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carmillaWARNINGS: Some dark content.
Occlumency
There's no breaking through to him, not anymore. Memories flicker and subside, memories of those intense, terrifying few weeks when the boy would regularly end up on the floor of his chambers, on his back or his knees, his every weakness exposed.
He still ends up on the floor, for very different reasons.
There's no weakness to be seen, though, not now.
He gasps. He sobs. He screams. He will beg, sometimes. Perhaps as a treat. His talented, talented mouth will do whatever is needed, as they draw together, night after night, compelled without understanding why.
But when Snape looks into his eyes, there's no passion there, and no weakness. Only a blank, empty space that doesn't even look like a shield.
Being There For Him
He didn't ask me to do it, and that may be the worst of it. Not the first time, and never since then, either. But the desire is his, not mine, just the same.
It was simple, at first. A shift of the jawline, making it harder, heavier. Thinning the lips. The curious, itching sensation of stubble breaking through my skin. He sobbed into my mouth, and clung to me, desperate, needy, and I knew that I was right.
The rest followed, as the rest tends to do. Flattening my chest, broadening it, thickening the muscles in my arms.
I'd never made myself a cock before. It was weird; it felt like I was drawing all of my pleasure outside of myself, to lie dangling and oddly comical against my thigh.
He didn't find it funny, though; and when he drew it into his soft, sweet mouth, gentle and reverent, I began to understand the appeal.
Began to understand why men are the strange creatures they are, as I drove into him, slow at first, then quicker and harder, hearing his pants, his moans, his need.
Nothing more articulate than that. He never calls me anything.
But when he weeps into the shaggy black hair I make for him, there's never anything but gratitude in his voice.
Beautiful
When she was very young, Dolores' mother taught her what was beautiful. Discipline was beautiful. Order was beautiful. Obedience was beautiful. Beauty lay in care and moderation, in being strict with oneself.
Now she is older, Dolores knows better. Blood is beautiful. Only blood.
Occlumency
There's no breaking through to him, not anymore. Memories flicker and subside, memories of those intense, terrifying few weeks when the boy would regularly end up on the floor of his chambers, on his back or his knees, his every weakness exposed.
He still ends up on the floor, for very different reasons.
There's no weakness to be seen, though, not now.
He gasps. He sobs. He screams. He will beg, sometimes. Perhaps as a treat. His talented, talented mouth will do whatever is needed, as they draw together, night after night, compelled without understanding why.
But when Snape looks into his eyes, there's no passion there, and no weakness. Only a blank, empty space that doesn't even look like a shield.
Being There For Him
He didn't ask me to do it, and that may be the worst of it. Not the first time, and never since then, either. But the desire is his, not mine, just the same.
It was simple, at first. A shift of the jawline, making it harder, heavier. Thinning the lips. The curious, itching sensation of stubble breaking through my skin. He sobbed into my mouth, and clung to me, desperate, needy, and I knew that I was right.
The rest followed, as the rest tends to do. Flattening my chest, broadening it, thickening the muscles in my arms.
I'd never made myself a cock before. It was weird; it felt like I was drawing all of my pleasure outside of myself, to lie dangling and oddly comical against my thigh.
He didn't find it funny, though; and when he drew it into his soft, sweet mouth, gentle and reverent, I began to understand the appeal.
Began to understand why men are the strange creatures they are, as I drove into him, slow at first, then quicker and harder, hearing his pants, his moans, his need.
Nothing more articulate than that. He never calls me anything.
But when he weeps into the shaggy black hair I make for him, there's never anything but gratitude in his voice.
Beautiful
When she was very young, Dolores' mother taught her what was beautiful. Discipline was beautiful. Order was beautiful. Obedience was beautiful. Beauty lay in care and moderation, in being strict with oneself.
Now she is older, Dolores knows better. Blood is beautiful. Only blood.