Snape realizes that complete silence is unrealistic. He's hitting him hard, each blow enough to shake his slender frame, enough to press his thighs to the desk, the kind of force he sometimes fantasizes about applying with his hips and cock instead instead. That has been recent, a switch that flipped at the start of term, with Draco unmistakably a man. The war aged everyone, but it transformed Draco into someone entirely different, less the petulant child, or so he'd thought, and more a brooding, hardened cynic, someone that Snape could understand, tolerate, want to spend time with.

But not if Draco plans to carry on stealing from him, lying to his face, thinking him stupid enough not to notice.

"Breathe deep," his voice is low as he pulls his hand away. He doesn't linger very long, doesn't quite trust himself with the way Draco's body twists beneath him, hips and red ass so inviting.

Snape moves back half a step, hand raising to begin again, and he catches a glimpse of Draco's swollen cock. He leans back, to the side, enough to see more, see it thick and red and pressing at the underside of his desk.

Is he surprised? He's not certain just yet, and raises his hand up again, fingers curling in the air as he steals Draco's. Six, seven, eight, now when his hand touches Draco's ass it's hard again, rough blows that he now knows are nudging his erection against the satiny finish of the desk. He can't see it from this angle, but he's imagining it, the friction, how this must feel almost like fucking, that same rough, regular slamming of his hips. Snape wonders if he's being so rough that Draco's hip bones will bruise from the collisions. Nine, and Snape swallows thickly as he watches Draco's legs, thighs trembling. The blotchy layers of color over his cheeks, the pale skin disappearing up beneath his shirt, his jacket. The pale stripe between his cheeks, his entrance, and he could touch that too if he wanted, could press a hand at the small of his back and let fingers explore down… but he doesn't.

Ten. Snape exhales a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and it's luxuriously loud in the still, silent air where Draco's breath is in his hand, obscene that Snape gets to hold his breath with desire when Draco doesn't get to choose. Snape's hand lingers there, in the air above Draco's red bottom, and he's staring down at what he's done, and he knows that Draco hasn't learned anything like control, but if he's lucky, he might have learned not to steal. Might have actually made a dent on the swollen pride and reached a place Draco thought no one could touch.

Draco is hard and Snape wants to touch him, wants to give him something for all that he's taken.

He moves close behind him, closer than perhaps he needs to, close enough that he comes to press against Draco's ass through his clothes, through his robes, and it's obvious suddenly that Draco isn't the only one here who's painfully hard. Snape exhales again, obscene, right hand coming to the young man's slender hip and slipping around his body. As it slowly curls around the heat of his cock, his left hand lets go, gives him back the ability to breathe, to gasp for air. He braces himself against the desk with that hand, half bent over Draco as he begins to jerk him off, beginning with a cruel, calculated move that brings him back from an edge that he might be nearing so that this isn't done as soon as it begins.