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

[slytherinsnark]

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.

[empty_yourself]

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.

[slytherinsnark]

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.

[empty_yourself]

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.

[slytherinsnark]

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.

[empty_yourself]

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…"

[slytherinsnark]

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.

[empty_yourself]

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.

[slytherinsnark]

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.

[empty_yourself]

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.

[slytherinsnark]

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.

[empty_yourself]

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.

[slytherinsnark]

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.

[empty_yourself]

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.

[slytherinsnark]

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.

[empty_yourself]

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.

[slytherinsnark]

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?"

[empty_yourself]

Snape shuts the door behind Draco, the wards still firmly in place as he follows Draco in to what is a nice, almost cozy sitting room. The walls are lined with bookshelves and the light comes from hovering candles that had been clustered near the single black chair until Snape had gotten up, and were now lazing about above their heads, scattered to spread a low light. There's a second chair for guests, but it doesn't see much use, and it's not meant to. It's hard and straight backed, no cushion, the kind of seat intended for a guest he'd like to leave sooner than later.

Draco may not be looking at him, but he's certainly looking at Draco. There's color in his cheeks, a flush, perhaps embarrassment for the reason he's come. Regardless, it looks good on him, makes him look human. Without it his alabaster skin makes him look carved from stone, statuesque, perfect.

"You did, I always sleep fully clothed," he says with dry sarcasm and the lift of one brow. Draco is nervous, he's talking without thinking, and it's endearing. Not that he'd let on to that.

"I was reading," he says sincerely, "You're not bothering me at all."

He doesn't ask why he's here, what he needs, because he trusts Draco to get to that. He doesn't want to press him, except that increasingly he does, but against a wall, not for answers.

[slytherinsnark]

It catches him, lips parted, and he runs fingers through his short hair to try and settle his nerves, looking at Snape from the edge of his eye, the elegant arch of that eyebrow. He's talking without thinking, nervous just from being around Snape, from the aftermath of the nightmare, from the thoughts in his head. He moves into the room, but instead of sitting he merely stands next to the chair. His ass still aches and the chair seems as if it's meant to be uncomfortable. Not to mention that with Snape he doesn't have to hide it, because Snape already knows.

It's difficult, he realizes suddenly, standing there wide-eyed, skin slightly sheened from waking nightmares, the terror that was on the verge of possessing him not long ago. He needs another dose, but saying it is somehow difficult as he swallows, looking up at him, that arrogant lift of his chin that is almost permanent. His fingers fidget, his eyes dart; it's not as bad as when he was in the hallway, but how affected he is manages to still be quite clear.

"I need some potion reagents," he says finally, drawing his gaze up to look into Snape's dark eyes and he shifts awkwardly. It's not just asking (even if its devoid of things like that lilt if his voice or things like please, or any of the usual niceties. It's so very, veryk hard when all he can think of is how much he needs Snape, needs him to hurt him, to take away these feelings. It feels like if Snape held him down, touched him, that it wouldn't feel like this, but that's likely just related to how much the other night made him feel. Like he was dying, and so much better. He doesn't really know how to finish the rest of it; he's avoiding mentioning the name of the potion, doesn't want to have to acknowledge just exactly what Snape knows. He doesn't want to have to admit that he's not okay, that he can't cope, that he's still this weak, this helpless. He hasn't been okay since there stopped being someone to ground him from the fear.

[empty_yourself]

When Draco turns to face him, he looks him over more carefully. Snape hadn't been sleeping, but Draco had been. At least for a little while. His hair was just slightly ruffled, but more, there was that wild expression in his eyes, the sheen of his skin that suggested waking terror. Snape knew well why he took the potion, what drove him to that extreme. He didn't know the specifics, but he was well versed in fear. It didn't take much to imagine what Draco was experiencing.

Draco is standing near that uncomfortable chair, and it would be easy to change it for him into something more tolerable - he knows sitting still can't be comfortable even under the best of circumstances - but he doesn't. He's watching him shift and fidget, watching how his attention moves about the room before finally it raises to his face. Idly, Snape wonders just how red his behind still is…

He waits for Draco to speak, and then he does. Snape is silent for a moment, watching him as he shifts where he stands. It's clear it's a request even if it's not quite a question. He can see that Draco needs so much more than reagents. Otherwise, he wouldn't be here.

Finally, he gives a single nod and leaves the room, returning with a small vial in hand, held for him to see. He doesn't say the words, doesn't make it explicit, I knew you were coming and made this for you, but it's obvious all the same. It's a caring gesture, even if it might be enabling.

"All you had to do was ask," he says softly, turning the little stoppered vial over in his fingers. He spares it a glance as the candlelight catches the carved glass, and looks again to Draco.

"This isn't a cure," he says slowly, to make sure Draco was aware. It would keep the nightmares at bay temporarily, but they'd keep coming back, and eventually he would reach a tolerance, need more, and the effects would pile on each other… Snape didn't want to see Draco go down that road.

"But you can have it now if you need it." It's resting in his palm, free for the taking, and he's not looking away from Draco's pale blue eyes. "Or you could stay the night," he offers after a breath.

"Or you may have both," he adds. Later, they'll discuss choosing one or the other, but tonight is not the night for that.

[slytherinsnark]

His breath catches when Snape returns with a vial, the liquid that shimmering almost clear in the carved glass. It says a lot; that Snape knew he'd be coming, was aware of what he was medicating with. His eyes widen a little, dart down to the vial that he holds in his open palm. It makes his heart twist, his pulse flutter a beat, and he knows that he's already hit that edge of unhealthy; it doesn't last him as long as it used to, and he's not unaware it's a downward spiral. It makes that offer that much more breath-taking, the idea that he could stay, hold onto Snape instead of that vial. His lashes flutter as he looks back up at him, a slight tilt of his head as he looks into his dark eyes.

"I could have made it myself," he says a little petulantly, trying to hide that he is touched by the gesture, the idea that Snape cared enough to do this for him. He reaches out, catching the vial in Snape's hand, but he pauses, trying to work through what he really wants. In truth, it's the man that made it for him, not the potion.

"I can stay?" It's a hopeful question as he pulls the vial away, slips it into the pocket of his expensive trousers. He's dressed as he usually is, even though his first impulse was to just toss on a shirt and trousers and come running to the man's door. All in black, except for the emerald green of his tie, and the carved silver Slytherin snakes of his cufflinks, the button-down front onyx. It gave him time to catch his breath, not look quite so breathlessly desperate. But it doesn't change the fact that he is; slightly glassy eyes are still on Snape, hopeful, wanting, needy.

[empty_yourself]

It's with almost a touch of sadness that he watches how Draco's gaze is drawn to the vial. It's clear he's to the point of almost craving it. If not the potion itself, the temporary relief it offers, and it's the first step down.

When Draco responds, almost petulant, saying he could have made it himself, there's a split second where Snape can't help but think how ungrateful he sounds. But it doesn't go any deeper than his words. Everything else says that he's touched, almost relieved that Snape knew, that he'd taken the time to bother with this, that he'd cared enough. The petulance is a mask he wears, and truthfully, it often has been in the past as well, hiding fear and uncertainty, and pain.

Once Draco takes the vial, Snape's hand falls back to his side, and he nods. Yes, he can stay.

"If you want to," he says softly, eyes skimming down Draco's slender form. He was dressed as he always was, meticulous even though he'd just woken from a nightmare. He'd like to scoop him up into his arms, hold him close and make it better, however Draco needed it to be better. If that meant being bent over a desk, so be it, but Snape also wanted it to mean being tucked against him beneath the covers.

[slytherinsnark]

"I want to," Draco replies, a little breathless, and quickly enough it would be hard to deny just how much he wants this, wants him. He wants it even more than the glass vial tucked away in his pocket, but for the moment he still needs the security of it. That reassurance that if it's too bad, too much, he still has that balm that will take it all away. But for the moment, he wants Snape to be the one to take it away, ground him, anchor him here.

He wanted touch, wanted to feel, however he could get it. His parents had spoiled him mercilessly, but they'd still never been particularly affectionate, especially his father. The idea of being curled up in Snape's arms, tucked against his body, blond hair under the man's chin... It just wasn't something he thought that he could have. And the pain, the feeling, it took him away from those dark places, had him clinging to that trust, to Snape, giving himself over and taking it all. When Snape had been spanking him, there hadn't been any shadows, any darkness, and he didn't think it was just because of the potion.

He took a step closer, just slightly moving into Snape's space, reaching a hand up to skim against the fabric of his vest. Swallowing his uncertainty and watching his face, his dark eyes. He wanted him, and he figured they were past the point of trying to hide that.

[empty_yourself]

Draco hasn't yet taken it. Snape wonders if he will, or if staying will be enough, not being alone. If he ends up needing it, taking it, he can't blame him for it. Snape has had his fair share of nightmares and sleepless nights. He's not one to judge Draco for needing relief.

Draco moves close enough to touch, and dares to, fingers skimming the fabric of his vest. The uncertainty in his expression touches something inside him and he doesn't resist the urge he has to pull Draco close. They'll talk about it, he's certain they will, probably even within the next few minutes as they're negotiating just what this means, what Draco wants tonight, but for right now it's obvious enough that they're crossing a line. He's invited Draco to stay the night, and there's unmistakable meaning in the offer and the acceptance.

Snape closes the distance between them and draws the young man up in an embrace, holding him close to his chest. He wants more than just this, wants decidedly unchaste things with him, but they have time.

He bends down ever so slightly, face against the side of that pale golden head, and he inhales the scent of him, warm and floral with a hint of more beneath the surface, smoke and spice. Snape exhales against his neck as he turns his head in towards his neck, hands smoothing up his back slowly, soothingly.

[slytherinsnark]

Draco gasps softly as Snape closes the distance between them, pulling him into an embrace, and he shivers. The strength of arms around him, encircling his slender frame, and he melted into it, the warmth of his body, the comfort of it. His hands came up, clinging to his vest, holding him tight, like he's afraid of losing him, afraid of letting go. He nuzzles into him, breathing in the smell of his body, the darkness fading as he leans into the warmth of this, the comfort. He needs this, needs the closeness, no matter how much he's tried to hide it. Snape means something to him, and being held like this, it eases the pain away.

He murmurs as Snape bends down, the way that he rests his chin over his head, almost coccooning him in the strength of his body. It's shy and timid, but he brushes a soft kiss against the fabric of his throat, trembling, his breathing coming faster as his heart races.It's hard to believe this is happening, but it's tangible, tactile, and it grounds him. He breathes him in, trying to hold onto this moment, the feel of it. He wants more, wants touch and taste and the intensity of how it had felt bent over a table, but softer. He doesn't know what he wants, just more.