chose him on that miserable, weatherbeaten day three months ago.
I remember touching his skin, clammy and cold; his hands, all bone and strength. His words were as unhesitant as they always are, though when I kissed him, I saw him make a face I'd never seen before. Although I can't see him now, I know he's making that face again, and the thought bleaches my insides with desperate want.
"Harder," I hiss; his vise grip moves from my hair to my hip. "God, harder, Severus..."
His hand on my cock squeezes a scream and my orgasm out of me. Through my death, I hear the sound he makes when he comes, like a dying animal.
When I lever my aching, humming body off the kitchen table and turn, I can see only the back of his black robes. The straight set of his shoulders is almost painful to see when I know he is the Atlas that holds me aloft.
"Tea?"
I flex my legs. They hurt like blazes. "Yes, please."
He makes tea while I dress. He prepares tea much like Remus does, as if it were a rite of great religious significance. My heart gives a little twinge as I watch his measuring and pouring; our trappings of normalcy and civilisation are so worn these days, so very thin and contrived.
"I suppose you'll insist on your usual travesty?"
I smile; I like my tea with all the milk and sugar in the world. "We've had this discussion before, haven't we, Severus?"
"If you weren't such an uncivilised fool, we could stop having it," he says but serves me a mug with all my condiments anyway.
We sit down to enjoy the tea, and it's a comfortable silence. He studies the stained tabletop as if it were a master painting; I watch the lines on his face and the fine, grotesque art they make of his features.
"You're staring," he says without looking at me.
"I can't help myself. You're too lovely to resist."
He finally looks up with the sort of debauched, weary amusement that lured me to him in the first place. "There is blindness, Mr. Potter, and then there is endorphin-induced myopia. You would do well to unlearn both."
I laugh with all the giddy, over-tired confusion and envy inside me; it's his greatest gift, this absolute refusal to be anything but himself. It's something I'm having a hard time learning.
* * *
Severus speaks and the words are but a low drone. He's talking at me and not to me and so I merely watch him, content in pondering nothing but the peculiar shape of his soul.
There is no love in his soul, or anything else I recognise; it is like a sliver missing from the very fabric of the Universe, a passage to places where dragons and daemons reside. At times like this and regardless of the void inside him, I think I love him, and I curse myself for being such a fool.
The snap of his fingers in front of my face startles me. "What?"
"Where did your attention wander?"
"To your arse," I lie with a smile. "Because, frankly, it interests me far more than moldy maps."
He offers his usual not-smile, that devilish curl of his lip that brings fire to my blood; when he speaks, his words could cut glass. "My bottom, while apparently riveting, is not an accurate representation of the surrounding geography. So please do try to regain your focus, Potter. I shouldn't need to tell you how important this is."
I drag my gaze to the map. Indeed, it's far less interesting than the hillock of his arse. The parchment is old and brown from use, stained with the same pungent, oily substance that makes his hands and hair smell like sulphur and blood.
"So. What are we facing tomorrow, then?"
"There are sentinels. Death Eaters and other assorted sycophants," he says. His voice is warm with murder, plummy and absolutely terrifying. "They will not be a problem."
I shiver and the taste of bile rises into my mouth. I have seen the effects of the diabolical concoction he's perfected and I well remember the pain in Dumbledore's eyes when he gave his approval.
"And the Lestranges?"
"Oh, they'll be there. This is the power centre of their coven." His hand sweeps over the map and the baroque patterns of magic on it. "This is where they need to make their final stand."
"I don't want to lose them again, not after all these months."
"You won't."
I smile a smile that feels alien on my face. "Good."
The war is changing, much like I am. I can feel it in his almost carnal excitement and in the panicked burn of my scar. Soon, I'll risk hope.
* * *
Today has been a good day: the sun is out and the Lestranges are dead. Even Hermione is smiling; she played chess with Dumbledore earlier and as they now sit in the sunlight, drinking tea and laughing over the antics of the chessboard, the two of them look like a joyful travesty amidst all this war.
I turn to watch Severus, and it takes me all of three seconds to realise that today is one of those days when I love him. Such days come frequently now and though they are as inevitable as the phases of the moon, the pattern of their ebb and flow is as much a mystery to me as he is.
He fucks me and he drinks his tea black. He smells of magic and ozone. That's all I know of him, and nothing of his thoughts, because first and foremost, he is an Occlumens. On some days I make an idle game of guesses, spurred on by my growing grasp of Legilimency and the temptation to test my skills. However, it would be like the Atlantic trying to probe through the cliffs of Dover: give it a few millennia and the softest places might give in. So I make do with guesses and surface observations.
Today, he doesn't smile, but the set of his shoulders no longer radiates that tension that always makes my back ache in sympathy. He sits in the wicker chair next to mine, a glass of something milky and foul in his hand; the sunshine skirts him as if it were afraid that the black hole of his being might absorb all light.
"What's that?" I ask, gesturing at his drink.
"Something to keep me awake."
I wonder how much of it is potion and how much gin. "It looks disgusting."
He glances at me and then at the glass. "It is," he murmurs and drinks half of it. "Absolutely revolting."
I can see his Adam's apple bob above the high collar of his robes as he fights the nausea. It reminds me of the times he is too ambitious with fellatio and gags on my cock, and the memory of his throat constricting around me seeds sparks in my groin.
With a grimace I shift in my chair; the curse of being seventeen and in love. I'm so hard and today is such a beautiful day that I think I'll need to ruin both by telling him I love him.
I stand up, stretching my arms towards the sun for a moment before I turn to him. "Come inside," I whisper, looking down at him.
"Whatever for?"
"So that I can ravish you in private, of course."
Were he someone else, he would fidget and start. But he's Severus, all narrowed eyes and tensed shoulders again, so all he does is not take his eyes off me as we go in.
In his bedroom, I take my time unwrapping him from his robes and apprehension. He whispers things to me, eloquent words that are both insulting and inflaming, and my hands start to shake. The last of his clothing I simply tear off.
When we are both finally naked and on the bed, I map the pallid, scarred expanses of his flesh with my hands. If I can't see into his mind, I'm determined to learn as much of his body as I can. I need to be reminded of his humanity this way; sometimes, with unease, I wonder if there's a little box in his head marked 'Harry' -- or, perhaps, 'Mr. Potter' -- where he stores what little he thinks of me.
He halts my questing hands and kisses me, hard. My body shivers with arousal and I roll on top of him. His fingers skate over my ribs and his clever tongue is in my mouth, doing indecent, superb things to my senses. Through the heat, I realise that if there is a box marked 'Harry' in his mind, there is surely another one labelled 'Voldemort'; that one is full of the exquisite anger with which he'll soon fuck me.
Afterwards. I'll tell him afterwards.
* * *
Fin.
On to the next story in series: Three Days of Warfare
Author: Penumbra (pen_and_umbra)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: SS/HP
Rating: R
Word count: ca. 1800 (complete)
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.
Feedback: Commentary, feedback, and constructive criticism are heartily welcomed.
Summary: "The straight set of his shoulders is almost painful to see when I know he is the Atlas that holds me aloft."
Notes: Boring meetings make me think of angst and boyporn; I've also been running through various war scenarios for my epic SS/HP fic that'll never see the light of day at this pace. This ficlet came out of those ponderings.
Necessary Surrogates
by Penumbra (c) 2004
When he fucks me, I think he fucks Voldemort. Dumbledore, too; it's revenge, not weaknesses of the flesh, that moves Severus Snape to sodomy.
The bruised muscles of my thighs are on fire and my head is at an awkward angle, but he makes me not care of such things. He's fucking me like it's a divine imperative and that's all I care.
His touch is exquisite, gentle, a wonder in precision. I've watched him touch his knives and ladles the same way, reverently, when he works; he holds his wand in that same loose, perfect grip that he now has on my cock. His consideration is for me but, alas, not because of me: he goes to these unknown lengths of tenderness because they're the antithesis of all that Voldemort is and what this war has made of us.
"Mind your head, Harry," he whispers to me. His other hand is in my hair.
I breathe through my teeth and my pain. "I don't care about my head," I pant, trying to push back to feel more of him inside me.
"I do."
He won't let me move; he does things at his own pace. "Oh, you bastard..."
His cock is like twenty lashes from a bullwhip, painful and bone-deep and hard enough to split me in half. It's the only thing that makes me feel alive these days.
We are both Dumbledore's blunt tools, and that's the sort of fate that tends to bring people together, even when they are as mis-matched and broken as we are. The difference is that his fate is of his own choosing and mine is not; thus, it was I who chose him on that miserable, weatherbeaten day three months ago.
I remember touching his skin, clammy and cold; his hands, all bone and strength. His words were as unhesitant as they always are, though when I kissed him, I saw him make a face I'd never seen before. Although I can't see him now, I know he's making that face again, and the thought bleaches my insides with desperate want.
"Harder," I hiss; his vise grip moves from my hair to my hip. "God, harder, Severus..."
His hand on my cock squeezes a scream and my orgasm out of me. Through my death, I hear the sound he makes when he comes, like a dying animal.
When I lever my aching, humming body off the kitchen table and turn, I can see only the back of his black robes. The straight set of his shoulders is almost painful to see when I know he is the Atlas that holds me aloft.
"Tea?"
I flex my legs. They hurt like blazes. "Yes, please."
He makes tea while I dress. He prepares tea much like Remus does, as if it were a rite of great religious significance. My heart gives a little twinge as I watch his measuring and pouring; our trappings of normalcy and civilisation are so worn these days, so very thin and contrived.
"I suppose you'll insist on your usual travesty?"
I smile; I like my tea with all the milk and sugar in the world. "We've had this discussion before, haven't we, Severus?"
"If you weren't such an uncivilised fool, we could stop having it," he says but serves me a mug with all my condiments anyway.
We sit down to enjoy the tea, and it's a comfortable silence. He studies the stained tabletop as if it were a master painting; I watch the lines on his face and the fine, grotesque art they make of his features.
"You're staring," he says without looking at me.
"I can't help myself. You're too lovely to resist."
He finally looks up with the sort of debauched, weary amusement that lured me to him in the first place. "There is blindness, Mr. Potter, and then there is endorphin-induced myopia. You would do well to unlearn both."
I laugh with all the giddy, over-tired confusion and envy inside me; it's his greatest gift, this absolute refusal to be anything but himself. It's something I'm having a hard time learning.
* * *
Severus speaks and the words are but a low drone. He's talking at me and not to me and so I merely watch him, content in pondering nothing but the peculiar shape of his soul.
There is no love in his soul, or anything else I recognise; it is like a sliver missing from the very fabric of the Universe, a passage to places where dragons and daemons reside. At times like this and regardless of the void inside him, I think I love him, and I curse myself for being such a fool.
The snap of his fingers in front of my face startles me. "What?"
"Where did your attention wander?"
"To your arse," I lie with a smile. "Because, frankly, it interests me far more than moldy maps."
He offers his usual not-smile, that devilish curl of his lip that brings fire to my blood; when he speaks, his words could cut glass. "My bottom, while apparently riveting, is not an accurate representation of the surrounding geography. So please do try to regain your focus, Potter. I shouldn't need to tell you how important this is."
I drag my gaze to the map. Indeed, it's far less interesting than the hillock of his arse. The parchment is old and brown from use, stained with the same pungent, oily substance that makes his hands and hair smell like sulphur and blood.
"So. What are we facing tomorrow, then?"
"There are sentinels. Death Eaters and other assorted sycophants," he says. His voice is warm with murder, plummy and absolutely terrifying. "They will not be a problem."
I shiver and the taste of bile rises into my mouth. I have seen the effects of the diabolical concoction he's perfected and I well remember the pain in Dumbledore's eyes when he gave his approval.
"And the Lestranges?"
"Oh, they'll be there. This is the power centre of their coven." His hand sweeps over the map and the baroque patterns of magic on it. "This is where they need to make their final stand."
"I don't want to lose them again, not after all these months."
"You won't."
I smile a smile that feels alien on my face. "Good."
The war is changing, much like I am. I can feel it in his almost carnal excitement and in the panicked burn of my scar. Soon, I'll risk hope.
* * *
Today has been a good day: the sun is out and the Lestranges are dead. Even Hermione is smiling; she played chess with Dumbledore earlier and as they now sit in the sunlight, drinking tea and laughing over the antics of the chessboard, the two of them look like a joyful travesty amidst all this war.
I turn to watch Severus, and it takes me all of three seconds to realise that today is one of those days when I love him. Such days come frequently now and though they are as inevitable as the phases of the moon, the pattern of their ebb and flow is as much a mystery to me as he is.
He fucks me and he drinks his tea black. He smells of magic and ozone. That's all I know of him, and nothing of his thoughts, because first and foremost, he is an Occlumens. On some days I make an idle game of guesses, spurred on by my growing grasp of Legilimency and the temptation to test my skills. However, it would be like the Atlantic trying to probe through the cliffs of Dover: give it a few millennia and the softest places might give in. So I make do with guesses and surface observations.
Today, he doesn't smile, but the set of his shoulders no longer radiates that tension that always makes my back ache in sympathy. He sits in the wicker chair next to mine, a glass of something milky and foul in his hand; the sunshine skirts him as if it were afraid that the black hole of his being might absorb all light.
"What's that?" I ask, gesturing at his drink.
"Something to keep me awake."
I wonder how much of it is potion and how much gin. "It looks disgusting."
He glances at me and then at the glass. "It is," he murmurs and drinks half of it. "Absolutely revolting."
I can see his Adam's apple bob above the high collar of his robes as he fights the nausea. It reminds me of the times he is too ambitious with fellatio and gags on my cock, and the memory of his throat constricting around me seeds sparks in my groin.
With a grimace I shift in my chair; the curse of being seventeen and in love. I'm so hard and today is such a beautiful day that I think I'll need to ruin both by telling him I love him.
I stand up, stretching my arms towards the sun for a moment before I turn to him. "Come inside," I whisper, looking down at him.
"Whatever for?"
"So that I can ravish you in private, of course."
Were he someone else, he would fidget and start. But he's Severus, all narrowed eyes and tensed shoulders again, so all he does is not take his eyes off me as we go in.
In his bedroom, I take my time unwrapping him from his robes and apprehension. He whispers things to me, eloquent words that are both insulting and inflaming, and my hands start to shake. The last of his clothing I simply tear off.
When we are both finally naked and on the bed, I map the pallid, scarred expanses of his flesh with my hands. If I can't see into his mind, I'm determined to learn as much of his body as I can. I need to be reminded of his humanity this way; sometimes, with unease, I wonder if there's a little box in his head marked 'Harry' -- or, perhaps, 'Mr. Potter' -- where he stores what little he thinks of me.
He halts my questing hands and kisses me, hard. My body shivers with arousal and I roll on top of him. His fingers skate over my ribs and his clever tongue is in my mouth, doing indecent, superb things to my senses. Through the heat, I realise that if there is a box marked 'Harry' in his mind, there is surely another one labelled 'Voldemort'; that one is full of the exquisite anger with which he'll soon fuck me.
Afterwards. I'll tell him afterwards.
* * *
Fin.
On to the next story in series: Three Days of Warfare