Dreams
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Snape
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,639
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Harry/Snape
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,639
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Dreams
A/N: Personal journal entry I found from a long time ago, re-worded into Snarry.
I dreamt last night that I masturbated for you on the edge of your bed, and I watched your eyes widen as I leisurely stroked my cock. I dreamt that I wouldn't let you to touch me, and I sat you in that wooden chair beside your cauldron. I had on my black shirt, the one I used to wear in the summer, the one I’m forever pulling down over my arousal after I’ve been seated on your couch, and you are stirring and laughing with that depth. I don't think I’ll ever tell you how much I love your laugh. What it does to me, where it hits me.
Your sheets were white. You were shirtless, as always, and I’m so used to seeing you now without a shirt, that I don't much think about licking your chest, out on your balcony, or joining you in the shower anymore. I used to think those were invitations, you know. The times when you would shower with me in your bedroom, with my legs over your floors, your potions still running down my thighs; I used to, almost, wish it were an invitation.
There wasn't a single word spoken between us. There was a slammed door in the distance, and the chatter of bitter teens below us. There was the sound of your weight shifting in your seat, and my cries buried deep in desire.
The windows were open and it was summer. I don't think I’ll ever tell you just how I used to use your password during lunch breaks, and snoop around your chambers. How I used to lay in your bed and think of what it would be like to lay beside you, and feel your skin hot against mine. I used to wonder what you might taste like when you came in my mouth, and I had to stop those dreams, lucid or not, to keep myself from doing dangerous things to myself, too. I used to wonder if I could handle all of you inside of me, or if I’d have to whimper and ask that you be gentle. I used to stroke my cock all over those sheets, and think of how you called me golden boy, your furious little golden boy, and I suspected somewhere in my mind that perhaps you knew. That perhaps the summer heat over my neck wasn't heat from the windows at all, but it was your breath lingering over my naked summer skin. I used to wish those things, almost to the point of madness.
You begged me not to close my eyes when I came.
I dreamt last night that I masturbated for you on the edge of your bed, and I watched your eyes widen as I leisurely stroked my cock. I dreamt that I wouldn't let you to touch me, and I sat you in that wooden chair beside your cauldron. I had on my black shirt, the one I used to wear in the summer, the one I’m forever pulling down over my arousal after I’ve been seated on your couch, and you are stirring and laughing with that depth. I don't think I’ll ever tell you how much I love your laugh. What it does to me, where it hits me.
Your sheets were white. You were shirtless, as always, and I’m so used to seeing you now without a shirt, that I don't much think about licking your chest, out on your balcony, or joining you in the shower anymore. I used to think those were invitations, you know. The times when you would shower with me in your bedroom, with my legs over your floors, your potions still running down my thighs; I used to, almost, wish it were an invitation.
There wasn't a single word spoken between us. There was a slammed door in the distance, and the chatter of bitter teens below us. There was the sound of your weight shifting in your seat, and my cries buried deep in desire.
The windows were open and it was summer. I don't think I’ll ever tell you just how I used to use your password during lunch breaks, and snoop around your chambers. How I used to lay in your bed and think of what it would be like to lay beside you, and feel your skin hot against mine. I used to wonder what you might taste like when you came in my mouth, and I had to stop those dreams, lucid or not, to keep myself from doing dangerous things to myself, too. I used to wonder if I could handle all of you inside of me, or if I’d have to whimper and ask that you be gentle. I used to stroke my cock all over those sheets, and think of how you called me golden boy, your furious little golden boy, and I suspected somewhere in my mind that perhaps you knew. That perhaps the summer heat over my neck wasn't heat from the windows at all, but it was your breath lingering over my naked summer skin. I used to wish those things, almost to the point of madness.
You begged me not to close my eyes when I came.