воскресенье, 05 октября 2008
Читаю книгу the river - очень уж понравилась сцена у стены... приведу ее, пожалуй, полностью:
Варнинг: нц-17, англ.яз.
читать дальше“Do we have a lesson?” he asks, holding the cabinet’s door half-open. With a flick of my wand it snaps out of his hand and closed. The bottle’s stopper falls disconsolately still. A lesson, yes. In a manner of speaking.
I adjust the temperature of the distillation by the last, tiniest increment and sweep into the sitting room as if I’ve something to be proud of. He follows, curious; if he were a cat he’d be sniffing open-mouthed at my footsteps. He’s very close within the bond, flushed pink to warm my hands by. I wonder how he feels me. I wonder if he wants to feel more.
He goes to stand beside the sofa.
It has of course been mended. I did it last night while the house slept. It took hours- I’m no upholsterer- but I couldn’t leave it the way it was, ruined, laid open by his claws. Even with my back to the thing I couldn’t possibly have taught. Now, suddenly remembering, I clutch at the heat of a moment ago and find it cooled to an inexplicable indifference. “Uh,” he says, looking me in the eye as if he’s been waiting forever, “Ready when you-”
I cast Inexpugnabilis over the room.
Harry turns to watch the ward flash overhead, giving me a chance to breathe, and when we face each other again there is no trace of the indifference that couldn’t have been (but it was, I know it was), and he stands being ready, reckoning in his boy’s way that since he did well on Compatior it’ll carry over and he’ll do well on Amicus Fides now.
Merlin’s balls. He expects to be Cursed.
“Remove your clothes.”
“What?” he says, startled.
Merlin’s balls. I meant to seduce him. I meant to speak to him gently, to cup his face in my hands and kiss him, getting to the very heart, and summarily to the depths, of him. Remove your clothes. Is this Azkaban? Am I Mad-Eye Moody? A chill finger traces the scoliotic curve of my spine even as the voice continues, rather condescendingly. “Remove... your clothes.”
Harry’s face contorts slightly. “Why?”
“Because I told you to.”
A pause falls between us, and then he yanks the green robe up over his head. The underrobe comes with it, exposing his body up to the nipples, and then he wrestles everything off and drops it on the floor in a tangled heap. He stands there awkwardly in boxer shorts, trainers and socks and asks whether I’m going to get undressed.
“Remove your pants, Potter.”
Another pause. He removes them. I feel him feeling me feeling his reluctance. I feel my own confusion and want desperately, fail completely, to tear it away like a smothering caul. Why am I so incapable? Blindly I move my hand and feel the grace of a gesture copied from the Dark Lord, as I tell him to go and stand against the wall, hands spread.
The wall is papered in garish dark rose fleur-de-lis. Harry stands with his back against it, facing me in a parody of victimhood. I can see the whites of his eyes.
I love you, Harry. Please help me, Harry, I don’t know what I’m doing. “Facing the wall, Potter.”
And as clearly as through a refracting lens, I know that Harry remembers more honest times, spent locked together and struggling. Self-loathing is tossed between us like a hot flint. In the end he does turn around, if only to hide his embarrassment.
It takes all the nerve I have to walk up behind him and kiss the back of his neck.
It tickles. He wonders what Lupin would think if he walked in, which of course he won’t because of the ward, and for some reason, that makes him feel more ticklish. He focuses on that, on my breath on his skin. I feel my own heartbeat slow, panic receding. I know what I am doing here; the phial is already in my hand. The stopper unscrews with a slight scraping sound and comes out wet. I roll it gently over the pulse-point high up on Harry’s throat, then pull my collar down and do the same to myself. It feels like a very small tongue, cold and rigoured, which makes me think of the necropsies I’ve performed- a calming thought, somehow. I am myself. I know what to do. I take Harry in my arms, and teeth clashing against the metal buckle, bite him on the collar.
It’s funny. He almost laughs. I shove him away from me and he catches himself with his forearms against the wall. I had forgotten. The bloody thing’s invisible. Am I not allowed to forget?
“I never took it off,” he confesses.
“Obviously, Potter.”
He rests his head against the wall. I want to leave him there. I want to go home. After a moment I grab him more roughly and batten onto his shoulder, biting as hard as I can without breaking the skin. I taste blood as small capillaries burst. His flesh seems to soften. He whimpers, trying not to yell, arching his back. He likes it when I hurt him. He likes to grow soft and then hard beneath me- he knows he likes it, but he also feels strangely detached here in his godfather’s house, shagging the hated potions master who calls himself a pederast. These are Snape’s teeth, this is Snape’s tongue, Snape’s wet hand sneaking around to take hold of his half-hard cock, Snape’s other hand moving from nipple to nipple and Harry’s thinking less and less. I feel him grow full in my hand, hard and heavy, and know that I did this; it is my responsibility to finish it. This, all this, is my doing. This is why we are here.
He becomes hotter and paradoxically more passive, braced against the wall with my hand working his cock. He breathes through his mouth in rhythm with each stroke, each exhalation a cry almost musical, and his nails abrade the wallpaper. I let go of him all at once. The rhythm gives way to a small, disappointed sound, a sort of sexual hiccough- “Oh.” Fumbling in my pocket for the glass jar, I’d be pleased with myself if there were room for feeling now. At the more familiar sound of this lid opening he holds himself still, knowing what comes next. I slip two, three fingers in as though by accident and suddenly he’s squirming on tiptoe, pushing back on it like so to show me just what he needs now and a slip of guilt at his greed slides through-
“Stop that.”
He holds quite still, and a moment later I enter him.
So we do it, surrounded by heavy, hideous furniture, slips of cobweb and fleur-de-lis. I get hold of his cock again, of his neck once more (higher this time, trying to remember in the slick sweaty rush not to bruise). He comes in a spurt that clings to my hand and brings up a bizarre early memory of finger-painting.
And then I can’t finish.
The boy melts against the wall, goes slack around me, wants to lie down, to give his knees a rest- and he’s starting to think too much again. I catch a wish that I would hurry up because this is a bit awkward for both of us, and bite him on the welt from earlier, which earns a desultory moan reminiscent of the murdered mother of my unborn child. And that, to my horror, ends it.
I slam my hand against the wall beside his head and pull out.
He turns to face me. His eyes are pink-rimmed, pathetic. I bend down to kiss him, straighten up and say, “Get that look off your face.”
He looks away, confused and embarrassed. “So now what?”
“Now we test it. Abluocorpus... Get dressed.”
He dresses quickly, looking at the ground. Once that’s taken care of I reach for his collar, meaning to pull it aside, and he shudders at the touch of my hand. Something constricts inside of me. I ignore it and cast Tegolivor.
“Don’t,” he protests, “I like them.”
“And if Black should see?”
“If they’re hidden by my robes, he’s not going to see them.”
I should cast it again. I should cast it once for each small, stippled bruise, each “love bite”, each outright hemorrhage. Instead I sigh, adjust the collar back into place and rest my hand on Harry’s shoulder for a moment. He doesn’t shudder this time.Ну а дальше врывается Сириус... но это, в общем, не важно. Я начинаю понимать такого Снейпа и это немного пугает.
“Do you intend to stand there all day?”
“No,” he replies, and just stands there, feeling awkward, embarrassed and stupid.
“I have work to do,” I say flatly. Please help me, Harry, I don’t know what I’m doing-Снейпа, очевидно, несет, и он не особо понимает, что творит. Ирбис, правда, это что-то напоминает?
@темы:
копилка,
Мысли вслух,
поттериана,
Слэш,
Фанфики
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07.10.2008 в 01:41-
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07.10.2008 в 02:01