Rec: Thee and Thy Treasures, by smaychel
Thee and Thy Treasures, by smaychel (NC-17, 11k)
I came to this story by way of starcrossedgirl's recommendation, and it is simply exquisite, in the most subtle and dangerous of ways. It does two things that simply amaze me as a reader: one is that it takes a kink that I otherwise have little-to-no interest in, bloodplay, and turns it into something that's not only uniquely sensual, but which makes utter sense within the context of the story. The second is that it takes this kink and, through it, slowly weaves a mutual fascination between Snape and Harry that at once bridges differences and coaxes out hidden affinities. They begin, as they so often do, on opposite sides of the spectrum - to use one lovely metaphor from the story, Harry's heat and Snape's coolness. It's through the act that Harry asks for and Snape gives - cutting - that Snape's passion is pulled to the surface, and Harry begins to lose himself in detachment, and in this way that they meet each other halfway.
Slowly, Snape raises the knife. He touches the tip to one fine cheekbone of that ridiculous, handsome face and traces it so lightly he's sure it must be starting to tickle. Potter's mouth falls open, and his tongue can't seem to stop swiping at his lips, each time missing the hyssop still clinging wetly there. Snape wants to smear it away with his thumb, but fears that the contact of skin on skin will be too unbearably intimate, that maybe they need the intermediary of the cold metal between them in order to get this close without combusting.
They’re hyssop and betony, Snape thinks somewhat hysterically, as Potter’s breathing slows and his pink tongue once again deliberately, tentatively, touches the knife Snape’s still holding in his clenched, stained fist. A vivid reaction to the addition of a base metal. Potter sucks the knife into his mouth in a way that’s both charmingly innocent and utterly obscene, never once breaking eye contact.
Snape wonders if and when he’ll ever be able to breathe again – certainly not while Harry Potter fellates his potions equipment, he’s pretty certain about that.
“I can’t stop thinking about this.” The movement of Potter’s mouth against the knife’s tip as he speaks causes a tiny point of blood to well up on his lower lip. Just one barely visible scratch, but it holds such a wealth of possibility that Snape can’t tear his eyes away. Potter is a colleague, Potter used to be one of his students for fuck’s sake, and this is every colour of inappropriate, everything Snape’s wanted to move his life away from, but he can’t deny that some dark part of him wants to examine the exact shade of Potter’s blood against his skin, wants to catch it in a small, stoppered glass vial and brew something dark and powerful and new.
