Illegal and Pleasant
(AN: I have done the ultimate horrible thing that shows my mind is the scariest place in the universe. I have rewritten Kafka into slash. Yes, you understood that correctly. There is a scene in The Trial that seemed…homoerotic to me. The whole section in bold print is what inspired me – the scene itself was from an uncompleted chapter, and a chapter deleted by the author. Take a moment and read it, and join me on the other side. I do not own the bold text, and it is not my own writing.)
"He knew his way about all the rooms very well; remote passages he could never have seen in his life seemed as familiar to him as if he had always lived there, and details kept on impressing themselves on his mind with painful clarity. For instance there was a foreigner strolling about in the ante-chamber dressed like a bull-fighter, with a wasp's waist and an abbreviated little coat of coarse yellow lace standing out stiffly; this man, without pausing for a moment in his perambulations, allowed K.'s astonished gaze to follow him unremittingly. Stooping low K. circling round him gaping at him with wide-open eyes. He knew all the patterns of the lace, all the torn fringes, all the oscillations of the little coat, and still he couldn't see enough of it. Or rather, he had seen enough of it long ego; or, better still, he had never wanted to look at it at all, and yet he couldn't tear himself away. "What masquerades foreign countries provide," he thought, and opened him eyes wider still. And he kept on following this man about until he flung himself on the sofa and pressed his face into the leather upholstery…He lay like this for a long time and really rested now. He still went on thinking, but it was in the dark and undisturbed. Best of all he liked to think of Titorelli. Titorelli was sitting in an arm-chair and K. was kneeling beside him, stroking his arms and cajoling him in every possible way. The painter knew quite well what K. was aiming at, but he pretended not to know and this tormented K. a little. Yet K. for his part knew he would succeed; for Titorelli was a frivolous person and easy to win over, being without a strict sense of duty, so that it was a mystery how the Court had come to have any dealings with a man like that. Here if anywhere, he realized, it would be possible to break through. He was not disconcerted by Titorelli's shameless smile, directed with lifted head into empty space; he persisted in his request and even went so far as to stroke Titorelli's cheeks. He did this slackly, almost sluggishly, taking an inordinate pleasure in prolonging the situation, for he was certain of success. How easy it was to outwit the Court! Finally, as if he were obeying a law of nature, Titorelli bent down towards him and took K.'s hand in a firm clasp, whilst a slow and friendly lowering of his eye-lids showed that he was ready to grant K.'s desire. K. rose to his feet; he naturally felt very solemn; but Titorelli would have nothing more to do with solemnity. In the twinkling of an eye they were in the law courts and flying along the stairs, upwards and downwards too, without the slightest effort, gliding along as easily as a buoyant craft through water. And at the very moment when K. looked down at his feet and came to the conclusion that this lovely motion had no connection with the humdrum life he had led until now; - at that very moment over his bent head the transformation occurred. The light which had until then been behind them changed and suddenly flowed in a blinding stream towards them. K. looked up, Titorelli nodded assent and turned him round. He was in the corridor of the law-courts again, but everything was quieter and simpler and there was no conspicuous details. He took it all in at a glance, detached himself from Titorelli and went his way. He was wearing a new long dark suit which comforted him by its warmth and weight. He knew what had happened to him; but he was so happy about it that he could not bring himself to acknowledge it. In the corner of one of the passages he found his other clothes in a heap; the black jacket, the pin-striped trousers, and on the top the shirt stretched out with crumpled sleeves."
(AN cont: Now, if that isn't homoerotic, I don't know what is. So I got the idea for this fic. It doesn't follow the scene exactly, but it's inspired by. The pairing is Snape/Draco. WARNINGS: Slash, rape/coercion/non-con, underage sex – Draco is thirteen in the flashbacks, and fifteen now -, and a little bit of dirty talk. Rated M to be safe, for the adult themes. DISCLAIMER: I do not own the passage of The Trial printed in bold above, which belongs to Kafka's estate or his publisher. It is reprinted only for reference. I also do not own Snape, Draco, the Malfoy family, the Dark Mark or the Harry Potter world. They belong to JKR, the lucky bastard. Anything in italics is a flashback.)
Snape entered the Malfoy home without reservations; he had been there before. These rooms were no mystery to him, only the contents. He found himself in a low doorway, watching a film, most likely Muggle in origin. He watched the man, Southeast Asian and probably Indian, stroll around in his finery. Somehow Snape knew, seconds before it happened, that this film was left on for him, to drive him mad, and he was right. The man pulled off those clothes, one at a time. The images burned into his eyelids, and he pressed his hand firmly against his cock, then turned to the wall, panting. He slipped out of the room slowly, marveling once again at the glory that was the male body.
When he found the young master's room, he let himself in. The blond boy was in an armchair, turned away from the door. Severus came over next to him and kneeled down painfully, regretting his aging joints. He could see the hollows where his knees had fitted so many times before tonight. His fingers reached for the boy's still unblemished forearm. "Draco, I need you tonight."
Draco, as always, pretended to be surprised. "Why, Professor, I have no idea what you're talking about."
Snape's fingers were long enough to curl around the boy's arm and keep it pressed to chair, but Malfoy didn't struggle. "You know. No games."
He pondered Severus's face, apparently not finding what he wanted, and turned away.
Snape was used to this, he knew it, but he wasn't willing to play it tonight – he needed this, he needed him, now. His slender hands moved up the boy, and he brought his already aching body around to the front of the chair. "Let me, Draco." The quick flash of fear in the younger boy's eyes disappeared as Snape pulled his sleeve back over his arm, hiding the bit of ink that had dared spoil the moment. It would kill the blond to take the Mark; Severus could see that, even if no one else did.
He sat back on his heels, trying to relieve his joints, and remembered the first time he had slipped into this room.
The boy had been surprised – family friend or not, Severus Snape was not a man who visited. He had been pushed back down in his chair, and Snape had kneeled in his spot for the first time, trying to keep his breathing steady.
"I need you, Draco. I want you."
In the real world, his hands traced the boy's neck and dipped inside his shirt.
He had been so naïve, so confused – hadn't had a clue what his professor was asking for, but knew from the tone of voice that he ought to refuse, and he did so.
The older man's fingers had touched his cock for the first time then, shocking him so he shot back, trying to get away from the fingers, but only bringing their faces close enough for a kiss. The hand moved and Draco couldn't, pinned down by those lips, those digits, that body that was slowly moving up into his chair. He tried to struggle, but Severus shushed him.
"You'll like it, Draco. Let me."
He touched Draco's prick then, and it was sign of the passing time that Draco leaned into the touch instead of away.
He managed to croak out a question, a plea, for Severus to tell him what he wanted to do, what he had to agree to. The grin his professor, his family's friend, his potential godfather, gave him stuck behind his eyelids whenever he saw him for weeks after, until more satisfactory images took their place.
"I want to take this" – he pointed at his own cock – "and put it here" – his fingers wormed around to Draco's arse, pressing at sensitive skin and making him jump.
Draco's age caused him to start at that suggestion. "Will that work?"
Severus's laugh startled him, but being lifted against all that skin was more frightening. He felt the older man's erection on his stomach, and gulped. Snape wanted that inside him?
Draco's hands moved to Severus's body now.
"Ah, the naivety of thirteen. How I wish I was there again." The mention of age, whether it was his own or Draco's, brought a frown to his face, and he shook his head bitterly. Then he was all depravity and sensual movements again, brushing Draco's cock with feather-light movements through his clothes that were like nothing he had felt before. His own, inexperienced fingers felt rough when he indulged himself. Being thirteen, he wasn't ready, he didn't know what he should do. Maybe Severus would show him.
Draco was back in the chair, being touched still, his answering erection showing up of its own accord. Chock that up to newly forming teenage hormones. When the professor began to unbutton Draco's robes, he tensed, sensing that this was it, this was his last chance to stop – that somehow, after this, he wasn't in control anymore, if he ever had been, and that he needed to decide now.
He didn't make the decision, Severus's fingers made it for him. He pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind, rightly deciding that this man in front of him was going to take what he wanted, and it was better to submit than to struggle. His clothes were gone, far away on the floor, the same for Snape's.
The coupling was hard on Draco. Severus, panting heavily, made no explanation to the young boy of what he was going to do, or how much it was going to hurt. Draco caught a glimpse of Snape spreading some sort of oil on his prick and gulped again. That could not possibly fit inside of him. He'd be split in half. He began to question the mechanics of how this would work, and Snape's answering fingers pushed their way through his tight muscle, their owner hissing with the pleasure, and the owner of the arse jumping. Their position in the chair became increasingly uncomfortable, and Snape, still panting with want, dragged the young boy over to his bed. He found it rather strange to be laid down face first on the pastel sheets and feel Snape's erect prick rub against his arse, making him shiver. Then the fingers were back, and it seemed endless, and Draco reached for his own cock, but received a slap on the hand for his troubles. When Snape lined up the tip of his cock against Draco's arse, the boy, sensing, knowing, that this was going to hurt, and feeling his own arousal fade at the thought, wound his hands tightly in the sheets and screwed his eyes shut.
The first bit of warmth stunned him; he called out when Snape was barely in.
He ignored that completely and pressed in farther, burrowing himself deep in the sweet body. Draco's face became covered in tears over the next few inches, and when he felt the skin of Severus against him, he relaxed, thinking it was over, until Snape moved.
Something inside of Draco exploded, and he saw stars, colors. He must have cried out, because Snape stopped. Draco panted, thinking that if that was what it was supposed to feel like that he could get used to it. "Do that again."
Snape obliged, and Draco moaned.
"Dirty slut." The filthy word, whispered into his ear, startled Draco, but the tone wasn't rude; if anything Snape sounded rough. If the pleasure Draco had gotten from that spot was any indication, Severus must be loving this.
Draco, older and wiser and just as experienced now, kept Severus waiting, even when both were panting.
The rush of heat was only noticeable because Snape stopped moving, and brought his fingers to Draco's prick. He came soon after.
Snape brought them a towel and Draco marveled at how quickly things were normal again. The expensive towels his mother favored were rinsed out and dried, and hung back up on the bar. Severus held him tight, and Draco didn't struggle.
He was holding him tight again now, and he finally allowed himself to be dragged over to the bed.
When Severus left, wearing a new set of clothes, he was grinning wildly. He held his old suit in his hand, and the buttons he had snapped in his haste to undress were in his pocket. He didn't dare to fix them, leaving them as a reminder until next time.
Draco sat in his room on his freshly clean sheets, the only thing left of the encounter his memory. He realized what had happened, wrinkled his nose at the fact he was gay now, and also knew, without a doubt, that what he and Snape had just done was illegal, and probably considered rape in a court of law. But, somehow, he couldn't bring himself to mind much.
As Severus came, Draco didn't even try to touch his own prick, knowing that he'd only be snapped at for his troubles. Snape did it for him, anyway.
The older man came back again and again, for nearly three years now. Draco would be sixteen soon. Soon, his forearm would no longer be empty. He would be expected to kill. The stress tore at him, drove him mad – but when Severus was there, it didn't matter. He could forget, and revel in doing something illegal and pleasant.
His parents had come home and asked if anything interesting had happened.
If only they knew.
(AN: Hope you enjoyed! Please review!)