Twisted Little Happy

Disclaimer: Nope, I do not own these characters! They are not mine, and this is
the first time I have ever had to say that. I feel cheap!

A Pissed off Eskimo Presents:
***TWISTED LITTLE HAPPY***


A light romp through the world of slash sex (Harry/Severus style). Okay, so it's
not so light, but for me this is fucking cheerful. That says a lot about my psyche,
now doesn't it?


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He's all warm hands and heated breath, all fiery eyes and smouldering voice.
All over my body, all butterfly kisses from my neck to me thighs and all over again,
all the way back up, melting me into the sheets and making me cry out to deities I
long since gave up on.

It takes restraint I never knew I possessed not to look at him now. Now that
we're in class, now that we're surrounded my people, now when all I want is him. I
tried pretending to pay attention, to watch him talk to the class, list ingredients
and dole out instructions, but whenever he looks at me, or so much as breaths in my
general direction, my face reflects the most debased needs and wants.

God, how I want him, I need him. I live for his feather light touches, and
brutal play. Love it when he holds me down, pulls my hair, wants me on my knees,
orders my body to do things I can't rightly complain about. Even gentle he owns me;
even kind he possesses me, every part of me; even cruel I plead to him, to take me,
leave his mark of ownership.

I try not to show how cute I think it is when he finds ways to give me
detention. Try not to laugh at my friends indignity at what they see as a cruel
punishment. Not that he doesn't make it cruel. The touching and suggestions of what
I can expect drive me wild all day. It's not even hard to pretend I'm angry at him,
I just have to recall that there are hours before he can keep all those promises.

It started innocent, it really did. I just wanted to see what he felt like.
Just wanted to know if his hair was greasy or in fact, silky to the touch, easy to
caress. It was. Just wanted to know what kissing him was like. Then everything
changed so fast. Then I just wanted his hands on me, in me, hi me, me, around me,
consuming me.

He must have nearly died trying to fend me off. It really was one for the
records. Not that I'm an expert, but I find it amazing that he managed to throw me out
into hall after I'd spent nearly an hour on his lap, mostly naked, grinding against him,
begging him. He doesn't hesitate now, he slams me on my back onto the floor, ravishes
my body, shoves himself into me, makes up for every second he said no the first night I
tried.

So glad I never gave up. So glad I went back again and again until he relented,
until he couldn't say no, until I'd more than debauched myself in front of him in the
effort to prove I knew what I was asking.

It's really only a matter of time, or so he says, until we're caught. I am,
after all, sixteen, and patience has never been one of my virtues. I go to him almost
every night, curl up against him and whimper until he makes me scream. I love the
sounds he can make from me.

Not that this is, in any way, just sex. We talk, well, I talk, he listens
mostly. I never imagined he'd be very good at listening to me; always thought he'd
be better at getting annoyed and kicking me out on my ass to shut me up. After a
particularly bad nightmare, though, when I wanted nothing more than his arms around
me, he made me talk about it.

Damn him for doing that, too, because once I had his ear, I spilled more than
just that nightmare. I told him everything that haunted me at night. I told him about
my relatives, I told him about my friends, about how deeply I resented my fame. Not all
in one night. No, he really might have kicked me out had I tried that.

I think he must know every little cursed secret I have. I still own one, though,
I haven't told him how much I love him. I haven't told him what drove me to him the
first night, or what brought me back after his rather firm rebuttal. I won't tell him
those things.

How would I explain that one day I just felt comfortable around him? One day it
wasn't anger, it was content. I was content to let him badger me, I looked forward to it.
It could have been words of praise for all I cared. I don't even know why really, just
that I changed, and in my eyes, he changed.

It couldn't go on forever. I wanted it to, but I am his student, we were bound to
be caught. When we were called to headmasters office, I was so sure. Mentally, I prepared
myself to kick and scream if they tried to take him away from me, my Sev, mine, no one
could change that, and I needed him.

I really wasn't prepared at all. When they gave me the letter mum had left. It
was so neat and crisp, it could have been written the day before. Trust Albus to keep
something in such pristine condition. Trust him to have such grandeur timing.

I think I read it six or seven times before I handed it to Sev, letting him glace
over the words, and over them, and over them. Letting them sink in to him as they were
trying to sink into me.

He's my all, now is everything and all I have, and I want him and need him, no
matter how cruel he can be, no matter if he's achingly kind, and I cry for him, I'm just
so glad he's mine. It would have been kinder to rip him away, tell me I just couldn't
have him, let me kick and scream, throw a fit, because this is worse.

I didn't need to know he was my father.

After-Thought:
If the characters feel off, here's why: I have never written fan fiction, only original
work, and I've been doing that for over ten years. So, writing from someone else's
characters felt wrong, but the story itself was just so right. So spank me. I did a little
something I like to call "˜equating.' I found two characters in one of my own stories that,
in at least some respects, matched the two I wanted to use here. That's also the reason I
don't use many names in it. All, in all, though. I hope it wasn't a complete waste.