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Slash and Yaoi Fiction
Title: Slippery Slope
Author: Juxian Tang
E-mail: juxiantang@hotmail.com
Site: http://juxian.slashcity.net
Pairing: Harry/Snape
Rating: NC-17
Warning: fisting, dirty talk
Summary-A/N: Written as a part of Fantasy Fest for saturn92103 who requested Harry/Snape (established relationship), Harry convinces Severus to try fisting. (Severus bottoms.)


"I - want - you - to - feel - it." Every word of Harry Potter is a thrust into him, short and deep, and his body leans onto Snape's a little more, over his raised leg - to the point when it becomes uncomfortable. But Snape ignores this discomfort - because every time when Harry's cock shoves into him, that small, so sensitive place inside him becomes the focus of his whole world. And he wants a little more, a little harder - and thrusts back, and meets Harry slamming into him. "Take it, take it, you bitch."

Harry's face is pale and sweaty, dark hair stuck to the forehead, a strand across the red line of the scar. And his eyes, helpless without glasses, are fiercely green, narrowed, peering at Snape's face.

"Watch your mouth... ah, Potter!" His voice breaks, turning into a high-pitched gasp at another perfectly aimed thrust. But at least he's tried; he always tries to pretend that the filth falling from Harry's mouth when he fucks doesn't turn him on.

It doesn't look like Harry listens. The blaze of utter absorption is his eyes becomes all-consuming and he looks almost like he did when yelling at Snape that he murdered his godfather... and that he is a fool and a traitor and it would be better if he died instead of Sirius.

Sometimes Snape wonders what Harry thinks about at these moments.

"I want you to feel it in your throat, yes, yes, like that, deeper," - and Harry's hand clenches on his shoulder, nearly bruising - and Snape pushes back, into this touch, into this contact, and oh, he is so close, almost as close to climax as the boy is but he wants more of it, just a little more, just to take him in deeper, he tries, opening and squeezing, and Harry's face crumples as if he is going to cry. He hisses like a cat, coming, and in one more desperate shove Snape comes too, his semen spilled between their bellies.

Harry's breath is very hot and wet against Snape's collarbone. Now his back and thigh muscles really hurt, and Snape shifts, freeing himself from under the weight of Harry's body. The boy rises on his elbows, his myopic eyes wild and sleepy.

"Good whore," Harry slurs; his hot palm pats Snape's cheek in a careless gentle way and then pushes strands of long sweaty hair away from his face.

"You never know when to shut your mouth," Snape says.

"No," Harry shakes his head, unrepentant.

"Sometimes I hate you."

"Sometimes - *I* hate you."

Snape knows it. There is a little edge in Harry's voice that tells him it's true. But after all, he also hated Potter for years and years - and even now he sometimes feels a surge of anger, bitter like bile, against the boy.

"Well then."

He shifts; Harry's limp penis slides out of his ass that is uncomfortably sore. He groans when sitting up on the edge of the bed, putting his feet on the floor.

The floor in Harry's rooms in the Gryffindor tower is warmer than in the dungeons but it is cold stone all the same. From the tall lancet windows grey light falls on the floor, the light of a late June evening when the sun doesn't ever seem to set completely. The air is silent, just an odd bird chirping in distance.

Harry's hand, hot and callused, touches his back. The fingertips are rough but the touch is careful, almost caressing, as he explores Snape's spine, every vertebra of it. The hand is kissing him.

"You're terribly skinny," Harry says.

Snape feels like groaning again and buries his face into his hands - and also feels like leaning into the touch of this hand.

"Two years of fucking - and you've just noticed it."

"The thing is I usually imagine someone else's face when I fuck you."

Harry's tone is bland and so deliberately free to interpretation. Those tasteless jokes are something Snape had learned not to pay attention to - take them as an integral part of Harry and even answer them in the same toneless way.

"Whose face?"

"Oh, I don't know. Sirius'? Or Ron's?"

When Weasley had changed sides, Snape thought Potter was going to die. Not even angry - just white and silent, and with this horrible guilt in his eyes, clutching the mirror his godfather had given him - like he could've seen his former friend in it.

"Ha-ha, very funny."

Fingers keep traveling over his back, tracing deep, jagged scars that are long healed, except for bad weather, when they suddenly feel fresh and open. Harry's hand lingers as if it is something he likes to feel.

"You're dripping semen on my bed," Harry says. "From your ass."

Sometimes Snape doesn't know what to believe, the words or the touches. But then he knows that they don't exclude each other. Everything is so entangled; he isn't always sure what happens in his own head, otherwise he wouldn't be where he is now, right? So no wonder something in Harry Potter's mind is messed up as well.

"It's your semen," he says, a sneer on his lips.

"Yes," Harry agrees, and there is that hoarseness in his voice that makes Snape shiver, pleasantly. The boy is aroused again. "Your ass is full of it. And you like it."

Snape feels the bed shift a little and imagines how Harry stretches, his ankles crossed, his cock hard, one arm tucked behind his head.

"I know you want it all," Harry says, his voice hoarse, almost chanting and joyous. And Snape feels something click in him; he can't resist this voice, this joy - that makes everything else seem unimportant and distant. Harry's voice becomes one with the hand still running over his back, and he tosses his head back, leaning both into this touch and this voice. "You want more."

A sharp movement - and the long arm wraps around his waist, like a vice, yanking him, no chance of resisting - and there he is, trapped under hard, hot, panting Harry Potter, his hands gripping Snape's face, half-drunk eyes staring at him.

"Come here, come here, you know you want it."

Snape wants to deny it just out of spite, and a reasonable part of his mind reminds that he's still sore, he needs some healing spells at least - but there is something that speaks much louder in him than reason. He wants it. He doesn't care if it will hurt. He wants Harry slam into him, and wants this impossible, nearly painful in its intensity feeling building in him, till he'll lose his ability to talk, to fight, to feel shame.

Harry is all elbows and knees, pressing him down, his hot breath on Snape's face, their lips nearly touching.

"How much of me do you want inside you?"

And something in this question makes Snape shiver, everything inside him clench in arousal, even while his brain still processes the words.

"I can give you more." Lips, and green eyes, so close, and hard heaving ribcage, and hands sliding, sliding over his body, like Harry can't get enough of touching, feeling him. "*I* want more."

"What?" Snape whispers, his lips numb and his head spinning.

"Inside you," Harry whispers, his eyes wild, his lips white. "I want to shove it into you, my whore, my beautiful, I want you to have it really, really deep, like you had no one before..."

It is familiar; something Snape has heard before. Sometimes he doesn't know if Harry means it seriously. 'Who fucked you before me? Was he any good? What did Malfoy do to you? Did he leave these marks? Did Voldemort do? Did he fuck you? Did you like it, did you like it, whore?'

"Did any of them shove their hand up you?"

Snape bucks. The boy is insane, finally has snapped completely. And yet something in these words, in this outrageous suggestion makes his cock twitch and makes him push against Harry, instinctively, wanting more contact.

Harry straddles him, deliberately not touching his cock, and grips Snape's wrists, holding them above his head. And his eyes are blind staring down at him, as if he sees something more, something different at this moment.

"Did they? Did they?"

If I say they did - what will you come up with to do to me, Snape thinks - to mark your territory? Brand me? But this desperation, this need in the boy - it touches something in him, satisfies him in an odd way.

He will be never sure what exactly Harry wants from him and why. But he can't discard it. No one has ever demanded anything from him with such self-abandonment - such anguish.

He wants to touch Harry's face but his hands are caught.

"No," he says. "They didn't."


For a moment the boy slumps onto him, panting quickly and wetly, and Snape sighs when hot lips press to his chest. Harry's back is smooth and so unblemished, slightly tanned - so unlike Snape's. They are so unlike in everything.

Harry moves harshly, sliding between his legs, his hand shoved under Snape's thigh, pushing it up.

"I didn't say I want *you* to do it!"

He wrenches away from Potter, angry and panicked. How dares the boy... They are in the opposite corners of the bed, and Harry is crouching, staring at him, his face confused.

"You... you don't?"

He isn't sure what he wants. His cock is hard. But what if it will be too much for him? It had happened before, with Lucius and others, when he hadn't stopped in time and after that he couldn't, they didn't listen to him.

But it isn't like he's afraid of Harry, right? If anything, he can keep one cranky boy in line.

"I didn't say that," he says carefully.

"Please," Harry says. "See, I'm asking you nicely - pretty please."

What an idiot.

Snape looks at Harry's hand, big and long-fingered, and he knows that the palm is hard, knows how it feels on his body. How will it feel inside him? It's so big, much wider than Harry's cock, which is red and bouncing between his thighs.

"I'll... I'll give you something if you let me," Harry says.

"Do you think you can buy me?"

"Please. Please please please."

"Keep silent."

For once Harry obeys. His gaze is resentful, shoulders stooped.

Snape can't stop looking at his hand.

"Do you really want to do it?" It is a thought that makes him feel strange, it's nearly frightening, to imagine something that big in him.


"All right."

"All right?"

"Yes, do I have to spell it? Which way do you want me?"

"On... on your back." And because Harry's voice is again low and husky, and his nostrils flare, his face getting that absorbed, nearly delirious expression, Snape thinks he's chosen right.

On his back won't be comfortable, he wants to say, but he likes it this way too, wants to see Harry's face.

"Raise your leg."

He's so opened like that, so undeniably ready for fucking, his anus presented to Harry Potter - only this time it won't be just Harry's cock entering him.

"You're hurt there," Harry's voice goes soft. His finger probes carefully, in a hint of what he's planning to do. Not too much, Snape thinks but flinches as the sore ring is touched. A wand moves in the air and there are whispered words, and the burning in his ass stops.

"That's better," Harry says, contented. For a moment he looks at Snape and says seriously, almost fiercely. "I won't hurt you. See, my nails are short."

He shows his hand, which is big but still looks like a hand of a boy, not of a teacher - dark with tan, slightly scratched. The fingernails are really as short as they can be.

"Get down to it," Snape says.

He watches Harry dip his hand into oil, very thoroughly, and it makes him somewhat nervous - because usually it's Harry's cock that gets coated and now there is no way to deny what's going to happen. Slippery fingers touch his hot entrance, and he jerks a little.

"Steady, steady," Harry says, pressing on his belly - and his other hand... two fingers of it slide in smoothly.

He's loose - he doesn't even quite feel it. But as Snape sees Harry's slightly bitten lip, Harry's eyes screwing shut for a moment, it is more present and more urgent than physical sensation.

"There, there." Now it's three fingers - and Harry is moving them, looking for something, until finding it. Snape hisses. It's an incredible feeling, electrifying, and he always wants more of it. Potter is right, he's quite a whore.

"Oh yes," Harry says, "I knew you'd like it."

He does. Harry's fingers go in circles, and Snape feels how the sensation expands in him, and he wants to moan but resists it.

Four; and now it hurts a bit, fingers put together are already uncomfortable, and he wiggles a little, and Harry stops him, holds him down, not really by force.

"You can take it," he says. "Slut."

"If you think that calling me names is enough to turn me on..." Snape says - and then - ah! - the width of the palm pushes into him, and it is an incredible sensation, pain for a moment but then just feeling of being very stretched, to the limit.

"God," Harry says. "You are... clamping on me."

He can't move, he's afraid, it's so strange - not even such a big thing inside him renders him helpless as the Dark Lord's curses never could. And suddenly Snape understands that it's exactly what Harry wanted, what he tried to achieve.

"No more," he starts, in sudden panic.

"No, no," Harry begs, and hearing him beg is such a dizzying thing that Snape wants to give in, just like that. So he doesn't argue, and the hand turns in him, spreading him. "Come, open for me."

It hurts - but not unbearably - as the thumb slides into him, and the rest of the palm, until the ring of his anus contracts on the thinner wrist of Harry's hand.

"Damn it," Harry says with a slight surprise. "I'm inside you."

He probably doesn't remember their first time when he said those words - when he was drunk out of his mind and Snape in one of his masochistic moods that made him go to bed with the Boy-Who-Lived despite the prospect of Potter's nausea and disgust in the morning.

In the morning Potter threw up but was rather remorseful than disgusted. And when Snape, finally taking mercy on him, gave him a hangover potion, he raised his disheveled head and looked at Snape with his guilty, green, blood-shot eyes.

"When I come to you tonight, you won't throw me out, will you?"

Masochistic mood prolonged, Snape didn't throw him out.

And here they are now, Harry's hand up his ass. It is difficult to breathe, for some reason, he feels so full.

"Tell me you want more," Harry says.

No. He shakes his head. He isn't sure he wants more, it's already too much. And the dangerous edge in Harry's voice makes him uneasy. It is not good, the boy sometimes works himself up.

"Tell me."


And then Harry pulls his hand.

There is tearing pain, and everything in front of Snape's eyes goes black - and he is only dimly aware of Harry's hand going back in and his knuckles brushing over his prostate, arousal flashing through his body.

"You like it," Harry says.

He bites his lip. I won't talk to you.

"You like it."

Has he torn him? Probably, a little. Something wet is sliding on his skin but he isn't afraid. Whatever happens in Harry's head - Snape has always dealt with him before.

"You like it."

"Yes," he says. "Deeper."

And deeper it goes - what did Harry say, 'I want you to feel it in your throat'? Not in is throat but in his bowels definitely - and it is such an incredible feeling, scary and consuming, and he can't think about anything else.

"Enter me," he whispers. Deeper. More. Claim me yours. Even if you kill me in the process.

And it is pain on every motion out, like broken glass cutting into his anus. And pleasure every next instant, when Harry pushes right into his prostate. And besides that - just enormous, overwhelming feeling of being taken, so thoroughly as Snape had never been before. Harry's got what he wanted, right?

"How does it feel?" There is cutting glass in Harry's voice too, and the turn of his wrist is pain, the brush of his knuckles is pleasure. "How does it feel? Lying like that, spread, open, not knowing what it is, pain or pleasure, feeling both, not knowing what to expect?"

His voice goes squeaky, hostility and anguish in it, and Snape looks at him, an unexpected surge of pity going through him. The boy's face is very pale, his eyes dazed.

"You tell me, Potter," he says. "You know it better."

He knows; that was how, rumors say, the Aurors found him, when the Lestranges had got him. Naked and bound and shivering and unable to control instinctive twitching of his body whenever touched. Snape didn't see it - he was with Voldemort then, in a desperate attempt to prevent the Dark Lord from going there to kill the boy. His scars are a memento of it.


Pain flares, Harry's hand yanked viciously - and Snape gasps, his teeth clenched.

"Oh," Harry says - as if he feels Snape's gasp in his body. His forehead presses to Snape's hipbone, moist and burning, and then he looks up, finds his wand with his free hand and waves it. Pain stops; and the absence of it is so stunning that Snape shudders a little.

"I'm sorry," Harry says. "I lied to you. I said I wouldn't hurt you."

"I didn't expect you to... keep your word."

Now when the pain is gone - and Harry must've added some more lubrication - the hand goes smoothly, in and out, and heat spreads all through his body, from one point in it. And it is a bit shocking, to know that he is stretched so widely to take Harry's hand - but he wants to take it, wants more of it, more pressure, more touch.

Harry looks down at him, his lips compressed, and here is such a miserable expression on his face, as if he hurts.

"Why did you say you hate me?" he asks. "You don't, do you? You will never, never hate me."

Snape doesn't want to answer that.

"Potter. Employ your mouth elsewhere."

Harry glances at him - and then his hot, quick mouth descends onto Snape's cock - and swallows it all - tight, hot, sliding - and it is so incredibly good, it is like his body is bursting - the fist in his ass and the mouth on his cock, and Harry Potter is everywhere, all around and inside him.

Stupid little boy is right; no one has ever owned him so fully.

"I don't hate you," he says. "I... I don't hate you."

And another push makes him arch, and suddenly a spasm goes through his body, and Snape is coming, agonizingly, violently, and he feels he'll die if it goes on for some more but he wants it to go on.

Harry's hot mouth catches every drop he spills - and then the boy writhes a little, in frenzied, short movements, and Snape knows Harry climaxes as well, rubbing himself off against the bed.

"Fuck you, fuck you, oh God, fuck you... Severus."

And his name is like a swear word on his lips.

He curls against Snape, head pressed to his ribcage, and his palm runs over Snape's chest in a gesture that is both reverent and possessive. And his other hand is still inside him.

"I'll take it out," Harry says softly.

Now when everything is over, the removal hurts, and Snape tenses a little, and Harry says: "Shh," and kisses his nipple.

The long sunset is finally over, and there are deep shadows on the ceiling and in the corners of the room.

"It's wet," Harry complains.


"I'm lying on a wet spot."

"It's you who made it wet."

"All right, whatever. Move a little?"

There is a swift cleaning spell, and then Harry spoons behind him. His limp warm cock presses to Snape's tender, incredibly wide opening. Harry sighs in content.

"You're so opened there. It seems I can slide in just like that."

His arms are thin, strong and warm wrapping around Snape's chest and his breath is hot, his forehead pressing above Snape's shoulder blades.

There is something lulling in hearing the obscenities that spill from Harry Potter's lips. Snape has been going asleep under them so many times.

"Next time I'll..." Harry seems to be at loss for a moment what he wants to do to him next time, and Snape smiles a little, silently. "You'll get it all from me, you'll remember me. You'll be mine."


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