InsaneJournal

'Yellow, Sir! Yellow,' he chokes, hiccupping in his attempt to hold back a sob. 'I'm sorry, Severus. Yellow, Sir, please...'

He's lifted carefully from his place, draped face down over his Sir's lap, then gently settled onto his knees. By strong, confident hands. With quick, efficient movements.

His sweat-damped hair is brushed back, his clammy-cooled arms are rubbed, and his red-blushed cheek stroked.

'I don't know... I can't...' but his voice fails him, and his words are just breathy sounds on his rapid exhalations.

'Speak when you're ready, my boy. I have you safe.'

'Thank you, Sir,' he whispers - throat swollen, blocked, and he swallows convulsively. 'I... I'm sorry...'

He's offered water to sip, and he tilts his head up, closing his eyes, long black eyelashes fluttering. His trembling hands hang uselessly at his sides.

'Slowly, Harry,' and he reacts with a reflexive sigh to the care and concern he hears in Severus's calm voice, and chokes on a dribble of water as his throat clenches. He coughs and splutters, and his back is rubbed, comforting firm pressure, till he catches his breath again.

'Are you hurt? Are you in pain?'

'No,' he manages, 'not hurt. I... I don't know...' His eyes sting, and he opens them wide, knowing they are awash with tears, straining against blinking lest he dislodges them. 'I... don't understand...'

'Be calm. Just breathe. There is no rush here. You are safe. You are loved. Just breathe. Just be calm.'

'I... I don't... I can't...' and his face burns and his eyes sting and he can't swallow and his heart pounds and between one heartbeat and the next, he blinks, and leaks tears.

He raises his quivering hands to his face, as if to wipe away the falling drops, as if he can stop them just by rubbing at his eyes or scrubbing at his face. He bows his head, trying to hide, embarrassment flaring. There's pain now - in his eyes, his throat, his chest, his heart - all from trying so hard to suppress his tears.

'Here, Harry,' and there's pressure at his elbows, 'come, my boy.' Without any conscious thought, he moves to Severus's lap, guided this time to be embraced in cradling arms.

Curled in on himself, engulfed by firm strength, steady heartbeat under his ear, protected within comforting care, he cries.

Silent soft weeping at first, then heaving hiccupping sobbing: a rush of uncontrollable, unleashed sorrow. But a sorrow with no axis, just a tear-smeared whirl of lamentation.

He's distantly aware of his Sir's voice - soothing, measured, reassuring, accepting. Which simply makes him cry all the more, fist clenched in the fabric of his Sir's shirt, throat raw and aching. And each time he thinks it's over, a new wave of distress rises up in his chest, and he heaves and pants, breath harsh and hiccupping, till he succumbs to the need for weeping once more.

And all the while, he is stroked and petted - smooth gliding lines, rhythmic full-palmed circles. And a soft gruff voice whispers that he's a good boy, to take his time, not to worry, he is loved, he is safe.

When the crisis passes he is limp and exhausted, so far beyond any sense of self-consciousness, soft sighs escaping on his wobbling exhalations.

A warm moist cloth wipes over his face and dries his eyes.

'Blow,' he's told, but he baulks, never having been comforted in such a way before.

'Blow,' he's ordered, and the cloth rubs over his nose, and he does, and the last of his teary snot is gone.

'Are you hurt, Harry? In pain?'

He takes a moment to unravel the questions, confused that Severus has got it so wrong.

'No,' he manages, his voice weak and wispy. 'I'm sorry, Severus. Fuck! I don't know what's happening...'

The old leather chair creaks, and he moves with Severus, molded to his strength, as they are settled more comfortably.

'Forgive my need to check again, but I... I find I need to be reassured once more. Are you hurt?' Then quieter, more intense, 'Did I hurt you? More than was my intent?'

'No, that's not why I used my word at all. Your intent was just right, Sir, please, I'm alright.' He shakes his head, then corrects himself, seeking honesty for Severus's sake. 'Well, my butt is a bit sore - feels all hot and lightly bruised. Sort of tingly now that we've stopped... no, paused, not stopped. That's right, isn't it, that's what we agreed?'

'Yes, that is what we've agreed,' he is calmly reassured, 'what is clearly recorded in our contract. Yellow to pause, red to stop.' He feels Severus's soft kiss on the top of his head. 'Do you want your glasses, Harry? They're just here.'

'No,' his voice sounds strange to his own ears, nasal and husky from his crying. 'I'm fine with everything being blurry at the moment.'

He rests awhile in the quiet of his sanctuary, while his breath catches in shuddering hiccups, and his eyes feel sticky and swollen, and his skin feels damp and clammy, and his body feels lethargic and exhausted.

'I'm sorry, Severus. Our first spanking, and I've ruined it...' the hand that's not anchored in his Severus's shirt hovers, palms up, disbelieving, '... with all this, Gods, what is this? Crying? Fuck. And I don't even know why...'

'Do not worry yourself with the why of it right now,' such a soothing, calm, quiet voice, 'just relax and allow yourself time to recover.'

'I mean,' he fidgets with one of Severus's small shirt buttons, 'sure, I was punished by the Dursleys, but they were... petty, and mean... and cruel. Nothing like what we were doing today. Nothing at all.'

'You are right, of course, the two are nothing the same. Also,' there's a smile in Severus's voice, and though he can't see it, he knows it's small and tentative, 'perhaps it is likely that they never had to punish you for the crime of coming without permission...'

And he snorts with surprise, and laughs and chokes, and simply surrenders to a fresh round of weeping, gentler this time, softer, mellow. On the other side of it, his face freshly wiped and his nose thankfully cleared, he feels... better. A little bit stronger, lighter, cleansed - a lot less worried, confused, embarrassed.

'I was scared, you know,' he confesses, his breath still catching on shaky inhalations. 'I didn't know what would happen if I used the words. I didn't know if you'd be... disappointed... in me, in stopping... what we were doing...'

'You were a good boy, Harry, to use your words. I'm very proud of you,' another soft kiss to his forehead. 'What we do together - what I ask of you, what you allow - relies on deep and intimate trust. The use of your words is an important responsibility, and one you have handled admirably. Never be afraid to use them, knowing that I will always honour them.'

'Thank you, Sir,' he manages, so tired now, after all the day's occurrences.

'However, there is the matter of the final five smacks owed for your transgression earlier this night.'

'Mmmmm, I remember,' he snuggles into the warm, solid strength of his Sir, eyelids fluttering, sleep beckoning.

'But I think we'll keep them for tomorrow. We can spend the day learning about the fine art of anticipation. Sleep now, my boy, safely and peacefully. '

'Love you, Sir,' he sleepily slurs, and he slips into sleep to the sound of the conviction and possessiveness in his Sir's roughly whispered, 'And I you.'