slytherinsnark | Build Me Up Just to Fall Again

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Build Me Up Just to Fall Again

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?"

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There's this sudden flush of paranoia that strikes him as Snape walks into the room, lingering by one of the ill-fated cages that had held small creatures oh so many years ago. This feeling that itches up along his spine, that Snape can see through him, see the vial in his desk drawer, can somehow feel its effects on him. He convinces himself that he's being foolish, and tries his best to avoid looking guilty (it's been too many years now since he could pass for innocent). He makes a vague agreement to Snape's question about grading essays, but it seems to only serve as a springboard for Snape to launch into a scathing commentary on how mandrakes grow.

He knows. Of course he does; he realizes that it was foolish to think he could get away with this, that Snape would realize the difference. He half expected he would have been pulled out of bed when the potion-master noticed, but it was a risk he'd had to take. His use might be clearly bordering on addiction by this point, but he's not sure about what else he could do to deal with this. Admitting his guilt would probably be the best course of action, hope that he's somehow feeling forgiving (he never is).

"Granger always was an insufferable know-it-all," Draco comments, quietly reordering the papers he has left to grade. He's not entirely sure what to say, because if Snape knows the potion he's making (and that could be the only thing that led him here, instead of some troublemaking students) that means he knows what Draco's suffering from, the things he's trying to hide. It leaves unpleasant things like explanations, and it somehow seems easier to pretend that neither of them know what's going on here. Draco always is drawn to the bad decision.

"I'll admit I always found practical studies more engaging than legend and myths." He's not sure exactly how he expects this to end, but he knows it won't end well. Realizes that Snape isn't about to just turn around and walk away, and that they're talking about more than just the monetary value of the supplies. Draco's guilt, his nervousness shows through, the way he shirks back, downcast eyes, the shake of his hands.

Snape stands his ground and waits until he's very sure that Draco has made his decision. Draco is not so stupid to have missed his point. He's seen the young man react with guilt too often to be mislead now, and about things of relatively greater importance. It would not have made it right, but Snape would have regained some measure of respect for him if he had admitted his error and apologized, but that's not what's happening here. No, he's playing as though he's missing the point entirely. And in a sense, he is. He's missed that he's been given a chance to make this a little better for himself.

"Clearly," he says slowly, enunciating the word with a slow finality. He seems to square his shoulders, seems as though he's not merely looking down at Draco who his seated but looking down on him, because lying for a cause is one thing but lying to someone who had done the things that Snape has done for Draco is quite another. Ungrateful comes to mind. Spoiled as well. Entitled.

"Unfortunately, it seems your practical studies have found their way into my supply cabinet," he starts, at first just condescending, but when Draco dares try to play innocence further, it's rage, and his expression goes dark and he leans in, "Don't you dare play innocent with me, Draco Malfoy," he spits out his full given name.

It wasn't just anger that informed the decision of what he did next, but also the fact that there was little that would teach Draco a lesson. The usual punishments were soon forgotten, inconvenient and a worthy fine for an action that he would ultimately repeat again if the need arose. This might not be fair, he knew that this need was real, he'd seen the need in the young professor the first night in the great hall, the way his hands shook sometimes, that distant, haunted look in his eyes. The potion explained it all, suggested more, suggested that along with shakes and panic, there were nightmares, things that kept him up and, waking, things that kept him in fear.

It might not be fair to punish him for seeking an end to his suffering, but Draco of all people should know that if he needs help, all he needs to do, when it comes to Snape at least, is ask.

"Stand up," he says finally, and now his voice is empty, hollow, void of anger. A punishment like he has in mind is not one to be delivered in anger, in a rage, uncontrolled. He wouldn't dare risk harming him, but Draco did need to learn, and he knew him well enough to know that humiliation, if not pain, would likely speak to him more readily than inconvenience.

"And bend over your desk."

There's so much said in the way that Snape says clearly. There's a finality there, and more than that, there's that tone that makes him think of being back in his class, of disapproval not for choices made, for duplicity, but because the concoction swirling in his cauldron was violet instead of the proper indigo. If only the subject at hand was that easy, that simple to rectify. He wishes he had a good excuse, something he could offer to justify his actions, a culprit that was more likely than himself, but none of the other staff would dare. Elixir of Dementor's Bane was both very advanced, and not of an effect prone to abuses by the student body. He could imagine Granger making it as a theoretical study on the interaction of asphodel and mandrake root, but while Draco would be the last person on Earth to admit it, Hermoine wasn't typical.

He swallows, turning even more pale as Snape talks about his supply cabinet, and they both know that Draco is well and truly caught. Denial seems his only course; clinging to his assertion of innocence while hopeless, saves him from having to admit to being wrong, recant that false ignorance. "I would never---" He gets no further than that before Snape cuts him off, using his full name, and Draco leans back in his chair, shirking back from the weight of Snape's anger. He wouldn't tolerate this from anyone else, would probably have implied that they deserved to have things stolen, accused them of idiocy if they dared mention the potion he was clearly making. Snape was different. They both know this; it's in the emphasis Snape puts on the words that hang in the air between them.

There's tension, and Draco doesn't have any words for a moment, no cute, snide remark about how much better than him he is. Because he's not. Because there's simply too much between them. Their edgy day-to-day conversations are one thing, but this, here, it's like Snape is reclaiming that prior authority over him. If there was any doubt about that, it vanishes at that command. The way the anger vanishes, replaced by cool control. Stand up and bend over your desk.

It makes Draco swallow visibly, his blue eyes widening, a flush rising red in his cheeks. "You can't be serious," he says in near-desperation, but he knows better. If it was anyone else, he would assume it to be a sick joke; even with McGonagal. There's indignation, insult in his protests, but they quickly fade into silence. With Snape, he not only knows that he wouldn't demand something he didn't intend, but there's so much between them that Snape really can demand this of him. Snape has done too much to help him, too much for him. And that's why Draco finally rises to his feet, flush-faced, but his chin raised almost defiantly as slender, delicate fingers grip the edge of the desk. He just looks up into Snape's dark eyes for a few long moments before he sharply kicks the chair out of his way.

Draco swallows, wide-eyed, a flutter of fine blond lashes over his blue eyes before he slowly leans in. His slender body bending forward, until he's exposed, humiliated, bent over his desk like some sort of naughty child. Which perhaps he is, but he's also an instructor now, and somehow, he hadn't thought that Snape would push him like this, take one of the only things that actually meant something: his pride.

Snape doesn't respond to his last-ditch, desperate effort to escape from this, because everything about the situation asserts that yes, he is very serious.

He simply waits, watches as his protests and indignation fall in to silence, and all that's left is quiet defiance. Soon enough, that too will be gone. Draco might not think so now, might doubt him even still, but no matter.

This is affecting him, though. Defiance aside, it's shot through to his pride, and he's red-faced like a teenager again. Snape almost wishes he didn't have to do this, that Draco didn't need to push him, that he didn't need to be broken like this. There's another, quieter part of him, darker and more dangerous, that has secretly been waiting for an excuse to do exactly this.

He's aware he didn't give more instructions, didn't explicitly say to drop his trousers and pants. He had omitted that as a quiet trap, laid as a way to embarrass the pale young man further when he called him out on it, stating that he should have known.

There's a sharp clicking sound, Snape's tongue against his teeth, the roof of his mouth. It's disapproving. "One would think you've never been spanked before. But that can't be the case," he says, condescending, drawing out the words, slow and digging them in.

"As much of a handful as you've always been," his explanation lays heavily in the air between them.

"Trousers and pants around your knees. Don't make me repeat myself," he warns.

Draco's eyes snap up to look Snape in the face at that sound of disapproval, the way that the man's tongue clicks against his mouth. There's that brief flutter of uncertainty, where he's not sure what he's done wrong, just knows that he's clearly not doing something right. It makes his stomach twist, because what else could Snape possibly ask from him? His face is still flushed with the humiliation of it, and his lips thin as Snape's voice spills into the air between them. Truthfully, he's never been spanked, not really; his father's punishments were never tactile, skin-to-skin, it was always magic. However, he doesn't feel obliged to tell Snape that.

There's still that defiance, even in the face of what this is; that Snape is going to spank him. He's worn out his defenses about not being a first year student anymore, and there's not a thing he can say, nothing to refuse this. He trusts Snape, in a strange, twisted sort of way. It's because he's always been the one there when Draco's hurting, clinging to the edge. It's never gentle or sweet, but maybe that's not what he needs regardless. There's no demand about charmed doors, because somehow Draco trusts that Snape will only push him so far; to demand it seems redundant, maybe another disappointment.

He swallows at that demand, a flutter of eyelashes and the way that his shoulders curl inward, as if he wants to hide from how inescapable this is. He takes a breath, reaches down and undoes his belt, the zipper, pushes expensive black trousers down his legs so they pool around his ankles. Then his slender hands come back, hooking into black silk boxers and pulling them down over his hips, exposing the curve of his ass as they slide down his pale, slender legs. He doesn't pull up off the desk as he does so, trying to play by Snape's rules, avoid making this worse when he's already flushed and his heart is pounding in his throat.

"There," he intones with all the defiance he can muster, his eyes bright as he looks back up at him.

Snape waits, not moving from where he's standing at the head of the desk, where he can lock eyes with the young man when he looks up.

He waits until his trousers are pushed down, watches the way his slender body shifts to manage it without standing again, hearing the soft sounds of his breathing, huffs that sound so put out. Black silk boxers follow trousers down, and expose the pale skin of his ass and thighs.

The tone of his voice is losing its edge somewhat. The rest will fade soon enough.

He is careful not to be caught staring at the newly exposed skin when Draco looks up at him. Snape keeps his attention and then dismisses it as he begins to move around the desk, around behind Draco, standing slightly left of center.

"You'd do well to keep quiet," he warns, and after a moment, he adds, "Or someone in the corridor might hear you."

Not that it's likely, but it's still possible. Snape's robes are brushing against Draco's pale skin as he stands close. He waits, considering whether Draco deserves an easy start, and decides against it, the first blow coming down hard and unforgiving against the right cheek.

Edited 2013-02-20 00:56 (UTC)

There's a shiver as Snape moves around to stand behind him, Draco naked from the waist down, all pale skin and helpless anticipation. He can't do anything except wait, wait for what he knows is coming, the fact that Snape is really going to spank him. Somehow, that knowledge of it makes it worse. His body tenses, a slight curve to his spine, the way his shoulders tighten as Snape warns him to keep quiet, that someone might hear. He bites his lip, trying to keep quiet as he waits for the impact, tries to brace himself. There's a warmth to the potion-master's gaze on his body, the way his robes brush against his skin from how close their bodies are. Draco tries to pretend to be unaffected, and then his attention is suddenly focused somewhere else.

There's hardly any warning, just that brief displacement of air. The impact is hard, relentless, and Draco stops bracing himself on his hands, his chest flush to the desk as he buries his face into his arms, his eyes closing tight as he muffles the soft, helpless cry torn from his mouth. The impact burns, heats his skin, and the impact tingles from the point of contact to the surrounding skin. He's forcing himself, trying to keep his breathing more-or-less even, tosses back his head as if he's trying to say it wasn't that bad. Defiant, trying to cling to his pride despite his flushing skin, the ache on his right cheek, and wide blue eyes.

Snape wants to be disappointed in Draco. For his inability to be silent, to control his reactions, his emotions, the pain he feels. To take it like a man, as a muggle-born or mudblood might be used to hearing. But there was more to it than that, more than muggle notions of masculinity. It was about control, about having control over your own body even if you have control of nothing else in the world. Not what happens to it, surely, what it feels, but how it reacts, whether the show it puts on satisfies or remains indifferent.

The truth is, if he's honest, if he looks deep enough, he wants Draco like this. Out of control and needing him. Needing this. Needing a hard touch, guidance, discipline.

"I said quiet," he lingers heavily on that last word, mouthing it slowly into the air between them as Draco is even still now reacting. Back arching, hands coming up beneath his face, head coming up, still defiant.

"The count won't begin until you manage to control yourself," he says softly, not letting on what that number is. "Again," he announces, and this time the blow comes sooner, but he waits until buttocks relax again from that involuntary clench, and this blow is just as hard, to the as yet untouched cheek. He's satisfied to see pink spreading over his pale skin, roughly in the shape of his own hand.

Draco presses his lips together at that reminder, tries to force himself quiet, to convince himself to not react to the suddenness of the impact this time. The touch, the contact, the way it burns across his skin. He hadn't expected it to be so hard, so hot, to hurt this much. But it's a different sort of pain, not sharp, it's harder to fight against. He doesn't even know how many he's been sentenced to- ten, twenty?- and Snape is declaring it doesn't start until Draco can control himself. He's not sure that he can, not like this, not with Snape's hand touching against his ass, but he doesn't say that.

The cry is quieter this time, more properly muffled into his arm as his body jerks under the impact. There's that flicker of desire to crawl on the desk as if he can crawl away, but there's that same desire to lean back into it. Into the pain, the heat, the punishment that flares all the confused, twisted things he feels for Snape. His ass is settling into a soft burn, that first strike still hot where it landed, his body shaking.

Again, there's that moment after where he tries to catch his breath, to piece his defiance and his arrogance back together.

Quieter is still sound, and there's a soft hum, disapproving and low in his throat. The second blow left a pink print, almost perfectly showing his hand.

"Not quite," he remarks. Ideally, he'd like less squirming (though a part of him certainly also wants more), wants him to be able to withstand this without reaction. This, in the grand scheme of human experience, is nothing. He's not breaking his skin, his bones, his will to live. He's simply bringing his hand down on his ass, again and again, though he knows he's short-changing this, that there's a power and a language in this kind of control, this kind of pain, one that's strong and real and emotional. He can feel it, even if he isn't letting on.

"Try harder," he says, his voice lost in breath, and the blows come hard, at random intervals, too little space between them for Draco to find the time to collect himself, to catch his breath. He's pushing harder than Draco has shown he's able to handle, he knows he's setting him up to fail as he layers hand prints over his cheeks, changes the color from pink to ruddy splotches. He wants him to fail. To be too loud, to cry out in the dark room, to possibly be overheard, to shame himself.

He wants all of that, because he wants to gather up all of the pieces that Draco can't find.

Edited 2013-02-20 02:58 (UTC)

Draco doesn't dare respond verbally, not with the way that Snape is spanking him, afraid he might cry out loud, that someone in the hall might hear. Would Snape save him, or let him shame himself like this to prove a point? He likes to think not. But bent over, pressed into the desk, right now, he just doesn't know. He tries to obey, to do what Snape wants, doesn't even realize he's being set up to fail. Without the breaths inbetween each strike, with the way the strikes color both cheeks in rapid succession, layering so his ass is burning red.

Draco's lost all control, his body shaking, pressing into the strikes even as he tries to pull away in the fraction after. His voice is shaking, rising, louder, sharper, unable to keep his voice down, to quiet the sobs that slip from his lips as Snape keeps spanking him. He's in so many pieces he doesn't know where to turn, and there's a certain solace in the heat, in the pain like this. Feeling; something that holds him in place, anchors him, and it's that feeling that has him leaning in as his blond eyelashes flutter damp over his glassy eyes.

His control is absolutely shattered, if he even had any to begin with. It's almost hard to play at being disappointed when this was what he wanted, when he pushed for him to lose so that he could take even more than this from him and give him the tools to rebuild.

"You're going to alert half the school to what's going on here," Snape scolded, voice cutting through the new silence. His hand is poised in the air, but he's just watching, unable to quite believe that as vocal as he is about the pain, that he's pressing back for more.

"Perhaps you require assistance in controlling yourself," he said, raising his other hand from where it was braced on the desk, and as he raises it up he curls it slowly as if into a fist, but stops as though his fingers are wrapped around something unseen. Draco will feel his breath catch in his throat, as if Snape's hand were tight around his neck, cutting off the air.

That next blow comes just as hard, just as sudden and without warning, but it also comes without sound, without cries and sobs.

"One," Snape breathes into the silence, counting.

Draco couldn't do anything except whine at that reprimand, trying to catch his breath, quiet himself, but it's nearly impossible to control himself. All he can do it react, let his body move, cries spilling from his lips and less and less muffled into his arms as he gets louder. The comment about requiring assistance sounds like a threat, and his shoulders shake as he tries to predict what punishment could possibly follow this, but he can't even fathom. And then his air is stolen from him, like his throat is being compressed by invisible fingers.

He can't cry out, and he leans into it, thoughtless, as if he's trying to feel it that much more. He has no control left, unable to hide these broken pieces of himself, and out of anything, it's the part he hates the most. These slivers of himself hidden even further than the nightmares. The strike comes hard, and tears slide down his cheeks from the feel of hard impact on abused, burning cheeks, and there's nothing he can do, no sound on his lips. His body shivers, that arch of his back, his legs quivering as Snape finally begins that sound into the now-still air.

Silence now. Silence, but he's still moving, he's still shaking beneath him, and Snape is quite aware of the solidity of the erection growing beneath his robes. He is no stranger to this part of himself, the part that relishes bringing someone to their knees, stripping everything away until all that was left needed to hold on to keep from drowning. He liked being that anchor, he liked quieting the rush of that turbulent sea.

He continues, two, three, four, out loud in the silence. He knows Draco is beginning to struggle, that soon he needs to breathe, but he's holding off, biding his time, careful as he holds out.

"Five," and he's halfway, but Draco doesn't know that. Two things happen. His left hand opens and he lets up that touchless grip, lets Draco gasp for air before six, and his hand comes down to press gently against Draco's hot skin, soothing if it wasn't almost making it worse by the contact. He rubs slowly, soothing circles, and murmurs soft encouragement, "You're doing better…"

He can't breathe, there's no air, there's just the hard impact of Snape's hand against his already burning ass. It feels like a brand, like something more, deeper than just being spanked, and the lack of air, the way it makes him lightheaded, pushes him further as he fights vainly to lean into it has his hands clawing against the surface of his desk. He's shaking, wide-eyed, that panic that's not terror, biological without actually dipping into fear, because there's something about this that's intoxicating, has him hard against the desk. He's dizzy, darkening tunnel-vision, and then he's gasping for breath, but after one breath there's a way he moves, shifting, leaning, like he's trying to find that touch again, seeking some twisted sort of stability.

Then Snape's hand touches his ass, and that's better, even as it's worse. He gasps, chokes, his shoulders shaking on a sob he tries to muffle as fingers rub circles into tortured skin. He leans into it, his body twisting, moving toward the touch and it comes out mostly as a whimper, but it's hopeful pleasure as Snape saying he's doing better. He's embarrassed, ashamed, afraid that Snape sees through him, sees what this is, what this is doing to him. He almost wants to beg for him to stop before Draco makes it worse, but he owes Snape too much for that.

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.

Snape isn't the only one with fantasies. Draco's are dark, confused, tangled balls of need and want and hormones. He wants Snape to touch him, to hurt him, to soothe away things he can't handle, he wants to feel skin and hands and pleasure. As much as he melts into the invisible hand at his throat, he wishes it was Snape's fingers, the touch, the contact, the feeling of it all. There's a moment when he expects another strike and it doesn't come, and there's that spike of fear that Snape's seen, noticed, and he just doesn't know how he'd react.

He's holding onto that deep breath, trying not to give into fear of it, and then Snape takes his breath away again, and that feels like a sign that everything's okay. Those hard strikes that flare against his skin, leaves his cheeks damp as his cries fall into nothing but silence. The friction of the desk as his hips jolt with every slap of Snape's hand against his burning red rear. His legs feel like liquid, makes it feel like he'd tumble to the ground if not for the desk; shaking with every slap and jostle of his body, every count where his breath pounds in his throat like his heartbeat.

Then it's ten, and Draco doesn't even know if that's the end, or if he's waiting on eleven. His breath still pounding against those invisible fingers. Draco would have hated to admit it, but Snape has touched him, pushed and broken so there are pieces glinting that no one was ever meant to see. He's so aware of it when Snape moves into his space, presses in until that erection presses against Draco's ass through the fabric of dark robes. There's an exhale of breath not his own, and then Draco's comes in a hot dragging gasp as that hand slips away.

Snape's fingers curling around his cock, and breath that's still uneven comes as almost a sob after the brief cruelty. Pulling him back from the edge, but then Snape's making up for it. Stroking him, and all Draco can do it arch his body, lean into it, trembling as his fingers try to cling to the edge of the desk because there's this impossible feeling like he's falling.

The sobbing sound of his breath now is a slight concern. He's not sure if he's still recovering or if he doesn't actually want this part. Snape is many things, but he's not actually that much of a monster… his hand slows, stills, and he reaches into his mind, slow as he penetrates the jumbled mess of his thoughts, because he needs to know, needs to be sure, and he doesn't trust Draco to be able to speak right now, to ask him.

There they are. They're a mess, these thoughts, swirling and dark with need, the kind of intensity of a hormonal teen, that hard biological need, the snap reactions, but the things he wants are anything but adolescent. He wants to be hurt, he wants to be held, needs this and more. Snape's breath comes shaky as he sees that, feels it, need that hits him hard. Draco will feel his presence, but he won't see anything of Snape; he's locked down tight, but the shift of his hips that snugs the fit of their bodies, his cock pressed between sore cheeks through all those layers and his hand speeding up again betrays what his mind never will.

Draco is trembling beneath him and Snape's hand is skillful as he slips back from his mind, leaves him alone with his troubled, swirling thoughts. In a voice barely above a whisper, he silences the room, unwilling to risk the school overhearing what they're doing now, and it's a one-word allowance for Draco to make the sounds he must.

His thumb lavishes attention on the slick head, and the pace is growing faster and more urgent. He's playing to the tension in Draco's body, the way he shakes, the sounds he's making, and he's actively trying to bring him off, not quite able to remain impassive, hips very slowly, very subtly rocking against his raw behind.

He can feel it, his presence as Snape slips into his thoughts, a feeling of warmth. But even if Snape wasn't better at it than Draco, the young man's mind was too lost, too scattered, tied up on Snape, this moment, the touches. There's that brief flutter of shyness at what Snape might find. He wants to be hurt, he wants Snape to hurt him, and oh but he wants this too. He wants that feeling of Snape's fingers around his cock as he groans softly. He doesn't stop; his hand speeding up again, stroking over Draco's cock, and he wants to touch, but he feels like he's not allowed. His hands clutching at the desk instead of against skin, muffling moans and murmurs, but the way that Snape presses against him is at least part of a consolation.

He shakes at that soft, single world, because Draco recognizes it, realizes that it's like safety. It gnaws at him, even just trying to quiet the noises on his mouth and not silence them completely. Snape's hand is moving faster, and Draco's head tosses back, his hips rolling, unable to keep from pressing into Snape's fingers. He can feel it, the soft way that Snape rubs against him, and oh, he loves that, wants it, has dreams of cool eyes, harsh hands, being held down and so many other things and then being fucked. No fabric between them, just flesh and flesh, though he's not sure he could take it, not with his ass still burning, over sensitive to the contact, making him press back and arch forward depending on the moment. He's not going to last long, can't help himself as he moans and gasps and whimpers. He almost says his name, but he holds onto that. The only piece he hasn't given away of himself is how much this means.

Once the room is silenced, Draco is less so. Snape wishes he were less obvious now, himself, and though he does have an exceedingly large amount of control, he can't quite get a hold of himself here. His breathing is ragged, it's obvious, audible, and maybe he can't stop moving his hips, or maybe he just doesn't want to. It's what he allows himself, because he's not going for more. He doesn't want to be touched, because today this isn't about what he wants, it's about what Draco needs. Punishment first, and now reward. He watches Draco move; he's fitful, head tossed back, trembling beneath him, pressing back.

Snape's lips part, and he means to tell him to come, perhaps to give him permission or to command him to come on cue through the power of suggestion, but he doesn't trust his voice. All that escapes is a low, strangled moan and he closes his mouth, jaw clenched, determined not to repeat that, not to give away any more of how he feels, that he wants. It's obvious enough by the hard point of contact against his trembling body.

He knows Draco is close, regardless of what he says or doesn't say, and his hand keeps moving, falling into a pantomime of how Draco's moving, hips rolling, pressing forwards, and how Snape is moving behind him. Soon. It's just a matter of time, likely a matter of seconds, and the last shred of resolve will wear too thin and he'll come, even if Snape can't muster the resolve to breathe the command.

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.

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.

It's inappropriate, perhaps sick and wrong by come counts, but Draco couldn't care less. He had a crush on Snape when he'd been younger, blossoming during his forth year as his hormones started to run wild. It had been childish, Snape had been different, had always drawn his attention; it was why he'd always put so much focus on perfecting his potions. After Dumbledore's death it had changed. It had slowly sunk in that Snape was the only person that was always there when he stumbled; when Harry had nearly killed him with that hex, stepping in when he couldn't kill Dumbledore, and innumerable smaller things. There were days he half expected Voldemort to kill him, when it felt like too much, and Snape became his sanity, the way he could anchor himself in the breath of a cool glance.

He doesn't expect Snape to stay, and frankly Draco isn't sure what he'd say if he did. It gives him time to catch his breath, clean up (even if he'll always know), and rearrange his clothes. He lights a few candles, and once the high settles, he finishes grading the infuriatingly dense papers of his first year students, his heart still racing in his chest.

He avoids him in public, not because he's displeased with what happened, or because he's mad at him -- not even with the fact that he very carefully tries to avoid sitting down. It's because he doesn't know what to say, and he doesn't trust himself. He might stammer, blush, give himself away, and someone like McGonogal would notice. It doesn't stop him from knocking on Snape's chamber doors two nights later, a few strokes shy of midnight.

He's still tempted to just steal what he needs, but he doesn't. Instead, he's standing at his door, and he's going to ask, even if that's something that Malfoys have never been particularly skilled at. His hands are shaking, and there's a pallor to his skin, his blue eyes sharp and haunted as he waits.

The night it happened was not the only night that Snape touched himself to the memory of it. He had last night as well, in the silence and darkness of his chambers.

Draco was avoiding him. It was to be expected, he wasn't concerned. Truthfully, it was welcome, gave him space for his thoughts. He wasn't hung up with regrets, he wasn't that kind of man. He had done exactly as he intended to do. The punishment had been well planned before that burst of rage, and the rest… well, that had been a long time coming.

Snape considered what Draco's next move would be. Would he steal again? It was entirely possible. Draco had always been so defiant, and a second offense, Snape had to admit, would almost be admirable. Aware of what the punishment would be, almost inviting it. Snape wasn't so sure that he would go that route, however. It was likely the message would get through to him, that he'd return to whatever method he'd previously been using to get the ingredients he needed, or simply come and ask for them.

Relying so heavily on a potion wasn't the answer, but he'd give him what he needed if he came to him, whether it was from his supplies or by his hand. Yesterday, he'd caught sight of Draco in the hall, looking much the way he often did, the way he realized now was a precursor to remaking the potion; shaking, hollow, lost. Snape made a batch of the potion earlier today in preparation for when he finally came.

Tonight, Snape was seated in a dark easy chair, feet up on a low stool. He was only partly undressed, long frock coat hanging neatly in his bedroom, leaving him in the white shirt he wore beneath with its high collar and long buttoned cuffs, a slender fitting black vest and trousers that buttoned at the ankle. Shoes off, feet in slippers. He wasn't sure it would be tonight, but when the knock came, he knew who it was at once. He glanced to the clock, set down his book and stood, moving through the rooms for the door, and opened it.

Draco looked so pale and small it was alarming. His gaze caught the shake of his hands and returned to those sharp, ice blue eyes. Nothing about Snape's face is apologetic, because he doesn't regret what he did, what happened. He has nothing to apologize for, and neither, anymore, does Draco. He paid that due two nights ago.

The air from the corridor is cold, while that of his chambers is warm at his back, and he steps back into it, opening the door wider with a soft, "Come in," that doesn't leave room for Draco to say no. Whatever happens, even if tonight it's just a conversation, it's not one that is happening in the hall.

Draco flushes a little as Snape steps into the door, without his robes, and his coat, just his white shirt and the long dark vest. He wants to touch, hasn't been able to get him out of his head, hasn't been able to get what happened out of his head. His ass still aches, still pink and warm, and he's here anyway. Stealing would have made a point, soothed at that desire to be defiant and stubborn, but Snape made a point last time, and Draco can't quite bring himself to ignore that.

He nods, moving into Snape's room, letting the door shut behind him as he tries to focus his eyes somewhere that isn't Snape, looking around the potion-master's room. He's always fantasized about Snape, but not it's hotter, more insistent, makes it so there are other things he wants to ask him about that don't involve that potion. He knows it's not healthy; that the addictions caused by potions can be hard to break. He feels like he's falling.

It's just a little bit better, standing here, focusing on Snape's presence even if he's not looking at him. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

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