Title: Twitchy Pinkie
Author: songquake
Characters/Pairings: Harry/Snape
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Fingering as the main event, erotographomania (arousal caused by the act of writing), sensory deprivation-like effects (squinting strongly encouraged).
Other Warnings: Bottom!Snape, D/s, physical domination, recreational potions use, breath play, fisting, and mention of anal intercourse.
Word Count: 4650, give or take.
Summary/Description: Cursed on the job, Harry Potter has been sent off to physical rehabilitation. Severus is not amused.
Author's Notes: - My original plan for this month had been to write erotographomania involving Ginny being a better poet than she is in canon ("His eyes are as green as fresh-pickled toad," anyone?). But I couldn't make it work. And then aigooism and I had a conversation that involved my hitting the Enter key any time I wanted to punctuate, and the idea for this fic was born.
– To the auction winners: thank you for the amazing prompts, and especially for introducing us to the term erotographomania, which I must confess I seem to, er, suffer from (as it were).
– Finally, this fic was nearly stillborn; I'd got most of the way done and hadn't saved more than a thousand words of it. Most of it was re-written this morning and afternoon. However, between the LiveJournal DDOS and the late return of many friends from DiaCon, I wasn't able to find a beta between 4pm and now (I know, shocking!). I've proofread it thrice myself, and shall make adjustments when I finally have it reviewed by a competent beta reader. But I hope some will enjoy the story as-is! Enormous thanks to carolinelamb for her beta. A writer always misses some of her errors, and I am grateful to have the opportunity to correct mine.


Twitchy Pinky

Potter:

As frustrating as I am sure you find the inability to write with a quill, please do try to refrain from sending me love letters in Howler form. While I miss the dulcet tones of your voice, the sweetness loses some effect when it lacks modulation.

I do appreciate the verisimilitude of the Howler's injunction to, as you say, Take It, though. And Merlin knows I would, the stretch of my arse-hole nearly paining me as I tried to relax into your impulsive, vehement thrusts. I love the burn of it. I love the feeling of pride that comes from pushing myself past any reasonable expectation for my body. That I can open enough to take your generous cock is unsurprising; expanding enough to accept your similarly-generous hand takes a level of determination common to both of us.

Founders' balls, Potter. I am growing hard just thinking of it. One might think me a youth, considering the ease with which I achieve erection these days. What have you done to me, boy?

I can imagine your eyebrow rising at such a question. Sir. Addressing a former pupil in such a manner still galls the more conservative part of my personality, though that same gall makes the shiver up my spine more delicious. Yes. My skin wakes up as I imagine speaking to you this way: behind my ears, on my neck, chest, all down my back to my bottom. The stretch of my back in the middle, on the other side of my spine, aches for your caress. The skin of my buttocks misses the sting of your slap.

They have sent me a phial of your blood so I can research possible 'Cures-by-Potion'. I am sad to say I doubt an antidote to your condition exists—your disability being caused by a curse, not another potion—and even more disappointed that this research keeps me from being at your beck and call in a more immediate way. I shall, of course, endeavour to create something that would at least permit you to leave that infernal rehabilitation unit in St Mungo's. For pity's sake, you were cursed with the Twitchy Pinkie, Potter. Only you could have managed to allow this hex to impair you so much that you would need to be retrained to life.

And when I think of what else I could do with the contents of that phial I become distressingly distracted. Do you recall that lubricant I compounded after your last major injury? Merlin, I am tempted to redirect this bit of blood I have into another batch of it. If your Twitchy Pinkie is going to keep me from having your hands and cock up my arse, I might as well have some of your assistance in otherwise bringing myself off. Perhaps as an exchange I should use my own ejaculate to concoct a similarly delightful unguent for you. I would even be willing to extract some of my own blood to give you the very same formula. Can you imagine, sir, planning a simultaneous wank, each of us using a lubricant of the other's blood, while you are still in hospital? That would please you, wouldn't it?

I must confess, I fail to see why you would desire to cut off sexual relations during your rehabilitation. Even someone as fond of control as yourself could find the possible advantage to your situation.

No? If I may explain:


I imagine presenting myself to you, perhaps in the very room you currently inhabit. Oh, you hate that word—I know you; you hate the idea that you are living any place other than our flat. I smirk a little as I write this, and imagine you see it, and quirk your eyebrow. It doesn't intimidate me; it was I, after all, who taught you that trick. The stern and steady look you fix on me, however, does. Sir.

I'm blushing as I write this. Can you fathom it?

I'm sure you can. I picture your fingers clutching this parchment (growing longer by the minute, much like my cock) so tightly that it wrinkles before tearing at the edges. I imagine those fingers, your fingernails bitten but not blunted. I imagine them digging into my upper arm as you drag me to the standard-issue desk and push me chest-down into it.

My nipples tighten at the imagined contact. I wish, sir, that I were there so you could manhandle me, take out every irritation you've had this month upon my body. My upper arm would be bruised because you would have grabbed it to haul me up from my kneeling position before you. Though I would be naked, you would be in your hospital-issue patient robes, feeling no reason to try to impress me. It is, after all, more my job to impress you. For that matter, my customary smirk doesn't impress you at all. So you have dug your fingers into the barely-there, sinewy flesh above my elbow to drag me to my feet and across the chamber. The move is violent, abrupt, unchoreographed.

It reminds me of all my deepest fantasies.

Once I am splayed across the desk, my feet separated the length of my shoulders, knees slightly bent and resting against the steel legs, my arms clutching its rear supports so I don't lose my balance, you run your wand hand down my back. Not with your wand; with your condition, all have agreed it better to lock it away from you until you are able to wield it safely. Even so, I can feel magic coursing under your fingertips as you caress me, and I suppress a tremble.

"No." You don't whisper; it isn't necessary. Your voice is calm, instructing. "If I wanted you to be passive I would have ordered you to remain still. Or tied you up." I don't ask with what; such insolence would not impress you. Besides, I for one have little doubt you could sort out a way to cast Incarcerous wandlessly.

You drag your fingernails from my knee to the crease where my bottom meets my thighs. A spasm in one of your little fingers causes its nail to dig deeper, tear unevenly at my skin as it follows its compatriots. It hurts enough that I suspect it has drawn blood, and I inhale harshly, the very top of my shaft pressing uncomfortably into the desk. You step back to evaluate my panting. Evidently it does not worry you enough to decide that the shivers you evoke from scratching my thighs are outweighed by the risk that the Curse of Twitchy Pinkies might cause your little fingers to actually hurt me.

So, you see, the actual problems caused by spasming muscles in your hands needn't be problems at all when it comes to matters sexual.


Having already written this much, sir, I imagine it would be pleasant for you to have access to the rest of this fantasy? I would like to write it; I've become hard in my pants even from what I've written thus far, and while I could ignore that (or go off to the shower or bedroom to take care of it), it seems rather a shame. Especially when to share my erotic wishes could be so beneficial to both of us, solitary as we are at the minute.

As I cannot, at this writing, request your permission to continue, I am making an executive decision to do so. And if the rest of the letter is unwelcome, unseemly, or otherwise—how do you put it?—awkward, you can choose to punish me later. I am nothing if not willing to pay penance.


'You're too careful by half, Potter,' I would be thinking. 'The unpredictability of that edge arouses me even more.' Perhaps I say it.

In response you come closer, straddling my legs so closely that I must snap them together, making my balance precarious. You plant a hand in the centre of my back and force me even flatter against the plane of the desk. You lean over, your breath hot and moist and dangerous against my ear. My own breaths are shuddering, which causes you to put both hands on my shoulders and push, as though that might keep them from shaking with fear and desire. I turn my head to the right and watch the whiteness of my knuckles grow starker.

Finally, you speak. "Are you forgetting your place, Severus?" you ask, and it's not the lover's whisper one might hope for. It is low, yes—there's no need to shout when mere millimetres separate the mouth of the speaker from the ear of the listener—but not secretive. You are chiding me, lecturing me. In fact, you are chiding me for the way I addressed this very letter.

"I did, sir," I grind out, but do not say I am sorry.

I am not sorry, and you know it.

You step away, and the suddenness of air upon my skin leaves me cold. "I think you were looking for a punishment, Severus," you continue. I am caught. You sigh. "Really, you ought to know better than to try to manipulate me by now. It doesn't work."

I refrain from saying 'except when it does'; I doubt that statement would be well-received.

"It's rather too bad," you say, "as I was planning to do a lovely job on those clean, pale arse-cheeks of yours."

My face, hanging over the far side of the desk, falls further in its disappointment.

You do not announce your intentions as you straddle my narrow legs and arse again, the stiff length of your cock pressing your hospital robe into my cleft. You take a half-step back. Your own legs keep you perfectly balanced and controlled for your next action. You use both hands, spasming little fingers digging cruelly into my hips, to push me flat against the desk. In order not to knock you over, my long legs must stretch behind me, no longer providing a brace for my weight. I am being held up by the balls of my feet, the desk, and your hands pushing me into the desk.

I feel you take another half-step back and then you are on me, your torso pressing my own into the unforgiving wood of the desktop, your arms pulling my arms off the desk's supports so you can use your arms to flatten me further beneath the pressure of you. My ribs are compressed, my lungs unable to fill; each breath out feels like giving up the right to consume more oxygen.

You have disciplined your body to hold still, your hard cock not seeking any more friction than that pressure it's exerting by being pressed into my compressed cheeks. Your breath is controlled, until I hear you growl, "This is your place, Severus. Never forget that." And I won't, I already don't; my place is here, beneath you, vulnerable and fragile as life. I nod.

When you lever yourself off my back, I am overwhelmed by the sensations of loss and recovery of sense; my body had forgotten about light, and sound, and the brush of air against my skin. The overwhelm of sensation is second to the overwhelm of being allowed an abundance of air. My entire body is convulsing in its efforts to restore oxygen to my blood, my muscles, my mind. The experience is so close to orgasm that for a moment I fear I am coming without permission, a transgression sure to earn a demerit.

As the shaking subsides, I fall limp against the desk, and grab the legs of it once more, this time as a cold anchor to reality.

"Spread your legs, Severus." Your voice is dispassionate. I have no will of my own at the moment, so I languidly spread them. You hum your approval. "Good boy. You are lovely like this, Severus, all spread out like a feast just for me." The delight and wonder in your voice is restrained, but I hear it.

You open the drawer next to my right leg, and I hear a small pop, as of a phial uncorked.

You use one hand to separate my arse-cheeks taking a look at the tight opening between them. You hum again, pleased with what you see. I am, of course, clean for you, but I have not prepared myself for fucking. I only do that when instructed.

A finger, oiled, pokes at my anus and I moan. Oh yes, the phial you've opened is of the 'Good Stuff', the lubricating potion I compounded using your own blood after your last employment-related mishap. It contains also a bit of my own semen—ah, I bet you didn't know that, did you?—and being thus made, has a significantly personalised effect. As best I can explain, it's a topical euphoric in addition to being a remarkably persistent unguent. It also facilitates my physical submission to you while enhancing your own sense of proprietary ownership of my sexuality.

When used in actual sex acts, this lube, as you call it, brings our interactions from the erotic to the sublime. You can thank me later.

[But a warning, Potter; use of it outside my presence would likely lead to frustration, since you would be overcome by a desire to claim. This is why I shall need to send you an alternative, perhaps also compounded with our fluids, if we must persist in this ridiculous game of writing erotic letters rather than acting out our devotion.]

The presence of your finger laced with this particular potion, therefore, both relaxes the muscles it touches and enhances their pleasure receptors. Though I am aware that, since I've been disrespectful, the afternoon's activities are for your pleasure only, my blood sings in joy at the prospect of being used in a way so enjoyable.

That first finger is teasing me, tracing over my rim and then moving away, penetrating only to the first knuckle before moving out, adding coat after coat of potion and bliss to this relatively external bit of arse-hole. Ecstasy and instinct overriding my training, I thrust backward, trying to force more of your finger up my bottom.

Each time I do so, you remove the finger and use that hand to press me flat against the desk once more. The threat is palpable. I still myself once more.

With yet more potion on your finger, you finally pop it in, slide it in as far as it will go. The potion follows, and the delight of my inner walls to its introduction is unbelievable. It is as though each nerve ending has a soul, and each of these souls achieves ecstatic communion when the unguent brushes over them.

And when your finger anoints my prostate, the sense of peace, longing, and utter joy is so acute I nearly weep. Instead, I hear a high whinge coming from my mouth as a tremor moves from that small, spongy gland through my cock and anus, up my spine and through my limbs. My entire body is involved in this rictus, and yet you pull the finger out, add more potion to your hand, and now work two fingers in. I am reduced to a quivering, whimpering mass of nerves: every square inch of skin, every cell of slicked membrane cries out for your attentions, for your command.

You rock those two fingers inside me so they palpate my prostate. Other than my own nerves, my own cells, my own muscles, they are all that exist for me. I've closed my eyes against the dissonance of seeing anything but paradise before me.

My cock lies heavy and sore between my legs, but it doesn't matter. The weft of wood beneath my nipples has abraded them, but nor does that matter. My life is reduced to this: steel under my hands and against my thighs, warm wood as an unforgiving warning against disobedience, a hand spreading my arse cheeks to frame the anus between them, angry scratches from your accursed Twitchy Pinkies, and the work of divine fingers spreading oil inside of me.

This paradise is disrupted when you step back, pull me up, and guide me to the bed. "Lie on your back," you say, "and pull your knees back."

I obey.

Beneath my back are sheets: cool, white, and so stiff they scratch at my sensitive skin. I absently wonder why hospital-elves feel the need to starch the sheets. I grasp the backs of my thighs as instructed, exposing my now gaping, winking arse-hole.

I think I hear you moan.

At this angle, you could both look me in the eyes (observing my surrender, perhaps) and pump your fingers in and out of me from a standing position straddling one of my legs. That you are doing neither would be a disappointment, were I able to think.

I curl my back forward to peer at you through my legs. "Careful." You remind me that my position is precarious; I could all too easily roll forward off the bed and onto the floor. This comment, however, doesn't distract my gaze. You are stripping off your kit, hospital-issued robe now folded on the very desk that was the site of our prior activities. I am captivated by the sight of your cock: short, fat, and angled upward so that it hits my sweet spot with every thrust. I watch you stroke it, slowly, and gather the liquid from its crown onto a fingertip, which you then lick off. I moan. I shudder. I resign myself to the reality of having not earned the gift of your come. Tasting your own juices usually means you have decided not to share them. (Had you realised that? You have 'tells', Potter.)

My own cock lies hard, hot, and helpless against my pelvis. It shall not be receiving direct attention either, I expect.

You advance upon me like an avenging angel, standing between my legs and looking down as if passing judgement. Your eyes have a near-feral look to them, as if your mouth has committed a mutiny by not staking your claims early and often, and your mind has given up on words and moved to glares and actions.

You extend your wand hand, and the phial of potion flies from the open desk drawer into it. Your lust has clearly enhanced your ability to Summon things that you want.

Pouring a measure of the potion on your hands, you rub them together as briskly and thoroughly as a Healer before duty. Returning to straddle my right leg, you grasp my cock, too tightly and surprising the breath out of me, and brusquely wank it for a moment until the potion has completely saturated both my foreskin and the sensitive shaft it protects. You then roll my balls between your fingers before yanking them, treating them so harshly that they wouldn't dream of letting me climax yet.

My torso jerks up; I can't help it. The grip on the back of my thighs begins to slip with the sweat seeping from my pores there. I struggle to regain my position. I'm still shuddering from the sensations in my arse, cock, and balls.

You use both hands to force my shoulders back to the bed, as though pinning me there will stop the spasms coursing through my several muscle systems. Spasms of your own leave tiny half-moon indents in my skin. "Stay. Here," you growl, and my shiver is a chill of fear escorting desire up my spine. I nod silently.

You use your non-dominant hand (as if either wasn't dominating me) to expose my hole to the air again. I feel the first finger sliding up my channel and a high whine begins somewhere in my sinuses. It's loud; they are rather resonant. And now my entire face is awake, not just my cheeks or my lips or my eyes, but my nose, cheekbones, skin are nearly as sensitive as the areas you'd touched with that lubricating potion. Your finger explores slowly, rotating inside me. I clench my muscles in an attempt to grasp the finger and pull it further towards where I want it most.

Then you tap on my prostate, and I my whine breaks up into the same staccato rhythm.

Pleased by my response, you kiss the inside of my thighs, first one and then the other. The tenderness of the gesture is not entirely unexpected, but I am no less grateful. You are careful now as you slip that finger out and use both hands to massage my rim. It's swollen by now, but willing to open further and further. You slip first one thumb in and then the other, both hands working to stretch me, spread me open for more.

And every fibre of my being wants to accept as much of you into my body as possible. If you split me open and climbed inside my skin, I doubt I'd complain. Not with the level of submersion I am experiencing.

One thumb enters easily, pulls against the muscle, stretching it. The other slips in beside it; once the first has departed the second works to draw me further open. The next time both thumbs slide into my rectum (yes, I will say rectum, Potter, just as I will use your surname; you're far afield and I wish to be accurate, at least in my own fantasy life), they spread it so open I can feel cool air touching the membranes inside. You stick a finger in along the thumbs, then, and rotate it. I cannot help but squirm, my hips bucking a little to meet you. You withdraw and lay a hand on my pelvis to steady me, and then lie atop of me in an act of control I relish. Your chest is pressing me back into the bed, your nipples rubbing against my sensitive chest, your cock somehow slipping up my crack without slipping in. I open my eyes wide in abject adoration. The Severus Snape the rest of the world knows has been destroyed.

You lay a forearm over my throat and press, gently at first, so gently my airway barely notices. I imagine that my eyes are big as saucers, my pupils blown so wide that they can't miss even a tiny variation in light. When you add weight to that forearm, my neck foolishly falls back and my mouth gapes, fish-like, at you.

With another growl you bite my lower lip, kiss my jawline, and then use your free hand to pull my head up for a demanding, plundering kiss. It is messy; my instincts are trying to keep my lips spread apart rather than in a sweet pucker for you. You don't seem to care, filling the space I provide with your tongue, your face. It's as though my mouth is opening to accept whatever my arse-hole cannot.

"You need to stay put," you repeat, your eyes dark with lust, frustration, domination. "You must relax, Severus. I want you to give up control, but not so much as to hurt yourself."

When I nod and say, "Yes, sir," you ravish my mouth again.

I am covered head to toe in perspiration; the sweat rolls down my thighs and joins the other liquid in my hole. Your brow is also damp, your brow furrowed in concentration.

I lie back again, trying to relax, and breathe slowly, hoping this will help me remain still.

I'm nearly falling asleep, the thumbs and fingers steadily working me open lulls me. I'm so relaxed that I don't even protest when you remove your thumbs, so I am utterly startled when I feel you pour the rest of the potion down my arse-hole.

I howl.

Once again, my entire body convulses, rocking back and forth towards the edge of the bed, my back abraded by those godawful sheets. This time, even my cock takes part, spurting enthusiastically. I sob, distraught that I am disappointing you, even as I feel one of your hands on my hip, steadying me, and the other twisting in my channel. "Shhh," you murmur, and the sweetness of your voice draws out tears of gratitude.

Your first, second, and third fingers twist in and out of my arse; when they spread themselves, your thumb folds in rather than your little finger. You fuck me slowly, the four fingers opening and closing as they pass the rim, while the little finger jerks back and forth between my cheeks.

My head has been thrashing against the mattress since my orgasm began. I take a deep breath again and refocus.

I feel greedy.

You rest your face against my thigh; the scratch of your stubble grounds me. Somehow you changed positions in the last few minutes. While I was otherwise distracted, it seems.

"Good..." you murmur, "You're so relaxed. Let's see how far I can push this potion." I can feel it passing up my anus, your fingers following.

They can only get so far; the little finger outside my rectum keeps the depth of the other fingers shallow.

"Go ahead," I whine. "I can take it. Please, sir."

"I could damage you," you say, and though there's a hint of kindness in your voice, it is firm and businesslike. Still, your thrusts grow erratic, frustrated. Meanwhile, the warmth of that bit of potion that has leaked down my crack has led me to fall in love with the Twitchy Pinkie there.

I'm half-hard again. I have no idea how you have managed not to come in all this time.

Once again, my world is reduced to that which you and your potion touch. "Do what you want," I say, euphoric. The places where you spread the potion are singing with joy again. I draw in a long breath and yield my body to whatever you might crave.

This final submission must be visible—or perhaps my cells have sung of it to your cells, which I hope are enjoying this adventure as much. You lay kisses on my thighs again, and on my chest still covered in cooling semen. Muttering something to yourself, you smear some of it on the hand that has so recently been extracted from my bottom. You grab one of my ankles and stretch the leg, lean down to bite the hip it's attached to, and then do the same with the other side.

"Spread yourself again," you demand roughly. I shiver in delighted hope. I raise my knees to my chest, but reach around my bottom to pull the crack apart for you.

"Perfect," you purr, and then I feel your hand pressing relentlessly at my distended hole. First, second, and third fingers are in with nary a twinge; my anus is spread so wide that without them it feels wanting. And then the curl: the fourth finger enters, and your hand finally can 'push the potion', as it were. Your thumb remains outside, now resting under my scrotum, pressing slowly, rhythmically, against where my prostate is hidden. The potion has spread well past my prostate and is now bringing its message of love (oh, I am maudlin in my old age after all) up further, into areas that never would have been touched if not for your love of fisting.

And when the Twitchy Pinkie strikes again, I am brought outside myself.


...Potter, get your arse out of hospital and come home. While it is well enough for me to pull myself off, my runaway imagination and penchant for the written word have shown why it would be better for both of us if we were able to engage in such activities in the flesh. Failing that, find a dictation quill.

As it were.

I am enclosing a specially-formulated lotion for you to use. Do Not Share.

Yours always,
Severus