He needs this, can't help how much he needs this. He's always wanted this, wanted Snape to hurt him, hold him, touch him. Anchor him when he continually felt like he was falling, like the shadows were going to eat him alive. He never could have asked for this, any of it, but he's shamefully obvious between moans, the way his hips jerk into the strokes of Snape's hand. The only consolation here is that he's not the only one, that he can feel it as Snape rocks against him, the press of his cock through his robes, and it makes those half-imagined fantasies real, possible, something he can have and not just in dark dreams that he never talks about.

Snape moans, audible and obvious and it makes him shiver. His hips twitch, stutter and jerk against Snape's fingers. He's embarassingly close, trembling, his spine arching, and this is dirty and perverse from how he's bent with his trousers around his ankles to how Snape is jerking him off over his desk. He just likes the creeping knowledge that it's not just punishment, that it's not one-sided, that there's at least some sort of interest here. He never would have thought it possible, that he'd always be that annoying, selfish brat. At least, that was how he'd always assumed that Snape had thought of him.

It's not long at all before he's gasping harsly, moaning and shaking as his orgasm hits him and all he can do is cling to the edge of the desk, his eyes closing tight as pleasure tears through him. It's so intense, so much more than anything else he's felt, whether his own hand, or the few men he's been with.