HP: (FIC) Mirroring The Edges (Snape/Potter)
Title: Mirroring The Edges
Pairing: Snape/Potter
Rating: R
Warnings: Bloodplay, Knifeplay
Word Count: 1,300
Summary: Months, years had passed since his first taste of steel and power, and his collection yet grows, as does his need for the man that provided the blades.
Author's notes: Many, many thanks to djin7 for the speedy and excellent beta. Written for the daily_deviant.
He could feel the hilt of his favourite knife pressed against the side of his leg. The streets were cold, but the metal was warm against his skin, having held it in his palm for the better part of an hour, prior to leaving.
No other Auror carried one, thinking them unnecessary, being armed with their wands. Harry, however, never left the house without at least having two hidden on his person. He liked them, the glint of the blades, the weight against his palm, they way that true power lay in whomever was wielding them.
His collection began by accident, his first knife a gift, such as it was. The hilt was ornate, a silver snake etched in perpetually cool metal. Snape had transfigured it from a splinter of wood, which amused Harry to no end, and he'd thrown it across the room at Harry, lodging it painfully in his shoulder. Snape had smirked then, and Harry panted, hand automatically grasping his shoulder.
With a nod, Snape turned and left Harry standing there, bleeding, and almost smirking in return. What a bastard. Next time, he vowed, next time he'd make sure Snape was the one bleeding.
Gritting his teeth, Harry had pulled it out, and stared, fascinated, as the blood dripped on the floor. With a grin, Harry wiped the blade clean of blood and pocketed the knife, not bothering to chase after his attacker.
That came later.
His third knife was presented to him in a plain white box, accompanied by a small white tag bearing his name in spiky, familiar handwriting. It was small, sharp, and as simple as the box that held it. This, Harry had decided the moment he saw it, would remain his favourite.
The fifth was pressed against his palm, a gift hot and wet with sweat, in the dark, between kisses and grunts and smooth, slick skin, long strands of hair grazing his shoulders as his hand curled around a curved handle.
There were long slices in the sheets when he'd awoken the next morning, drops of red against the white, and the wrinkled shadow of the man who'd occupied the space hours before.
Months, years had passed since his first taste of steel and power, and his collection yet grows, as does his need for the man that provided the blades.
~~
Looking down the dark alley, Harry quietly made his way to the third metal pipe jutting out of the wall. He tapped it twice, tapped a brick on each side once, and tapped the pipe again. The bricks to the left of the pipes shimmered, and he stepped through to the other side.
Snape wasn't in the kitchen, which wasn't much of a surprise, but there was a small glass on the table, two pieces of ice, not yet melted in the whisky, and a small napkin beneath it. Harry downed it one gulp, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Boots in the corner and cloak thrown over the back of the chair, Harry made himself at home, knife out of its sheath, and resting loosely in his hand.
He stood silently in the doorway, tapping the blade against his lower lip as he watched Snape moving restlessly in sleep. He almost, almost, turned around and went home, but a slight stilling in Snape's movements held him. A moment later, Snape was half-sitting up and glaring at him angrily.
"You're late," Snape said, voice annoyed, gruff with sleep. Harry shrugged. Work didn't exactly have a set end time, not with so many witches and wizards that still wished to cause havoc in Voldemort's name.
Crossing the room, Harry stood next to the bed, looking at Snape with a slight grin. "Wouldn't let this stupid bastard that kept hurling jelly-leg jinxes at me get away."
Huffing, Snape sat up a little more, leaning against the headboard. "And we all know how important it is to engage in a pissing contest with some low-life with a third year spellbook that got caught scrumping."
Harry rolled his eyes. "And if I let him go, you'd criticise me for thinking with my cock, too lazy to do my job right."
Silence followed, and the look on Snape's face told him that he was spot on in that assessment.
"I'm here now," Harry said then, taking off the rest of his clothes, tossing them mindlessly on the floor.
Snape narrowed his eyes, casting a dark look in his direction, but didn't protest. Harry took that as an invitation, or as much of one as he was likely to receive. If Snape was truly angry, they'd be arguing, curses thrown, wands brandished. Harry, for his part, didn't care which happened. Arguments with Snape ended on the bed anyhow, and sex with Snape could be more violent than a bad day at work.
He threw the sheets off Snape, making them a mess at the foot of the bed, and knelt on the mattress. Harry leaned down slowly to kiss Snape, not caring that it was only allowed maybe half of the time. The other half, Harry thought with an elevated pulse, ended in his lip swollen and bloodied from Snape's too-sharp teeth. It didn't matter to him, though, because it excited him either way.
Harry grabbed Snape's hair, tugging it roughly as he pulled him closer, as the kiss went from a quick press of lips to rough, biting and wet within seconds. Snape moved beneath him, reaching his hands up, and grabbed onto him fiercely, nails digging into his skin as he asked, panting into his ear, "Which ones did you bring?"
Harry pulled back, only slightly, and raised his hand, silver blade glinting off the small, flickering candle that remained lit and setting on the small table near the bedroom door.
"My favourite." Snape's eyes never left his, however, and were resolutely not on the knife. "And for you, our first," Harry added, almost as afterthought, gesturing to the space on the mattress next to them. Harry always laid the knives on the bed, not caring whether they ended up sprawled on them or not.
Snape waited, always, until Harry was inside him, pounding into him, almost on the border of violence, when he'd grope blindly for his knife, clenching it tightly when he found it.
Waiting for a moment, Harry stilled until he felt Snape's blade break his skin before he moved again, the knife already red and dripping. Panting, bleeding, Harry leaned down again, knife still in his hand, pressed against the mattress and kissed Snape again, harsh and with teeth, licking the skin on Snape's neck as he felt one hand on his back, holding him as still as possible without constraining the steady pace of his hips, and the warm blade bite into his flesh.
The lines on his skin were always firm, straight at first, starting on his mid-back, before becoming jagged, small, and deep, on his shoulders, from when Snape wasn't prepared the sheer force of his thrusts.
At some point, however, the knives get dropped, and instead it was nails and tongue and teeth against bloodied skin and bruised lips. Harry locked his eyes on Snape's, not looking away until he came, panting, and let his body fall, sprawled on top of Snape until he was pushed off to sleep next to him.
The morning, Harry thought with his mind hazy with sleep, would always be his favourite part. Wounds still fresh, and white sheets, because he would have no other, red and brown with blood, sticky against their skin. Snape would glare at him, blame cast in his direction, dragging him to a shower, half-warm, half-cold, watching as the pink swirled down the drain, water stinging against his cuts.
Sometimes, and only then, would Snape smile.
Pairing: Snape/Potter
Rating: R
Warnings: Bloodplay, Knifeplay
Word Count: 1,300
Summary: Months, years had passed since his first taste of steel and power, and his collection yet grows, as does his need for the man that provided the blades.
Author's notes: Many, many thanks to djin7 for the speedy and excellent beta. Written for the daily_deviant.
He could feel the hilt of his favourite knife pressed against the side of his leg. The streets were cold, but the metal was warm against his skin, having held it in his palm for the better part of an hour, prior to leaving.
No other Auror carried one, thinking them unnecessary, being armed with their wands. Harry, however, never left the house without at least having two hidden on his person. He liked them, the glint of the blades, the weight against his palm, they way that true power lay in whomever was wielding them.
His collection began by accident, his first knife a gift, such as it was. The hilt was ornate, a silver snake etched in perpetually cool metal. Snape had transfigured it from a splinter of wood, which amused Harry to no end, and he'd thrown it across the room at Harry, lodging it painfully in his shoulder. Snape had smirked then, and Harry panted, hand automatically grasping his shoulder.
With a nod, Snape turned and left Harry standing there, bleeding, and almost smirking in return. What a bastard. Next time, he vowed, next time he'd make sure Snape was the one bleeding.
Gritting his teeth, Harry had pulled it out, and stared, fascinated, as the blood dripped on the floor. With a grin, Harry wiped the blade clean of blood and pocketed the knife, not bothering to chase after his attacker.
That came later.
His third knife was presented to him in a plain white box, accompanied by a small white tag bearing his name in spiky, familiar handwriting. It was small, sharp, and as simple as the box that held it. This, Harry had decided the moment he saw it, would remain his favourite.
The fifth was pressed against his palm, a gift hot and wet with sweat, in the dark, between kisses and grunts and smooth, slick skin, long strands of hair grazing his shoulders as his hand curled around a curved handle.
There were long slices in the sheets when he'd awoken the next morning, drops of red against the white, and the wrinkled shadow of the man who'd occupied the space hours before.
Months, years had passed since his first taste of steel and power, and his collection yet grows, as does his need for the man that provided the blades.
~~
Looking down the dark alley, Harry quietly made his way to the third metal pipe jutting out of the wall. He tapped it twice, tapped a brick on each side once, and tapped the pipe again. The bricks to the left of the pipes shimmered, and he stepped through to the other side.
Snape wasn't in the kitchen, which wasn't much of a surprise, but there was a small glass on the table, two pieces of ice, not yet melted in the whisky, and a small napkin beneath it. Harry downed it one gulp, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Boots in the corner and cloak thrown over the back of the chair, Harry made himself at home, knife out of its sheath, and resting loosely in his hand.
He stood silently in the doorway, tapping the blade against his lower lip as he watched Snape moving restlessly in sleep. He almost, almost, turned around and went home, but a slight stilling in Snape's movements held him. A moment later, Snape was half-sitting up and glaring at him angrily.
"You're late," Snape said, voice annoyed, gruff with sleep. Harry shrugged. Work didn't exactly have a set end time, not with so many witches and wizards that still wished to cause havoc in Voldemort's name.
Crossing the room, Harry stood next to the bed, looking at Snape with a slight grin. "Wouldn't let this stupid bastard that kept hurling jelly-leg jinxes at me get away."
Huffing, Snape sat up a little more, leaning against the headboard. "And we all know how important it is to engage in a pissing contest with some low-life with a third year spellbook that got caught scrumping."
Harry rolled his eyes. "And if I let him go, you'd criticise me for thinking with my cock, too lazy to do my job right."
Silence followed, and the look on Snape's face told him that he was spot on in that assessment.
"I'm here now," Harry said then, taking off the rest of his clothes, tossing them mindlessly on the floor.
Snape narrowed his eyes, casting a dark look in his direction, but didn't protest. Harry took that as an invitation, or as much of one as he was likely to receive. If Snape was truly angry, they'd be arguing, curses thrown, wands brandished. Harry, for his part, didn't care which happened. Arguments with Snape ended on the bed anyhow, and sex with Snape could be more violent than a bad day at work.
He threw the sheets off Snape, making them a mess at the foot of the bed, and knelt on the mattress. Harry leaned down slowly to kiss Snape, not caring that it was only allowed maybe half of the time. The other half, Harry thought with an elevated pulse, ended in his lip swollen and bloodied from Snape's too-sharp teeth. It didn't matter to him, though, because it excited him either way.
Harry grabbed Snape's hair, tugging it roughly as he pulled him closer, as the kiss went from a quick press of lips to rough, biting and wet within seconds. Snape moved beneath him, reaching his hands up, and grabbed onto him fiercely, nails digging into his skin as he asked, panting into his ear, "Which ones did you bring?"
Harry pulled back, only slightly, and raised his hand, silver blade glinting off the small, flickering candle that remained lit and setting on the small table near the bedroom door.
"My favourite." Snape's eyes never left his, however, and were resolutely not on the knife. "And for you, our first," Harry added, almost as afterthought, gesturing to the space on the mattress next to them. Harry always laid the knives on the bed, not caring whether they ended up sprawled on them or not.
Snape waited, always, until Harry was inside him, pounding into him, almost on the border of violence, when he'd grope blindly for his knife, clenching it tightly when he found it.
Waiting for a moment, Harry stilled until he felt Snape's blade break his skin before he moved again, the knife already red and dripping. Panting, bleeding, Harry leaned down again, knife still in his hand, pressed against the mattress and kissed Snape again, harsh and with teeth, licking the skin on Snape's neck as he felt one hand on his back, holding him as still as possible without constraining the steady pace of his hips, and the warm blade bite into his flesh.
The lines on his skin were always firm, straight at first, starting on his mid-back, before becoming jagged, small, and deep, on his shoulders, from when Snape wasn't prepared the sheer force of his thrusts.
At some point, however, the knives get dropped, and instead it was nails and tongue and teeth against bloodied skin and bruised lips. Harry locked his eyes on Snape's, not looking away until he came, panting, and let his body fall, sprawled on top of Snape until he was pushed off to sleep next to him.
The morning, Harry thought with his mind hazy with sleep, would always be his favourite part. Wounds still fresh, and white sheets, because he would have no other, red and brown with blood, sticky against their skin. Snape would glare at him, blame cast in his direction, dragging him to a shower, half-warm, half-cold, watching as the pink swirled down the drain, water stinging against his cuts.
Sometimes, and only then, would Snape smile.