Build Me Up Just to Fall Again

[slytherinsnark]

It felt strange, walking the halls of Hogwarts again. The War behind them, the Castle stood as pristine as it once had. He'd been accepted to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts over Snape, for while he also had that scar on his arm, he hadn't been the one to kill Dumbledore. He found teaching surprisingly engaging, except the first years, of course. Bumbling idiots that hardly knew which end of their wand they were supposed to be holding onto.

Draco was older, different. For those that had known him before, his eyes shine darker, ringed in shadows, and he's no longer just arrogant and superior, but fairly distant from most of the other wizards at the school. Snape is the only once he seems able to stand being near; he almost follows him, but even that interaction is tumultuous, conflicted; peppered with snarky comments on the good days, and sneers and insults on both hands.

He's not as well-adjusted from the war as he claims, not even three years later. He still has nightmares, dreams where the scar of the dark mark on his arm turns black, where the snake twists and turns and curls around him, and as his body wracks with pain, he can feel cool scales and hear the hiss and tremble of a forked tongue. It happens during the day, sometimes, not as intense, but the scar bleeding into black, the first hum of pain. He medicates with a Elixir of Dementor's Bane. Before, he'd been buying the ingredients from a woman, and they would arrive by owl, but it's been a week since he's heard from her.

Stealing from Snape's potion cupboard was probably not the best idea, but it was the only one readily available. It was a surprisingly difficult potion, with a few ingredients that were far more exotic than what could be bought from Diagon Alley. Hopefully, he'd blame some upstart, trouble-making Gryffindor. He had to have at least one student that took after Potter and his obnoxious friends.

By the next evening, rested for the first time in the past week, he almost thinks he's gotten away with it. Snape likely docked some hapless student points from their house, and never would have thought about Draco. The ingredients were for Elixir of Dementor's Bane (which wouldn't actually affect a Dementor), but it did have several ingredients in common with the Draught of Living Death. He'd gotten lucky.

At least, so he thought until the Potions Master slid into the classroom where Draco was harshly grading the papers of his First Years, Snape's black robe billowing around him. Draco arched an eyebrow and set down his quill, leaning back in his chair with an arch of a delicate eyebrow.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Comments

[empty_yourself]

Draco is shaking beneath him, and it's tearing at his resolve. It's so tempting to just sink into him fast, knowing how his body would tense and tremble, but he knows this is a struggle for him, certain almost beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is a first, and he's determined not to steal this from him. He's lived long enough, endured enough to know that some things need to be given, need to go slowly.

Draco turns from the kiss and pulls him close, fingers gripping tight at his shoulders, and he exhales heavily against his pale neck when he hears that whine he tries to muffle against his skin. He presses a kiss to his neck and rolls his hips. He's pressing in, starting to sink into Draco's body now that the moment of tension has passed.

His hand moves from the mattress to Draco's left shoulder, down his arm, pushing the at the elbow to urge his arm up above his head slowly, and his hand skimmed along it, slow and careful, fingertips ghosting over the scar of his dark mark on their way to his wrist. He'll go for the other if this is alright, and he's biting at Draco's neck gently as his hand tightens around the slender wrist, waiting to find out if it's too much.

[slytherinsnark]

Draco needs it slow. At least here, now, this time. It's not too much, but fast would be. Despite his interest, his want, his desire, there's still only so much he can take. He shivers, a soft flushed gasp as Snape presses a kiss to soft skin and rolls his hips, working his length into Draco's slender body. He's sinking in, Malfoy's body far more accepting that initially, his blue eyes wide, lips parted, but his body is more or less relaxed.

His eyes flick to Snape's dark hues as that hand pushes at his elbow, guiding his arm above his head. There's a soft, timid jerk that isn't about discomfort, about this. Instead it's about how fingertips drag over that scar of his dark mark, and there's a flush to his face that says no one had touched it. Not since then. Not since it was black and livid and a symbol of Voldemort's power on his flesh. He tilts his head, baring his neck a bit more, trying to silently communicate that this is okay.

More than okay, honestly. There's a thrill, a breathlessness from the feeling of fingers wound around his wrist, holding him down, holding him in place as his other hand still clings to Snape's shoulders. He moans softly, and slowly, haltingly, rolls his hips a little, soft and experimental as his still getting used to the intensity of the feeling. So much heat, so much friction, so much of everything.

[empty_yourself]

Everything about Draco is receptive, open, permissive. He knew that it helped, that sometimes - maybe more than sometimes - a point of pressure, of restraint was welcome. It gave him something else to hold on to. Two days prior, that had come in the form of punishment, of Snape’s voice holding him in place over the desk, of wandless magic stealing his breath. Tonight it’s hardly that dangerous, just the slow caress of his hand over Draco’s arm, silently asking how much he would be permitted, how much Draco wanted.

There’s no question; no one has touched this mark since it meant power. Still, nothing in his reaction is rejection. Far from it, Draco tilts his head, neck exposed as he silently asks for more, and his body yields for him, relaxing, permitting him entrance. Slowly, so slowly, he sinks in completely until their bodies are pressed together. Draco is impossibly tight around him, and he can tell in spite of the little movements, the shifting of his hips, that he’s still struggling to get used to this.

Snape lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, warm over Draco’s skin. In truth, he needs a moment as well, afraid that if he moves now, starts fucking him as he’s craving, that he’ll come too soon, and he doesn’t want this over that quickly. Belatedly, he goes for Draco’s other arm and pushes it to the bed like the first, fingertips skimming over the soft skin. He shifts, catches the second wrist beneath his hand as well, holding them both pinned together. It would be easy to restrain him with magic, but that wasn’t the point. He wanted it like this, Draco needed restraint and contact, needed to be able to lose himself in being held and the reassurance of his presence. Later, if Draco wanted more, if he wanted to explore the darker side of this, they could negotiate different restraints.

He waits until he can feel Draco start to move beneath him again, slow and fitful like he can’t handle being still any longer. Then Snape begins to move, a slow, purposeful grind of his hips at first and then a shallow thrust, and another, dark eyes sliding shut as he feels the way Draco’s body moves beneath and against his.