Images
by Sinope
Title:
Images
Author: Sinope at (no spam!) gmail dot com
Rating:
NC-17
Pairing:
Snape/Harry
Warning:
Underage sexuality, dubious consent, BDSM themes.
Summary:
Harry describes himself through Snape's eyes.
Author's notes:
First in the Simulacra Series, written in response to Switchknife asking how "I," Harry, thought Snape/Switch saw me.
Disclaimer: This is an unofficial fan work. No profit was made; no ownership is implied.
How do you imagine me?
When you let your eyes trace over me, my youth starts guilty shudders deep inside your stomach, but you greedily devour every glimpse of thin, tender skin. My lips are pink and unspoiled, and too often you imagine how tight they would feel, wrapped tautly around you. You imagine my fingers, too, slim and pretty, digging their little nails into your back.
You most often imagine my hair damp, either clean-smelling locks still wet from my shower, or a sweat-soaked fringe clinging darkly to my pale forehead. My eyes, though - they unsettle you, flashing as they do with a bright-green mixture of anger and innocence and desire. When you try to imagine what making me content would look like, my eyes are always closed.
You watch me, more often than I think or you realize, and it makes you happiest and guiltiest to watch me laughing. Your ears have attuned themselves to those rare moments - catching the Snitch during practice, joking with Ron about Trelawney - because you can look at the careless grin on my face and forget about the price at which that smile was bought, or the sharply sweet pleasure of destroying it. You like to think me younger than I am, someone for you to mould and crush as you please, and smiling makes that easiest for you.
You pretend not to notice my cheap, shapeless clothes, though they ease the stream of images that my body sparks in your head - smooth limbs gone limp with pleasure, a pale hairless chest that arches upward when you slide a wet forefinger down my side. When you think of my clothes, you think of them only in accidents and possibilities; often you imagine my trousers puddling down at my feet as I blush with embarassment, but more often you imagine me tugging them off, then kneeling impatiently as you unbutton your robes in stately dignity. More often still, though you'd like to think I don't know it, you imagine slicing away those clothes with careful scalpel as I lie before you, a masterful artwork of helplessness. Afterwards, you always imagine tasting the chain of red beads welling up in a line down my thin sternum.
You like to think that I taste of boyhood and youth, "frogs and snails and puppy-dog tails" mingled with pumpkin juice and chocolate bars, but I don't; I taste of life. Sometimes, you imagine me licking my wrist after Quidditch, tasting my sweat with a quick pink tongue.
I never want to show you the vulnerability hiding inside my mind, but when I do, sobbing myself to sleep in your bed after I hear of Ron's death, something half-forgotten inside you wants to clutch me tight and never let anyone else touch me again.
(go straight to Snape's response.)
finis.
Comments and reviews, large or small, are greatly appreciated!