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snapeaddict · 1 year ago

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Snapetober Day 19 - Hands

1984

"Albus, who did this to him? Who?"

"Former death-eaters, I suspect. Some who are not pleased to see him free… and under my protection."

Minerva sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping her nightgown tighter around herself. She glanced at the younger man's battered face then looked away: she could not stomach it, not yet.

"There cannot be death-eaters outside…"

"Many never stood trial, Minerva. And it is fair to say a good number went undetected. Severus must have encountered some of his old acquaintances tonight."

With considerable gentleness, Albus tucked a loose strand of hair behind the unconscious man's ear, revealing yet another bruise. There was blood all over his face, most notably on its lower part; his nose had bled profusely. Below the skin was marbled, certainly the result of repeated kicking. He must have protected his eyes, though, because they were mostly intact.

His lower lip was badly cut, and for some reason the headmaster could not take his eyes off it.

"Albus", Poppy said at last, putting down her wand and bringing over a bowl of lukewarm water. "Albus, I would like to screen him for internal injuries, but you know the limits of detection spells. If death-eaters did this, there might be curses we cannot catch."

Convulsively, Minerva reached for her colleague's hand. Its sight, however, made her gasp and she jumped to her feet, shaking violently.

"His hands!"

"I know, I know, Minerva, calm down. I will fix them - Minerva, calm down."

Poppy pulled over a seat and gestured towards it authoritatively.

"Sit, Minerva."

The deputy headmistress complied. But this time she could not take her eyes off Severus' hands, no matter the protests of her body and mind; there was something terribly fascinating in them, in each of those fingers so badly torn, and broken.

So much pain - he could withstand so much pain.

"I might need to wake him up", Poppy pursued, damping a white cloth in the basin beside her. She proceeded to wash his face. "Perhaps he could tell me if he recalls any spell, though with the pain in his face, I am unsure he will be able to speak."

The headmaster nodded. For a few seconds, he stroked the younger man's hair; then, as if caught red-handed, he took his hand away.

"I have means to communicate with him that do not require speech, Poppy. Please proceed."

The nurse nodded. She pointed her wand at Severus and whispered the waking spell - enervate.

Severus stirred. Immediately, an expression of intense discomfort, then pain, contracted every muscle on his face; his eyes fluttered open, and fell directly on Dumbledore.

He looked disoriented. His gaze, usually so sharp and penetrating, was glassy.

"Prof-" he started, and then winced in pain.

Albus shook his head.

"No need to speak, my boy. I am sorry we had to wake you up. We merely wish to inquire whether any significant curse was cast on you - you know they do not meddle well with in-depth diagnosing spells."

Severus' eyes went from the headmaster to Minerva, who was sitting beside him, and closed briefly, which disheartened the older man.

"There is no reason to be ashamed, Severus."

The back eyes opened again, brutally. Suddenly a flood of memories took over the headmaster's mind, and he saw four men - no, five - emerge from the shadows, attacking Severus brutally. Though taken by surprise, he fought back; in under a minute two of his adversaries lay on the ground, and a third joined them soon afterwards. It was a well-aimed blow from behind that brought Severus to his knees, and the two remaining men, in a fit of fury, beat him relentlessly while cursing him with a choking spell. He felt Severus' distress, he heard him gasp, there were flashes of light and more blood; he was vaguely aware that this had gone on for a long time, and felt Severus trying to retreat. But he pushed through.

He should not have. He knew he should have respected the man's wishes and let him show him only what he wanted, but the sheer brutality of the attack, the state of his hands; Albus needed to get a proper look at all five of these men. To remember their faces. He felt Severus' exhausted presence attempt to withdraw again and held on for a second longer.

Severus was paralysed, now. Paralysed and choked repeatedly - a most awful combination of curses.

"Not so proud now are you, uh, Snape? Dumbledore's not around to protect you this time? Come on, say it. Say Dumbledore's a cunt."

There was no reply. Then a loud snap. Severus whimpered.

"Say it."

Silence. Another crack.

"Say it."

Another bone snapped like a twig.

Feeling as though he might be sick, Albus withdrew, his face now as pale as Severus'. He was holding the bed frame with disproportionate strength. It took him a few seconds to realise.

He let go.

"Albus?" Minerva said, taking a step forward.

He turned his face away.

"Choking spells, Poppy. You know the counter-curses."

His blue eyes met the black, and he discerned a hint of surprise in them; he wondered why; then, taking a step back, he brought his hand to his face, and realised he was crying.

All ten fingers.

#Early torture session #Or when Dumbledore realised Severus' loyalty extended beyond Lily and his own faults #severus snape #pro snape #minerva mcgonagall #albus dumbledore #severus snape fanfiction #snapetober 2023 #snapetober #poppy pomfrey #Also Severus is a proud and stubborn man and this is not only an advantage unlocked

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tj-dragonblade · 2 years ago

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FLUFFBRUARY 2023: Feb 27 & 28

Feb 27 prompts: market friend photograph Feb 28 prompts: wreck veil wind

On AO3 - 1800-ish words

'Friend', Hob has named him; has so named him for most of their acquaintance, and Dream is pleased to be thought of thus. It means companionship, shared stories, laughter and affectionate insolence, a shoulder to lean on when the weight on his own grows heavy. It means a modern temple in the waking world and a space where he is always welcome. It means someone who will meet him on equal footing, unconcerned with his function or station or what gain can be had of him, who enjoys his company for himself alone.

Still, however. There are times, growing ever more numerous, that Hob will use the word—my friend, we're friends, that's what friends do—and Dream will agree, with a faint smile, while his own mind derides him with sneering sharpness.

Liar. Liar; you are not his friend.

Because, increasingly, he has. Concerns, about his own ability to be a friend to Hob.

A friend would not seek every opportunity to touch Hob's hand, his arm, simply to know the feel of Hob's skin warm beneath his fingers. A friend would not find distraction in the shape of his mouth, the crinkling of his eyes when he laughs, the dark hair visible at the open neck of his shirt. A friend would not observe him with predatory hunger when he walks, when he stretches, when he drinks.

A friend would not. Wonder, what his kiss might taste like, nor what magnificent sight he might make unclothed. A friend would not indulge fantasies, of being tenderly disrobed in turn, held, kissed, gently handled, split upon his cock and lovingly driven to the heights of pleasure—

A friend would not entertain such thoughts again, and again, and again, of a man who has shown no inclination that he would be amenable to them.

But. Perhaps. The fidelity of continuing to wait, when the agreed-upon meeting was missed, the devotion inherent in building the New Inn, in ensuring that Dream would find him again—might these indicate some feeling greater than friendship? The bright enthusiasm with which he greets Dream, the willingness to share so much of his time, the ready comfort when Dream is vexed of some frivolous diplomacy necessitated by his function?

No; surely, such things are simply in the nature of Hob Gadling to provide to his oldest friend, who would be foolish to hope for deeper meaning.

Incessantly he dwells upon these thoughts, day after day after day by the measure of the waking world, and finds his disquietude increasing. The Dreaming, as it does, begins to betray his emotional state; at last he flees to the waking world, where the correlation of himself to his realm is slightly muted and neither his staff nor his creations can skewer him with knowing looks.

It is a grey spring morning, damp and chill with a thrill of freshness and renewal nevertheless in the air.

He has brought himself to the New Inn. Of course.

He lets himself in the back door and up the private stair, as Hob has generously allowed of him, and knocks before entering Hob's flat.

Hob is in the kitchen, phone in hand, dictating his grocery list into it as he takes stock of his cupboards. "Dream!" he greets, and his smile is a spear of sunlight lancing straight through Dream's nonexistent heart.

"Make yourself comfortable," Hob says, opening the refrigerator now and peering within. "Let me finish up my list, then we can head to the supermarket."

He does this always, adapts on an instant's notice when Dream comes to him unannounced, seamlessly integrates Dream into his plans.

Dream is entirely grateful.

It is easy, to slip into the rhythm of Hob's day, Hob's life. They walk together to the grocery store, unbothered by the mild spring wind or the overcast sky, even when it opens in a light sprinkle before they reach their destination. The shopping is accomplished with unhurried efficiency, Hob chattering on non-stop as he navigates the aisles, Dream content to listen and push the trolley. The walk back is much the same, Hob sharing stories of his students now, canvas bags swinging in either hand. Dream carries the rest, smiling faintly at Hob's animated retelling of an attempted classroom prank.

"Let me put this all away and I'll make us some lunch," Hob says when they reach home. Dream has observed enough in this kitchen that he can easily assist with both the putting away and the preparation of food. He is pleased to help despite Hob's assurance that as a guest he need not; there is peace to be had in this domestic routine, comfort in following Hob's cheerful direction.

The fare they make together is remarkably satisfying.

Hob delves into his grading after lunch, reading essays aloud, and Dream offers input and commentary that Hob gladly incorporates with his own. It is time pleasantly spent, hours passing un-noted, wrapped in the warmth of Hob's voice and Hob's function and Hob's presence.

They spend the evening in the pub, 'people-watching', to use Hob's words, a fascination he's developed over his most recent century. He guesses at people's stories as they laugh and smile and talk around him, and while Dream is not inclined to divulge every stranger's every secret in this game, he will occasionally give affirmation if Hob has guessed something correctly.

It is, again, time pleasantly spent, and Dream is loathe to let it end, no matter the duties he must attend to in the Dreaming, no matter that Hob must soon sleep.

"I know you've spent the day here already and you've got plenty to see to waiting for you in your realm, but you're welcome to come back upstairs," Hob offers, when the hour winds toward closing. "Don't want to rush you off, if you like." His head is slightly tilted, one hand absently toying with his earlobe; Dream has observed this unconscious habit in him many times, finds it inordinately charming, and just now it fills him with immeasurable fondness.

That Hob acknowledges his duties, understands that Dream must come and go, offers him the invitation to stay if he so wishes all the same; Dream is touched. Hob respects his function; Hob is nevertheless hopeful that he will yet remain. Hob appreciates time spent with him; Hob enjoys his companionship.

And Dream would not deny himself Hob's wishes, in this. "I would keep your company awhile longer, if I might."

"Of course." Hob's smile is so blindingly warm, so sincere, so pleased; Dream aches to kiss it.

A friend would not.

He follows Hob back upstairs. Hob pours them both wine; they sit; they talk. Dream gazes his fill, enamoured of the spark in Hob's eyes, the fall of his hair, his animated hands, the relaxed and easy lines of his body. These moments are a true joy, a memory that he treasures once they part, a feeling that he cradles close in the cavity of his chest until they meet again. He loves, he knows; but Hob is his friend, and Dream would not see that friendship brought to ruin by his misplaced affections.

The hour has drawn late enough to be early again, and he knows he is keeping Hob from his sleep. Reluctant as he is to go, reluctant as Hob has been to bring their evening to a close, Dream knows it is time. The wine is gone. The conversation has lulled. He stands from the sofa; Hob follows suit.

"I thank you, Hob Gadling, for sharing your day with me. It has been a pleasure."

"Likewise. I'm…I'm glad to have you. Anytime." Hob's hands are stuffed in his pockets as though to keep them contained, prevent their reaching out; he rocks up onto his toes and back, a nervous sort of fidget, endearing. Fondness swells in Dream, spills into his smile most certainly, and Hob smiles back with the same.

Except.

There is an edge of self-recrimination in it, a twist that says careful, and a tilt to his eyebrows as if resigning himself to a want he cannot fulfill. It is a mirror of the things Dream feels in himself, and suddenly, he is re-examining every assumption he has made about their friendship, like twisting a kaleidescope until an entirely new image comes into focus.

"I really enjoyed your company, today," Hob is saying, earnestly casual. "You're welcome whenever you like, you know. Course you know. My home is your home, all that."

Dream's perception shifts, a veil drawn from over his senses, and he sees.

"Your hospitality does you credit," he says, a rote response, because he cannot tear his focus from what is suddenly crystal clear and blazing before him. The dark warmth of Hob's gaze is ripe with longing. The tilt of his brow speaks of quiet hope. The softness around his eyes betrays depthless affection, fondness, love, and the bare parting of his lips begs for reciprocation.

Dream is gazing upon the story-perfect image of a man in love, pining for some hint that it may not be in vain.

"Hob," he breathes, revelation in his voice.

The quiet of the flat thickens, draws taut, waiting.

Hob swallows audibly. His eyes never leave Dream's.

Struck to the core, Dream moves forward. His feelings…need not be his alone, are not his alone. His love need not be held in check, made quiet, kept hidden. Here is Hob before him, hoping, silently asking, and all he need do—

All he need do is reply.

He lifts a hand, touches Hob's face, cradles it reverently as he tilts in.

"Dream—" Hob's voice is hushed, breathless, taut with anticipation and Dream could not hope to stop himself if he tried.

He touches his mouth to Hob's, fits them together, kisses him with careful ardor, and all the wants that clamor and shriek within him are at long last singing in the harmony of fulfillment.

Hob has clasped ahold of his wrist, is hanging on it as though he would fall if he let go, would perish if Dream removed his hand from Hob's face, and Hob is kissing him back softly, slowly, with such thorough heartfelt tenderness that Dream cannot bring himself to end it.

It is a long moment later that he finally manages, however reluctantly. He presses a final parting brush to the fullness of Hob's lower lip, draws back softly, opens eyes he does not recall closing.

He finds his resolve utterly wrecked, then, by the enraptured expression on Hob's face as he blinks out of the kiss, lips still parted, hand still clinging to Dream's at his face. His other hand lights on Dream's waist, holds, twitches as if to draw him closer, and Dream. Would gladly have them closer, as close as possible, as close as Hob would desire.

Hob draws in a shuddering breath, meets Dream's gaze, and every line and curve of his beautiful face is begging Dream to kiss him again.

Dream would like nothing better, than to kiss him again.

And so he does.

#Dreamling #Fluffbruary 2023 #TJs Fluffbruary #TJs Fics #Sandman #there is one brief spicy thought in this #the rest is all pining and fluff #posted late bc I let it percolate overnight #but it's done I am done I did it #I did it I wrote for every day #never mind how many had to be combined for time #I have written more this month than any similar stretch in my history #achievement unlocked #or something 👍👍

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