Say Anything

by Kass

Jo Ellen wanted Slytherin fiction for her birthday. Casting about for ideas, I asked Sanj for a pairing and a concept. Sanj said, "Snape/Harry; Harry explains cheese from a can. Or some other incomprehensible Muggle thing." The result was almost certainly not what she meant, but it was fun to write, and since it's definitely Slytherin fiction, I offered it to Jo.

Things escalate quickly.

Probably not surprising, really. Two years of wanking to shameful but irresistible fantasies¬í—kneeling to suck Snape's cock; how Snape would look, erection protruding from his robes, stark and hungry¬í—honed Harry's desire to a fine, sharp edge. All it took was one night of slightly too much to drink, one snippy comment from Snape about Harry's parentage, and about eleven seconds of standing right up in Snape's personal space yelling before Harry found himself plastering his erstwhile professor to the wall of the pub. If Snape objected to having Harry's tongue in his mouth, he didn't let on. They apparated to Harry's flat three minutes after that, and were naked and groping each other madly by midnight.

It's been two weeks, and they've settled into an odd kind of detente: at Grimmauld Place they quarrel and snipe and glare at each other, and at night they forego talking to fuck. They're much better at fucking, really. The annoyance, the sharp edges, Harry's insolence and Snape's sneering melt in the face of how bloody good this feels. Harry laughs sometimes to think how much easier Hogwarts might have been if he and Snape had been shagging on the side.

But lately things have escalated: Snape has started talking.

Not "how was your day" kind of talk, which Harry would expect from anyone else he was shagging regularly but would be uncomfortable and odd coming from Snape. Not "you impossible imbecile" kind of talk, which Harry's got used to but still doesn't enjoy, especially when Snape says something cutting in front of Lupin or Tonks. No: this is a new thing altogether. This is dirty talk.

This is, "I know a potion, Potter, two drops of which rubbed into the tip of your penis would prevent you from coming for hours. I could fuck you as slow as I like and you would just hover here on the precipice, begging for release." Murmured into his ear as a first thrust impales him and Snape's long slim fingers encircle his prick.

The combination of voice and touch is almost more than he can bear: every time Snape does it Harry comes almost instantly. He's vaguely embarrassed about that, though Snape doesn't seem to mind.

Harry wonders if he ought to reciprocate. Say things to Snape. But his voice doesn't have that smoky languor, and he can't muster Snape's air of authority. Plus there's a kind of poetry to sex talk, and Harry's half-afraid he'll open his mouth and come out with the world's unsexiest metaphor. The first time he made a guy come (Ron, third year, in the middle of the night when they hoped like hell Neville and Seamus weren't awake or listening) all he could think of was Cheez Whiz, which made him laugh so hard Ron kissed him to shut him up. That was nice, actually. They hadn't kissed, before. (And he's never told Ron what was so funny.) No: sex talk is not his forte.

But the ante's been upped, and Harry knows he has to respond somehow. This is their dynamic: one pushes, the other pushes back. It fueled their bitter distaste for one another at Hogwarts; it fuels their continuing arguments in the Order. (It's obvious everyone wonders how they work together, though Hermione's given him some odd glances lately; she might've caught on.) And it fuels the sex. The really good sex. Which Harry's damned if he has any intention of giving up on.

So tonight when Snape purrs in his ear, "Cat got your tongue, Potter?" Harry twists and rolls so he's on top, pinning Snape to the bed. Harry reaches down and works Snape's cock, two-handed, the way he's learnt Snape likes it. And then, when the time is right, he murmurs "I love you," and Snape convulses and comes, for once too startled to say anything at all.

(535 words)

The End