Fic: Therapy Title: Therapy Author:evanjames Giftee:asnowyowl Word Count: 3,300 Rating: NC-17 Pairing: Severus Snape/ Harry Potter Warnings: * Ambiguous consent, mention of Harry/various others * Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Summary: Therapy is good for the mind, at least that is what they tell him. Author's Notes: This fic was much harder to write than I had originally anticipated. asnowyowl asked for many things very commonly found in fanfiction, none of which I commonly write; however, although very short, I am proud to get it done through many hardships and two extensions that I thank the Snarry Mods for profusely. I also would like the thank S for patiently, and sometimes harshly, reminding me that I could indeed write.
Therapy
“What would you like to discuss this week?” The therapist asked the now despised opening question.
“Nothing.” He gave his customary response.
“Now, Shiloh, we’ve been over this before. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.” She gave him that disapproving look she seemed to have perfected, as if it was supposed to mean anything to him. He rolled his eyes and muttered a brief prayer for the patience he’d never had.
“Now, you see, that is the source of our problem. I don’t think anything is wrong with me and therefore don’t need to talk about it.” He smirked at her, enjoying the way she bristled under his intense green-eyed gaze. He learned long ago how to use his eyes for his own profit. Whether he wanted to get away with something, or just get people to leave him alone, he’d developed a look for it. Right now, he wanted her to leave him alone. Leave it to his ‘friends’ to find the one woman in all of Britain who was not intimidated by him.
“Then why are you here, Shiloh?” Again, he rolled his eyes. Another question she asked every week.
“Jane and Bill made me.” He gave the same terse reply he always did.
“And why would they think you needed counselling?” She smirked back at him for the first time this week.
“Because they caught Tarak fucking me in the lower corridor?” he smirked back at her when her cheeks coloured just slightly. He eased back in his chair enjoying the view. She wasn’t half-bad once you got the rod out of her arse. She had long blond hair she ruthlessly scraped back in a tail at the base of her neck and a severely cut business suit, same as always.
He figured she’d be quite pretty if she’d just loosen up a bit - or thoroughly fucked a few times. If it hadn’t been for Tarak, he would have offered his services but, alas, his lover was very possessive of his little toy-boy.
“I believe you said three weeks ago they wanted you to see me because they caught you in intimate relations with Callie?” Her brow furrowed slightly.
“Yeah she was ‘bout three weeks ago wasn’t she? After that it was Galvin and Victor, and the time after that was Bradley, following Bradley was Violet, then the twins.” He ticked off each person on his fingers as he spoke, enjoying the widening of her eyes as he did so.
“They seem quite concerned this time since I had told them that I was improving, and believe me I have. After all, I am only fucking Tarak now. Much better, wouldn’t you say?” He looked at her through his overly long bangs and flashed an all-too innocent smile.
“I would say so, when you first started coming to me I hadn’t realized that you were quite so… as promiscuous as that. Well then, why don’t you tell me a little about this Tarak? You’ve never mentioned him before today.” She pulled at the collar of her fitted blouse as she spoke and swallowed heavily afterwards.
“What would you like to know about him?” He smirked knowing the first thing she would ask.
“How did the two of you meet?”
“I was sent to boarding school at eleven; he was one of my teachers,” he answered calmly relishing her response. Though she said not a word, he could see everything in her eyes. The repulsion of what she presumed was a case of horrendous sexual assault on a child, was evident. He almost pitied the woman knowing she was honour bound to tell the authorities of such atrocities. Knowing the ‘victim’ in the case was well over the legal age of consent now must be wreaking havoc on her straight-laced mind.
“You…you were that young?” she stuttered.
“Yes, you did ask how we met after all. As I was saying, I went to boarding school when I was eleven. He hated me of course, not for who I was but for who my father was. You see, he went to school with my father and the two never got on. They were enemies from the very first day.” He shrugged passing it off as par for the course.
“But eventually after a lot of years and work he saw me differently. He saw me and not a clone of my father come back to torment him.” He couldn’t help the evil grin that graced his face at her loud sigh of relief. “What did you think I’d been abused all these years and you finally brought it all gushing to the surface in a moment of,” he flung his arms wide for emphasis, “catharsis?”
“No, my dear,” he leered at her, purring the words provocatively. “I was eighteen before he touched me that first time.”
“Then tell me of that.” She leaned forward in her chair.
“All right; it was raining and I was grieving the loss of several dear friends. I thought he was dead at the time. It had been a year since I’d seen him supposedly die in my arms. I was so naive. He wasn’t dead of course but, in my grief, I thought he was.” He paused for a moment as he remembered those last pleading words - not that the man had ever begged for anything in his life. 'Look at me' the man had demanded and look, he did.
He’d seen what he’d refused to for so long. He saw nothing but a man who had died for his cause. In that moment, he had never felt so alone, all because of three words and a dying light in the man’s eyes. He’d gone on and fulfilled his purpose as much for Tarak as for his friends and family that had died for him and everyone else but it was more for Tarak than anything else at that point.
“I felt like a right idiot, later. How many programs are there on the telly where someone dies and the very first thing the Bobbie does is check for a pulse? I never did that. I just left him there lying on the dusty, grime covered floor.” He shook his head as if to erase the awful images in his memory.
“How old where you when you made this mistake?” she prompted.
“I was almost eighteen. It was a year ago Sunday. But it doesn’t matter, you didn’t want to hear about my failures, you want to hear about my sex life, correct?” He nodded answering his own question.
“Like I said I was alone in a meadow and it was raining. I had just come from the graves of my family. I was mourning them - and him," He admitted softly after a moment’s pause.
“He didn’t have a grave. We never found his body. That pissed me off the most. Someone came into that shack and stole his corpse so we couldn’t bury him properly.
“But I did my best; I had a stone raised for him.” His words came in short bursts. He had to get it out before he lost himself to the memories that haunted him still. The memories he now hid behind his various lovers and newfound cocky attitude.
“I chose to walk back to my house after that, taking a short-cut through a meadow when the rain hit. Well, seeing as I am the only living soul in fifty miles and was soaked to the skin - I did the only sensible thing I could,” he smiled at her.
Her breath caught, he was truly beautiful when he wanted to be.
“I stripped to the skin and danced in the rain, celebrating, if you will, the sheer joy of being alive. I am living, for them, everyday to the fullest. Everything they missed in life I’m determined to do for them,” he smirked, “from getting my name in the paper because of some stupid stunt or another - or dancing in the rain for no one to see. Though, in this case I was wrong, someone did see and you know, I can’t say I minded all that much.”
“He never said a word to me just grabbed me from behind…
*Memory*
He stood naked and silent in the downpour. His hands and face tilted towards the sky as the heavens wept with him. Harry let himself cry for the first time; no one was nearby to hear him. The custom-made attitude of the Conqueror was nowhere in sight, here in this quiet meadow he allowed himself to just be Harry.
His solitude was brief, as it always was, when two long black-clad arms wrapped around his nude body. One arm went around his waist, the other stretched upwards and a pale hand grabbed his chin and twisted his head back and to the side. The grip wasn’t exactly painful, but clearly meant to control him.
His training kicked in almost immediately. Harry threw his head back into his assailant’s face simultaneously hooking his foot around the man’s – it had to be a male considering the prominent erection prodding his spine - boot-clad foot knocking him off balance and forcing him to release Harry.
Harry followed through, turning and throwing himself atop of the man, straddling his waist, one strong hand around a long slim throat. His face so close to that of his prey, Harry could make out nothing of his features save his eyes. Shock briefly overrode his anger when he looked into the eyes his attacker, liquid onyx filled with black fire.
“It can’t be….” Harry gasped pulling back to take in the full face of the man below him. The same face haunted his dreams night after night. The memory of the man’s face had been enough to send him into the arms of the first warm body available - anything to drive the feelings away even for a short time - anything to escape the guilt.
“You’re dead. I watched you die. You died in my arms,” Harry sputtered.
“Leave it to a Gryffindor to ignore the facts - especially when they’re staring them in the face,” Snape sneered. His voice not the same rich velvet covered steel it had once been, now more of an animalistic gravely bass that sent shivers through Harry’s body. “I am a Potions master, Potter. Did you and that little know-it-all honestly believe I would not have an elixir for mere snake venom at my disposal?”
“Then why did you let us all believe you dead? I raised a stone for you, you ungrateful git.” Harry yelled into Snape’s face unaware of the tears of anger and frustration pouring down his face to mingle with the rain.
Snape drew breath to scream back at the irritating child when he noticed that the rain falling into his face and mouth had taken on a distinctly salty flavour. ‘The brat was crying?’
He’d never seen Potter cry, not for any reason, not when the Mutt died, not in the aftermath of the Tower, not even at the mass funerals for those who’d fallen at the final battle. Yet the uncaring playboy saviour was crying now because he was not, in fact, dead? Snape shook his head lightly, he’d never thought Potter made much sense on his better days – today was not one of those days. He wasn’t quite sure how to handle this Potter, teenage rebellion; he easily dealt with, but this – this fierce, outraged grief was completely outside Snape’s experience.
Harry Potter, however, had no qualms about how to proceed, though the route he took was just as alarming to Snape as were the tears. Harry Potter, the Conqueror, The Boy Who Lived, kissed him full on the mouth.
Harry thrust his tongue into the former spy’s mouth and kissed him with all the fervour he could muster. A year’s worth of pain, anger, grief, and unresolved love imbued the kiss as much as the hatred and the betrayal. His hands carded into the long black locks holding Snape’s head in place somewhat fearful the man would dissolve into nothingness as he so often did in his dreams.
When the ascetic man began to kiss him back, what little restraint Harry had was lost.
In the year since he’d last seen Snape, Harry had learned not to deny himself anything he needed. Kissing Snape, he found himself with the need to touch him, to learn every inch of the man, taste him, to claim him, own him, in short Harry need everything from Snape. He needed to know that Snape was real, not just another figment of a dream: Dreams that always left Harry feeling more alone and destitute with each new dawn.
Without even a gesture Snape’s clothes vanished, Harry enjoyed the silkiness of Snape’s pale skin. His hands roamed seemingly with their own mind. Harry’s possessive hands and mouth left not a millimetre of flesh undiscovered. Snape found himself at the mercy of a mindless Gryffindor, worse yet, a Gryffindor who’d never known the meaning of mercy. Snape doubted Harry could give it, even if Snape wanted him to.
Snape was astounded when he first felt the winds whirling around his now unclothed body.
That Potter had stripped him to the skin with nothing more than a thought caused two distinct emotions in the man, the first being fear and the second, the desire to get closer to the power and the boy who possessed it.
Snape allowed the sweet torture of Potter mapping his body to continue for several agonizing minutes before snapping back to himself and seizing back the control he’d given Potter. Wrapping Potter’s long hair securely around one hand, Snape re-angled Potter’s head to his own liking and delved deep into the recesses of Potter’s mouth relishing the mixture of flavours. Candour and guile, innocence and guilt, wanton and pure; the contradictions were ambrosia to Snape’s senses.
Harry ripped his mouth from Snape’s breathing heavily, his eyes so dilated that only the smallest sliver of emerald green remained. “Mine.” He growled reminding Snape oddly of Black when the mutt had a fit of temper. The claim should have outraged the former Death Eater, instead left him with the unfamiliar sense of belonging, not a feeling he was accustomed to in anyway. In lieu of acknowledging the claim, Snape tried to bring the boy’s mouth back to his own, lest he gave into the craving to answer in the affirmative.
Potter refused him however. The boy always refused him his desires, it seemed that nothing had changed in the year he’d been away.
“I will have you, Snape, like it or not. You might as well go along.” Potter flashed that annoying half-grin of his, “you can kill me after I get what I want from you.” With any further ado, Potter impaled himself, unprepared, on Snape’s massive girth.
“Fucking hell!” the boy who lived screamed. An unholy mix of pleasure and pain warred inside him.
Snape gave a perfectly evil laugh into the boy’s face; a half-forgotten memory of a long ago detention rushed back. “I did once tell you I would shove a foot up your arse. I did not expect you to do it for me.” Despite his tone, Snape did not move in fear of hurting the boy more than necessary. The little idiot had just taken twelve inches of thick cock up his arse with nothing more than rain as lubricant, after all.
Slowly, he felt Potter relax around him. Tentatively, he thrust upwards; pleased beyond all reckoning with he felt Potter push down against him. Taking Potter’s hips in a strong firm grip, Snape held the boy up several inches above him and allowing him to thrust into Harry’s now stretched channel with increasing abandon.
Harry was in heaven. He wasn’t quite certain when he died; it might have been when he stupidly impaled himself on Snape’s cock. He’d thought for a painful moment said cock might have punctured something, like his diaphragm, but after Snape took over Harry saw stars. Nothing had prepared Harry for the sensations running through his body. Snape’s engorged cock was so large that he needn’t try to find Harry’s prostate, as Harry had to do with his toys.
Harry refused to admit it to his sometimes lovers that he loved getting fucked, but he’d never found anyone worthy of the honour. So instead, he relied on the vast array of toys he’d procured for himself and longed for the day when he could feel a real cock inside himself. He should have known that only Snape would meet the requirement he’d unknowingly set forth.
Harry was inched closer and closer to the edge of oblivion but held back by a master. Harry determined that if he wanted to come anytime soon he would have to take matters into his own hands, so to speak.
Grabbing Snape’s wrists Harry pried the man’s hands from his hips and forced them over Snape’s head. A wandless and nonverbal spell ensured they’d stay in place.
Grinning cheekily down at Snape, he sat up fully and began to ride. Hard and fast. He plunged down onto that delicious cock repeatedly. When he felt his balls begin to tighten, he reached for his own neglected cock….
*End Memory*
“Mr. Dooley!” his therapist’s screech broke through his thoughts bringing him back to the present. He was shocked to find himself reclining on the couch, legs sped wide, trousers open and his hand wrapped tightly around his needy cock.
“Sorry about that. Got lost in the moment, I guess.” He shrugged not sounding sorry at all.
“I should think so. I have never had a patient start to… do that in my office.” She sounded outraged though he couldn’t understand why. She was after all a sex therapist specializing in nymphomaniacs. What did she expect, nuns and monks? Nonchalantly he stood and readjusted his still aching cock before zipping and buttoning his trousers cursing the fact that he’d dressed more for shock value than comfort.
“I take it the session’s done then?” He asked the still fuming woman as he turned the door handle.
“Yes. I will see you the same time next week. Although I think, we should revisit the Morey situation. I think you have unresolved sexual tension concerning him.” As he turned an alarming shade of green, she smirked clearly enjoying his sudden illness.
Shiloh Dooley, more commonly known as Harry Potter, left the office feeling quite ill and muttering softly to himself.
Snape looked up from his magazine concern etched his features as he caught sight of his young lover. “What the hell happened to you?”
“I am going to kill Ron and Hermione. I am going make their inside outsides, their entrails, extrails…” he grasped for the words and found anything else lacking with a frustrated growl he ended he tirade with a pitiful, “pain very much pain.”1
“Not a good session I take it?” Snape smirked, reminding Harry of that fool woman. “The woman is delusional. She wants to talk about Malfoy next week, seems to think there’s some unresolved sexual tension concerning him. The woman is clearly insane!” Harry yelled stepping out in the sunshine of the warm May afternoon.
“Well, the two of you do seem to enjoy tormenting each other… rather like a young boy pulling the hair of a girl he fancies.” Snape laughed when the Boy Who Lived could only growl in response, again reminded of Black in a fit of temper, though Harry was far greener than Black had ever been. Except, of course, the days Snape had added a little something to his feed.
1 this line was taken from a Knight’s Tale. The line belongs to the character Wart.