Secret Snarry Swap: Things I Cannot Change Title: Things I Cannot Change Author:accioslash Gift Recipient:cybele_san Other pairings/threesome: Mention of past Harry/Ginny Rating: NC-17 Word count: 3,325 words Content/Warning(s): (highlight for spoilers) *Alcohol-induced sex, angst, denial/confusion regarding sexual orientation, humor* Summary: Harry can change his mind, change his career, change his marital status. But there are some things he cannot change, and maybe, just maybe, he really doesn't want to change them at all. A/N: The happiest of holidays, dear giftee, I hope I've managed to include a number of things you enjoy in your fic.
Things I Cannot Change
Harry wakes up one Saturday morning in Snape's bed, blinking up at the bedroom ceiling and wondering why the hell he's lying spread-eagle and naked under a pile of thin and ratty blankets. All of the bite marks and assorted bruises proceed to make themselves known at that moment, and he winces as he turns to his side. He is not alone. Panic sets in immediately, and with it, all of the fears he's been burying deep inside him since first year Quidditch and communal showers (possibly before).
I'm gay, I really am gay, he thinks, every taunt and jeer about freaks from his childhood ringing in his ears. That could be his heartbeat, though, blood rushing into his ears, away from his cock and into his brain, which is certainly not the direction his blood had been flowing last night. A chant of oh god, oh god, my god, dear god, oh god, god, god, god, goes through his mind, obliterating any and all thought. He is scared in a way that he didn't realize he could be scared anymore. Slipping from the bed, he scuttles around the room, fishing out his glasses and pieces of discarded clothing as best he can in the half-light of dawn, taking his wand from the side table hoping to make his escape.
Before he takes one step, the words "If you're going to scream, do it quietly. My head's killing me" drifted from behind him in Snape's voice and what he'd done, what they'd done, came crashing home.
Morning-after Snape is exactly like normal Snape, with the exception of stale alcohol breath and a pinched look that speaks of pain somewhere other than his head. The man doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed, or shocked, or any of the other emotions coursing through Harry. He just turns over and limps bare-arsed naked into the bathroom. Harry has never been more relieved in his life, a wave of sensation that leaves his knees weak. More than anything, he wants to sit down. But the simple act of sitting down in Snape’s bed might trigger a nervous breakdown, if the panic and black-tipped dread hazing the edges of his vision are any indication, and he isn’t ready to deal with that at the moment. Feeling like a coward, Harry takes that opportunity to head back to his own flat.
****
Harry still had Sunday dinner at the Burrow with the Weasleys despite the divorce, and when Ginny asks him to help with the dishes, he agrees. He really should have seen it coming.
"You seem quiet, Harry. Distracted," Ginny said, stacking the dishes into neat piles. She was watching her own hands, careful, but Harry thought that was half so she could pretend that she was being nonchalant. She was his ex-wife, but she was still Harry’s friend.
"I’m fine," he said, which was a lie. He couldn’t tell Ginny the truth any more than anyone else. Snape was a mistake, and one he’d take pains not to repeat.
"You’re a terrible liar," she says, and almost smiled at him. He makes an effort to smile back.
"I’m fine. Honestly." She didn’t roll her eyes, but she is certainly not convinced. She is back to looking at her hands. Her eyebrows are raised, and she is frowning a little.
"Whatever it is, you can tell me about it if you want to."
"Ginny," he said, curt enough to make her look at him. Her hands stilled and she was biting into her bottom lip in a way that reminded Harry of Hermione. "I’m fine."
"If you say so." She’d known him too long, and she was too good at reading people to ever be convinced, but she’d at least leave him alone for now. That was all Harry wanted, at the moment.
****
Harry turns the shower on too hot, trying to relax as the hot water stings against his skin. Lost in thought, he scrubs shampoo into his hair, scratching and massaging his scalp.
Snatches of the previous night flash through his brain and mix with other thoughts and emotions, and there are too many things getting tangled in his mind. Harry doesn't want to be gay, dammit! Has actively tried not to be. Being gay is like being the lone vegetarian at a buffet - half of what looks good to everyone else is unappealing to you, the hosts worry that you'll be unable to find anything to eat (and if you do, will it be tasty, and filling, and good for you?), and one or two people anxiously wait for you to start trying to convert them to the cause.
Harry wants to be straight, wanted to find the love of his life at Hogwarts like his mum and dad or Ron and Hermione did. It wasn't Ginny's fault that things didn't work out between them, Ginny who had been so patient and so pretty and he was lucky to have her and he just couldn't disappoint her. Harry had wanted a family like the Weasleys his entire life. And so he had married her. And it would have been perfect except it wasn't. Harry is tired of being different, tired of being watched or noticed, tired of being the Boy who Lived, the Chosen One, the Man Who Defeated You Know Who, and now, apparently, the Queer Who Ruined Everything Because He Couldn't Pretend to be Straight. Was it really too much to expect one thing in his life to be simple?
Rinsing the shampoo carefully from his hair, Harry tries to will his mind into becoming temporarily blank.
It doesn't work. But he knows something that will, so he wraps his hand around himself and focuses on the swirling of the water as it as it empties into the drain inside the shower and starts wanking.
He thinks about working his mouth over soft skin, nibbling. A hot mouth sliding over his own cock, sucking. He sighs, closing his eyes and half-leans against the tile, still stroking himself. Usually he tries to stick with images that he thinks are safe, but today he gives his body what it wants and instead he thinks about mouthing a love-bite onto Snape's throat, marking him in a way more telling than Voldemort's mark, sucking a bruise onto the pale skin. Licking from the hollow in his throat up to his chin, his tongue scraping against stubble.
Pushing, biting, barely breathing. The taste of salt, lips against his ear, strong hands. Nothing but impressions but when he comes, it's while breathing 'fuck, fuck, Snape' with a hand against the tile.
The steam has soaked into the rest of the bathroom, fogging up the mirror and settling against the walls, so when he steps out of the shower it feels strangely similar. As though the shower has expanded to fill the whole room.
Harry opens the bathroom door, letting cool air sweep into the room and hit his bare skin. He towels off and slips into some y-fronts, breathing in the strange mixture of fresh and damp air. He lets his mind wander.
In boarding schools there were always rumors, and the ones that flew about Severus Snape were the stuff of legend, even more so because you could never be sure which were real. Harry had it on good authority that the rumors about Snape's sexuality were at least partially true. He laughs humorlessly. Bit like his own.
Harry couldn't remember the exact moment when his relationship with Snape changed. When they went from reluctant colleagues to friends to ... something else. But that night there had been camaraderie and commiseration over Harry's failed marriage, entirely too much Firewhiskey and nary a sobering potion in sight. Snape's suggestion of going to his house (I'm a Potions Master, you realize) made perfect sense. Snape likes to pretend he can hold his liquor, but as Harry remembers it, the other man wasn't much better. The two of them managed through sheer determination and more than a little of Harry's celebrated luck to Apparate to Spinner's End without being splinched.
There was some fumbling, some laughter and then Harry was thrust at the bed, the sensation of falling stopped short not by magic but by mattress and pillows. Then Harry remembered laughing at Snape's offhand comment about how he always wondered when Harry would end up in his bed, and how between that statement and a moment of startled eye contact everything changed.
It took a few seconds for the reality of Snape leaning over and kissing him to sink in, but when it did his brain kicked back into gear long enough to think 'Oh my God, Snape's kissing me'.
And it was a good thing Snape's tongue was already in his mouth or he might have said it out loud.
He has been trying not to think about the exact details of that night. But Harry is a fully trained Auror and cataloging details is ingrained in his subconscious. So now that he has the time to think about what happened, to process his own reactions as well as Snape's, a more complete picture of what happened that night comes back to him, no longer merely impressions, but now suddenly in focus.
Snape is all over Harry. His fingers thread through the gaps between his shirt buttons, warm breath huffs against his throat. Combined with too much alcohol, the invasion of space is intense and dizzying.
Harry closes his eyes as if to surrender and he snakes one hand around to cup the back of Snape's head. The kiss is slow and intense and probably a bit messy, but then Snape pulls back to gasp for breath and kisses him again, impossibly gentle, and it makes Harry shiver and his hips twitch up. He loses all sense of time, just knows the slide of their mouths and the pressure of Snape's fingers as they clutch at his shoulders, and the heat that makes his shirt stick to his back and makes his skin prickle.
Snape is sweating and the tip of his nose is flushed, and he smells like a man, that's what Harry notices more than anything – and he shouldn't like this but fuck, it's good, it's fucking brilliant. Snape makes a low sound in the back of his throat and a flood of guilt washes through Harry as he realizes that even with Ginny, it has never felt like this. It wasn't Ginny's fault and certainly not Snape's fault – it was Harry's for never recognizing an absence of something, something important, something vital.
Snape is working one of Harry's favorite spots, right below his ear. Tongue, teeth, lips, hot breath, all Snape's.
"Your mouth was made to suck cock." Snape's words, low and observant and amused, spread from his mouth down Harry's neck, and a blush of red blossoms across Harry's cheeks and down his throat.
He's on his back with Snape half-lying on him, pressing hard against his side. He moves his mouth back to Harry's while his hands work down Harry's chest, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. Harry is hyper-aware of each time Snape's fingers slide against him. Snape's mouth is warm and Harry can't get enough, sucking on his tongue, pulling at his lips, breathing him in.
When his hands reach Harry's waist they keep moving steadily downwards, undoing his belt and jeans. Harry unthinkingly bites down on Snape's bottom lip hard, too hard, when his hand brushes his cock, and Harry sucks it softly in apology.
Snape shifts downward, coaxing Harry's shirt off and his jeans and y-fronts down. His hands slide up Harry's vest as Snape kisses his thighs teasingly, watching him carefully.
Even though it is Harry's mouth that Snape has proclaimed was meant to suck cock, it is Snape's mouth, Snape's tongue that makes lazy circles interrupted by sucking against Harry's balls. Harry's panting frantically, his head tilted up to watch him press his tongue flat against the base of his cock, then run it firmly along to the tip.
Suddenly Snape's mouth is around Harry and he's dizzy, waves of heat rolling over his body.
He digs his fingers into the blankets on either side of him, grinding his teeth. He can't help but push his hips up, needing more of Snape, and he lets him thrust a few times before placing his hands firmly on Harry's hips.
Snape looks up at him, meets his eyes and says "Stay." It's an order. Harry swallows thickly, and does.
Snape doesn't bother teasing anymore, pushing his mouth down over Harry's cock, deeper than he expects. Harry finds it difficult to keep his hips still so he digs his heels roughly into the sheets, his fingernails digging into his palms creating small half-moons. He bites the inside of his cheek, distantly aware that he's going to come embarrassingly fast.
Snape's mouth is still hot around him when he tongues at the very tip of Harry's cock, and he lets out a choked noise. He's getting close, his legs tensing.
Snape slides his mouth off of Harry, giving his dick a final flick of the tongue before crawling back up to him. His hand circles his cock and jerks roughly while he breathes into Harry's ear.
"You can let go, Harry" Snape growls, sharp teeth nipping at Harry's earlobe. His voice is what sends Harry over the edge, his eyes closing automatically as he comes. Harry feels like the orgasm is being wrenched out of him, his limbs taut and trembling and the hair at the nape of his neck curling with sweat and something full and fragile and magnificent bursting inside his chest, and Harry buries his face in Snape's neck and screams.
When his breathing starts to level out he opens his eyes to see Snape's face hovering over him, a victorious smirk playing on his lips.
"Show-off," Harry murmurs, pushing him over to take his own turn.
*****
Strangely, the memory of that night makes Harry feel warm and nearly giddy with happiness in complete contrast to the memory of the cold fear he experienced upon waking the following morning. Harry catches a glimpse of his face in the mirror and he realizes the soft smile on the face of his reflection is a genuine one. He's seen enough photographs of himself in the Daily Prophet to know the difference.
Desire is a strange thing. There's no accounting for it, no preparing for it. Like a fist in the gut, side-impact collisions, a free fall from a poorly executed Wronski feint. It comes out of nowhere, destroys everything you thought you knew, and leaves you stunned, sometimes broken and bloody, but always irrevocably changed.
There's nothing you can do but accept it, embrace it. Harry needs to speak to Snape. He can't put it off any longer.
*****
He Apparates to Spinner's End with a loud crack so Snape couldn't pretend not to have heard him arrive. Before he can even knock on the door it opens and Snape greets him with a loud "Have you finished with the denials of your homosexual leanings or should I give you a few minutes to shriek all manner of variations of "I'm not gay!" before we can move on?" Apparently Snape isn't arsed about appearances or anything else where his neighbors are concerned. Not that this is a surprise.
"No. I think I've finished with the denials." He looks Snape in the eye as he says it, but eye contact with Snape brings up unpleasant memories of Occlumency lessons in fifth year and he looks away, uncomfortable.
He feels Snape watching him and after a few moments looks up. "Potter," Snape begins carefully, "You weren't sober, I wasn't sober. If you feel you are about to have a sexual epiphany based on a single experience with another man, I feel obligated to point out that everyone may be forgiven one drunken indiscretion with an equally drunk person of the same sex and may still claim full marks in the heterosexual column under presumed sexuality."
"What makes you think it was my first indiscretion?"
"Is that your subtle way of asking if it was good for me? Don't worry, what you lacked in experience, you made up for in enthusiasm," Snape replies in his usual manner. Bastard. And of course they are having this discussion on Snape's front steps. Harry is certain it is no accident that Snape is perched one step above Harry's own.
"Talking about this is the last thing I want to do." Harry is smirking as he opens the door and invites himself inside. "Bed?" he asks loudly enough for anyone who cares to listen to hear. It's not as though anything he can say at this point will make it worse.
Snape pauses for a moment, then steps aside and allows Harry to enter before warning him "I will require exclusive use of all the blankets."
"I suppose I'll have to stick close, then."
They've been in Snape's house for less than a minute when Snape presses his warm body close to Harry and kisses him. To Harry's credit, this time he responds quickly, as he hoped he would, parting his lips seconds after Snape starts pulling at them with his own.
One of Snape's hands makes its home on the back of Harry's neck, and the other slowly slips under his shirt and across his stomach. Snape is warm against him; real and solid.
There is the sense of déjà vu as Snape pulls him up the stairs, pushes him into his softly lit bedroom, runs his tongue along Harry's neck, and pushes his trousers down to his ankles.
This time, though, it's Harry who pushes Snape into the bed and runs his hands along Snape's body, familiarizing himself with the curves of his muscles, measuring the precise angles of his touches. He uses his thumb to trace the line of fine dark hair leading from Snape's navel. His fingers quiver as they pass over the flat planes of Snape's chest, as they brush past the smattering of hair there. When Harry's thumb hesitantly, slowly, circles around one of Snape's nipples and presses down, Snape seems to take a breath, the slick slide of his tongue against Harry stilling, and he pulls back to stare at Harry, assessing perhaps this huge thing they're about to do, eyes wide and dark and vulnerable. Harry's fingers skirt the edges of the scars on Snape's neck and he tenses, muscles stretching taut. He wants to kiss a border around the puckered marks while Snape strokes them together roughly, his faced pressed into Harry's hair. Harry's other hand grips Snape's arm, tightening each time he makes Harry groan softly in the quiet room.
Snape comes silently and Harry finishes only moments after. They remain entangled, breathing against each other and feeling the heat cooling around them. Snape's fingers are still wrapped around them both, and Harry's hand rests against his neck. He can feel his blood slowing its course. They're messy and rumpled and still partially dressed.
"Do you regret your foolhardy decision yet?" Snape asks, quiet now. They are so close Harry can feel the words more than hear them.
"No."
Harry curls into Snape under the pretense of stealing back the blankets. Snape's body tenses slightly, but he allows Harry to move into the circle of his warmth and impulsively presses his lips to Harry's jaw. "Give it time."
"As much as you'll allow." Snape snorts, but when Harry curls his arm around him and twines the fingers of his left hand with Snape's right, and breathes into Snape's neck, Snape doesn't push him away. Yeah, Harry thinks to himself. No regrets at all.