Title: Needful Release
Warning (highlight to view): For dub-con.
Word Count: 2000
Summary: A bound Slytherin affects for Snape and Potter a needful release while securing his own.
Disclaimer: This piece is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers, including, but not limited to: Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: Written for the inaugural run of pimp_my_3some. Thank you, eaivalefay and fodirteg, for beta'ing. Reposted with an approximate date due to my back-up snafu.
They read to one another. It astonishes me. True, the one is sallow and sickly looking, though he yet stands unbowed by time. I would the servants feed him with meat and mead and bread so that his inherent nobility not be hidden by such mean, neglected flesh. A mystery to me, it is, how one so fit as to seek only the solace of an aged scholar has tempted the other, the youth about my own age, to sit with him of a night. The boy is slight of build and height but blessed with a merry gaze and teasing mouth, and my living self would have borne much to win his favor—but never would I have spent such rapt attention on the relation of the treasures of my library!
I did not linger in the company of learned men, hungry for bard's tales, before my visage and essence was woven into these threads. No, I hung about their thighs ravenous for another form of knowledge. Ah, but perhaps the youth visits to these chambers for much the same reason. Indeed, I would swear so for the otherwise unaccountable flush of his skin, which grows deeper with every heavy syllable that falls upon his ears from the mouth of the sage who dwells within these cold chambers.
It has been so long since I've known earthly pleasure that I'd sooner he tore the book out of the master's hands and fell to his knees before him. Does he not see how he wastes Life's precious gift of time? Is he ignorant of the desires of the flesh? No, I think not. Whatever it is of death he has seen—and I understand his comprehension of it is great—has burdened him with an unwelcome reticence, and the master, being modest, himself, does not appear to know the true needs of his pupil.
I am weary of their debates. Testing my bonds, I shall strive to become their teacher, myself. It is not for me, this half-existence of listening under the eaves! I remember pleasure, and they shall know it before long.
Severus' latest acquisition intrigues Harry because Slytherin's eyes seem to follow him even though he knows the woven gaze is fixed in the threads.
"You're not like the portraits, are you?" he asks, running his hand lightly over the green tassel closest to him.
The vibration of magic that resonates through his fingertips and up his arm, causing him to shiver, startles him, and he jerks back, too late realizing that he's pulled a fiber partially out of the tassel.
"Shit!" Harry exclaims, grabbing the knot above the fringe with one hand while hastily attempting to stuff the loose thread back inside.
It doesn't work, and Harry panics. He knows how expensive such an artifact must have been.
"If I don't fix this, Severus will—"
The action of the fringe coiling about Harry's wrist stuns him into silence.
Before he can draw his wand, however, the strings thicken, lengthen, and fan themselves out over Harry's torso, wrapping themselves tightly around his body and jerking him forward and up—until he's so close to the visage of the young Slytherin that his mouth almost touches the image of the founder's.
And Slytherin smiles.
Severus sneers to enter his chambers and discover Potter's absence. The brat has never been late before.
"But it was too much to hope that he'd continue his visi—"
The Potions master's mouth freezes mid-word as he sees the alteration to Slytherin's tapestry. The time-dulled threads now swirl vibrantly over themselves like unstable magical paint, revealing a most unexpected scene: Potter, nude and bound, kneeling before Slytherin, the founder's fingers entwined in a firm grip upon Potter's hair—which he uses to guide the other young man toward him.
Fuck. I'm asleep, dreaming. "This isn't possible," Severus says, swallowing hard and approaching the tapestry.
Slytherin looks up from his contemplation of Harry, moans, gazes directly into Severus' eyes, and says, "Nothing is impossible to a well-ordered mind, and I've seen enough of his to know that he wishes this."
Potter attempts to pull away but is pressed back down Slytherin's cock as Severus draws his wand.
"Let him go."
"I think not. He likes being on his knees for me. I rather think he'd prefer—oh, your clever tongue!—to be ministering to you, master. Would you like that?"
Severus watches the muscles knot in Potter's back, his cock throbbing as the boy struggles to remove himself from the silver cords restraining his arms behind his back from wrists to shoulders, and forces himself not to stare at Potter's arse.
His perfect arse.
"I'd like you to let him go," he replies, forcing his voice to escape his dry throat and mouth.
"You desire him, but you don't make use of him. Why is tha—at?" Slytherin asks, his breath catching. "He wants you to use him just, oh, just like this!"
Severus bites his lip as Slytherin licks his, and frantically attempts to find a remedy amongst the fevered thoughts of his mind—which goes blank as Slytherin begins to shudder through his orgasm.
Harry is horrified. He's let Slytherin into his mind, allowed him to display one of his deepest fantasies to Severus, and now, shaking with need and shame, all he can think of is his prick.
It throbs. It weeps. It needs.
"No!" Harry exclaims, as the panting Slytherin smiles down at him and furls a thread of blue silk—the silk of his trousers—around his shaft and bollocks to bind them fast.
"Yes," Slytherin replies, laughing. "You'll not find release by my hand. That isn't what you wish, is it?"
Harry holds his breath. Severus. Severus, please.
"You see?" Slytherin asks Severus, who Harry can hear breathing heavily behind him. "It's your touch he craves, master. Your tongue. Your lips. Your fingers. Your prick. You. And I know you need him. Look," Slytherin orders Harry, turning him to gaze upon the room. "See how your master desires you."
Harry wants to say, "He's not my master," but words fail him.
His mouth cannot form the words in response to the sight of Severus pressing the heel of one hand against his undeniable erection.
"Let him go," Severus whispers hoarsely.
"Free him yourself. It's you who's bound him by the perverse self-repression of your rights."
Harry watches in fascination and hope as Severus colors.
Slytherin's tone turns mocking. "We all of us own that which others seek to bestow upon us."
"Gods," Severus exhales more than says.
"Free him yourself," Slytherin repeats, more urgently.
"I don't, I don't know how."
Harry finds himself head down and turned sideways then, and he can't prevent a gasp as one soft skein begins to trace the rough muscle between his spread buttocks.
"I'll show you," Slytherin promises.
The scene before him changes. Slytherin is now sitting by Potter, who is bound by the woven curtain pulls of the bed—his arms to the top posts, his legs to the headboard—which moments before was only partially displayed. The picture now is of Potter's exposed arse and, drawn forward almost upright over his bollocks by the blue tethers, his leaking prick.
Severus forces himself not to sway as his blood engorges the instrument of Potter's freedom. He knows what he must do.
"Come," Slytherin beckons, one loomed arm hovering above Severus' head.
Severus blinks, suddenly uncertain, confused by how the perspective changes so rapidly in the tapestry and wondering when he moved so close to it, but he wastes no time in taking the young founder's hand.
He is pulled forward and up, slowly, and then the tapestry's threads unwind themselves and weave through the fabric of his garments, unraveling them so that, when he achieves the bed, he is nude.
"Tell me what to do."
Slytherin moves behind him, strokes his long fingers over Severus' shoulders, and then presses him toward Potter.
"He is prepared for you. He is waiting, willing—do as you wish with him."
Potter's eyes are wide and so very green. The desire they reflect is unmistakable.
Still, even in his dreams, Severus must ask, "Do you—"
And Severus slides over the threads of the space in between himself and Potter so quickly that he doesn't realize he's sheathed his cock inside of the boy until the heat, the vise-like grip of Potter's interior muscles, is undulating around him in a searing pleasure-pain that has long been the subject of his most lurid masturbatory imaginings.
"Oh, so you do know what to do, master," Slytherin taunts, moving to kneel behind Severus.
The thick digit penetrating Severus' arse is not quite unexpected, but the blinding flash of coruscating color behind his eyelids is, and he jerks his hips faster, without rhythm, until Potter is crying his tortured release.
Grunting, Severus pours himself into the boy, forcing himself to make little sound as he desperately pulls at the threads imprisoning Potter's spasming prick. As they fall away, so too do the other restraints, and Potter's hands are suddenly upon him, grasping, clawing, urging him on. Slytherin twists the thumb inside of Severus' arse more deeply, and Severus' knees buckle as he falls upon Potter's freed cock in time to suck its spurting head into his mouth.
Potter tastes like nothing Severus has ever known; he greedily sucks every hot, salty pulse and hopes that he will not forget it when he awakens.
Sleep takes him, then, but not before he feels Slytherin insinuate himself between Potter and himself, feels the founder's lips pressing against his own, and he extends an arm under the braided boy's body to capture the hand that Harry has thrown over his eyes.
Harry awakens to the most delicious soreness he's ever experienced and stretches his limbs—only to discover that he is lying under the limp tapestry of Slytherin and across Severus' chest.
Wordlessly, he summons his wand, aims it at the artifact, and levitates it high into the air.
"Incendio!" he casts, rolling himself and Severus away from the resultant fall of ash.
Severus' eyes fly open. "Fuck."
"I don't think I'll be able to for a while," Harry replies, taking refuge in a cheeky grin before blushing and looking away.
"Idiot! Only you, Potter, only you would be so foolish as to—"
I do not believe that they shall read to one another of a chill night ever again, and well I grant that I shall miss their trysts, for surely there will be others. Yet I've dwelt too long bound by my mother's scheme-fed skeins, infused so richly as they were with so much of my soul, to linger in this place o'er long. Oh, how she did long to protect her dear son as he set out from fen to find his fortune, did my mother, and how her knowledge of the arcane lore was vast.
Yes, long I did languish, moldering in some wizard's warded trunk, waiting for an infusion of that magic most needful, that magic the master and his pupil—my students—so willingly bestowed upon me this night, but I am free now, unbound, released to the world! I am all glorious flesh. I am renewed.
Though the body of my birth has been dust for perhaps a thousand years, I am again Slytherin, Salazar, second son of a seventh son, but first in my mother's heart. Gods bless all mothers who love their sons! Gods bless me—for I mean to have my share of this world, and I shall not partake of it alone.
Godric! You must remain, for I saw to it that a goodly share of your own soul was safely bound and set within these very walls upon the felling of our first enemy. Well I remember your anger at my righteous task, but that purity of spirit, that part of you I captured and removed to safety, why he shall not reproach me for my actions, and we two shall grow old and great together.