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by Resonant

Why does Harry keep coming back to this? To the snapping fury of Snape's bludger-black eyes, the cold disdain of his voice?

He can't puzzle it out. Outside these walls he could find lovers by the dozen to exclaim over him, pamper him and spoil him. Here, Snape meets him in silence and in darkness; Snape's eyes on him start his heart pounding, strip him bare. Snape's passion for Harry is no more reasonable than his hatred once was, no more proportionate, no more fair.

Is it because Snape's as broken as Harry is? Snape's body is gaunt under its carapace of black, his belly sunken, his shinbones and shoulder blades sharp. He doesn't want Harry to touch him, to linger over his skin, to tease every reaction out of his resistant body. Harry does it anyway, indulges his hungry fingertips in the smooth warmth of Snape's skin, feeds his ravenous ears on the gasps and sighs that Snape can't quite hide, no matter how he tries.

Is it because Harry wants to save him? In the extremity of pleasure, when Harry has held Snape on the edge of orgasm until he forgets to protect himself, Snape will clutch at him, hold him close with all the surprising strength of his skinny arms. Snape will force his eyes open, look pleadingly at Harry's face, and sometimes a look of wonder will come into his eyes and he'll touch Harry's cheek with shaking fingers, as though to confirm that he isn't an illusion.

Maybe he wants Snape to save him. Other times it's Snape in control, turning Harry this way and that in the narrow monkish bed, issuing in an unmoved voice orders that drive the breath from Harry's lungs. Snape doesn't bother with holding Harry on the crest of orgasm. Snape makes him come over and over, until he thinks he has nothing left, until every touch to his cock hurts and he's still begging for more.

And then he opens Harry up and puts his cock in him, and Harry looks at the intensity of those black eyes, the hunger in that ugly face, and he always finds he can want it one more time, fight for it, beg for it, make crazy promises. At last, say things neither of them would permit outside this strange intoxication of pleasure, of safety, of familiarity.

Until there are no more questions. No past, no future, no other places that either of them could be. Only here.

And Snape, who disdains tender words, says Yes and Yes and Yes.














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September 23, 2004