I knew it. All doctors are wampires.
Feb. 10th, 2003 09:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
letterblade(Subject line from Uhura's Song, TOS novel #21, if memory serves, by Janet Kagan, and darn good.)
Survived the doctor's appointment concerning my near-fainting-spell on the train, complete with a lengthy discussion of my stools; had to get blood drawn because they wanted to test my thyroid. And they actually found my vein!
Previous vampires have had horrible trouble with this, you see.
Then went to Borders, combed their mythology section, and came away with a tome on myth analysis that I should be able to have some fun with. Drooled over Masks of God, and decided to troll the Campbell section of the Bennington library when I get back. Also picked up the Ithaqua Cycle from the horror section, as that particular mythos has recently been creeping me out.
At any rate. Not much else interesting. Scarf nearing seven stripes because of the waiting room. Tabbystalking on AIM. Want more icons, but am waiting until I have Photoshop access at work or school. Pimped Garmarna and Hedningarna etc. to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fasterthanlight. Grumbling over the fact that So Sayeth Death has just as many hits as Lime, but a quarter of the reviews. Decided to randomly post old fic.
Untitled: a study in slut!Harry, brief, possibly incomplete, possibly never to be completed. Posted on the off chance that one of the Fiends might find in mildly entertaining, and because I felt like doing so. Characterization and prose a bit plebian by my current standards, but that's why I'm posting it here and not finishing it up and shuffling it off to RS.org.
It didn't matter who.
He'd thought, the first time, that maybe it did, that maybe it mattered that it was Draco Malfoy and not another man running his hands up his bare thighs. He allowed himself to believe that the next night, as Draco tied him naked to the bed, tied the Gryffindor scarf over his eyes, and hoisted his legs into the air. But when Draco, a smirk curling his mouth, switched with Blaise Zabini at the last moment, after he was blindfolded, and watched as the slender, dark boy took his place over the bound Gryffindor--it was when he realized that it was Blaise fucking him that he knew it wouldn't matter who.
Oh, there were some people he'd never ask. Plenty of people, in fact. So many of the students were so very straight, or so very young, or so very female, that he wondered for a long while if Draco and Blaise were the only ones. And it terrified him that he wanted more, but, at the same time, he understood.
His life was not going to be easy, after all. He was destined practically from birth to save the wizarding world. There were days he couldn't concentrate on his studies because of the worry, the weight of expectation, the terror of the nightmares in which Hogwarts fell in flames and everybody he knew vanished in green flashes of light and nothing rose from the ashes. There were days that nothing Ron or Hermione or anybody else could say could stir him out of sheer terror, sheer stress. As Voldemort's dominion grew, as the parents of Muggle-born wizards vanished never to be seen again, and their children were strung naked and bloodied in the tops of trees, the very presence of his scar became a constant ache, and his fate too terrifying for mere friendship to allay.
It had been Draco who told him, with a smirk, that sometimes those with great responsibility and power are those most likely to be submissive in bed, and when Draco told him that something inside him had snapped.
But even after that, he still wanted more.
He'd asked Ron, one day, out of desperation, because he was his best friend, and Ron got the queerest look on his face and asked if there was something wrong with him, and he'd just said that it made everything go away, and that had been the wrong thing because Ron had hurried from the room with his trusting brown eyes rattled and disturbed. After that he'd written off the Weasleys, until the summer, when all the boys were home and he visited the Burrow, and spent far too long half-consciously ogling the sheer power and heat in Bill Weasley's lanky, leather-clad frame.
That night, stammering and unsure, he'd asked him, and Bill also got the queerest look on his face, but then said he understood, and took him up to his room, and put a silencing charm on the door. He'd very gently stripped his clothes off, very gently cuffed his hands behind his back, very gently bent him over the desk, and fucked him with the strength of a dragon. He'd collapsed bonelessly to the floor afterwards, and Bill had picked him up, put him on his bed, and very gently pulled off the blindfold.
"Find somebody at Hogwarts, Harry. You need this, I can tell."
So he'd started to tell him about Draco and Blaise, but stopped, because he'd realized that he wanted someone older than him, taller than him, stronger than him, not the two tiny, slender, elegantly yet amateurly vicious Slytherins. So he'd just nodded, and Bill took off the handcuffs and gave him back his clothes and they spoke of other things, and he said a fervent thank you when he finally left the little room.
It was several weeks into the start of the term when he realized it.
Severus Snape. He could ask Severus Snape.
The thought made him dizzy. What if he refused, and took the oppurtunity to betray his secret desires? And so he cornered Draco and Blaise and plied them for information about their Head of House, and they'd both smirked, and answered his questions, and told him to get the hell down to the dungeons, make sure his tie was on straight, and introduce himself as the blind boy because that's how they referred to him around people who didn't know who he was. So he did, and Snape got the queerest look on his face, only it was Snape, so the look was a mere glitter in his eyes.
"So you're the blind boy. Fascinating, Potter. Fame finally getting to you?"
He said nothing, just squirmed and started to blush.
"They did let it slip that their pet was a Gryffindor. I admit I'd entertained the notion that it was you, but rejected it on acount of your accursedly holier-than-though attitude."
He shrunk further into himself, slowly redenning.
"Still, you've done a marvelously good job of covering your tracks. They said you'd asked Bill Weasley, and realized that you wanted more than either of them could give you. I'm not surprised. Malfoy and Zabini are only children, after all. And you could hardly ask Black or Lupin or any of the others."
A curl touched his lip at the fierce color on the boy's face.
"Don't worry, Potter. I won't tell anybody." He rose from his chair, rounded his desk, and lifted the boy's chin to examine his face. "I too had to learn how to forget myself, after all. Playing spy under Voldemort's nose is not a relaxing business. We are all at war, Potter. We all have our needs." The curl returned to his lip. "I'm simply surprised you had the courage to admit your own sins. It's not something people like you are good at."
He'd simply stared up at him.
"Take off your glasses," Snape said quietly, emotionlessly. "Now." He took them from the boy's shaking hand and set them carefully on his desk. "Go into the next room, strip entirely, fold your clothes in the corner, kneel at the foot of the bed, and wait for me." The words were unhurried, falling frighteningly calmly out of that frighteningly arousing voice. "Go, I said. I do not tolerate hesitation."
No, it didn't matter who, except when that person had the terrible strength and ruthlessness of Severus Snape.
Survived the doctor's appointment concerning my near-fainting-spell on the train, complete with a lengthy discussion of my stools; had to get blood drawn because they wanted to test my thyroid. And they actually found my vein!
Previous vampires have had horrible trouble with this, you see.
Then went to Borders, combed their mythology section, and came away with a tome on myth analysis that I should be able to have some fun with. Drooled over Masks of God, and decided to troll the Campbell section of the Bennington library when I get back. Also picked up the Ithaqua Cycle from the horror section, as that particular mythos has recently been creeping me out.
At any rate. Not much else interesting. Scarf nearing seven stripes because of the waiting room. Tabbystalking on AIM. Want more icons, but am waiting until I have Photoshop access at work or school. Pimped Garmarna and Hedningarna etc. to
fasterthanlight. Grumbling over the fact that So Sayeth Death has just as many hits as Lime, but a quarter of the reviews. Decided to randomly post old fic.Untitled: a study in slut!Harry, brief, possibly incomplete, possibly never to be completed. Posted on the off chance that one of the Fiends might find in mildly entertaining, and because I felt like doing so. Characterization and prose a bit plebian by my current standards, but that's why I'm posting it here and not finishing it up and shuffling it off to RS.org.
It didn't matter who.
He'd thought, the first time, that maybe it did, that maybe it mattered that it was Draco Malfoy and not another man running his hands up his bare thighs. He allowed himself to believe that the next night, as Draco tied him naked to the bed, tied the Gryffindor scarf over his eyes, and hoisted his legs into the air. But when Draco, a smirk curling his mouth, switched with Blaise Zabini at the last moment, after he was blindfolded, and watched as the slender, dark boy took his place over the bound Gryffindor--it was when he realized that it was Blaise fucking him that he knew it wouldn't matter who.
Oh, there were some people he'd never ask. Plenty of people, in fact. So many of the students were so very straight, or so very young, or so very female, that he wondered for a long while if Draco and Blaise were the only ones. And it terrified him that he wanted more, but, at the same time, he understood.
His life was not going to be easy, after all. He was destined practically from birth to save the wizarding world. There were days he couldn't concentrate on his studies because of the worry, the weight of expectation, the terror of the nightmares in which Hogwarts fell in flames and everybody he knew vanished in green flashes of light and nothing rose from the ashes. There were days that nothing Ron or Hermione or anybody else could say could stir him out of sheer terror, sheer stress. As Voldemort's dominion grew, as the parents of Muggle-born wizards vanished never to be seen again, and their children were strung naked and bloodied in the tops of trees, the very presence of his scar became a constant ache, and his fate too terrifying for mere friendship to allay.
It had been Draco who told him, with a smirk, that sometimes those with great responsibility and power are those most likely to be submissive in bed, and when Draco told him that something inside him had snapped.
But even after that, he still wanted more.
He'd asked Ron, one day, out of desperation, because he was his best friend, and Ron got the queerest look on his face and asked if there was something wrong with him, and he'd just said that it made everything go away, and that had been the wrong thing because Ron had hurried from the room with his trusting brown eyes rattled and disturbed. After that he'd written off the Weasleys, until the summer, when all the boys were home and he visited the Burrow, and spent far too long half-consciously ogling the sheer power and heat in Bill Weasley's lanky, leather-clad frame.
That night, stammering and unsure, he'd asked him, and Bill also got the queerest look on his face, but then said he understood, and took him up to his room, and put a silencing charm on the door. He'd very gently stripped his clothes off, very gently cuffed his hands behind his back, very gently bent him over the desk, and fucked him with the strength of a dragon. He'd collapsed bonelessly to the floor afterwards, and Bill had picked him up, put him on his bed, and very gently pulled off the blindfold.
"Find somebody at Hogwarts, Harry. You need this, I can tell."
So he'd started to tell him about Draco and Blaise, but stopped, because he'd realized that he wanted someone older than him, taller than him, stronger than him, not the two tiny, slender, elegantly yet amateurly vicious Slytherins. So he'd just nodded, and Bill took off the handcuffs and gave him back his clothes and they spoke of other things, and he said a fervent thank you when he finally left the little room.
It was several weeks into the start of the term when he realized it.
Severus Snape. He could ask Severus Snape.
The thought made him dizzy. What if he refused, and took the oppurtunity to betray his secret desires? And so he cornered Draco and Blaise and plied them for information about their Head of House, and they'd both smirked, and answered his questions, and told him to get the hell down to the dungeons, make sure his tie was on straight, and introduce himself as the blind boy because that's how they referred to him around people who didn't know who he was. So he did, and Snape got the queerest look on his face, only it was Snape, so the look was a mere glitter in his eyes.
"So you're the blind boy. Fascinating, Potter. Fame finally getting to you?"
He said nothing, just squirmed and started to blush.
"They did let it slip that their pet was a Gryffindor. I admit I'd entertained the notion that it was you, but rejected it on acount of your accursedly holier-than-though attitude."
He shrunk further into himself, slowly redenning.
"Still, you've done a marvelously good job of covering your tracks. They said you'd asked Bill Weasley, and realized that you wanted more than either of them could give you. I'm not surprised. Malfoy and Zabini are only children, after all. And you could hardly ask Black or Lupin or any of the others."
A curl touched his lip at the fierce color on the boy's face.
"Don't worry, Potter. I won't tell anybody." He rose from his chair, rounded his desk, and lifted the boy's chin to examine his face. "I too had to learn how to forget myself, after all. Playing spy under Voldemort's nose is not a relaxing business. We are all at war, Potter. We all have our needs." The curl returned to his lip. "I'm simply surprised you had the courage to admit your own sins. It's not something people like you are good at."
He'd simply stared up at him.
"Take off your glasses," Snape said quietly, emotionlessly. "Now." He took them from the boy's shaking hand and set them carefully on his desk. "Go into the next room, strip entirely, fold your clothes in the corner, kneel at the foot of the bed, and wait for me." The words were unhurried, falling frighteningly calmly out of that frighteningly arousing voice. "Go, I said. I do not tolerate hesitation."
No, it didn't matter who, except when that person had the terrible strength and ruthlessness of Severus Snape.
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Date: Jun. 8th, 2009 04:33 am (UTC)somehow snape/harry is suddenly plausible and almost canonical.