Hero Worship, Part 6 of 25
Nov. 15th, 2006 04:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
Anyone have suggestions of comms (Snarry or otherwise) to x-post this to? It can't go to
pornicators, sadly, because I realize now that Harry is not 18 at the end of HBP.
snapepotter wants me to f-lock it bc it is NC-17 and I don't want to have to deal with a ton of people requesting to be friended just to read the story.
That leaves me with
potterslash and
accio_fic. Oh, and
hardcore_hp for the dom/sub aspect of it. Which is plenty, but I am always wondering if there are comms out there I have missed and should be reading, too.
--
Title: Hero Worship, Part 6/25
Author: Ravenna C. Tan
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Word Count: 36,901 total, 1425 this part
Disclaimer: This is non-commercial fanfiction. Trademarked characters are used for non-commercial purposes.
Beta:
miraba,
jordangrant
Author's Note: A gift for
regan_v, as a request she made about submissive!snape brought this on.
Warnings: A touch of BDSM/power exchange sex.
Archive: Part of the From Dusk till Dawn Severus Snape/Harry Potter Fuh-Q-Fest at http://www.kardasi.com/HPSS/storyindex.htm (The Fest was due to begin Nov. 10th--now pushed back 1 month, but authors may post in their own journals).
Challenge/Summary: "What if...?" What if Snape did not escape at the end of Half-Blood Prince? What if Kingsley Shacklebolt caught him before he could Apparate away? Not trusted by the Order, but still determined to bring down Voldemort, Snape agrees to undergo an unusual spell.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Hero Worship, Chapter Six
Ravenna C. Tan
I had thought I might brood over Albus once I was alone. But my thoughts instead were again directed to my lost composure. I had grabbed the boy today, one hand buried in his robes, the other on his chin. In all the years I have spent tormenting him, hating him at times, I have rarely resorted to physical violence. I recall hauling him bodily from the Pensieve, but today I grabbed him as a street thug might accost a victim in a dark alley. And he allowed me to. One message of Minerva's was clear to me: I must be the master of my own emotions, now.
I am sitting by the fire with a glass of cognac in my hand, mulling these thoughts over, when the knock comes. I find myself stiff upon standing--I have clearly been sitting there for some time. Instead of walking to the door I open it with a spell and sit back down.
Potter stalks in, his anger stiffening his gait. He is carrying something in his hand, a small cloth-wrapped bundle. For a moment I think it is the book, before I remember I destroyed it.
Without preamble he sits in the other chair by the fireplace and thrusts the cloth toward me. "Eat," he says.
"Why?" I say, even as my cognac-dulled brain is realizing why and I quickly amend: "Oh, the spell. Has it been that long?"
"Bloody dungeon," he says. "It's nearly ten at night, Snape."
I take what I realize is a napkin containing some sort of sandwich out of his hands. Fascinating. I do not feel hungry, but my body must need food, and Argus tells Potter so.
Even more fascinating is the sandwich itself, which is liverwurst and onions, one of my preferences. "Where did you get this?"
"House elves. I, um, asked them what you like."
Ah. I take a bite and he visibly relaxes. "That was... perceptive of you." No, not perceptive, what is the word I am trying to think of? Perhaps I've had more of the cognac than I thought. Clever? Kind? Perspicacious?
"Well," he says, sullen but no longer quite as irritable. "The spell does 'attune me to your needs.'" I begin to doubt my theory that the binding was his idea as it sounds like he received the same speech I did from Minerva.
"It was thoughtful of you to ask the elves for my preference, I mean." Now that I am eating I realize how hungry I am.
"Why didn't you have dinner?" he asks.
"The simple answer is that I opted to drown my sorrows instead. The less simple answer is that I am... accustomed to a life of deprivation."
He is holding himself by the ribs, looking at the floor, not at me. "I hate being hungry. The Dursley's used to starve me out of spite."
The irony of the situation burns into my alcohol-steeped mind. He is the child of foster parents himself, the sort of ones that Argus was designed to defeat. I find myself speechless.
"So, please," he says, and I am shocked at the plaintive sound in his voice. "Please eat. Don't make me make you eat."
I am wiping the crumbs from my lips with the napkin when I say "I shall endeavor not to. It was not my intention to make you suffer."
He scrubs his hand through his hair and switches his staring from the floor to the ceiling. "I know."
He clearly has something else to say. I am accustomed to waiting, and do so.
Eventually he says: "I'm not looking forward to another sleepless night, either."
"Nor am I."
Now he looks directly at me, that plaintive look in his eye. What is he begging for this time?
"Oh, forget it, I can't do this. I'll meet you at the Room of Requirement after breakfast." He is already moving toward the door.
"I will make sure to eat it," I say to his retreating back.
Minerva does not believe the spell is the cause, but she did say that the spell accessed the 'primal part' of my mind. The part that drove me to attack Potter today like an ignorant Muggle. One need not be a mediwizard to know that lack of sleep can lead to irrational actions, as well. Whatever the cause, I must be the master of it more now than ever.
My cabinet is empty of Dreamless Sleep, so I take a weaker draught that should still help me sleep the night through, regardless of my alcohol intake or the unease of my thoughts. I wonder if I should have offered the same to Potter before he left, but it is too late for that now.
My dreams are dark and vague, as usual. The one image that stays with me as I wake is a sense-memory of rubbing my face against the rough, dark cloth of someone's robes.
I realize with a start that what has woken me is the sound of footsteps. Potter is there, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. "Potter?" At the sound of my voice, the charms which illuminate the room come up softly.
He rounds on me. "Snape." He is panting, his eyes ablaze and half-mad. He is fully dressed but without robes and he clambers toward me over the bed. "Don't make me do this, too."
"Do what? Potter, surely you cannot blame your adolescent state of arousal on me." I am neither erect nor interested.
His hand sliding over the blanket, directly over my cock, changes that somewhat. "Snape," he says, his voice low and threatening. "You may be able to lie to yourself about this, but not to me."
His hand, Merlin's beard, the palm of his hand is sliding up and down and I am at full tumescence for the first time in years. "I..." I should be ashamed. I should be mortified. But he has made me so hard and so wanting so quickly that the primal part of my mind's voice is much louder than any other.
I am growling aloud, arching into his touch, which he firms by curling his fingers. And then he is in motion, burrowing and tearing at the bedcovers until his bare fingers snake around my bare cock.
I am trying to speak and failing. Too much of my body is trembling and my lungs will not draw a decent breath as he strokes me, softly now, softly, pushing my arousal higher as he teases.
I realize that he is hard, as well, as I feel his denim-covered leg wrap around mine. Well, it is as Minerva said. When I am hungry, he will be hungry. He wraps his mouth around one of my nipples and this makes my hips buck encouragingly. His hand tightens and speeds up and I hear his voice as he lets my nipple go and speaks into my hair. "Come on, Snape."
I am so close, and yet it is as if my body has forgotten how to do this. How do you get past that stage where everything is as taut as can be and you want to so very much and yet...?
"Tell me how you like it," he demands. "Is this good?"
"I, yes, I..." But I cannot say more.
He growls in frustration then and dips his head under the sheet, and in the next instant I know I am in his mouth, his hand still working furiously as he sucks on the head, hot and wet and perhaps it is the absolutely ridiculous idea that Harry Potter is sucking me off that convinces my body to finally let go.
I come in spurts, silently, my throat closed--his mouth gone now but his hand continuing to milk me, to be sure that I am wrung dry. Then there is that blankness in my mind, post-orgasm, which I hate, but it is blissfully short. I open my eyes when I hear the clicking sound of his belt buckle, as he tears open his trousers and pulls anxiously on his own erection now, his hand slick with my come. His head thrown back as he tugs with vicious speed until he too, is spurting, groaning, falling forward so that his other hand props him above me as he finishes.
And then he is up, out of the bed, fastening his clothes. "Get some sleep," he says, and then again I am looking at his back as he leaves once more.
Minerva said there was no obedience charm in the spell, but I follow his command before I can really think about what has just occurred. My body is far too languid to allow my mind any leeway in this regard, and the potion, too, still runs in my veins. I sleep and leave my feelings about the matter for the morning.
--
{Go on to chapter seven.}
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That leaves me with
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--
Title: Hero Worship, Part 6/25
Author: Ravenna C. Tan
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Word Count: 36,901 total, 1425 this part
Disclaimer: This is non-commercial fanfiction. Trademarked characters are used for non-commercial purposes.
Beta:
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
Author's Note: A gift for
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
Warnings: A touch of BDSM/power exchange sex.
Archive: Part of the From Dusk till Dawn Severus Snape/Harry Potter Fuh-Q-Fest at http://www.kardasi.com/HPSS/storyindex.htm (The Fest was due to begin Nov. 10th--now pushed back 1 month, but authors may post in their own journals).
Challenge/Summary: "What if...?" What if Snape did not escape at the end of Half-Blood Prince? What if Kingsley Shacklebolt caught him before he could Apparate away? Not trusted by the Order, but still determined to bring down Voldemort, Snape agrees to undergo an unusual spell.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Hero Worship, Chapter Six
Ravenna C. Tan
I had thought I might brood over Albus once I was alone. But my thoughts instead were again directed to my lost composure. I had grabbed the boy today, one hand buried in his robes, the other on his chin. In all the years I have spent tormenting him, hating him at times, I have rarely resorted to physical violence. I recall hauling him bodily from the Pensieve, but today I grabbed him as a street thug might accost a victim in a dark alley. And he allowed me to. One message of Minerva's was clear to me: I must be the master of my own emotions, now.
I am sitting by the fire with a glass of cognac in my hand, mulling these thoughts over, when the knock comes. I find myself stiff upon standing--I have clearly been sitting there for some time. Instead of walking to the door I open it with a spell and sit back down.
Potter stalks in, his anger stiffening his gait. He is carrying something in his hand, a small cloth-wrapped bundle. For a moment I think it is the book, before I remember I destroyed it.
Without preamble he sits in the other chair by the fireplace and thrusts the cloth toward me. "Eat," he says.
"Why?" I say, even as my cognac-dulled brain is realizing why and I quickly amend: "Oh, the spell. Has it been that long?"
"Bloody dungeon," he says. "It's nearly ten at night, Snape."
I take what I realize is a napkin containing some sort of sandwich out of his hands. Fascinating. I do not feel hungry, but my body must need food, and Argus tells Potter so.
Even more fascinating is the sandwich itself, which is liverwurst and onions, one of my preferences. "Where did you get this?"
"House elves. I, um, asked them what you like."
Ah. I take a bite and he visibly relaxes. "That was... perceptive of you." No, not perceptive, what is the word I am trying to think of? Perhaps I've had more of the cognac than I thought. Clever? Kind? Perspicacious?
"Well," he says, sullen but no longer quite as irritable. "The spell does 'attune me to your needs.'" I begin to doubt my theory that the binding was his idea as it sounds like he received the same speech I did from Minerva.
"It was thoughtful of you to ask the elves for my preference, I mean." Now that I am eating I realize how hungry I am.
"Why didn't you have dinner?" he asks.
"The simple answer is that I opted to drown my sorrows instead. The less simple answer is that I am... accustomed to a life of deprivation."
He is holding himself by the ribs, looking at the floor, not at me. "I hate being hungry. The Dursley's used to starve me out of spite."
The irony of the situation burns into my alcohol-steeped mind. He is the child of foster parents himself, the sort of ones that Argus was designed to defeat. I find myself speechless.
"So, please," he says, and I am shocked at the plaintive sound in his voice. "Please eat. Don't make me make you eat."
I am wiping the crumbs from my lips with the napkin when I say "I shall endeavor not to. It was not my intention to make you suffer."
He scrubs his hand through his hair and switches his staring from the floor to the ceiling. "I know."
He clearly has something else to say. I am accustomed to waiting, and do so.
Eventually he says: "I'm not looking forward to another sleepless night, either."
"Nor am I."
Now he looks directly at me, that plaintive look in his eye. What is he begging for this time?
"Oh, forget it, I can't do this. I'll meet you at the Room of Requirement after breakfast." He is already moving toward the door.
"I will make sure to eat it," I say to his retreating back.
Minerva does not believe the spell is the cause, but she did say that the spell accessed the 'primal part' of my mind. The part that drove me to attack Potter today like an ignorant Muggle. One need not be a mediwizard to know that lack of sleep can lead to irrational actions, as well. Whatever the cause, I must be the master of it more now than ever.
My cabinet is empty of Dreamless Sleep, so I take a weaker draught that should still help me sleep the night through, regardless of my alcohol intake or the unease of my thoughts. I wonder if I should have offered the same to Potter before he left, but it is too late for that now.
My dreams are dark and vague, as usual. The one image that stays with me as I wake is a sense-memory of rubbing my face against the rough, dark cloth of someone's robes.
I realize with a start that what has woken me is the sound of footsteps. Potter is there, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. "Potter?" At the sound of my voice, the charms which illuminate the room come up softly.
He rounds on me. "Snape." He is panting, his eyes ablaze and half-mad. He is fully dressed but without robes and he clambers toward me over the bed. "Don't make me do this, too."
"Do what? Potter, surely you cannot blame your adolescent state of arousal on me." I am neither erect nor interested.
His hand sliding over the blanket, directly over my cock, changes that somewhat. "Snape," he says, his voice low and threatening. "You may be able to lie to yourself about this, but not to me."
His hand, Merlin's beard, the palm of his hand is sliding up and down and I am at full tumescence for the first time in years. "I..." I should be ashamed. I should be mortified. But he has made me so hard and so wanting so quickly that the primal part of my mind's voice is much louder than any other.
I am growling aloud, arching into his touch, which he firms by curling his fingers. And then he is in motion, burrowing and tearing at the bedcovers until his bare fingers snake around my bare cock.
I am trying to speak and failing. Too much of my body is trembling and my lungs will not draw a decent breath as he strokes me, softly now, softly, pushing my arousal higher as he teases.
I realize that he is hard, as well, as I feel his denim-covered leg wrap around mine. Well, it is as Minerva said. When I am hungry, he will be hungry. He wraps his mouth around one of my nipples and this makes my hips buck encouragingly. His hand tightens and speeds up and I hear his voice as he lets my nipple go and speaks into my hair. "Come on, Snape."
I am so close, and yet it is as if my body has forgotten how to do this. How do you get past that stage where everything is as taut as can be and you want to so very much and yet...?
"Tell me how you like it," he demands. "Is this good?"
"I, yes, I..." But I cannot say more.
He growls in frustration then and dips his head under the sheet, and in the next instant I know I am in his mouth, his hand still working furiously as he sucks on the head, hot and wet and perhaps it is the absolutely ridiculous idea that Harry Potter is sucking me off that convinces my body to finally let go.
I come in spurts, silently, my throat closed--his mouth gone now but his hand continuing to milk me, to be sure that I am wrung dry. Then there is that blankness in my mind, post-orgasm, which I hate, but it is blissfully short. I open my eyes when I hear the clicking sound of his belt buckle, as he tears open his trousers and pulls anxiously on his own erection now, his hand slick with my come. His head thrown back as he tugs with vicious speed until he too, is spurting, groaning, falling forward so that his other hand props him above me as he finishes.
And then he is up, out of the bed, fastening his clothes. "Get some sleep," he says, and then again I am looking at his back as he leaves once more.
Minerva said there was no obedience charm in the spell, but I follow his command before I can really think about what has just occurred. My body is far too languid to allow my mind any leeway in this regard, and the potion, too, still runs in my veins. I sleep and leave my feelings about the matter for the morning.
--
{Go on to chapter seven.}