The Soul Electric
Aug. 8th, 2007 10:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lesyeuxvertsTitle: The Soul Electric
Author: lesyeuxverts
Word Count: 899
Rating: R
Pairing: Snarry
Prompt: "Sev reading poetry to Harry while Harry wanks"
Warnings: No DH spoilers.
Disclaimer: Not mine – the characters belong to JKR and I Sing the Body Electric belongs to Walt Whitman.
AN: For![[insanejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/ij-userinfo.gif)
sassy_cissa and celandineb, who suggested prompt and poem.
Though it may be hard for some people to understand, both characters are of age in this story ...well over the age of consent. Harry could really use a beer, though ... and he forgot his ID, so could someone help him out here? :)
Harry turned away from Severus, pulling his knees up to his chest and reaching for a blanket. Shuddering, he squirmed in his seat as a tingle ran down his spine, as sharp and warm as an electric current.
"The expression of the face balks account ..."
Harry pulled the blanket over his lap and slid his hands underneath it. As Severus's voice flowed through him, he unzipped his trousers with slow, steady motions. The noise was covered by Severus's words – like velvet, like chocolate, like longing, his voice ran down Harry's spine and through his body.
"It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists ..."
Twisting on the couch, Harry slid his hand into his pants. He was half-hard from listening to the poem, half-lost in the measured, rich cadences of Severus's voice.
Severus stopped, looking up at him. "Is there a problem, Harry?"
"No, nothing."
Severus watched him for a moment, his paranoia hard to relinquish even now. Harry smiled, meeting his gaze without hesitation. Holding himself open, transparent, ready, he waited, bracing himself for the brush of mind against mind – and then Severus looked away.
The lines in Severus's face looked deeper in the firelight, age settling on his shoulders and neck, weariness molded into his bones and the lines of his body. He bowed his head, bringing the book closer to his face. The light and shadows washed over him, highlighting his long fingers and the hollow at the base of his throat.
Harry licked his lips, the memory of Severus's skin salty and fresh in his mouth – fingers, made to be sucked, and that perfect hollow, teased with lips and tongue, while Severus's voice vibrated through him.
Harry leaned against the side of the sofa, and while he watched the play of the firelight on Severus's face, he stroked his cock, pulling the foreskin back to tease the slit. Pleasure built within him, rising with the stanzas.
"It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees—"
Severus chose the poem, as he always did. Harry sat and listened to the words spill over him, the intoxicating voice – the twitches of Severus's fingers as he turned the page, the twist of his lips at the end of each verse.
With slow movements, watching Severus all the while, Harry spread his legs further apart. He reached down to fondle his balls, rolling them in his hand.
Severus looked up at him with a smile – Harry's breath caught in his throat, and he bit his lower lip as he smiled back, meeting Severus's gaze without hesitation.
"... dress does not hide him ..."
Harry scratched his chest, using the movement to brush his forearm against his nipple. It tightened to a peak, rubbed by the soft cotton shirt that he wore.
Severus licked his finger, ready to turn the page, and Harry gasped, stroking his cock. He hid the noise with a pretense at a yawn, nodding at Severus to continue.
"The strong, sweet, supple quality he has, strikes through the cotton and flannel; To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more ..."
Severus paused again. He looked up at Harry, a glint in his eyes.
He never broke from the poem or editorialized, but his silence carried the weight of the words that he never spoke. Harry looked at him, meeting his gaze and answering him. Where words caught on the tongue, where the slide of skin against skin and the electric overflow of joy that they found in each other was not enough, they had these poems and these pauses.
There was a tremor to Severus's motions, a sign of fatigue or lingering curse-shock. Harry never knew which. Severus didn't admit to weakness, never let it bleed through into his voice – the poem was always finished.
Harry bit his tongue, smiling back. The poem, Severus's voice – on the days when they never touched, Severus's voice was more than enough for him.
"You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side."
Severus, watching him – Severus's hands on him, teasing him, stroking him – Severus's voice, rich with the delights that he promised, raised to the heights of passion – the poem fuelled Harry's need, Severus carrying him to the edge.
Harry stroked his cock, hitting the perfect rhythm, and then he came. Lost in the electric, shuddering moment, he let a quiet hiss escape him, but Severus continued reading, his voice masking the small sounds that Harry made.
A few nonverbal spells to clean himself and the blanket, a few stealthy movements to zip up his trousers, and Harry squirmed on the sofa, settling himself more comfortably. Severus never noticed.
Harry turned to watch him, the shadows cast by firelight into the fine lines etched on his face, the faint tremors in his arms as he held the book. The poem flowed through Harry, Severus's voice sending an electric tingle down his spine, an ecstatic, shimmering counterpart to the lax peace of afterglow.
Severus read through the poem with slow, measured cadences, his voice the only touch, the only bliss that Harry needed.
"O I say, these are not the parts and poems of the Body only, but of the Soul,
O I say now these are the Soul!"
Author: lesyeuxverts
Word Count: 899
Rating: R
Pairing: Snarry
Prompt: "Sev reading poetry to Harry while Harry wanks"
Warnings: No DH spoilers.
Disclaimer: Not mine – the characters belong to JKR and I Sing the Body Electric belongs to Walt Whitman.
AN: For
sassy_cissa and celandineb, who suggested prompt and poem. Though it may be hard for some people to understand, both characters are of age in this story ...well over the age of consent. Harry could really use a beer, though ... and he forgot his ID, so could someone help him out here? :)
Harry turned away from Severus, pulling his knees up to his chest and reaching for a blanket. Shuddering, he squirmed in his seat as a tingle ran down his spine, as sharp and warm as an electric current.
"The expression of the face balks account ..."
Harry pulled the blanket over his lap and slid his hands underneath it. As Severus's voice flowed through him, he unzipped his trousers with slow, steady motions. The noise was covered by Severus's words – like velvet, like chocolate, like longing, his voice ran down Harry's spine and through his body.
"It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists ..."
Twisting on the couch, Harry slid his hand into his pants. He was half-hard from listening to the poem, half-lost in the measured, rich cadences of Severus's voice.
Severus stopped, looking up at him. "Is there a problem, Harry?"
"No, nothing."
Severus watched him for a moment, his paranoia hard to relinquish even now. Harry smiled, meeting his gaze without hesitation. Holding himself open, transparent, ready, he waited, bracing himself for the brush of mind against mind – and then Severus looked away.
The lines in Severus's face looked deeper in the firelight, age settling on his shoulders and neck, weariness molded into his bones and the lines of his body. He bowed his head, bringing the book closer to his face. The light and shadows washed over him, highlighting his long fingers and the hollow at the base of his throat.
Harry licked his lips, the memory of Severus's skin salty and fresh in his mouth – fingers, made to be sucked, and that perfect hollow, teased with lips and tongue, while Severus's voice vibrated through him.
Harry leaned against the side of the sofa, and while he watched the play of the firelight on Severus's face, he stroked his cock, pulling the foreskin back to tease the slit. Pleasure built within him, rising with the stanzas.
"It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees—"
Severus chose the poem, as he always did. Harry sat and listened to the words spill over him, the intoxicating voice – the twitches of Severus's fingers as he turned the page, the twist of his lips at the end of each verse.
With slow movements, watching Severus all the while, Harry spread his legs further apart. He reached down to fondle his balls, rolling them in his hand.
Severus looked up at him with a smile – Harry's breath caught in his throat, and he bit his lower lip as he smiled back, meeting Severus's gaze without hesitation.
"... dress does not hide him ..."
Harry scratched his chest, using the movement to brush his forearm against his nipple. It tightened to a peak, rubbed by the soft cotton shirt that he wore.
Severus licked his finger, ready to turn the page, and Harry gasped, stroking his cock. He hid the noise with a pretense at a yawn, nodding at Severus to continue.
"The strong, sweet, supple quality he has, strikes through the cotton and flannel; To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more ..."
Severus paused again. He looked up at Harry, a glint in his eyes.
He never broke from the poem or editorialized, but his silence carried the weight of the words that he never spoke. Harry looked at him, meeting his gaze and answering him. Where words caught on the tongue, where the slide of skin against skin and the electric overflow of joy that they found in each other was not enough, they had these poems and these pauses.
There was a tremor to Severus's motions, a sign of fatigue or lingering curse-shock. Harry never knew which. Severus didn't admit to weakness, never let it bleed through into his voice – the poem was always finished.
Harry bit his tongue, smiling back. The poem, Severus's voice – on the days when they never touched, Severus's voice was more than enough for him.
"You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side."
Severus, watching him – Severus's hands on him, teasing him, stroking him – Severus's voice, rich with the delights that he promised, raised to the heights of passion – the poem fuelled Harry's need, Severus carrying him to the edge.
Harry stroked his cock, hitting the perfect rhythm, and then he came. Lost in the electric, shuddering moment, he let a quiet hiss escape him, but Severus continued reading, his voice masking the small sounds that Harry made.
A few nonverbal spells to clean himself and the blanket, a few stealthy movements to zip up his trousers, and Harry squirmed on the sofa, settling himself more comfortably. Severus never noticed.
Harry turned to watch him, the shadows cast by firelight into the fine lines etched on his face, the faint tremors in his arms as he held the book. The poem flowed through Harry, Severus's voice sending an electric tingle down his spine, an ecstatic, shimmering counterpart to the lax peace of afterglow.
Severus read through the poem with slow, measured cadences, his voice the only touch, the only bliss that Harry needed.
"O I say, these are not the parts and poems of the Body only, but of the Soul,
O I say now these are the Soul!"
