He was twenty when he came to my bed for the first time. The events leading to such an unlikely occurrence were as common and cheap as his taste. We met in a pub. There was nowhere for him to sit. He demanded I move.
"Snape," he'd said with a fair approximation of a sneer.
"Mr. Potter," I'd said with a real one.
"It's been years. Never thought I'd see you again."
I ignored him.
"Nowhere to sit it seems. Budge over, will you?" he'd said with the audacity and entitlement of youth.
"You're not worth the effort to say no to," I'd said as I moved to the right, allowing him to settle himself in the small space.
The war had been over for years, yet our enmity survived as fresh and raw as if we'd battled each other only the day before. We'd worked together, because we'd had to in the end. Though, I suppose we would have swallowed glass in the end—if we'd had to. Nevertheless, a thrill ran through me at feeling him so close. I'd been itching for a skirmish. The end of the war had left me with little intrigue and I found I missed the daring walks on the knife's edge. A few inches to the right and I was back where I belonged.
We sat in moody silence and drank enough Firewhiskey to make us numb. He finished his glass with a generous swallow and slammed it on the table. He appeared to be leaving. I will admit to disappointment—I'd not gotten a good rise out of him all night. The knife had dulled considerably, it seemed.
All that changed when he turned and fixed me with those glassy green eyes full of superiority. A frisson of white-hot anger ran through me. I licked my lips, hungry for a good fight.
"I figure you'd like to fuck me," he said in a challenging voice. There was nothing seductive or subtle about him.
They were words I'd never expected to tumble from the mouth of Dumbledore's golden boy. I covered my surprise with an adeptness I'd almost forgotten I possessed. "What, my verbal lashings and mind fucks not enough for you anymore? Have you decided that you need the real thing?" I quipped, hating that he'd surprised me. I hated even more that I liked it.
He barked out a bitter laugh, his eyes—still pinning me—never closing. "You are such a bastard, aren't you? That won't ever change, I reckon," he mused to himself, though he continued to stare at me.
"I wasn't aware that you were used to the company of men. It's a rather brutal business, you know. Not something for the uninitiated," I said in a waspish voice while bearing my teeth, hoping to scare him off.
I should have known he wouldn't scare easily. He shrugged and glanced away for a second before turning and staring at me. "What's it matter? I've been bending over and taking it my whole life. Might as well get some pleasure out of it. What? Not interested?"
It was unnerving, that glassy green-eyed stare. It sought to own, to possess. Never. He would not own me. I'd been in the pocket of too many who thought themselves my betters.
"Why?" I bit out, wincing at my own lack of finesse, but Potter wasn't one for snappy repartee. He'd never learned the fine art of the slow build and double entendre.
His gaze softened a bit, there was a crinkling around his eyes, and a light flush dusted his cheeks. Bravado had its limits. "We're the only ones left. You make me feel," he murmured, as if, in his drunken haze, that explained everything.
We tumbled into my bed with little more than a slamming door, a rip of cloth and a grunt. There wasn't kissing as much as there was a violent battle for claim fought with lips, tongues and teeth. Hands scrabbled over soft, smooth skin, searing trails of naked lust in their wake. I growled and threw him on the bed. His eyes were bright and his face was flushed. His lips curled into twisted smirk.
"Fuck me, you bastard," he hissed with a green-eyed come-hither stare.
I wondered if he had any idea what he was asking me to do. But then he sucked on his index finger. It left his mouth with a ghastly pop. He slid his hand lower and lower, his rakish grin growing with each centimeter of slide. He started preparing himself. I watched, transfixed, as that indolent index finger moved in and out, in and out, of his small pucker. Perhaps he had a vague sense of what might occur. That spurred me on.
"You are a wicked, wicked child. Yes, a child," I snarled as I tore at the robe hanging from my shoulders and stalked forward. He licked his lips and splayed his legs. "A shameless little whore," I murmured as I grabbed him by the wrist and pulled and positioned him where I wanted. His startled yelp of pain transformed into a moan of pleasure. He spread his legs further. His skin was slick with anticipation. I nearly came.
I didn't like him. Nothing would ever make me like him. But I could love that body, I could worship that beautiful, paradoxical body. His limbs remained coltish, yet there was calculation in the way they moved. His skin was as pale as parchment and as soft and smooth as a young child's, yet it was decorated with the pink, waxy scars of grown-up battles and wars. His face, the lines of his body, bore the visage of an effeminate water sprite, but there was no question that he was all man. What a picture he made.
I knew, then, as I crawled onto the bed, covered him with my body and bit his shoulder hard enough to cause delicious pain and send him bucking, that his stay in my bed would be fleeting. Recordation was necessary, I decided.
"Accio camera," I whispered, holding out one hand while I twisted and tweaked one of his smallish, brown nipples.
"What?" he started as he tried to sit up. He wasn't quite as drunk as I'd thought then.
"Shh," I whispered as I mocked him with a soft touch across his brow. "For posterity," I said. "'Lovers Entwined,' I'll call it," I said as his eyes fluttered closed under my soft, comforting touch.
"Whatever," he slurred as he fell back with a contented sigh and leaned into my parody of tenderness. Drunk enough, I thought to myself with a smirk.
A few levitation and animation charms later, and we were ready to begin. I prepared him. He gasped and mewed as my slick fingers slid in and out of him. The evening progressed. I took him hard. He gloried in it. I gloried in that debauched, whorish body, knowing that the camera was snapping away all the while. We fucked for hours, it seemed, before both of us were spent. We'd done battle. It showed in the bruises, scratches, bite marks, and spunk we'd smeared across each other. He tried to fall asleep. I kicked him out. He left with a smirk playing at his lips as he sauntered to my door, saying "Thanks," as he closed it. I had never hated him more than I did in that moment.
The twit came back three days later, asking for another go. I obliged him. It seemed his sexual ambivalence and my amorality married well. I fucked him harder. He howled and cursed and scrabbled and came and came and came. I had affected him. I noticed that his smirk wasn't as cocky when I made him leave afterwards.
When he came around again three days after that, a different sort of plan formed in my mind. It wasn't enough to simply covet that body. I wanted to own it. I would own it. When we were done with whatever we were doing, I would make sure that he would never be quit of me. If he persisted in taking up my precious time of making useless potions and reading banal articles on the emergence of a new variant of asphodel, then he would pay dearly for it. He would bear my invisible brand forever. Oh, how I'd missed the satisfaction that only sadistic glee could bring.
He was already naked, hard, and leaking when I joined him. He sprawled on the bed as if he belonged there. I resisted the urge to snatch away my pillow and quilt.
"What's that?" he asked, nodding his head at the picture in my hand while he pleasured himself with lazy pulls. I think he thought it made him look sexual. I found it made him look greedy.
"A picture. Of us. I thought we'd try something different."
His hand dropped and he scrambled to sit up straight. If only he'd shown such eagerness in his lessons. Well, this was to be a very special lesson, I supposed. I sat with a flourish, allowing him to come close. I smiled inwardly when I heard his gasp. It was a picture of us in the throes of passion on the first night. If one didn't know better, one would think we were in love, the way I had him gathered in my arms while thrusting in and out, the way his hands were clutched in my hair, his fingers threading through every few seconds. He was panting hard and his head was thrown back, wild hair spilling in every direction. Our gazes were locked—his appeared wondrous and enraptured, mine smoldering and possessive. From a purely artistic point of view, of course, I couldn't help but notice that we fit well together. Our contours made fine counterpoint.
"Lovers Entwined," I whispered in his ear while I bit the shell. He shuddered. He moved to put the picture away. "No," I said. "Don't stop looking at it… Harry," I said after a pause. Such a strange look he gave me when I used his given name for the first time. "I want you to come from watching us, you can do that, can't you… Harry?" I purred into his ear, while my hands snaked around him and my lips and tongue delighted him.
"Yeah," he whispered with a rasp. His hands clutched at the moving picture, the Lovers Entwined, as I made him come and come and come with my fingers, my cock, my tongue and my words. He tried to close his eyes. I wouldn't let him. I made sure he rode out his orgasms watching us writhe in passion.
After that, we never fucked unless he was staring at the picture. We fucked a lot. I made sure of it. It wasn't a terrible hardship; his body was beautiful and was made for such pleasures. We no longer looked at each other. He stared at the Lovers Entwined, and I watched him staring.
My conditioning worked. After a long while, he couldn't get aroused without the picture. It was delightful the way he mewed in frustration, the way he pulled at his cock as if by shear force of will he'd become erect, the way his sweaty, flushed skin glistened in the candlelight. It was the look of utter desperation on his face, though, that was nearly my undoing. It played out the same way every time. This night was no different.
I pulled open the drawer in the bed stand. His panting breath stopped at the soft rumble of gliding wood. He cocked his ear at the rustle of paper. His breathing labored as he turned his head and watched me withdraw the picture. His mewing increased. "I know what you want," I whispered, pinning him with my gaze while my fingers rested on the picture. "Please," he moaned. "Please." With a flourish, I dangled it before him. His eyes glazed over, his fingers reached out to touch, his cock became erect and purple with lust. A cruel smile curled on my lips. "Is this what you want?" I murmur, as I slap away his hands and prove—once again—that only I can give him pleasure. "Watch us, Harry. Watch the lovers," I crooned as I sunk into him and took him in hand. "Oh, fuck," he said in a breathy whine, as he took the picture from my hands and made love to it with his eyes.
There were other times when I made him sit on the bed and simply stare at the picture. What a lovely sight he made, flushed and panting, painfully aroused, while staring at the Lovers Entwined. Without touch, he'd nearly reach climax. He thought it a wicked game and would smile at me as if he were gracing me with his favor. I smiled back, knowing it was a game, though not the one he imagined.
We did other things too, of course. We came to a point where I knew him by the way he moved. I could tell if he was hurt or sad or joyous from the simple cadence of his body, the lilt of his voice, the depth of his green-eyed stare. There was… more comfort in that than I care to admit. Worse still, I felt an odd rankling when his eyes glazed over while his fingers trailed across the entwined lovers as I fucked him through the mattress. He never looked at me anymore. No matter where I put the picture, his eyes went to it instinctively. He only had eyes for the Severus in the picture, the one that looked as though he cared about the sprite in his arms. It made me rather angry that he didn't look at me anymore, so I fucked him harder while staring at him staring at the picture. He never turned away from the grayscale Severus no matter what I did. It was time to be quit of him.
He was twenty-two when I turned him out of my bed. He'd tried to sneak in a pair of socks to leave over and had the audacity to attempt to engage me in conversation that didn't involve the words 'fuck," "harder," "now," and, "you sanctimonious bastard." That was simply too much. How dare he try and take over my life like that? He was still a slip of a thing, so I picked him up, mid-fuck mind you, and after disentangling myself from him, threw him out on the doorstep. His robes followed. The picture stayed with me.
He banged and banged on the door. I think he screamed and bellowed some, but I'd already put up silencing charms. I made tea and retired to my study. A smile quirked at my lips at the thought of his skinny arse on my cold steps. It faded too quickly. My bed was cold. It hadn't been cold in a long time. I missed the warmth of his body, the scent of his arousal, the sound of his pleading. No matter. It was done. Besides, I still had the Lovers Entwined. My fingers ghosted across his grayscale face as my hand curled around my cock.
I received confirmation that I did, indeed, own Harry Potter nearly nine months later. I was at a dreadfully dull function surrounded by dreadfully dull people all talking about dreadfully dull things. At least the wine was passable.
"I'm telling you, it's true," a haughty blonde whispered to her companion. "I heard it from him myself. Who would have thought Harry Potter would have such problems in the bedroom. Who would have guessed he was such a despicable pervert."
My interest piqued, I moved closer, pretending to study a dreadfully dull display about something forgettable.
The companion giggled. Both were drunk. I could smell it. "Who knew he'd be such a deviant. Couldn't get it up unless he had a picture of someone else? No wonder Tristan threw him out. Poor thing. Tristan, I mean."
"Oh, yes," the blonde responded before gossiping about the drapes.
I smiled. A celebratory wank was in order, I thought, as I left the dreadfully dull and Apparated to the sinfully enticing.
I arrived home, took a leisurely bath, poured a generous snifter of brandy and slithered onto my bed. The anticipation was heady and dizzying. I reached into my bedside stand and felt for the familiar picture. Only, it wasn't there. I sat up and began digging through the drawer, sure it was there, somewhere. It was always there. I never took it out, unless I was pleasuring myself. I pulled the drawer out and turned it over. Still no picture. Inarticulate rage and desperation clawed at me. It was then I realized that I had unwittingly become a victim of my own game. My now flaccid cock was the proof in the pudding. I began to laugh. I don't know when I stopped.
A week later, a familiar snowy owl intruded into my home, dropped a bit of parchment, and sailed out without so much as a perfunctory nip. Potter. I'd not heard from him in almost a year. It was too coincidental that I would hear from him now. I tore at the parchment, read the words scrawled across in spotty ink, and ripped it to shreds. "I have what you want," it said. "Do you have what I want?" it continued. "Meet me at the pub at nine o'clock," he closed. How dare he command me? I was not so easily led around by the nose. I refused to go. But then my still flaccid cock rubbed against the back of the desk as I whirled around, not caring that there was no one to snap my robes for. The longing, the ache, that was captured in that brief touch was enough to convince me that I would go and I would take back what was mine.
I arrived precisely at nine o'clock. I took a small table in the back. I ordered a bottle of Firewhiskey and two glasses. At ten minutes past, Potter sauntered in. Our eyes found each other within seconds and that familiar frisson of white-hot anger ripped through me. His eyes narrowed and his lips twisted into a cruel smirk. I was almost proud.
"Snape," he said as he sat down and poured himself a glass.
"Give me the picture," I snarled, not in the mood for his attempts at cloak and dagger. It galled me that I'd allowed myself to be humiliated like this.
He paused in his pouring and snorted. "You must think me the fool."
He cocked his head. I knew what this meant. He was about to say something genuinely clever. I wanted to claw his eyes out. "But I'm the one with the picture and you're the one who got caught up in his own game."
I wanted to leap across the table and choke the life out of him. Instead I inclined my head as if to say, "touché," before knocking back my first glass of the night. "How," I bit out, welcoming the burn in my stomach.
"Dobby," he said coolly as if that explained everything. It did.
We both drank a few more glasses before mustering our courage to enter the fray once more. I hated that I'd missed this, missed him.
"I'm not stupid, you know," he said, keeping his gaze on the table. "I figured it out. I don't care, not really." He paused. "It's not like I expected you to be kind or anything. I don't want much—a dresser drawer, a few changes of clothing, a conversation now and again and dinner out a few times a month. The way I see it, you get what you want, I get what I want, and nobody gets hurt."
"You think that, do you?" I spat. Merlin, how I hated him. "Why would I go along with this inanity?"
He cocked his head again. I resisted the urge to fling a steak knife at him. "Because you want to fuck me and you can't. You want the picture, and I have it. You may not like me, but you miss me. My body at least."
I was almost left speechless by his perceptiveness. I'd rubbed off on him. "What is it you propose, Mr. Potter?" I ground out.
He shrugged. He meant to appear earnest, then. "Just what I said." He withdrew the picture and slapped it down in the middle of the table. I was unbearably hard within seconds. So was he, if his panting breath and flushed skin were anything to go by. I made to reach for it. His hand curled around my wrist and stopped me. "I wouldn't do that, I were you. I charmed it. Only I can touch it."
Clever boy. "Fine," I said, eager to have that beautiful body back in my bed. I could handle a few conversations now and again; I could give up a dresser drawer, I thought as I watched the Lovers Entwined dance and delight and love. "Shall we depart?"
He nodded, swept the picture into in a hidden pocket of his cloak and pinned me with that green-eyed gaze. I hesitated for a moment. I had to ask. "You had the picture. Why come back?"
"I wanted you," he said. "I wanted something for myself, even if I only have the idea of you," he murmured. "Besides, we're the only ones left. You make me feel," he said as if that explained everything.
It did. Just as before.
He was twenty-three when he came to stay in my bed. I figured it was for a long while this time. After all, I'd consented to the socks and the conversation. We sat on the bed, naked, aroused, and flushed. We stared at the picture between us. No words were exchanged—not this first time. Our hands curled around our cocks and we pulled and squeezed and pleasured ourselves. We panted and prayed for release while our fingers traced the lines of our respective lovers in the picture. Within minutes, we came. Some of our spunk landed on the picture. We both scrabbled to clean it off. We treated it as if were a masterwork, worthy of reverence, despite its creases and curled edges and wear. I cleaned picture-Harry with a gentle caress I'd never shown the man in my bed. He did the same for me. Neither of us said a word when our fingers lingered longer than they had a right to.
And then, I took him. Hard. Just like before. We tried to look at each other, but our eyes kept drifting, scanning, searching. Our bodies were connected, but we were too conditioned to want what we could never have. He levitated the picture between us as I bit his neck, twisted his nipples, took command of his mouth with my tongue and pounded into him over and over and over and over again. This I could give him.
"Watch," his whispered as he turned my head towards the picture. The shift caused me to angle up. He screamed and cried and cursed in bliss at the change. "Touch," he groaned, as he guided my trembling fingers to his visage while his slipped to the grayscale image of me thrusting into his sprite. That he could give me.
We writhed and twisted and pushed against each other. Gods, I hadn't realized how much I missed this body. How much I had missed him. And yet, we could not look at each other. Our eyes drifted to the picture. We watched as the entwined lovers locked gazes and made love. We watched as they held each other and said with their bodies what we could never contemplate. We fucked each other harder and harder and harder, wishing it was more like the picture.
We wished it was more than because we were the only ones left.
We wished it was more than because we made each other feel.
We wished—for even a moment—to be the Lovers Entwined.
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