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crack_van2011-02-26 01:51 am
perverse-idyll.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2011-02-26 01:51 am
Entry tags:
Death Row by Girl Tarte (NC-17)
Fandom: HARRY POTTER
Pairing: Severus Snape/Harry Potter
Length: ~ 47,000
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
girl_tarte
Author Website: Tarte's list of fics on LJ
Why this must be read:
Well, I'm a Snape/Harry shipper and have been since I landed in HP fandom, and "Death Row" is far and away one of my favorite fics in the pairing. It showcases Tarte's droll, inimitable, unfailingly perceptive and off-kilter take on life, the characters, and everything. She has a knack for nailing down the unexpected, disarming details or absurd bits of behavior people are prone to. Her oblique approach undercuts melodrama and explodes stereotypes by never losing sight of the essential human comedy—even when events are deadly serious. It gives the fic a quirky, deprecating, amused atmosphere shot through with moments of sweetness and dread, and frequent hilarity. Which is quite a feat, considering her viewpoint character here is a deeply unimpressed Snape fully cognizant of the incompetence and moral bankruptcy of everyone around him. He is himself willfully ambiguous and emotionally huffy, by turns blasé and breathless, scornful and susceptible, sharp-witted and bungling. His self-distaste transmutes into sarcasm, his jadedness implies that he doesn't care how the war turns out, and yet there he is, risking his life. He is a joy to accompany as he takes matters into his own hands and muddles his way through the impossible job of saving Harry.
"Death Row" is AU after Book 6, and it deals with the war's end and Harry's little horcrux problem in a fairly unheroic manner. Different people die; Neville is not badass; Lupin is a schmuck. Much of the story focuses on Snape's spontaneous decision to keep Harry from being killed by either side, and on his conflicted reactions to Harry's annoying courage, puppyish optimism, and the ill-advised sexual skirmishing between them. Tarte leaves it to us to puzzle out what Snape really feels while supplying a thousand telling insights, fleeting observations, and squirming, heart-stopping (Snape would probably say humiliating) moments of truth. But they are all scattered like clues to a mystery whose evidence Snape endeavors to suppress. There is nothing grand or loud about this story; everything inheres in small, brilliant, memorable details, all of it drenched in Snape's trademark pessimism, through whose darkness Harry shines like a warm, inviting light.
There is also a handful of some of the most realistic sex scenes I've ever encountered in fanfic: messy, awkward, out-of-control, abrupt, urgent, overpowering in their desperate horniness, their squish and smear and heated, fumbling, ridiculous collision. They are glorious, and so is nearly everything else about this fic.
~*~
Snape lifts his paper and holds it close to his face as a bulwark.
“I still killed him, you know. No matter what Mr Malfoy told you.”
Potter doesn’t make a sound. Snape persists.
“I’d do it again.”
Nothing. Perhaps the boy’s chewing it over. Snape shakes out the paper with a loud crack to indicate that he’s made his point and the topic is now closed. He’s almost managed to focus on a headline above a picture of a toothless gurning witch with a cat in her arms, when there’s a squeak and a rustle and a soft shush shush shush. Snape lowers the paper surreptitiously, and –
dear god – the boy is shuffling towards him on his knees, jeans scuffing softly through the bearskin rug. Snape almost jumps out of his seat, but a hand on his knee freezes him in place, stuck through with horror.
“What the–! Potter?”
Potter’s eyes are huge and startling and presumably doing their best to be seductive. Snape stares in disbelief. This is decidedly not happening. He should lift that hand off, drop it coldly by Potter’s side, but before he can organise himself to move, Potter has shifted up, lowered his head and laid one smooth pink cheek halfway up Snape’s thigh.
Potter’s head is heavy and from the heat pricking through the heavy twill of Snape’s trousers, it must be unnaturally hot as well. God, the child must be ill. And Snape?
“Get off me, Potter.” Croakier than he’d hoped, but a voice nonetheless.
Potter lifts his head and Snape takes the opportunity to scrabble back in his chair. One arm swings violently out to catch the chair arm and the phial of sedative scutters onto the floor and into the hearth, irretrievable. Snape’s pulse is kicking painfully. Half of him wants to flatten itself backwards into the cushions then leap over the top and scurry out, the other half is somewhere unforeseen and truly unconscionable. Snape knows exactly which half to heed and is moving to his feet, when Potter grabs the front of his robe in one tight white fist and opens his mouth wide. A wet pink tongue darts and twitches behind his teeth.
Snape freezes for a second time and a sickening heat laces through his chest and into his belly. “No!”
He tries to slide a leg across the arm of the chair and out, but Potter has him in a strong grip, and is making loud huffing noises and pointing at his throat and, for a second, Snape is so shocked he can only brace himself against the chair and shake embarrassingly. Then suddenly it all becomes startlingly clear.
Idiot. The terror is immediately and entirely replaced by a freezing anger.
“No, Potter, I will not give you back your voice,” he hisses. “Not only have you proved that it is entirely unsafe, given your predilection for threatening your helpers with their own wands, but in addition I have precisely no desire to hear your pathetic and no doubt fantastical explanation of exactly what motivated this little – display. A charade which I believe you have already attempted to foist upon the wretched Malfoy.”
Potter lets go of Snape’s robe, and Snape takes a deep bolstering breath of freedom.
“You are going to sit back in your chair and I am going to leave. The house elf will come later to take the tray. Perhaps you will find him more amenable to your doubtless flattering attentions. He will not, however, restore your voice under any circumstances.”
Snape is at the door when he finally feels safe enough to turn and look back. Potter is not in his chair or on the sofa, but kneeling against his heels on the rug with his hands in his lap. He doesn’t look up.
“I will be back tomorrow evening, at which time you will continue to sit in your chair and drink your tea. If at any time you so much as slump or twitch in a way I find unacceptable, I will hex you into a state of eunuchy. Is that clear?”
Death Row
Pairing: Severus Snape/Harry Potter
Length: ~ 47,000
Author on LJ:
girl_tarteAuthor Website: Tarte's list of fics on LJ
Why this must be read:
Well, I'm a Snape/Harry shipper and have been since I landed in HP fandom, and "Death Row" is far and away one of my favorite fics in the pairing. It showcases Tarte's droll, inimitable, unfailingly perceptive and off-kilter take on life, the characters, and everything. She has a knack for nailing down the unexpected, disarming details or absurd bits of behavior people are prone to. Her oblique approach undercuts melodrama and explodes stereotypes by never losing sight of the essential human comedy—even when events are deadly serious. It gives the fic a quirky, deprecating, amused atmosphere shot through with moments of sweetness and dread, and frequent hilarity. Which is quite a feat, considering her viewpoint character here is a deeply unimpressed Snape fully cognizant of the incompetence and moral bankruptcy of everyone around him. He is himself willfully ambiguous and emotionally huffy, by turns blasé and breathless, scornful and susceptible, sharp-witted and bungling. His self-distaste transmutes into sarcasm, his jadedness implies that he doesn't care how the war turns out, and yet there he is, risking his life. He is a joy to accompany as he takes matters into his own hands and muddles his way through the impossible job of saving Harry.
"Death Row" is AU after Book 6, and it deals with the war's end and Harry's little horcrux problem in a fairly unheroic manner. Different people die; Neville is not badass; Lupin is a schmuck. Much of the story focuses on Snape's spontaneous decision to keep Harry from being killed by either side, and on his conflicted reactions to Harry's annoying courage, puppyish optimism, and the ill-advised sexual skirmishing between them. Tarte leaves it to us to puzzle out what Snape really feels while supplying a thousand telling insights, fleeting observations, and squirming, heart-stopping (Snape would probably say humiliating) moments of truth. But they are all scattered like clues to a mystery whose evidence Snape endeavors to suppress. There is nothing grand or loud about this story; everything inheres in small, brilliant, memorable details, all of it drenched in Snape's trademark pessimism, through whose darkness Harry shines like a warm, inviting light.
There is also a handful of some of the most realistic sex scenes I've ever encountered in fanfic: messy, awkward, out-of-control, abrupt, urgent, overpowering in their desperate horniness, their squish and smear and heated, fumbling, ridiculous collision. They are glorious, and so is nearly everything else about this fic.
Snape lifts his paper and holds it close to his face as a bulwark.
“I still killed him, you know. No matter what Mr Malfoy told you.”
Potter doesn’t make a sound. Snape persists.
“I’d do it again.”
Nothing. Perhaps the boy’s chewing it over. Snape shakes out the paper with a loud crack to indicate that he’s made his point and the topic is now closed. He’s almost managed to focus on a headline above a picture of a toothless gurning witch with a cat in her arms, when there’s a squeak and a rustle and a soft shush shush shush. Snape lowers the paper surreptitiously, and –
dear god – the boy is shuffling towards him on his knees, jeans scuffing softly through the bearskin rug. Snape almost jumps out of his seat, but a hand on his knee freezes him in place, stuck through with horror.
“What the–! Potter?”
Potter’s eyes are huge and startling and presumably doing their best to be seductive. Snape stares in disbelief. This is decidedly not happening. He should lift that hand off, drop it coldly by Potter’s side, but before he can organise himself to move, Potter has shifted up, lowered his head and laid one smooth pink cheek halfway up Snape’s thigh.
Potter’s head is heavy and from the heat pricking through the heavy twill of Snape’s trousers, it must be unnaturally hot as well. God, the child must be ill. And Snape?
“Get off me, Potter.” Croakier than he’d hoped, but a voice nonetheless.
Potter lifts his head and Snape takes the opportunity to scrabble back in his chair. One arm swings violently out to catch the chair arm and the phial of sedative scutters onto the floor and into the hearth, irretrievable. Snape’s pulse is kicking painfully. Half of him wants to flatten itself backwards into the cushions then leap over the top and scurry out, the other half is somewhere unforeseen and truly unconscionable. Snape knows exactly which half to heed and is moving to his feet, when Potter grabs the front of his robe in one tight white fist and opens his mouth wide. A wet pink tongue darts and twitches behind his teeth.
Snape freezes for a second time and a sickening heat laces through his chest and into his belly. “No!”
He tries to slide a leg across the arm of the chair and out, but Potter has him in a strong grip, and is making loud huffing noises and pointing at his throat and, for a second, Snape is so shocked he can only brace himself against the chair and shake embarrassingly. Then suddenly it all becomes startlingly clear.
Idiot. The terror is immediately and entirely replaced by a freezing anger.
“No, Potter, I will not give you back your voice,” he hisses. “Not only have you proved that it is entirely unsafe, given your predilection for threatening your helpers with their own wands, but in addition I have precisely no desire to hear your pathetic and no doubt fantastical explanation of exactly what motivated this little – display. A charade which I believe you have already attempted to foist upon the wretched Malfoy.”
Potter lets go of Snape’s robe, and Snape takes a deep bolstering breath of freedom.
“You are going to sit back in your chair and I am going to leave. The house elf will come later to take the tray. Perhaps you will find him more amenable to your doubtless flattering attentions. He will not, however, restore your voice under any circumstances.”
Snape is at the door when he finally feels safe enough to turn and look back. Potter is not in his chair or on the sofa, but kneeling against his heels on the rug with his hands in his lap. He doesn’t look up.
“I will be back tomorrow evening, at which time you will continue to sit in your chair and drink your tea. If at any time you so much as slump or twitch in a way I find unacceptable, I will hex you into a state of eunuchy. Is that clear?”
Death Row