Title: Dark Pink
Pairing: Severus Snape/Nymphadora Tonks (implied past Snape/Lily, Snape/Voldemort)
Summary: June, 1991. Harry Potter will be coming to Hogwarts in the fall. Nymphadora Tonks is about to leave. The rather forward eighteen year old Metamorphmagi blunders in on her Potions professor at a particularly vulnerable moment.
Beta Reader: Nzomniac
Word Count: 1542
Warnings: Genderfuck Metamorphmagi sex. Angst.
Author’s Notes: This started out as a picture of Snape and boy!Tonks, then morphed into a drabble, and finally this full length piece. I admit it; I’m really interested in exactly what Metamorphmagi can do in bed. This story is being used for prompt #66-Touch for the 100_women challenge (to see the progress chart click here.)
“This summer,” Dumbledore told him, “I will send an owl to the boy. I will send the boy his letter to come to Hogwarts.”
“It is time.” Severus Snape had agreed, but even as he said it, he felt the aching sharpness of memories he had walled up long ago stirring and gasping for breath.
The boy would come in the fall. Lily’s son, but not Severus’. Lily’s son by another man--a man he hated.
He had not expected the news of the boy’s coming to rattle him as it did, to shake him so deeply.
For most of a decade, he had lived in a kind of frigid hibernation, untouched and untouching, each year the same as the last. He had grown comfortable with living this way.
He could not live this way any longer.
As a Death Eater, he had worn a mask. When the war ended, his face had become his mask, stern and unrelenting. “I will send an owl to the boy,” Dumbledore had said, and his mask had cracked. A single crack across the forehead, shaped like a lightening bolt.
Through this crack, she rushed in.
It was June outside, all golden sunshine and greenery. In his office, the shades were drawn. It was dark; a chill hung over from winter. In his office, he poured and drank a glass of wine, and then another. Why not? He was safely alone as he preferred. The term was over. The students gone away except for the graduating class, and Dumbledore had already spoken to him.
He drank like this rarely. Self-pity was an indulgence like any other. He rarely allowed himself indulgences of any kind, but this day he let his control weaken. He let the wine feed the sadness Dumbledore’s words had awakened. He gave himself over to the memories of all he had thrown away or lost or had taken from him.
Then she burst in without knocking--Nymphadora Tonks, one of the graduating students. Tripping over her own feet, she was an eye-popping disaster. Everything about her was bright and vivid. Bobbed hair so pink it was nearly crimson, she was wearing a ruffled, white poet’s shirt under a maroon velvet suit. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes purple and shining.
“I’ve been accepted,” she cried. “I’m just back from my interview with Rufus Scrimgeour, and I’ve been accepted into the program. I’m going to be an Auror.”
He remembered now that she had been a candidate for the Auror program, that this was the day of her interview. She was excited, of course, overjoyed even, but why was she sharing this with him? He was the head of her house, of course; he had worked with her closely on this and had sponsored her for the program. Still, his participation hardly seemed to merit such an outburst of enthusiasm.
Then suddenly, her arms were around him. He was being embraced by a joyful, glowing, bright eighteen-year-old girl, her velvet softness and heavy warmth enfolding him. The wine, the memories of Lily, for a moment he lost himself. He kissed her. She kissed him back. Her tongue was as playful as a pink kitten in the wine-soured cavern of his mouth. He couldn’t stop himself, or her. She opened her blouse and guided his hands to her breasts.
“This is not appropriate, Miss Tonks,” he managed. “You’re my student.”
“I shan’t be in two days. Classes are done and I’m graduating,” she said. “Besides, you kissed me.”
“I shouldn’t have…” Her breasts were pressed against him, her arms around his neck, her mouth so close to his that when he spoke, his lips brushed hers. The pinkness of her hair filled his vision with a drunken blaze.
“I’ve watched you, Professor,” she said. “In class, when I hand you a potion, if our fingers touch, you draw away as if you’ve been scorched. I know it’s not just me, it’s everyone. It makes me sad, how all alone you are.”
She was so heartbreakingly earnest in her generosity that it made him feel pathetic. Disgust with himself overwhelmed him. He pried her off him, shaking his head.
“I will not be pity fucked by an abnormality,” he snapped and strode towards the door. A look flashed across her face: a look of willful determination that would not have been out of place on the face of her aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange.
She flung a single word at him. “Coward.”
He stopped. “What did you call me, Miss Tonks?”
“I called you a coward,” she said. “Look at yourself, hidden away in the dark … pale and starving. You didn’t go to Azkaban, but you’ve made yourself a prisoner. You’re like a walking corpse, and apparently that’s the way you like it.” She came to him, came between him and the door. “Touch me,” she commanded. “If you have the guts.” The expanse of silky flesh beneath her open shirt beckoned to him. Almost involuntarily, he brought his hand to it. Once, he had lived in the daylight. Once, he had been alive. Once, he had allowed himself to make horrible mistakes. Why should he want to relive that?
Still, he let himself be overcome by her, by all her possibilities, by her wrong-headed determination that opening him up would be a kindness, by the passion of her kisses, her embrace, and the wholehearted way she flung herself into his seduction.
His robes fell to the floor; her hands caressed his cock, coaxing it towards hardness. His own hands lay ineffectually on her breasts. She had slipped off her blouse, her trousers; she was in just a pair of red panties, her body so rosy beside his. She was like ripe fruit while he at best was mushrooms or dead fish. Again he was overwhelmed by disgust, hating the pale grey flesh that hung from his emaciated body. He didn’t deserve to touch her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. She took his hand, ran it over the curve of her hip, her arse. “Do you know what to do? Have you even been with a woman?”
He and Lily had never done more than kiss two times. He wouldn’t be with her. She was Muggle-born. To be with her would have destroyed all the connections he was making. He let her go, threw her away. He thought he had so much more to gain by allying himself with the pure-blood bigots of his house, so much more than she offered.
She had been the one person who’d seen beyond his ugliness. She would have loved him if he’d let her, but he had other ambitions.
“No,” he admitted. “I’ve haven’t.”
“I’ve heard you prefer boys. Have you been with men?”
“Yes.” He remembered crimson eyes burning into his soul as he begged for release. A scene replayed again and again over the years with faceless shadows--men and boys he met in bars like Primrose Path who would take or be taken without names being exchanged.
“I’ll make it easy for you,” she promised, rubbing herself against his thigh. There was a familiar hardness between her legs. Her sex could be as mutable as her features. He drew aside the scarlet panties, and she pressed to him, her false cock moving against his own. She guided him to his knees; her hands on his hips pushed the small, slippery thing inside him, drove into him with quivering thrusts. He was hard now, engorged, ready.
“I want you to be inside me now,” she said. “I want you inside me when you come.” She pushed him to the ground, straddling him, cock hanging between her legs, touching his. She pressed his hand between her legs, and he rubbed her there, stroked her cock, his own; she seemed to melt under his hand, to grow smaller, softer, more molten till his fingers were inside her, buried in a moist slit within the damp curls of the triangle of pink hair between her legs.
She took his cock between her thighs, let it rest loosely between the lips of her vulva for a moment, then guided it to her opening and eased downward. It felt as if he was pressing against solid flesh, then inch by inch the solidity gave, and he was inside her, fused so close to her that he no longer had a sense of the boundaries of his own organs. She began to move, up and down, to rock upon him, slowly at first, then with blistering intensity and speed. And he … he lost himself in the pink of her, the pink of her hair, her skin dominating him, filling his vision, filling his senses. His grey body strained and arched and bucked against her and spilled himself into her.
Afterwards, she was smiling; she was warm and sparkling and smiling in his arms. He let her. He could be cruel, but he was not so cruel as to tell her the truth.
She believed she had reached him, touched, and helped him. He did not tell her otherwise. She believed she had opened his heart. He did not reveal that she had torn it apart, ripped aside all the layers of scar tissue that let him survive, and left him wounded and bleeding.