This would be utterly inappropriate if Snape was the kind of person who drew those kinds of lines about morality. He'd been his professor, family friend, protector, and now he was blurring the line to lover. There will be a next time, he's sure of it, because he knows Draco. He knows how he operates, knows how he is when he's awakened to something. In the past it has been power, the allure of it in the fold of Voldemort, and he had pursued it relentlessly, bitten off more than he could ever chew, unwilling or unable to yield once his mind was set upon his goal. He wanted this, too, just as much as he had wanted power. Perhaps more, now, to fill the ache, the void that the past years had left in him. With this taste, his pursuit would be relentless, in his own time.
Snape recognizes the signs, the precursors, the way his body begins to shake, how he's trembling and arching beneath him, his breath shallow and desperate, gasping as if he still can't quite catch his breath. Soon, he's coming, and Snape carries him through it, stroking marginally more slowly, taking care not to get it on his hand, letting it coat the underside of the desk. It's filthy. He imagines Draco, tomorrow morning, taking a seat at this desk, where the night before he was bent over the top and punished and rewarded, soiling the underside of it. He would clean it up, but traces would remain, Draco would know what had happened here, would think of it every time he sat down.
When he feels that he's finished, his hand stops moving, but lingers on him just a second or two too long, almost reluctant to move away. But then he is, hand skimming past his hip as he moves away. He backs up slowly and drinks in the scene before him. Draco is utterly undone, trousers in a mess pooled at his ankles, long pale legs leading up to his perfectly round ass, layered in splotches of red. His jacket is bunched up a little, from his squirming, and from Snape leaning against him. He's saving this image to memory, burning it into his mind because he's going to bring it up now when he thinks of Draco. More than the pale gold hair and ivory skin, he'll think of this too, beneath all of the fine tailored suits that modestly cover his skin to the wrists and high on his neck, he'll remember him half-naked and trembling and flushed red.
He leaves without a word, because nothing is appropriate after this. There's nothing to say to him. Draco will obviously take a few moments to gather himself before he leaves, there's no need to tell him to do so, and now is not the time to talk. Not when Draco needs to recover, needs time to think, and Snape… Snape needs to get to his chambers, the sooner the better, and preferably without passing anyone in the corridor.
Robes are remarkably useful for concealing, something he's been thankful for on more than one occasion.
no subject
Snape recognizes the signs, the precursors, the way his body begins to shake, how he's trembling and arching beneath him, his breath shallow and desperate, gasping as if he still can't quite catch his breath. Soon, he's coming, and Snape carries him through it, stroking marginally more slowly, taking care not to get it on his hand, letting it coat the underside of the desk. It's filthy. He imagines Draco, tomorrow morning, taking a seat at this desk, where the night before he was bent over the top and punished and rewarded, soiling the underside of it. He would clean it up, but traces would remain, Draco would know what had happened here, would think of it every time he sat down.
When he feels that he's finished, his hand stops moving, but lingers on him just a second or two too long, almost reluctant to move away. But then he is, hand skimming past his hip as he moves away. He backs up slowly and drinks in the scene before him. Draco is utterly undone, trousers in a mess pooled at his ankles, long pale legs leading up to his perfectly round ass, layered in splotches of red. His jacket is bunched up a little, from his squirming, and from Snape leaning against him. He's saving this image to memory, burning it into his mind because he's going to bring it up now when he thinks of Draco. More than the pale gold hair and ivory skin, he'll think of this too, beneath all of the fine tailored suits that modestly cover his skin to the wrists and high on his neck, he'll remember him half-naked and trembling and flushed red.
He leaves without a word, because nothing is appropriate after this. There's nothing to say to him. Draco will obviously take a few moments to gather himself before he leaves, there's no need to tell him to do so, and now is not the time to talk. Not when Draco needs to recover, needs time to think, and Snape… Snape needs to get to his chambers, the sooner the better, and preferably without passing anyone in the corridor.
Robes are remarkably useful for concealing, something he's been thankful for on more than one occasion.