Snarry-a-Thon22: FIC: Hold me down Title: Hold me down Author:BlueSundayCake Other pairings/threesome: Brief Harry/others, Snape/others Rating: NC-17 (Explicit) Word count: 6894 Content/Warning(s): Power dynamics, Dom/sub play, breathplay, public sex, non-explicit consent, anal sex, rough sex Prompt: No. 15: The eighth years at Hogwarts are allowed to spend Friday and Saturday nights outside of the castle. Harry has recently discovered he likes men and starts frequenting gay clubs in London in disguise. When he sees Severus Snape at the same club, a dangerous game unfolds. Summary: Five times Harry dances around Severus Snape, and one time where he dances with him. A/N: heartfelt thanks to leftisdown for beta-reading last-minute, precious precious!
The first time Harry Potter spots Severus Snape at the Burnt Flag, he disappears under his Invisibility Cloak.
It’s a moot point, he knows, since he’s disguised under Polyjuice Potion. But he can’t help it — the trickle of fear is so powerful, it’s all he can do not to pull out his wand in the middle of the Muggle gay club. He tells himself the war’s over, Snape’s on their side, and they’ve won. He reminds himself that Snape was in love with his mum.
So, then — what is Severus Snape, Headmaster of Hogwarts, doing at the Burnt Flag on a Saturday night? A gay club? It takes him a moment to consider that perhaps his old Potions professor might be bisexual. He's never attributed a personal life or even a sexual identity to his professors before, but that was clearly silly of him. Because of course his professors have lives outside Hogwarts.
Harry, who’d been in the middle of a rather lascivious dance with a nameless bloke, rapidly retreats to the furthest shadows of the club and tightens his Cloak around himself. His partner looks around for him for only a moment before shrugging and turning to find someone new. Harry lets out a breath and edges along the wall, the only noise coming from his feeting on the sticky floor, which no one hears with the loud music anyway.
For three months now, he’s been bar hopping across London. Hogwarts makes him feel too much sometimes, with its heavy stone walls and heavier reminders of everything they’ve lost in order to win. He sees too much of Ginny, who doesn’t seem to get that he doesn’t think he’ll be happy with her. Happy for himself, not for others. Others, he knows, hoped he’d marry Ginny Weasley. But Harry’s not sure he’s really made for love, especially when this kind of love has always felt a bit superficial to him.
So when he follows Hermione’s advice and goes to a gay club, it’s like discovering magic all over again. A different kind of magic, sure, but new and exciting nonetheless. Suddenly he feels alive like never before; it’s the same sensation he gets when he does the Wronski Feint. It’s a revelation and Harry doesn’t understand how he thought he could ever be with a girl before.
The Burnt Flag is the last club on his recommended list. One of the oldest in London, he’d been told, and with a different kind of crowd. Harry hadn’t been sure what that meant, but now he does. The men here are a mix of generations. There are some as young as Harry, but most of them are older.
Like Snape.
It doesn’t take him long to find the other wizard. Harry fixes his eyes on him. Snape isn’t wearing any robes, of course, and he looks so… vulnerable without his hundreds of buttons and his frock coat. His dark jeans hug his arse in a way that should be illegal in England, and his black Oxford shirt is tucked in. And his hair… Harry swallows thickly. Snape’s hair, always so lank and greasy-looking, appears smooth as silk as it’s held back in a low ponytail.
Severus Snape has absolutely no right to look sexy.
The songs continue to play, the heavy bass making his heart drum in a sympathetic rhythm. His blood feels hot and the air beneath his Cloak is heavy. Harry can’t stop watching Snape. It’s almost hypnotic, the way his Headmaster moves his hips, the way he dances against other men with an abandon Harry never would have believed him to possess. Was it because the war was over? Was it because they were in a Muggle locality? He licks his lips and readjusts his trousers. Even in the dim light of the club, Harry can see the pink scars on Snape’s neck.
He wonders if they’re sensitive.
It’s a dangerous thought, and it shakes him out of his stupor. What is he doing? Spying on his Headmaster, on Snape! The wizard is too paranoid to be out here, in London, this late at night — isn’t he? Is someone Polyjuiced as him? The idea sends a shiver of dread down his back. Surely not? Who would dare impersonate Severus Snape?
Harry hasn’t taken another sip of his own potion, the one that allows him to be Barny Weasley, and he begins to feel his body reverting. It’s too risky, he can’t be here. He’s not sure how Snape hasn’t noticed him before — there’s no doubt in his mind that even under the strongest glamours, the most potent Polyjuice, Snape would always recognise him.
As he slips away, still hugging the wall with his Cloak on, Snape turns his head just so. Just enough for his half-open eyes to stop dead on Harry.
He panics. Harry prays the loud music will cover his tracks, and he Disapparates on the spot.
As an Eighth Year, he's allowed to be out of Hogwarts on Fridays and Saturdays. This isn't even the first time, and he's come back in all sorts of inebriated states, and he always uses the front doors. But not tonight. Tonight he's terrified of running into Snape, and he uses the secret tunnel under Honeydukes to get back into the castle. He doesn't take his Cloak off until he reaches the isolated Eighth Year dorms, where a few of his yearmates are still up.
To his relief, Hermione and Ron are still up. He throws off his Cloak and drops in the seat next to theirs. He's got a lot to tell them.
***
The second time Harry Potter spots Severus Snape at the Burnt Flag, he expects it.
Hermione and Ron both advised him against going back to the same club. Maybe it's Snape's favourite place, maybe it's where he feels safe to be himself. Hermione's arguments are very sound and reasonable, and if Harry were a reasonable man he'd follow her advice.
But he's not. Since that first night three weeks ago, Harry's barely been able to think about anything else. He can hardly stop himself from glancing at Snape at the Head table in the Great Hall. Even as a Headmaster, Snape continues to wear the traditional teaching robes, black and buttoned up his throat. His robes billow everywhere he walks, and sometimes Harry catches a glimpse of the curve of Snape's waist beneath his frock coat.
It really shouldn't be this arousing. Yet Harry can't bring himself to stop thinking about how sexy Severus Snape had looked on the dance floor.
So he goes back to the Burnt Flag and drinks cheap whisky while he waits for Snape to arrive. This time, not only is he Polyjuiced as Barny Weasley again, but he's cast a magic cloaking charm onto himself. So even if Snape’s ultra-refined senses try to seek out any hint of his magic, he'll come up empty-handed. It's a bit of a Dark spell, but no one needs to know that.
Harry doesn’t hide under his Invisibility Cloak. This time, he keeps an eye on Snape at all times. It’s probably creepy, but he tries not to think about that. Instead, he finds himself a bloke who’s a head taller, skinny, and has large hands. That’s something else he’s noticed about Snape. His hands are magnificent. Otherworldly. Such long, delicate fingers do not belong to a man who was once so cruel.
This time, Snape’s wearing a deep blue long-sleeved shirt, no buttons. It’s still tucked into his jeans, which are the colour of washed out denim. He looks so normal that it steals Harry’s breath away. His hair is loose and slicked back, but not in a way that is reminiscent of his greasy hair. It’s more like Malfoy’s hair years ago, but less… more…
Harry bites his lip and takes a moment to look at his partner. The other bloke’s hands are on his hips, holding him close enough that Harry can feel his growing erection. It’s hot and it makes him rut himself back against the bloke to the rhythm of the music. The bass pulses in his blood, and Harry feels alive.
He forgets Snape for a moment, and closes his eyes. Dancing wasn’t supposed to be this good, when Hermione first suggested it. It was supposed to remind him of the Yule Ball disaster. Instead, it reminds Harry of flying. His body moves like it already knows what to do, like there’s magic beating along with the bass-heavy music and it pulls, pulls, pulls him around. It’s not even just about the sex, though there’s no denying the allure of shagging in the loo.
The songs are indistinguishable from one another, so Harry has no idea how long he’s been dancing with this bloke. Like magnets, his eyes immediately find Snape. The Headmaster is dancing against a blond, hands possessively splayed against the other’s stomach while their hips rock back and forth. Even from Harry’s vantage point, he can tell the blond man’s hard. His head is leaned back against Snape’s shoulder, throat bared and mouth parted. He’s younger than Snape, but older than Harry.
In the cover of darkness, it’s easy to allow oneself a bit of illicit pleasure. Snape clearly knows this. Harry watches Snape’s graceful hand slip down the blond man’s stomach, and cup the hardened prick in the man’s trousers. He can almost hear the man moan, but the music’s way too loud for that. It’s the most obscene and hot thing Harry’s ever seen, no matter that this kind of shit happens all the time in these clubs.
The ghost of a smirk graces Snape’s thin lips, and Harry sees his arm flex as he continues to grope the blond man. Harry’s own partner gropes his arse and slots a thigh between Harry’s legs, and he helplessly grinds down against it. They’re still swaying, their bodies entranced by the music. Harry’s hair sticks to his neck and his forehead, and he knows he’s going to bottom in the loo later. Snape’s free hand, the one not cupping the blond man’s prick, slides up and pinches a nipple through the blond man’s shirt.
Harry’s the one who gasps, and clearly the cheap whisky is at work because his own treacherous hand moves up his body to tease his nipples. His partner clearly enjoys his enthusiasm, and before Harry can make sense of this mind-numbing desire he feels towards Snape, his partner drags him to the loo.
He fucks him hard against the stall door, and Harry comes quickly while thinking about Severus Snape’s elegant hand squeezing his prick on the dance floor.
***
The third time Harry Potter spots Severus Snape at the Burnt Flag, he’s not Polyjuiced.
It’s a risk, and he hasn’t told Hermione or Ron about it. He’s gotten pretty good at brewing the potion himself, so he can’t even use the excuse that he’s out of it. He’s got a glamour on, enough to alter his appearance so he’s not immediately recognisable. Or if any papers happen to lurk around Hogsmeade when he returns.
His glasses are square in lieu of the expected round ones, and his hair is long enough now that he’s tied it in a bun on top of his head. It’s much easier to manage this way. It’s whiskey-brown instead of the usual jet-black. His skin is a few shades lighter, the colour of honey instead of the usual golden. He hasn’t changed his eyes though. It’s probably foolish, he knows it’s his most recognisable feature after his messy mop of hair.
It’s risky, and Hermione will berate him for it once he’s back at Hogwarts. But he’s too curious.
Just like last time, it doesn’t take Harry very long to spot Snape. It’s already late and Harry’s had a few drinks, so he feels more daring, more reckless. The sweaty bodies around him pulse to the music, alive like nothing else has ever been in his life. Snape’s wearing another button-up Oxford shirt, grey this time, with washed out denims. Harry can’t help wondering if this is how he looks everyday, under his austere teaching robes. It would be a crime against wixenkind for Snape to go around in jeans like this. No one would get anything done, ever, and they’d be unable to look away from his arse.
Harry can’t look away from his arse. From the inviting curve of his waist. From the pink scars on his throat. From the elegant, pale fingers holding a drink. From his Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow.
Harry feels hot and his cheeks burn. He wastes no time selecting a dance partner, one taller, older, dark-haired. He doesn’t question this peculiar preference, but he’s not an idiot either.
It’s a pretty lame replacement for Snape. But while he’s not an idiot, he’s not suicidal enough to think he can get Snape’s attention. Stand-ins will have to do.
The Burnt Flag is crowded tonight, more so than it was the previous two times Harry was here. Maybe it’s the cold November weekend that makes these men seek refuge in the sweaty heat of the dance floor. The floor vibrates under Harry’s trainers and reverberates through his bones. It makes every inch of his body tingle with an electric sort of eagerness, where he knows any touch will sear his skin and set him ablaze with desire.
Harry needs to see Snape up close. He manoeuvres his partner, who appears to be quite tipsy already, closer to where Snape is. His Headmaster is dancing, like everyone else, but there’s no urgency in his movements. It’s not the dance of someone looking to pull. Harry can tell the difference now, in the subtle body language. Those that scream ‘fuck me’ and those that whisper ‘I just need to be myself’. He understands.
Tonight, Snape appears to simply want to be himself. His shoulders aren’t tight, not the way Harry is used to seeing at Hogwarts. His head is thrown back, just a little bit, just enough not to be an invitation to his throat. It’s not submission, it’s empowerment. His lips are parted and Harry wonders if he’d hear the other wizard whisper the lyrics to the strange German song playing. Severus Snape’s body moves in a languid sort of grace that makes Harry hard. It’s maddening and he wants to touch Snape so bad.
They’re closer to him now, and Harry should have thought about using the cloaking charm again. Snape reacts immediately, as though responding to the crack of a whip. His eyes snap open and zero out on Harry before Harry can look away.
Their eyes meet and Harry feels the surprised but gentle push of Legilimency. His Occlumency is shit, so he lets Snape see whatever he wants. And suddenly, Harry knows that Snape knows Harry’s been watching him. He feels Harry’s desire through their brief mind link.
Harry expects a sneer, a dismissal, perhaps even a scathing humiliating barb.
Instead, Snape flees.
***
The fourth time Harry Potter spots Severus Snape at the Burnt Flag, it’s two months later.
Harry’s gone back to the club a few times, barely stopping himself from indulging every weekend. He’s not pulled since that second time he saw Snape and he’s not even bothered by it. It’s absolutely ludicrous to think he could pull bloody Severus Snape, but Harry can’t help it. Snape’s all he thinks about.
The Headmaster ignored him at Hogwarts for the entire holidays, and well into the first week of the winter term. Harry shouldn’t be surprised, but he was, and a little bit hurt. It’s not really fair of him, he reasons, because he’s sure that if places were reversed, he’d be mortified to be found in a gay Muggle club by his student too.
More than anything, Harry daydreams about that subtle brush of Legilimency. It was nothing like their atrocious Occlumency lessons. This was unobtrusive, gentle, and curious. The memory of it makes him hard and combined with the repeated mental image of Snape’s long, pale fingers around anything, it’s enough to make it into his wank material.
Harry should probably be a bit more ashamed than he feels.
So when he spots Snape at the Burnt Flag, mid-January, he knows the other wizard has sensed him too. Harry isn’t Polyjuiced, but he’s using similar glamours as last time. Snape’s wearing a maroon shirt with the first two buttons undone, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and Harry can’t think of anything else. He wants the man like he’s never wanted anyone else in his life and it’s a torturous sort of ache.
Because really, there’s no chance in hell that Snape will ever want him back.
They gravitate around each other on the dance floor. At first, Harry thinks it’s only him, but soon he realises they’re both remaining in one another’s orbits. Snape’s bottomless black eyes follow Harry around like they’re both predators carefully choosing their prey of the night. Which is accurate, in a strange sort of way.
Harry pairs off with a bland bloke — tall, covered in leather, and with long dark hair. His eyes are all wrong and his hands can’t even compare to Snape’s, but it’s a suitable (if lame) stand-in. If Snape notices Harry’s choice of pull, he doesn’t react to it. Instead, Snape pulls a man much younger than him, certainly closer to Harry’s own age, and towers over him. The younger man visibly shivers and gives into Snape’s allure easily, and Harry really can’t blame him.
There’s something very potent about Snape. It feels a bit like promises of danger and mind-blowing pleasure.
The music laps at his senses like the grounding water of the Black Lake. Harry pays only the minimum attention to his partner, but the other bloke doesn’t seem to mind. He reeks of skunk and beer, but it’s not unexpected in places like the Burnt Flag. Harry doesn’t usually care for guys like this one, but well… There’s a glint in Snape’s eyes. It’s positively feral and challenging. And Harry never backs down from a challenge.
Here, they’re just a pair of sweaty bodies grinding against another. They’re swallowed by the dance floor, by the neon lights that cast cool shadows on their humid skin. Snape’s hair is loose tonight, and Harry thinks it looks like star showers. When Snape’s partner cups Snape’s erection through his denims, Harry gasps out loud.
Snape is hung. He can tell as much from here, the outline of his hard prick brought to light by his fumbling partner. Harry watches as the young man strokes Snape, watches as Snape grabs the young man’s arse and shoves a thigh between his legs. Harry’s mouth is dry and he’s painfully hard. His own partner soon realises this and slides his own hand on Harry’s covered prick.
It feels so good yet so inadequate. And it’s not the leather bloke’s fault, not at all. It’s not his fault that Harry’s obsessed with a man twice his age and who was in love with his mum.
He licks his lips and Snape tracks the movement of his tongue. They’ve somehow come closer and only a few bodies are between them. It doesn’t feel that way at all, though. Harry feels as though Snape is the one pressed right against him, and in a bout of certified madness, Harry turns around in his leather-clad partner’s arms and leans against his chest. Immediately, those inadequate hands grab his hips and together, they dance and grind and gasp.
Snape watches him like a hawk. Or perhaps like a cobra, silent and dangerous and with a mouthful of venom. Any minute now, Snape will begin yelling at him that he’s got no right to be here. That this is Snape’s territory, and he’ll be terribly sorry for ever coming here.
But nothing of the sort happens. Instead, Snape twists his own twink of a partner and mimics what Harry’s leather-clad bloke is doing to him. It’s pure insanity, the way Snape stares him down like he wants to kill him and devour him at the same time. The Headmaster’s eyes trail down Harry’s chest and below his waist, stopping only when they’ve reached his prick. Harry didn’t think it was possible for Snape’s eyes to get any darker, but they do.
As they watch one another, Harry begins to feel annoyed. He wants to be that twink in Snape’s grip! He wants Snape’s meticulously manicured hand on his prick! He wants Snape’s huge cock pressed against his arse!
He bites his lip and Snape glowers at him. They lock eyes, and just like that first time Snape noticed him here, there’s a gentle brush of Legilimency. And fuck, it’s nothing like he’s ever felt before. He never knew Legilimency could feel so… so…
It’s as though someone’s reached right into his brain and turned on the tap for arousal, and is letting it trickle down his spine. His cock strains against his jeans and Harry can’t help moaning. He’s not even sure how he’s still dancing, still moving his hips when his bones have been liquefied by Snape’s piercing gaze.
The moment Harry realises it’s Snape’s arousal he feels, the connection breaks and he’s left empty and wanting. He wants to knee his leathered partner away, he wants to Vanish that dumb-looking twink rubbing himself on Snape. But he doesn’t. He’s too needy, too bloody mindless to think about anything else but release. With a sneer aimed at Snape, who gladly returns it, Harry grabs his partner’s hand and pulls him to the loo.
He may be a flimsy stand-in for Snape, but the other man still has a mouth, and he knows how to use it. Harry grabs his hair and fucks his mouth hard and fast, his mind filled with nothing but eyes darker than black and hair like star showers.
***
The fifth time Harry Potter spots Severus Snape at the Burnt Flag, they waste no time.
He’s tired of hearing Hermione admonish him for his schoolboy crush on Headmaster Snape. Harry hasn’t felt like a schoolboy in so long, he doesn’t even know what to tell her. How does one explain the pure sexual magnetism that radiates off a man like Severus Snape? If she could see him and the way he dances, so comfortable with his body and without any heavy mask on his face, she’d understand.
But then again, Harry isn’t sure he wants to share his version of Snape with anyone else. It’s childish and irrational, but he can’t help it.
They find each other, and this time Harry’s isn’t using any glamours. Only some Muggle concealer cream to hide his scar on his forehead. It’s the riskiest situation yet, reckless and stupid, but he wants Snape to see him for himself. There’s absolutely nothing rational about it, and Harry should definitely feel more embarrassed to be thinking with his cock rather than his brain. But he can’t find it within himself.
Voldemort’s dead, the Death Eaters have been arrested, there are no Dark wizards out there to hunt him down. So what if a few paps get a photo or two while he’s on the town? It’s bound to become public knowledge anyway.
It’s late in January and the club is positively pulsating with bodies and music. Harry’s head pounds from the shots he’s swallowed, and his hips appear to have a mind of their own. This time, there aren't a whole dozen other men between him and Snape. The fates are cruel, though, and soon they both find themselves with a partner with equally unremarkable features and inadequate proportions. Harry wants Snape’s large, strong hands. He wants his huge prick.
It’s intoxicating, to dance next to the object of your desires without being about to reach over and take. With all the torture Harry’s been putting himself through, he’s got to be a masochist of some kind. No bloke would lust after their Headmaster, their hated professor of seven years, who’d been in love with their mum for longer than they’ve been alive.
But he’s always been a bit mental.
Somehow, Harry ends up pressed against the wall by his partner, and before he has time to catch his breath, Snape has done the same to his own partner. He doesn’t understand how or why any of this is happening, but suddenly they’re mirroring each other. His partner devours his neck, lips too full and tongue too soft, with a leg pressed between Harry’s. Snape necks his partner too, another twink but with light brown hair, and his eyes are driving right into Harry’s.
Magic sparks between them. A zap, like an overcharged outlet, and Harry moans. His eyelids flutter and he grinds down on the too-thin thigh, nothing like Snape’s strong thighs. Years of prowling through a castle will shape a man. But now Snape’s black eyes are on Harry’s and he can feel the beckoning tendrils of Legilimency.
Harry yields. He inclines his head back, not to tilt his chin up, but to show Snape his throat. It’s not empowerment, it’s not the way he watched Snape dance all those months ago. It’s an invitation to catch him, to wrap potion-stained fingers around his throat and squeeze. Harry’s mouth falls open and he can very nearly feel Snape’s tongue ravishing him.
His lips feel thin and his tongue is sharp, as though it’s trying to carve Snape’s own name right into the roof of Harry’s mouth. Harry moans and even though he knows those sensations aren’t real, they feel more real than whatever his partner’s doing in his neck. Snape seems to know better than Harry, because now both sensations are layered. Snape copies everything Harry’s partner does, and shares the sensations with Harry through this odd bout of Legilimency.
Just as Harry feels himself getting too close to climax, he decides to fight fire with fire. He gropes his partner’s arse, making the other man gyrate his hips against Harry’s for some much desired friction. It’s filthy and indecent, yet Snape’s eyes spark with more life than Harry’s ever seen. Harry tries to convey the same sensations through the link, even though he’s pretty sure he’s too rubbish at the mind arts to make it work.
But oh, work it does. He senses Snape’s surprise in his own mind, and Harry decides to strike. One of his hands slips to the front, between him and his partner whose face he’s already forgotten, and roughly strokes the other man’s erection. There’s a sharp intake of breath in his neck, but Harry couldn't care less about this man’s pleasure. No, he’s doing it entirely for Snape and to be able to send those sensations through their weird link. The music around them almost seems to have dimmed, and Harry is sure he could hear Snape’s heavy breaths if he focuses hard enough.
It goes on and on, time crawling and Harry unravelling a little more with each phantom touch. Snape looks deliciously dishevelled, hair tousled and cheeks pink even in the terrible light of the club. Too soon, in his opinion, Harry comes in his pants like some teenager. His partner follows shortly when Harry inadvertently squeezes his cock harder. Like dominoes, Snape and his partner reach their own peaks and neither are particularly quiet about it.
Harry has no idea how long it lasts, or how their partners leave, or what is really going on anymore. But before he realises what he’s doing, Harry Apparates back to Hogsmeade and he’s hard again. Watching Snape orgasm is nothing short of an aphrodisiac.
The sixth time Harry Potter spots Severus Snape at the Burnt Flag, they’re no longer playing games.
It’s the way they immediately find one another, by their magic in the air, eager and aroused and barely concealed. It’s the way Snape’s wearing a buttoned shirt with tight cuffs and a stiff collar. It’s the way Harry keeps the top two buttons of his own shirt undone and with a hint of chest hair on display.
It’s the most inappropriate thing Harry’s ever done and he hasn’t stopped fantasising about unbuttoning Severus Snape since October, and it’s now mid-February.
His Headmaster never returned Harry’s heated looks at Hogwarts, but he hasn’t needed to. Harry’s not sure how it happened, but he can sense Snape’s magic intimately, better even than Ron’s or Hermione’s. He feels it like it’s calling to him, a siren song he no longer has the strength to ignore.
The dance floor at the Burnt Flag is crowded as ever. It feels like a thunderstorm in the middle of a jungle; the air is heavy, everything vibrates from the electronic music, and Harry can hardly breathe. His heart races in his chest, two beats ahead from the heavy riff pounding in his ears. Snape looks similarly affected and it bolsters Harry into taking the next step.
The moment he slides his sweaty palms on Snape’s waist, everything quietens. The rest of the club falls away, and the raw magical energy between them is near overwhelming. It’s the heart of the storm, nothing but power and strong currents who refuse to bow. Harry can almost hear the staccato of Snape’s heart, this close. He knows Snape can feel his pulse, with his hand around the back of Harry’s neck and his thumb resting against his pulse.
It’s such a possessive gesture. It’s a declaration of intent if Harry’s ever known one. Snape’s thumb doesn’t press down, not even when their bodies draw closer together as a natural consequence of dancing. It rests over Harry’s windpipe when Snape’s other hand grabs his hip. He dictates the rhythm, the slow, torturous grind of their hard cocks.
Slowly, with his eyes bearing deep into Harry’s, Snape’s hand slides around his neck to grab his throat. He gives Harry enough time to jerk away, to say no, to shrug his arm off. There’s no pressure on his hand, no demand for submission. It’s an open question, Harry thinks, where there are no wrong answers. It’s the most thrilling moment of Harry’s life.
With the same deliberate care, Harry tilts his head back. Turns his chin to the side. Presses into Snape’s hand.
There’s a sharp intake of breath, as though Snape hadn’t been sure of Harry’s inclinations or desires until that very moment. The pressure on his throat is minuscule, but the weight of his answer could levy entire cities. His pulse is a butterfly between his teeth, unwilling to escape but trapped between unyielding pillars. Harry presses into Snape’s hand a little more.
He doesn’t know how long they dance like this, Snape’s hand on his throat and their cocks aligned perfectly. It doesn’t matter, nothing matters more than this pure surrender to their desires. Harry knew Snape must have tremendous control over his motor skills, but this is an entirely different level. He wants his Headmaster to squeeze, to take his breath away until he thinks Harry has earned his air. He wants the hand on his hip to dig its fingernails into his flesh, to mark him with crescent-shaped promises of lecherous intent.
Hours or perhaps years later, they find themselves in a dark corner of the club. Harry thinks of suggesting the loo, but this is good too. This is bloody fantastic.
Snape’s body is hard and heavy against him. He doesn’t waste time teasing Harry with a thigh between his legs, and instead wandlessly levitates him at just the right level for their hips to properly align. On reflex, Harry’s legs wrap around Snape’s waist and everything after that is pure sensation.
The hand on his throat is firm, unyielding, possessive. Harry tilts his head back against the wall, moaning wantonly in spite of himself, and Snape finally kisses his neck. Just as Harry imagined, Snape’s thin lips are firm and precise, while his tongue knows exactly how to trace mindless patterns into his skin that’ll drive him mad. Snape moves his hips with a slow deliberateness, his clothed cock running its entire length along the crease of Harry’s arse.
"Fuck, Snape," Harry gasps. It’s the first time they’ve ever spoken at the club.
Snape’s hand tightens in warning around Harry’s throat. "Language, Mr Potter." Then he returns to kissing, licking, biting Harry’s neck as though he’d never been interrupted at all.
Harry whines and holds onto Snape’s shoulders. He can hardly think, no matter how much he’s wanted for months now to touch Snape and feel him and hear him. That is, until a strand of that silky soft hair brushes against Harry’s fingers. It’s a sign, he thinks, that he’s allowed to touch. While one hand slides into Snape’s hair, threading his fingers through the soft strands, his other hand begins working on the buttons.
There are so many. Harry doesn’t know why so many buttons are necessary, but he knows he fucking loves buttons. Buttons are synonymous with Headmaster Severus Snape, the most alluring man (both wizard and Muggle) Harry’s ever seen.
He only gets halfway down Snape’s chest when Snape’s hand tightens again around Harry’s throat. Harry’s not sure how exactly he knows, but in that moment he knows this is where he should stop unbuttoning Snape’s shirt. Instead, he slides his hand inside and eagerly explores the lightly haired chest. The muscles are strong and the skin is supple. Snape’s nipples pebble under his curious fingers and he feels the Headmaster groan against his neck when he pinches them lightly.
No warning, this time.
Harry continues his exploration, though the delicious frottage between them valiantly calls for his full attention. A shift of the lighting in the club and Harry catches a glimpse of the scars in Snape’s neck. Before he knows what he’s doing, he lurches forward and licks them hungrily. There’s no sense for it, no rational explanation, except that Harry wants to own every one of Snape’s scars. He wants to suck out the poison and infuse them with a bit of himself. His magic, his tongue, his desire. It hardly matters. He bites the tender skin and is rewarded with a heavy moan. It vibrates all the way through his flesh and into his collarbones.
The music around them still sounds dimmed, and Harry wonders if Snape used a spell. He can’t tell anymore, the Headmaster’s magic is everywhere around him and licking his skin like eager flames. Before he can contemplate the matter further, however, Snape’s lips brush against his ear and he whispers in a hoarse voice,
"If you’d rather not get fucked against this wall right now, I suggest you say so immediately."
"Oh fuck," Harry gasps. They’re going to fuck? Right here, in the club, where anyone can see? Harry would be a rotten liar if he said he wasn’t the least bit aroused by that. "Yes, yes!"
Snape bites his ear, hard enough to make Harry groan. Then there’s a wave of magic, powerful enough to make Harry shiver, and Harry is immediately aware of many things: his jeans have disappeared, Snape’s cock is lined against his hole, and he’s already stretched and wet. His surprise must show because Snape chuckles — a terrible, dark thing that consumes Harry from the inside — and he teases Harry’s entrance with the head of his prick.
Before Harry can think to beg to be fucked already, Snape presses down his throat and makes Harry lean back against the wall completely. Their eyes meet and Harry welcomes the brush of Legilimency. He could lose himself in the dark pools of Snape’s eyes, he thinks. They’re the most hypnotising eyes Harry’s ever seen and he doesn’t know how he hadn’t ever noticed that before.
And just like that, Snape knows everything. His lips curl in a weak facsimile of a smile, and his grip around Harry’s throat squeezes until only the tiniest sliver of air can pass through. Snape waits, and waits, and waits until Harry feels dizzy and lightly taps a finger on Snape’s neck.
He yields, and Snape fucks him.
Snape is just as large as Harry had imagined, and he feels speared open, raw. The insertion is slow, an almost tender slide until his arse presses into Snape’s pelvis. Then, while Harry is still gasping for air, Snape’s hips snap back. A pattern develops, with Snape squeezing Harry’s throat until he can hardly breathe, and he punctuates it with furious thrusts of his godly cock inside Harry’s arse.
Harry manages to keep his eyes open, to keep the delicate tendril of mind link going, but it’s a close thing. He moans and moans until he feels raw with it. Everytime Snape lets him breathe, he feels a little more lightheaded, a little closer to what is sure to be the best orgasm of his life. He doesn’t even care that his own cock goes untouched. Snape’s prick insistently hits his prostate, and the rush from the breathplay is heady on its own.
There’s no understanding how the other men around them don’t see what they’ve doing, but Harry doesn’t let it distract him. Everything is too bloody good, too right. His arse was made to fit Severus Snape’s cock, in all its pounding glory.
When the crest of pleasure becomes too persistent and he feels like he’s hanging by a single thread, Snape cuts of his air one more time and leans forward to whisper in Harry’s ear, each syllable punctuated with a hard and unforgiving thrust.
"Won’t you come for me, Mr Potter?"
It must be the precipice of insanity that makes Harry give in so completely to that demand. If they were the heart of a thunderstorm on the dance floor, now they’re at the heart of the sea. Waves upon waves of pleasure wash over him and his lungs burn from lack of air. He arches his back, a bowed figurehead of this ship they’ve sailed together. No sounds come out, but he spurts between their bodies hard enough that it reaches Snape’s bare chest. Just as the last dregs of pleasure make themselves known, Snape releases his throat and the heavy intake of air is nearly an orgasm all on its own.
And then Snape is coming inside him, his hips stuttering in their fierce cadence. Snape’s teeth sink into the bruised flesh of Harry’s neck, and Harry feels so owned, so taken by this man that he cannot imagine any other experience ever measuring up. Severus Snape has utterly ruined him for anyone else.
It takes long minutes for them to catch their breaths, and Harry is a little embarrassed about the jelly-like strength of his legs at the moment. Now that his mind is cleared from the overwhelming lust, he realises that Snape’s cast a Silencing spell and some powerful version of Notice-me-not. No one is paying them any attention, but they’re also giving them at least a metre-wide berth.
Before he can think better of it, Harry laughs, more than a little breathless, and runs his fingers through Snape’s hair. It really is wonderfully soft, and not oily at all.
"I don’t know how I’m going to walk back to my dorm." He closes his eyes at last, though the link broke just as Snape was coming and moaning in his neck. It sounded so wanton and primitive all at once.
Snape hums and there’s another gentle wave of magic. Cleaning charms, refreshing charms, and Harry’s jeans are back in place. Slowly, he drops Harry back to the ground. But he makes no move to leave or step away from Harry’s personal space.
"You will tell me if you’re in pain." Snape’s voice is deep, the rumble of thunder and the croaking of ancient wood on ships long sailed.
Harry opens his mouth to say he’s fine, but thinks better of it at the last moment. Instead, he gingerly touches the bruises on his throat. He meets Snape’s eyes, hooded and dark and so very warm, and points at his neck. Another wave of delicious magic and the discomfort is gone. Harry shifts his weight from one foot to the other, but his arse feels fine — a bit sore, but not the bad kind of sore.
"Good." Snape waves his hand over his buttons and they return to their dignified state. Noticing Harry can’t bring himself to look away, Snape smirks and leans forward, far enough to press his entire body against Harry’s. "Next week then, Mr Potter?"
Harry shivers from head to toe. "With pleasure, Professor."
Snape hums and traces the square line of Harry’s jaw with a single, perfect finger. "That’s Headmaster Snape to you."
"Yes, Headmaster Snape." Harry’s entire body is shivering from renewed arousal. "Next week it is."
Snape’s lips brush against Harry’s ear, “Good boy.”
And then he Disapparates, but not fast enough not to hear Harry’s moan. The last thing Harry sees is the perfect lines of Severus Snape’s buttons. Maybe next time he can undo the cuff ones…