Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/51908.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Severus_Snape
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Severus_Snape
  Additional Tags:
      Rough_Sex, Community:_kink_bingo
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-01-16 Words: 1537
****** Fall On Your Knees ******
by Toft
Summary
     He came to your door again tonight.
     Note: Harry is seventeen in this story, which is not underage for
     some, but there is implication of a previously-existing underage
     relationship, hence the warning.
Notes
     Written as a Kink Bingo 08 prize for Swanpride.
     Kink: Rough Sex.
The Potter boy came to your door again tonight, jittering with that perfect
adolescent blend of bravado and uncertainty. You weren't waiting; it's been
months, after all, a long summer, and it is the first night of the school year.
No doubt he would not escape his clinging entourage, nor should he want to.
You, of course, were exhausted from the festivities and the noisy mass of new
faces, and it was because of that, not because you expected him, that you did
not set half the usual wards on your door.
Tonight, he knocked. It was after hours, but still early, for him; early enough
that you started, when you heard the door, and snapped, "Who's there?" when you
saw nobody. A little early in the year for pranks. Then you heard his sharp
exhale, barely a foot in front of you. You stepped aside and out, looked around
the corridor again for good measure, and did not flinch as you felt the
ephemeral solidity of his body squeeze past you through the door. You muttered,
"Bloody kids," in case anyone should be listening, and heard the soft huff of
his laugh as you closed the door behind you.
The cloak was a silvery pool at his feet when you turned. His jumper was
hanging loose from his skinny frame; he had lost weight over the summer again,
and yet, incredibly, grown several inches. The boy flourishes like a weed. You
looked over him slowly, enjoying the way he tried so obviously not to squirm,
or twitch, or shiver.
"Potter," you said at last. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
"Professor Snape," he said, too loud. His voice was deeper, more settled in its
range. He was rangier, long-limbed, in the awkward limbo of adolescence. He was
exquisite.
"Undress," you said. "Now."
A muscle twitched in his jaw and he held your gaze for a second too long before
he started to struggle out of his clothes. He did not break his stare until he
tugged his jumper over his head. A sliver of skin, dusted with dark hair,
appeared for a second as his t-shirt rode up. He tugged off the t-shirt and
dropped it on the floor, then began to unbuckle his belt.
"Stop," you said. He froze, looking up sharply. Ah, he was wondering whether
you were having second thoughts. Let him worry.
They lose their bloom so fast, the boys; their taste is sweeter for the bitter
tang of time running out. You used to rush this, when you thought you would be
caught. But Potter is too good at breaking the rules. And he comes to you.
"Kneel," you said. He took a breath, and dropped awkwardly to his knees. You
could already see his arousal, the line of his cock pressing visibly against
his jeans, and his face turned up towards yours was beginning to flush a
little. You slapped him, hard, jerking his head to the side. He made a choked
noise and lost his balance, but immediately caught himself on the floor and met
your gaze, breathing hard, thin red lines blooming on his cheek. Slowly, but
not too slowly, he shuffled up onto his knees again.
He didn't say, what was that for?
Potter never asks here, never talks back. He knows what every blow is for. He
knows what he has done. You do not, of course; but that doesn't matter.
You slapped him again, on the other cheek. He was expecting this one, and did
not overbalance. His breathing was loud in the silent room.
"Open my robes," you said. He fumbled at the buttons, then again on your
trousers - it's too cold not to wear them underneath - and then his fingers
were cool against your skin as he exposed you to the air. You were erect, of
course, and your voice was thick when you said, "Take me in your mouth."
The boy did. His cheeks hollowed around you, his mouth silky-warm and pink, and
you wound your fingers in his hair. His eyes fluttered closed, and he made a
noise when you tightened your grip, pulling his hair until his forehead
whitened. You held his head with both hands, then, and fucked his mouth as he
made choking sounds around you and clenched his fists in your robes. You let
yourself sink into it, let yourself feel, for a second, your rage, let it
trickle red into your pleasure, like dragon's blood. You tugged the boy's head
back when you felt him start to struggle involuntarily. His face was curiously
blurred, nose and eyes streaming. He took a few deep, wet breaths, and you
shook him by the hair like a rag doll. "You're disgusting," you snapped.
His eyes rolled up to you, unseeing, and for a second, you wanted to end it, as
you have before. Carry him to your bed, give him a beaker of something to help
him sleep without dreams, feed him until he is the solid-framed seventeen-year-
old his body wants to be. You fantasize, sometimes, about wiping his mind
clean, and being the first he saw afterwards, seeing yourself in his eyes clear
of past and future inevitabilities. You could do it. Sometimes, you think he
wants you to.
But you are selfish, of course; you know what you would look like, to an
undamaged seventeen-year-old. What you are. You won't do it, not just for him.
That is why he comes to you.
"Get up," you said, and tugged him to his feet by his hair, barely giving him
enough time to get his legs under him. You shoved him before you, walked him to
the bedroom and stopped him in front of the bed. You reached around his waist
and unbuckled his belt by feel, his chest rising and falling against the sides
of your wrists in fast, fluttery breaths. You slid his belt through its loops,
enjoying his squirm, and thought about using it on him, knowing he was thinking
the same thing. You threw it down to the side onto the stone floor, then
brushed a kiss onto his bare shoulder, and he flinched.
"Tug them down to your knees," you said. He did, awkwardly, hissing as he eased
himself out of his jeans. You made him shuffle forward, hobbled by the denim,
and bend at the waist over the bed, elbows on the covers, looking forward at
the wall, his arse bare and even whiter than his chest. "Did you prepare
yourself before you came here?"
He says nothing, so you pinch his buttock sharply, and his spine straightens
with a jerk.
"No."
His voice cracks a little, and you realize it's the first time you've heard him
speak for four months.
"Then you'll take the consequences."
You use only enough oil to make it comfortable for you, and he makes a soft,
pained noise as you force yourself into him, demanding his body open up to you
a half-inch at a time. He is so tight, and you are on the edge of pain, it is
impossible to breathe. Beneath you, his whole body is shaking and rigid. You
are still wearing all your clothes.
"Nn -" his voice breaks, a noise through his teeth.
"Quiet."
Fully inside him, you fought to stay in control. He was taking deep, gasping
breaths, and his every shiver racheted up through you, your orgasm a white-hot
snake coiled and waiting to strike. You decided you could last, and thrust
roughly once, making him cry out, then had to hold yourself still again for a
teetering second. You heard a voice that sounds nothing like yours grate out a
name. His.
"Yeah," he whispered, "god - professor -"
You fucked him just to shut him up. You made no concessions to him, just used
him until he was moaning with every thrust and rubbing against the mattress,
trying to spread his legs further and writhing when the jeans held him
pinioned, and you spilled into him with a gasp, holding his hips still until he
whined.
"Touch yourself. Now," you said, and he shoved a hand between his legs without
finesse and came with you still inside him, crying out, his muscles tightening
around you in a series of sharp shudders that sent aftershocks through you.
When you could breathe again, you pulled back from him, ignoring his grunt of
pain, and cleaned yourself quickly so you could make yourself decent, stand
fully clothed as he pulled up his jeans. He stood uncomfortably under your eye
as he muttered the cleaning spells you taught him, wincing when they scoured
too roughly.
"Heal yourself," you said, when he took a few flinching steps to retrieve his
t-shirt.
"I'll do it tomorrow," he said.
"Suit yourself."
You were starting to feel tired. He would not look at you. It was a relief when
he disappeared under the cloak.
"What do you say?" you said, to the empty room, and for a moment, silence spoke
back to you. Then, an invisible sigh. A brush of something against your face. A
piece of fluff, perhaps. Or hair.
"Thank you, professor," he said.
You held the door for him as he left.
End
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