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A Hold Over Me

R / 854 words / romance, drama / published 06/20/10

Summary: Reality is sometimes a slippery thing. Or is it? Slash abstractions, Harry is 16.
Disclaimer: The brilliant characters belong solely to J.K. Rowling. The plot and typos are my own. No profit is being made.
A/N: Thanks to ChooseToLive and JFinley for the beta.



The sound is little more than a murmured moan, lingering in the air as it stirs his consciousness. His voice is rough and thick with sleep, and for a moment he's not sure it's his own.

"Ungh..."

Ripples of arousal course through his body, beckoning his awareness, bending his will. The smooth slide of skin on skin overloads him with sensation for a third, or fourth, or twelfth time. It is what wakes him in the stillness of night, and not for the first time.

His limbs feel leaden and slack while his mind grows sharper – there it is: movement, a presence. He is not alone. He reacts, the tip of his wand pressing firm against a temple; the face underneath obscured by long, dark curtains of hair. His action stills the shadowed figure for a moment, but when the assault upon his flesh resumes, it is apparent his challenge is for naught.

The heat and warmth and suction causes him to forget, a pleasure so acute, so intense, that he can't even think of how to stop it. Or maybe it's that he doesn't want to. His wand hand slides down and away, giving in to the power and control of the other's prurient ways. It feels so personal, intimate, safe.

When he arches off the bed, coolness rushes in, tickling across the sweat on his back. His hips seek more, thrusting out, searching, and it is then that he glimpses the face which bobs slowly over his groin. Recognition floods his addled mind: the over-large nose, the sallow skin, the wool teaching robes. There can be only one.

Snape.

But there is no time to think once he is swallowed whole, the tight, tight lips dragging on and off and on again, lulling his senses astray. His fingers find purchase in the sheets, bunching beneath his palms. A groan forms in his throat, but waits, borrowing only the air of a whispered breath to release. Oddly, incongruously, he is afraid of making noise.

What is happening here? He wonders this, and other things, but feels the warm, calloused fingers ghosting up his thighs, squeezing. A tongue laves at him, tracing, teasing intimate contours, and he is once again carried away on sensation, floating, floating, drifting.

He barely registers long fingers curling at his base, pressing, holding, until the combination of wet heat and a strong pull snaps his mind back. Frissons of pleasure explode through him, spiking, spreading, covering every inch of his body. Somehow, in and amongst his senses, he wonders if this man is as thorough in everything he does. His thoughts spin and obscure once again as he is captured, protected, worshiped, owned.

He breathes more heavily, panting in rhythm to the strokes, but whether his eyes are lidded or closed, he does not know, for the black surround envelopes his very being. Then his hips are pressing into the mattress, his body pinned under an unrelenting mouth. There is no room for debate – the action is not his to control, and the relief he feels is startling; he gives in, lets go.

As the end sweeps ever nearer, close now, he throws his head back further, impossibly further, his mouth opening to release a quiet, shuddering groan. His fingers clench in tune with his body, rigid and singing with tension, and then he's coming, coming in hot pulsing streams.

- o O o O o -

A crescent of light shocks his face and he squints away from it, rolling his body to one side before sitting up – too abrupt, he realizes, when the room jostles his vision. It is early yet, and the others are soundly sleeping, snoring behind their red velvet drapes.

All except one.

"Harry? You okay?"

A quiet grunt is all he deigns to reply before curiosity overcomes his ginger friend. Just as it always does. He expects it most times, welcomes it others. Today he is not quite sure.

"Was it a weird dream again?" Ron's voice is almost a whisper.

Weird? Harry wonders. If only it were that easy to define, label, explain.

Turning from Ron, he inspects his abdomen, fingering a small patch of sticky residue that itches only when it is granted his attention, much like now. But what he longs to ask, needs to ask, he cannot voice.

Is it still weird if it is not a dream?

No. He does not dare to ask.