Snarry-a-thon: Speed and Expediency (2)
May. 12th, 2009 08:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drachenminaTitle: Speed and Expediency
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
drachenmina
Other pairings/threesome: Some Regulus Black/Severus Snape, mention of Harry/OOC and Regulus/others
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 15,500
Warning(s): : The merest whiff of BDSM
Part One/Two
Regulus is rather pleased by the way things have developed since his return. He was genuinely glad to see Severus again, although the poor man has rather let himself go. Still, his status as hero makes up for a great deal. There will be time enough to introduce him to the niceties of personal grooming once Regulus’ reputation has been thoroughly burnished by association.
The sex, Regulus will admit, has been disappointing. Severus seems to have almost entirely lost that wonderful passion he had in his youth. Not, he flatters himself, that Severus will have noticed any corresponding diminution in his own ardour. Regulus prides himself on being consummate actor, although he would of course never do anything so plebeian as go on the stage.
Regulus is less pleased by the continual presence of Harry Potter in his house. The boy seems oblivious to how unwelcome he is. Of course, Regulus is politeness itself, and apparently the boy was raised by Muggles, so really, what can one expect? To be honest, he was half-hoping Severus’ continual visits might accomplish his eviction, as his lover’s tongue is never sharper than when speaking to Harry, but the boy seems positively to relish his sarcastic put-downs.
Still, it would please Regulus no end if Harry were finally to take the hint and leave. For one thing, he’s fairly certain the boy has been spying on him and Severus. Perhaps he’s realised he could do with picking up a few tips.
…
Harry lolls on the sofa round at Ron and Hermione’s and wonders if they’ll let him kip on it when he finally can’t stand living in Regulus’ bloody house any more, lying in bed listening to them shag, shag, shag all the bloody time. Not that they’re noisy, mind, and not that Harry’s been using any Extendable Ears to keep track of them (well, not every time, anyway) but he’s not stupid, he knows that’s what they’ve been up to all bloody week.
“I wish I’d never gone to find that stuck-up sod,” he announces moodily to the can of butterbeer in his hand.
Hermione raises an eyebrow over her cup of tea. “I thought you’d be happy for Professor Snape, Harry. Wasn’t that why you went to get Regulus Black in the first place?”
“Well, yeah, but I thought they were just mates. Didn’t know they were going to be at it like bunny-rabbits the minute they set eyes on one another.”
Ron cracks up. “Watch out, mate, people are going to think you’re jealous! So come on, who d’you fancy? Regulus or Snape?” He sniggers at his own joke, then sobers up. “But seriously, mate, when are you and Ginny getting back together? ‘Cause Neville’s been spending an awful lot of time at the Burrow recently and if you’re not careful you’re going to miss the boat.”
“Should have stayed on the boat,” Harry mutters. “I had a great time on the boat. Nothing went wrong until I got off at bloody Calais.”
Hermione gives him a sharp look.
“Um, metaphorically speaking?” Harry hazards, but he doesn’t reckon he’s fooled her. Oops. Change of subject needed. “And he’s nicked my bloody house!”
“Well, technically, Harry…” Hermione’s tone is sympathetic but firm. Harry sags.
“Look, he can have the bloody house. It’s just…” Harry trails off, not entirely certain what it is. “I don’t trust him, that’s all,” he finishes lamely. “He had a lover in Germany, you know. Dumped him by text on his way over here.”
Ron frowns. “He wrote a book about it?”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “Honestly, Ron, we’ve talked about mobile phones.” Her lips tighten. “Well, that doesn’t seem like a very nice way of behaving. But perhaps he always knew Professor Snape was the love of his life, and he just couldn’t wait to get back to him?”
“Hah! Too right he couldn’t wait. He tried it on with me the night before we left for England!”
“Ugh.” Ron shudders. “He didn’t try and kiss you, did he? I’d have decked him, mate. Didn’t he realise you don’t swing that way?”
“Ronald Weasley, your knee-jerk homophobia is not the issue!” Hermione says sharply before Harry can answer, which is probably just as well as he hasn’t got a bloody clue what he’d have said. He’s almost certain Ron’ll be OK with him being a poof, but he’s not in any hurry to find out for certain.
“What we need to consider,” Hermione continues in lecture mode, “is whether Harry should say anything to Professor Snape about Regulus’… behaviour. Interfering between a couple can do more harm than good, you know.”
“What, you mean like giving house-elves clothes when they don’t really want to be free?” Ron asks innocently and Hermione does that thing where her lips completely disappear. “Look,” he carries on more seriously, “if it was me, I’d want to know. And I reckon Snape’s the same. You know what he’s like about people messing about with him. I wouldn’t want to be in Harry’s shoes if it comes out later that he knew all along Regulus couldn’t keep it in his knickers and didn’t say anything.”
Suddenly Harry feels a lot happier. Yeah, that’s what he’ll do. He’ll tell Snape his bloke’s a slapper and then he’ll make sure he’s around to cheer him up afterwards. As much as Snape ever cheers up, that is. Snape’ll need comforting, and he’ll be grateful, and he’ll see Harry’s not just a waste of space, and then he’ll…
“I’d be careful if I were you, Harry,” Hermione says grimly, breaking into his train of thought. “Professor Snape strikes me as precisely the sort of person who’d shoot the messenger.”
….
It is a surprise, when Severus opens the letter, to see not Regulus’ elegant hand but Potter’s sloppy penmanship; blots, crossings-out and all. The message is short and to the point.
Dear Snape
Can you come round to Grimmauld Place tomorrow afternoon? Around two-ish?
It’s just to see me, Regulus won’t be in.Probably best if you don’t tell him.
Love Best Regards
Harry Potter.
Severus was, as it happens, already apprised of Regulus’ plans to be out that afternoon. He’s heading for Malfoy Manor on a family visit that will, Severus has no doubt, mean the beginning of the end for their little reconciliation as Lucius will make no bones about spelling out just how the great wizarding public view Dumbledore’s murderer. He finds he feels a curious mix of regret and relief at the prospect. The regret deepens as he realises this will likely also mean an end to seeing Potter almost daily – what excuse will Severus have for calling at Grimmauld Place once he is no longer its master’s lover? He smiles softly at himself. They have hardly been the best of friends, of late. Potter has been unusually petulant since his return from the Continent. Not, of course, that pouting is a bad look on those plump, red and slightly chapped lips.
He frowns. In which case, why does Potter wish to see him in private? The obvious answer is that Potter is aware of some indiscretion on Regulus’ part that his Gryffindor sensibilities demand that he inform Severus of forthwith. Yet, with the amount of time Severus and Regulus have spent together since his return to this country, how has Regulus found it possible to find another lover?
The solution is only too clear. He has not had to find another lover, because that lover already resides with him.
Severus is unprepared for the burst of fury that sweeps through him at the thought of Regulus and Harry together. The worst of it is that he has been a fool not to suspect this from the start. Who would not, given the choice, prefer a lithe young hero (however vertically challenged and myopic, not to mention chronically untidy) to an embittered old spy? And of course the boy would be swept off his feet by the attentions of a charming older man with both money and breeding. Not to mention vast experience in seduction. Potter must have been putty in Regulus’ manicured hands. Well, it will serve him right when Regulus leaves him high and dry and moves on to someone more… more… dammit, there is no reason on Earth for Regulus to leave Potter. He is rich, young and reasonably attractive on a good day, more so if he keeps his fool mouth shut. Or at least, opens it only for certain specialised purposes…
Severus finds his own mouth is inexplicably dry at the thought of Potter engaging in said, ahem, purposes.
So. They are a couple, and he is a fool. He should burn that letter and never set foot in that accursed house again. And yet… the thought of not seeing Potter again, never looking into those eyes and seeing that sloppy grin... He is twice a fool. Potter would never have been interested in Severus even if Regulus were not upon the scene. But he will go and hear the boy out. He owes him that much, at least, for his good intentions in bringing Regulus back.
…
Harry didn’t sleep well last night. He had some frankly x-rated dreams that seemed to be sort of hinting that his interest in making Snape see what Regulus is really like isn’t entirely altruistic. Which to be honest, he sort of had an inkling about already. Which is stupid, because anyone who’s shagging Regulus Black is bound to think Harry Potter’s a bit of a come-down even if they don’t already think he’s an imbecile, which Snape does and probably always will. Not that he’d expect Snape to jump straight into bed with him anyway, because the poor sod’s probably going to be devastated. If he believes Harry, which he won’t, because why would he take Harry’s word over his lover’s in any case?
In fact, by the time two o’clock rolls round Harry’s pretty much convinced of two things. One, he’s an utter bastard because he’s only doing this to get in Snape’s pants. And two, that it doesn’t actually matter as Snape’s going to kill him for it anyway.
….
Severus exits gracefully from the Floo at two pm precisely and comes face-to-face with a Potter who appears to have been hit by some hex that prevents him standing still for more than half a second at a time. Severus is pleased to see that his glare has not lost its sting as the brat pales noticeably on seeing him. As well he might.
“Well, Potter? What did you wish to see me about in such secrecy? Or is the habit of sneaking around so ingrained in you that you find it impossible to arrange an assignation without subterfuge?”
Potter grins wildly and fidgets annoyingly with a loose thread on his sleeve. “Um, cup of tea? I’ll, um, I’ll put the kettle on, shall I? And biscuits, I know we’ve got some somewhere, from a packet I mean, not the weird ones Kreacher’s been baking lately…”
“Potter!” Severus barks, startling the boy into silence. “Just tell me, damn you.”
Potter swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Um, well – are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea? Or a firewhiskey? Butterbeer..?”
“No. Beverages,” Severus grinds out. He sighs. “Let me help you. You have summoned me here so that you can tell me you and Regulus are intimate?”
“What? No! No way – I mean, he did try it on and all, but I’m not…”
“You’re not gay?” Severus asks hollowly, appalled at his own misjudgement of the boy.
“No! I mean yes, yes I’m gay, or bisexual or whatever, but I’m not shagging Regulus! Or, you know, the other way round.” His face has turned a fetching shade of pink. “Um, he’s really not my type. I mean, I know he’s nice looking and all, but he’s, well, a bit…”
A bit what? Severus thinks. A bit good looking? A bit rich? A bit urbane and sophisticated? A bit completely fuckable?
“He’s a bit of a bastard!” is Potter’s surprising conclusion, his entire sleeve now looking likely to unravel from his constant worrying at it. “He’s just using you!” the boy blurts out, his face a picture of anguish and the indignation only the very young and naïve can muster for perceived injustice.
Severus feels suddenly very old and very jaded. “And what possible concern is it of yours?” he asks, his tone flat and even as the ice upon the Great Lake at Yule.
“What? Don’t you even care? He’s only with you because you’re a hero, because he wants everyone to forget he ran away and hid for twenty years rather than stand up to Voldemort!”
“Do I strike you, Potter, as a moron?” Severus finds his voice is rougher now, a handful of grit skittering over the ice. He clears his throat.
“What?”
Does the boy even know any other words? “I am not a fool, Potter.” Severus hesitates, because he’s damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t, but this is the only way short of an Unforgivable to free himself from Potter’s unwanted concern. “I am quite aware that Regulus’… regard for me is essentially self-seeking in nature.”
His glare is lost on the brat. Potter’s brow furrows, deepening the scar whose only purpose, Severus has long been convinced, is to remind him of how greatly he failed the boy’s mother. “Then why are you with him?”
A Slytherin, Severus reflects, would not have dreamed of asking such a question. A Hufflepuff would have been too timid and a Ravenclaw would have worked out the answer already. Only a Gryffindor, with balls bigger than his brains, would in all innocence – and with only the very best of intentions – invite Severus to humiliate himself like this. Because that is how Potter will see it: as a humiliation, not as a purely sensible, Slytherin tactic of taking advantage of what one can get. Severus scowls at the boy. “I am with him, Potter, because I wish to be. That is all you need to know.”
He doesn’t get away with it. “But why? Why not be with someone who actually gives a fuck about you?”
It’s an unfair question: Severus is quite satisfied that Regulus gives a fuck about him, even if that is all he gives. In the unlikely event that Severus should catch fire, he’s confident Regulus could be relied upon to piss on him. Severus would certainly be prepared to do likewise.
But suddenly he finds he can no longer stand this verbal fencing – not with Harry, and not about such a subject. And if a small part of it is because he cannot bear that the boy should believe him devoid of all higher feeling, then that is something that is neither here nor there. “Because, Potter, that person does not exist, and whilst romantic principles may be fine things for boy heroes and Gryffindors, they do not, I regret to say, do much to warm the bed of a middle-aged Slytherin traitor.”
Potter’s jaw clenches. “You’re not a traitor. You’re a hero. You’ve got an Order of Merlin.”
Severus’ patience is nearing exhaustion. “The only reason Regulus is still with me is that he has not been back in the country long enough to realise that I am a hero in name only – to the wizarding populace at large I am an embarrassment, a pariah, and to all those with whom I was formally intimate I am a traitor to be despised.” He looks up, fixing Potter in the eye. It is important that the boy understand this. “He will be gone soon enough, Potter. You need not trouble yourself further.”
Harry just stands there, frowning, teeth worrying at lips. The boy is thinking. Severus sighs. No good has ever come of that, nor is it ever likely to. “What if there was someone who gave a fuck about you?” Potter asks finally.
Severus sighs. “And let me guess, you are about to propose yourself as a candidate? Forgive me for spoiling your moment of noble self-sacrifice, but I regret to inform you that guilt and a belated sense of gratitude are hardly the stuff of lasting romance. I may as well stay with Regulus who is at least under no illusions as to his own motivation.”
Potter’s reaction is much as might be expected from a small, bespectacled volcano. “You WHAT? You think I’m, what, offering you my body to say sorry I thought you were evil? And how does that fit in with being deluded as to my motivations, anyway? I can’t be both noble and stupid, you know!”
Severus pauses reverently before answering, unwilling to let Potter’s last extraordinary statement pass without the respect such a monumental piece of idiocy deserves. “If you are going to insist upon constraining your folly in only one direction, I suggest you at least make the choice as to which it will be,” he says mildly, at last.
Mount Potter continues to erupt fitfully. “My bloody folly was ever thinking you could possible take me seriously! Why is it so bloody hard for you to believe that I might actually like you? And anyway, how come it’s all right for sodding Regulus to shag you when you know he doesn’t care about you, and not me?” He pauses for breath, red-faced, chest heaving. It doesn’t make it any easier for Severus to get past the rather large stumbling-block of the word shag in Potter’s last sentence. Unbidden, the image of himself and Potter in mid-shag thrusts its way into the forefront of his mind. It is definitely arresting.
It is absurd. “Have you even thought, Potter, what it would be like were I, as you put it, to shag you?”
Apparently Potter has – and if the slack-jawed, glazed look upon his face is any guide, he is busy imagining it right now. Severus sighs. “Potter, we are incapable of holding a civil conversation. What on earth makes you think we would be in the remotest way compatible?”
No wonder the boy is so inarticulate, with a lip so thoroughly chewed. “We’ve had lots of civil conversations. At least, up until bloody Regulus turned up. You know, I’d actually started to think you might… never mind. I just… want you. Isn’t that enough?”
“Most people prefer such things to be at least in some small degree mutual.” Severus is pleased to be able to manage a tone so withering under such severe provocation.
Potter flushes. “Not you though – least, it doesn’t look like it. As long as they’re fit and good at pretending… Look, I know I’m not Regulus sodding Black, but at least I care about you. Doesn’t that mean anything?”
Severus finds he must clear his throat in order to be able to speak. “Potter, this is… this is madness. You cannot want me.”
“Why not? Look, I know you think I’m just a kid. And you don’t like me very much. But you don’t know me, not really. You still think I’m my dad, deep down. And I’m not, all right? I used to wish I was, you know. Right up until I saw that stuff in your Pensieve. Bloody hell, Snape, have you any idea how bad I felt about that? Because I realised then, if there was anyone in that scene I was like, it was you. And now… well, I’m just me and even if I wanted to be anyone else, I can’t. I wish… sometimes I still wish things had been different, you know? But they weren’t, and I’m me, and that’s what you’re stuck with.” He stops, breathing hard, as if he’s been running.
Is that truly what the boy thinks? Severus has long been aware that Potter’s intelligence is not of the highest order, but he never dreamed the boy could be so utterly, completely mistaken as to Severus’ view of him.
Severus doesn’t know what to say. Words, for him, have always been a weapon. He can use them with finesse, to sting or to slash. He can judge most precisely what will occasion the greatest hurt, or what will merely cause a wince and a restless night. But words of reassurance, words of… love? He knows nothing of these. Flattery, to him, is an arcane art. The grateful acceptance of a gift sincerely given is to him a book not only closed, but mildewed to illegibility from lack of care.
But he is a Potions Master and is nothing if not dextrous. One hand, which he refuses to allow to tremble, rises to trace the line of Potter’s jaw, to feel soft skin and scratchy stubble. Warm breath ghosts across his fingers as Potter gives a shaky sigh and leans into the caress, and abruptly Severus finds his other hand has taken it upon itself to pull the boy in tight. The room has become stiflingly hot, yet still Severus craves the heat of Potter’s body, cannot get enough of it. His lips, thin and pinched as they are, beckon to the plump young ones that face them with a siren call that can, apparently, not be denied. A hot tongue penetrates his mouth, tit for tat for the invasion he has himself initiated. Potter tastes of hot chocolate and teenage want. How does Severus himself taste, he wonders? Bitter and dry, he would have said, but apparently that is what Potter likes, for he devours Severus’ mouth like a starving man.
“We… you…” Severus scarcely recognises his own voice.
“Wanted this so much,” Potter tells his neck, his throat, as he kisses and nips at tender skin. Even Severus’ scars are loved, it seems.
Severus is falling. It seems only prudent to arrange for a soft landing. “Bed,” he croaks.
“Can we go to yours? I don’t want us to shag in a bed that belongs to Regulus Black.” Potter appears to be holding his breath, as if the invocation of Severus’ other lover might cause him to appear, wrathful and malignant – or worse, might give Severus pause. And perhaps it should – but it does not. The only times Regulus Black has not fallen on his feet have been the many occasions upon which he has decided an alternative position would be more pleasurable. Severus grabs a handful of Floo powder from the pot on the mantelpiece with one hand and a handful of Potter with the other, breathes a silent prayer that his mother will not be in and Flooes them both to Spinner’s End.
For once in his life, it appears he is in luck. “Upstairs,” Severus rasps, dragging the boy along. The stairs have never seemed so narrow, or so steep, but at length they are at the top and through the doorway and Severus throws Potter down upon the unmade bed. Potter oofs with the impact and fumbles at the fastenings of his jeans. Severus is already tearing off his robes. Potter – Harry – pauses, wide-eyed, as Severus’ cock springs free from his (clean, white) underpants.
“Bloody hell! OK, so I might have been wrong about why Regulus is going out with you.”
Severus smirks. “Why change the habit of a lifetime, Harry?”
“Bastard.” White teeth worry at a plump bottom lip. Suddenly Severus wants nothing more than to thrust his aching cock into that warm, wilful mouth. “Um, so you, er, like to top?” There is more than a hint of a quaver in Potter’s voice.
“Scared, Harry? I fear Godric Gryffindor would be most disappointed in his heir.” Severus smiles to take the sting from his words.
The boy is predictably indignant. “I’m not scared! I just – haven’t seen one that big before, that’s all.” He swallows. “Can I suck it?”
“That, Potter, is the most idiotic question you have ever asked. And believe me, the competition is stiff.”
“Not the only thing, is it?” A cheeky grin heralds the return of a little of the boy’s confidence. Perhaps he prefers to be spoken to in this manner? Severus tries an experiment.
“Come here, Harry,” he murmurs.
He is quite confident that only one wizard in a hundred would have caught the flicker of uncertainty in the boy’s eyes. “Sometime today would suit me, Potter,” he sneers and is hard pressed not to laugh as the boy visibly relaxes. Well, well.
Potter scoots to the edge of the bed and takes hold of Severus’ erection with one tentative hand, whilst the other slips around to hang onto a buttock like grim death. A tongue teases across those lips and then they are upon him, stretching around the head of his undeniably large girth and sucking him into a world of heat and pleasure. It is almost too much, and he is grateful when teeth rasp painfully across his engorged flesh, bringing him back to himself with a hissed intake of breath.
“Sorry,” Potter says, backing off nervously. “I haven’t done this a lot. Or, um, at all, really.” Gamely – there is, in certain circumstances, a lot to be said for Gryffindor courage – he swoops back down for another attempt.
“Touch yourself,” Severus rasps out, desperate to concentrate on anything but the extraordinary sensations in his cock. Potter’s technique is not so much bad as non-existent, yet Severus has never known anything more arousing in his life. His hands fall to Potter’s head and it is only with a superhuman effort of will that he manages to refrain from holding it, vice-like, whilst he plunges his needy flesh down that virginal young throat.
That thought gives him pause, however. “Potter, are you telling me you have never had sex with a man?”
The boy pulls off, licking his lips in a way that should be illegal and for all Severus knows, probably is. “Yes! I mean no – I mean, I have. Done it, I mean. Just – he sort of did all the work. He, er, sucked me off and then he, well, shagged me. A couple of times.” Apparently it’s now time to get tough with those lips as Potter starts to chew the lower one nervously. “He, er, wasn’t quite as big as you, though.” Potter hesitates. “You know, it’s a bit creepy when you smile like that.”
Severus moves a little closer, his smile broadening. “Tell me, Potter, what would you prefer that I do with my mouth?” he growls in his huskiest tones.
There is a fertile pause. “Um, Accio me a towel?” the boy asks weakly, an expression of utmost mortification upon his face.
“Ah, the impatience of youth,” Severus smirks. “But how thoughtful, to provide your own lubrication. Now, hands and knees.”
Potter’s arse, despite being apparently no longer virgin, is as tight as a Grindylow’s grasp although not, Severus hopes, as fragile. Three fingers and a handful of spunk will have to do or Severus will be in serious danger of climaxing prematurely himself and then he’d have to Obliviate the boy. Potter whimpers as the fingers are withdrawn. Severus wonders if it is at the sense of loss or if it is merely the fear of what is to come next.
As Severus plunges in, the boy yelps in pain, but gradually his body accustoms itself to the invasion, and soon he is half-hard. Severus reaches a hand between their sweating bodies and coaxes the boy to full hardness once more. He changes the angle of his thrusts and Potter yelps once more – but this time it is not with pain. Gleefully, Severus nails the boy’s prostate again and again, revelling in the disintegration of his lover from conquering hero to quivering, needy wreck.
Unfortunately he is revelling a little too much. Gritting his teeth, Severus holds back his orgasm by sheer force of will. Imagining Albus pole-dancing undoubtedly helps.
“Oh, God, going to…” The sentence remains uncompleted but Potter, quite clearly, does not as his arse clamps down rhythmically on Severus with an exquisite tightness and his cock pulses in Severus’ hand, shooting out a quantity of pearly white that is not unimpressive given his earlier indiscretion. As rigid self-control is something upon which Severus prides himself it is fortunate that he has already decided to let go at this point, and he slams into the boy one last time and stills, shuddering as he empties all his burdens into that delicious, wilful, inexperienced arse before collapsing upon Potter’s back, utterly spent.
Both of them freeze at the sound of the front door slamming.
A strident call comes from below. “Severus?”
“Mother?”
“Where are you, Severus? And why haven’t you come down to greet me?”
“I’m in bed, Mother.”
“At this time of day? What on earth are you doing there?”
Severus allows a pregnant pause. “Taking your advice, Mother.”
There follows a silence even more laden. “Good boy. I’ll be in the Hog’s Head if you need me.”
“And he’ll be in the Gryffindor’s arse!” Harry calls after her and collapses into endorphin-fuelled giggles.
He stills abruptly after a moment. “Um, she had gone by the time I said that, hadn’t she?”
…
Regulus is in pensive mood as he Flooes back from Malfoy Manor. He has spent an enjoyable and distinctly informative day there, including a most delicious lunch; a welcome change from Kreacher’s misguided offerings. The years, so cruel to poor Severus, have behaved with far greater civility to Lucius. A shame that dear cousin Cissy was also there, but Lucius has assured him that she will be visiting a spa in Switzerland in the tolerably near future.
However, Lucius has also made it quite plain how mistaken Regulus has been as to Severus’ standing in this post-war world. It is quite obvious what he must do, but there is an unfamiliar pricking at his soul that gives him pause. It must be his conscience, Regulus supposes. Or the remnant of his feelings for Severus, which were, back in the day, considerably deeper than he ever allowed to be seen. Severus is… a difficult man. It is unlikely he will soon find another lover without employing either large sums of money or the Imperius curse.
Regulus brightens. After all, he is ideally placed to help Severus with whichever of those options proves to be most appropriate.
Emerging from the fireplace, Regulus is a little surprised not to find his lover awaiting his return as arranged. He searches the house, anxious to get all difficulties over with.
“Kreacher?”
“Yes, master Regulus? What can Kreacher be doing to serve master Regulus? Kreacher lives to serve master Regulus, yes he does…”
Regulus interrupts hastily. The elf could be all night at this. “Do you know where Severus is?” He watches in surprise as the house-elf twists himself into what appears to be a whole-body scowl.
“The filthy half-blood is leaving with the other filthy half-blood, master. Filthy half-bloods are being disloyal to master. Kreacher is not liking what they is doing, no he is not.”
“What in Merlin’s name were Severus and Harry doing?” Regulus asks curiously.
Kreacher contorts himself even further. “They is kissing, master Regulus. And then they is saying they is not wanting to be shagging in this house. Nasty half-bloodses.”
With an effort, Regulus refrains from asking the ancient retainer how in Merlin’s name he’s managed to watch Lord of the Rings and forces himself to focus on what is important. “Severus and Harry are… lovers?” Hah. Regulus knew the boy was simply bragging about his resistance to Imperius.
“Kreacher will be happy to be poisoning their food, yes he will,” the elf mutters.
“No, no, Kreacher. I’m touched by your loyalty, but that won’t be necessary. Indeed, it is a weight off my mind. I had decided, in any case, that there was no future in my relationship with Severus.” He frowns. It is, nevertheless, a betrayal. “However, you may feel free to pack Harry’s belongings and send them to Spinner’s End. No need to punish yourself for any breakages.”
The elf’s eyes light up. “Kreacher is getting very clumsy in his old age, master Regulus,” he croons, scurrying off to do his master’s bidding.
…
Sitting at the tiny kitchen table in Spinner’s End with a surly-looking Snape (not a morning person, apparently, but then with the amount of sleep Harry let him get last night, who would be?) Harry reckons he’s never had a better breakfast in his life. The toast may be burnt and the milk is definitely sour (maybe Snape’s mum happened to look at it before heading out to Save Our Squibs or wherever it is she’s mercifully disappeared to this morning after inquiring frostily of Harry why there is a heap of broken old junk in her living room), but Harry’s survived on worse. And anyway, who needs to eat when every time you look across the table your heart does flip-flops and your mouth starts grinning so widely your ears are in serious danger of falling in?
There’s only one cloud on the horizon Harry can see and it’s only a wispy little one: cirrus, perhaps, or altocumulus at worst. (Aunt Marge gave Dudley an I Spy Book of Clouds for Christmas one year. It was the first brand-new book Harry ever had and he spent many happy – all right, terminally bored – hours in his cupboard committing it to memory.) “S’pose I’m going to have to get round to telling Ron and Hermione I’m gay, now,” he announces to the top of Snape’s head, the rest of his face being presently buried in this morning’s Prophet.
Snape raises an eyebrow, his whole head seeming to follow the motion as if someone’s pulling on a string. Dumbledore, probably, based on past events. “I believe, Potter, that that will be unnecessary.”
Just as Harry’s about to protest that surely they’re not going to hide their relationship – bloody hell, he’s been half-thinking about getting hitched – Snape raises The Prophet up so that Harry can read the headlines.
Potter in Porno Photo-Shoot Shocker! See pages 4-17.
As Harry gapes, Snape obligingly turns to page 4:
Kinky Cross-Channel Cavorting with Sexy Squib
And page 7:
Boy Who Lived to Love Leather
And page 10:
I said my name was Neil and he took it as an order
“Shall I go on? There is a particularly fetching two-page spread further on…”
Harry collapses weakly in his chair. “Um, no, I’m good,” he mutters faintly.
“Not according to the report on page 14, you’re not,” Snape tells him with an evil smirk. “More toast?”
Fin.
Notes:
1. The Englische Hollunder hotel may just possibly bear some slight similarity to the Deutsche Eiche, a popular meeting place for the gay scene in Munich.
2. Harry’s bike
3. The one Severus thinks he should have got
4. Readers of The Sun newspaper are renowned for having a vocabulary of only 500 words. This is possibly slanderous.
5. I may have been channelling Terry Pratchett when naming the pub housing the International Floo in Munich (Zum Reparierten Kessel=The Mended Cauldron)
6. RAB’s profession was inspired by this post byesmestrella
Author:
drachenminaOther pairings/threesome: Some Regulus Black/Severus Snape, mention of Harry/OOC and Regulus/others
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 15,500
Warning(s): : The merest whiff of BDSM
Part One/Two
Regulus is rather pleased by the way things have developed since his return. He was genuinely glad to see Severus again, although the poor man has rather let himself go. Still, his status as hero makes up for a great deal. There will be time enough to introduce him to the niceties of personal grooming once Regulus’ reputation has been thoroughly burnished by association.
The sex, Regulus will admit, has been disappointing. Severus seems to have almost entirely lost that wonderful passion he had in his youth. Not, he flatters himself, that Severus will have noticed any corresponding diminution in his own ardour. Regulus prides himself on being consummate actor, although he would of course never do anything so plebeian as go on the stage.
Regulus is less pleased by the continual presence of Harry Potter in his house. The boy seems oblivious to how unwelcome he is. Of course, Regulus is politeness itself, and apparently the boy was raised by Muggles, so really, what can one expect? To be honest, he was half-hoping Severus’ continual visits might accomplish his eviction, as his lover’s tongue is never sharper than when speaking to Harry, but the boy seems positively to relish his sarcastic put-downs.
Still, it would please Regulus no end if Harry were finally to take the hint and leave. For one thing, he’s fairly certain the boy has been spying on him and Severus. Perhaps he’s realised he could do with picking up a few tips.
…
Harry lolls on the sofa round at Ron and Hermione’s and wonders if they’ll let him kip on it when he finally can’t stand living in Regulus’ bloody house any more, lying in bed listening to them shag, shag, shag all the bloody time. Not that they’re noisy, mind, and not that Harry’s been using any Extendable Ears to keep track of them (well, not every time, anyway) but he’s not stupid, he knows that’s what they’ve been up to all bloody week.
“I wish I’d never gone to find that stuck-up sod,” he announces moodily to the can of butterbeer in his hand.
Hermione raises an eyebrow over her cup of tea. “I thought you’d be happy for Professor Snape, Harry. Wasn’t that why you went to get Regulus Black in the first place?”
“Well, yeah, but I thought they were just mates. Didn’t know they were going to be at it like bunny-rabbits the minute they set eyes on one another.”
Ron cracks up. “Watch out, mate, people are going to think you’re jealous! So come on, who d’you fancy? Regulus or Snape?” He sniggers at his own joke, then sobers up. “But seriously, mate, when are you and Ginny getting back together? ‘Cause Neville’s been spending an awful lot of time at the Burrow recently and if you’re not careful you’re going to miss the boat.”
“Should have stayed on the boat,” Harry mutters. “I had a great time on the boat. Nothing went wrong until I got off at bloody Calais.”
Hermione gives him a sharp look.
“Um, metaphorically speaking?” Harry hazards, but he doesn’t reckon he’s fooled her. Oops. Change of subject needed. “And he’s nicked my bloody house!”
“Well, technically, Harry…” Hermione’s tone is sympathetic but firm. Harry sags.
“Look, he can have the bloody house. It’s just…” Harry trails off, not entirely certain what it is. “I don’t trust him, that’s all,” he finishes lamely. “He had a lover in Germany, you know. Dumped him by text on his way over here.”
Ron frowns. “He wrote a book about it?”
Hermione rolls her eyes. “Honestly, Ron, we’ve talked about mobile phones.” Her lips tighten. “Well, that doesn’t seem like a very nice way of behaving. But perhaps he always knew Professor Snape was the love of his life, and he just couldn’t wait to get back to him?”
“Hah! Too right he couldn’t wait. He tried it on with me the night before we left for England!”
“Ugh.” Ron shudders. “He didn’t try and kiss you, did he? I’d have decked him, mate. Didn’t he realise you don’t swing that way?”
“Ronald Weasley, your knee-jerk homophobia is not the issue!” Hermione says sharply before Harry can answer, which is probably just as well as he hasn’t got a bloody clue what he’d have said. He’s almost certain Ron’ll be OK with him being a poof, but he’s not in any hurry to find out for certain.
“What we need to consider,” Hermione continues in lecture mode, “is whether Harry should say anything to Professor Snape about Regulus’… behaviour. Interfering between a couple can do more harm than good, you know.”
“What, you mean like giving house-elves clothes when they don’t really want to be free?” Ron asks innocently and Hermione does that thing where her lips completely disappear. “Look,” he carries on more seriously, “if it was me, I’d want to know. And I reckon Snape’s the same. You know what he’s like about people messing about with him. I wouldn’t want to be in Harry’s shoes if it comes out later that he knew all along Regulus couldn’t keep it in his knickers and didn’t say anything.”
Suddenly Harry feels a lot happier. Yeah, that’s what he’ll do. He’ll tell Snape his bloke’s a slapper and then he’ll make sure he’s around to cheer him up afterwards. As much as Snape ever cheers up, that is. Snape’ll need comforting, and he’ll be grateful, and he’ll see Harry’s not just a waste of space, and then he’ll…
“I’d be careful if I were you, Harry,” Hermione says grimly, breaking into his train of thought. “Professor Snape strikes me as precisely the sort of person who’d shoot the messenger.”
….
It is a surprise, when Severus opens the letter, to see not Regulus’ elegant hand but Potter’s sloppy penmanship; blots, crossings-out and all. The message is short and to the point.
Dear Snape
Can you come round to Grimmauld Place tomorrow afternoon? Around two-ish?
It’s just to see me, Regulus won’t be in.
Harry Potter.
Severus was, as it happens, already apprised of Regulus’ plans to be out that afternoon. He’s heading for Malfoy Manor on a family visit that will, Severus has no doubt, mean the beginning of the end for their little reconciliation as Lucius will make no bones about spelling out just how the great wizarding public view Dumbledore’s murderer. He finds he feels a curious mix of regret and relief at the prospect. The regret deepens as he realises this will likely also mean an end to seeing Potter almost daily – what excuse will Severus have for calling at Grimmauld Place once he is no longer its master’s lover? He smiles softly at himself. They have hardly been the best of friends, of late. Potter has been unusually petulant since his return from the Continent. Not, of course, that pouting is a bad look on those plump, red and slightly chapped lips.
He frowns. In which case, why does Potter wish to see him in private? The obvious answer is that Potter is aware of some indiscretion on Regulus’ part that his Gryffindor sensibilities demand that he inform Severus of forthwith. Yet, with the amount of time Severus and Regulus have spent together since his return to this country, how has Regulus found it possible to find another lover?
The solution is only too clear. He has not had to find another lover, because that lover already resides with him.
Severus is unprepared for the burst of fury that sweeps through him at the thought of Regulus and Harry together. The worst of it is that he has been a fool not to suspect this from the start. Who would not, given the choice, prefer a lithe young hero (however vertically challenged and myopic, not to mention chronically untidy) to an embittered old spy? And of course the boy would be swept off his feet by the attentions of a charming older man with both money and breeding. Not to mention vast experience in seduction. Potter must have been putty in Regulus’ manicured hands. Well, it will serve him right when Regulus leaves him high and dry and moves on to someone more… more… dammit, there is no reason on Earth for Regulus to leave Potter. He is rich, young and reasonably attractive on a good day, more so if he keeps his fool mouth shut. Or at least, opens it only for certain specialised purposes…
Severus finds his own mouth is inexplicably dry at the thought of Potter engaging in said, ahem, purposes.
So. They are a couple, and he is a fool. He should burn that letter and never set foot in that accursed house again. And yet… the thought of not seeing Potter again, never looking into those eyes and seeing that sloppy grin... He is twice a fool. Potter would never have been interested in Severus even if Regulus were not upon the scene. But he will go and hear the boy out. He owes him that much, at least, for his good intentions in bringing Regulus back.
…
Harry didn’t sleep well last night. He had some frankly x-rated dreams that seemed to be sort of hinting that his interest in making Snape see what Regulus is really like isn’t entirely altruistic. Which to be honest, he sort of had an inkling about already. Which is stupid, because anyone who’s shagging Regulus Black is bound to think Harry Potter’s a bit of a come-down even if they don’t already think he’s an imbecile, which Snape does and probably always will. Not that he’d expect Snape to jump straight into bed with him anyway, because the poor sod’s probably going to be devastated. If he believes Harry, which he won’t, because why would he take Harry’s word over his lover’s in any case?
In fact, by the time two o’clock rolls round Harry’s pretty much convinced of two things. One, he’s an utter bastard because he’s only doing this to get in Snape’s pants. And two, that it doesn’t actually matter as Snape’s going to kill him for it anyway.
….
Severus exits gracefully from the Floo at two pm precisely and comes face-to-face with a Potter who appears to have been hit by some hex that prevents him standing still for more than half a second at a time. Severus is pleased to see that his glare has not lost its sting as the brat pales noticeably on seeing him. As well he might.
“Well, Potter? What did you wish to see me about in such secrecy? Or is the habit of sneaking around so ingrained in you that you find it impossible to arrange an assignation without subterfuge?”
Potter grins wildly and fidgets annoyingly with a loose thread on his sleeve. “Um, cup of tea? I’ll, um, I’ll put the kettle on, shall I? And biscuits, I know we’ve got some somewhere, from a packet I mean, not the weird ones Kreacher’s been baking lately…”
“Potter!” Severus barks, startling the boy into silence. “Just tell me, damn you.”
Potter swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Um, well – are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea? Or a firewhiskey? Butterbeer..?”
“No. Beverages,” Severus grinds out. He sighs. “Let me help you. You have summoned me here so that you can tell me you and Regulus are intimate?”
“What? No! No way – I mean, he did try it on and all, but I’m not…”
“You’re not gay?” Severus asks hollowly, appalled at his own misjudgement of the boy.
“No! I mean yes, yes I’m gay, or bisexual or whatever, but I’m not shagging Regulus! Or, you know, the other way round.” His face has turned a fetching shade of pink. “Um, he’s really not my type. I mean, I know he’s nice looking and all, but he’s, well, a bit…”
A bit what? Severus thinks. A bit good looking? A bit rich? A bit urbane and sophisticated? A bit completely fuckable?
“He’s a bit of a bastard!” is Potter’s surprising conclusion, his entire sleeve now looking likely to unravel from his constant worrying at it. “He’s just using you!” the boy blurts out, his face a picture of anguish and the indignation only the very young and naïve can muster for perceived injustice.
Severus feels suddenly very old and very jaded. “And what possible concern is it of yours?” he asks, his tone flat and even as the ice upon the Great Lake at Yule.
“What? Don’t you even care? He’s only with you because you’re a hero, because he wants everyone to forget he ran away and hid for twenty years rather than stand up to Voldemort!”
“Do I strike you, Potter, as a moron?” Severus finds his voice is rougher now, a handful of grit skittering over the ice. He clears his throat.
“What?”
Does the boy even know any other words? “I am not a fool, Potter.” Severus hesitates, because he’s damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t, but this is the only way short of an Unforgivable to free himself from Potter’s unwanted concern. “I am quite aware that Regulus’… regard for me is essentially self-seeking in nature.”
His glare is lost on the brat. Potter’s brow furrows, deepening the scar whose only purpose, Severus has long been convinced, is to remind him of how greatly he failed the boy’s mother. “Then why are you with him?”
A Slytherin, Severus reflects, would not have dreamed of asking such a question. A Hufflepuff would have been too timid and a Ravenclaw would have worked out the answer already. Only a Gryffindor, with balls bigger than his brains, would in all innocence – and with only the very best of intentions – invite Severus to humiliate himself like this. Because that is how Potter will see it: as a humiliation, not as a purely sensible, Slytherin tactic of taking advantage of what one can get. Severus scowls at the boy. “I am with him, Potter, because I wish to be. That is all you need to know.”
He doesn’t get away with it. “But why? Why not be with someone who actually gives a fuck about you?”
It’s an unfair question: Severus is quite satisfied that Regulus gives a fuck about him, even if that is all he gives. In the unlikely event that Severus should catch fire, he’s confident Regulus could be relied upon to piss on him. Severus would certainly be prepared to do likewise.
But suddenly he finds he can no longer stand this verbal fencing – not with Harry, and not about such a subject. And if a small part of it is because he cannot bear that the boy should believe him devoid of all higher feeling, then that is something that is neither here nor there. “Because, Potter, that person does not exist, and whilst romantic principles may be fine things for boy heroes and Gryffindors, they do not, I regret to say, do much to warm the bed of a middle-aged Slytherin traitor.”
Potter’s jaw clenches. “You’re not a traitor. You’re a hero. You’ve got an Order of Merlin.”
Severus’ patience is nearing exhaustion. “The only reason Regulus is still with me is that he has not been back in the country long enough to realise that I am a hero in name only – to the wizarding populace at large I am an embarrassment, a pariah, and to all those with whom I was formally intimate I am a traitor to be despised.” He looks up, fixing Potter in the eye. It is important that the boy understand this. “He will be gone soon enough, Potter. You need not trouble yourself further.”
Harry just stands there, frowning, teeth worrying at lips. The boy is thinking. Severus sighs. No good has ever come of that, nor is it ever likely to. “What if there was someone who gave a fuck about you?” Potter asks finally.
Severus sighs. “And let me guess, you are about to propose yourself as a candidate? Forgive me for spoiling your moment of noble self-sacrifice, but I regret to inform you that guilt and a belated sense of gratitude are hardly the stuff of lasting romance. I may as well stay with Regulus who is at least under no illusions as to his own motivation.”
Potter’s reaction is much as might be expected from a small, bespectacled volcano. “You WHAT? You think I’m, what, offering you my body to say sorry I thought you were evil? And how does that fit in with being deluded as to my motivations, anyway? I can’t be both noble and stupid, you know!”
Severus pauses reverently before answering, unwilling to let Potter’s last extraordinary statement pass without the respect such a monumental piece of idiocy deserves. “If you are going to insist upon constraining your folly in only one direction, I suggest you at least make the choice as to which it will be,” he says mildly, at last.
Mount Potter continues to erupt fitfully. “My bloody folly was ever thinking you could possible take me seriously! Why is it so bloody hard for you to believe that I might actually like you? And anyway, how come it’s all right for sodding Regulus to shag you when you know he doesn’t care about you, and not me?” He pauses for breath, red-faced, chest heaving. It doesn’t make it any easier for Severus to get past the rather large stumbling-block of the word shag in Potter’s last sentence. Unbidden, the image of himself and Potter in mid-shag thrusts its way into the forefront of his mind. It is definitely arresting.
It is absurd. “Have you even thought, Potter, what it would be like were I, as you put it, to shag you?”
Apparently Potter has – and if the slack-jawed, glazed look upon his face is any guide, he is busy imagining it right now. Severus sighs. “Potter, we are incapable of holding a civil conversation. What on earth makes you think we would be in the remotest way compatible?”
No wonder the boy is so inarticulate, with a lip so thoroughly chewed. “We’ve had lots of civil conversations. At least, up until bloody Regulus turned up. You know, I’d actually started to think you might… never mind. I just… want you. Isn’t that enough?”
“Most people prefer such things to be at least in some small degree mutual.” Severus is pleased to be able to manage a tone so withering under such severe provocation.
Potter flushes. “Not you though – least, it doesn’t look like it. As long as they’re fit and good at pretending… Look, I know I’m not Regulus sodding Black, but at least I care about you. Doesn’t that mean anything?”
Severus finds he must clear his throat in order to be able to speak. “Potter, this is… this is madness. You cannot want me.”
“Why not? Look, I know you think I’m just a kid. And you don’t like me very much. But you don’t know me, not really. You still think I’m my dad, deep down. And I’m not, all right? I used to wish I was, you know. Right up until I saw that stuff in your Pensieve. Bloody hell, Snape, have you any idea how bad I felt about that? Because I realised then, if there was anyone in that scene I was like, it was you. And now… well, I’m just me and even if I wanted to be anyone else, I can’t. I wish… sometimes I still wish things had been different, you know? But they weren’t, and I’m me, and that’s what you’re stuck with.” He stops, breathing hard, as if he’s been running.
Is that truly what the boy thinks? Severus has long been aware that Potter’s intelligence is not of the highest order, but he never dreamed the boy could be so utterly, completely mistaken as to Severus’ view of him.
Severus doesn’t know what to say. Words, for him, have always been a weapon. He can use them with finesse, to sting or to slash. He can judge most precisely what will occasion the greatest hurt, or what will merely cause a wince and a restless night. But words of reassurance, words of… love? He knows nothing of these. Flattery, to him, is an arcane art. The grateful acceptance of a gift sincerely given is to him a book not only closed, but mildewed to illegibility from lack of care.
But he is a Potions Master and is nothing if not dextrous. One hand, which he refuses to allow to tremble, rises to trace the line of Potter’s jaw, to feel soft skin and scratchy stubble. Warm breath ghosts across his fingers as Potter gives a shaky sigh and leans into the caress, and abruptly Severus finds his other hand has taken it upon itself to pull the boy in tight. The room has become stiflingly hot, yet still Severus craves the heat of Potter’s body, cannot get enough of it. His lips, thin and pinched as they are, beckon to the plump young ones that face them with a siren call that can, apparently, not be denied. A hot tongue penetrates his mouth, tit for tat for the invasion he has himself initiated. Potter tastes of hot chocolate and teenage want. How does Severus himself taste, he wonders? Bitter and dry, he would have said, but apparently that is what Potter likes, for he devours Severus’ mouth like a starving man.
“We… you…” Severus scarcely recognises his own voice.
“Wanted this so much,” Potter tells his neck, his throat, as he kisses and nips at tender skin. Even Severus’ scars are loved, it seems.
Severus is falling. It seems only prudent to arrange for a soft landing. “Bed,” he croaks.
“Can we go to yours? I don’t want us to shag in a bed that belongs to Regulus Black.” Potter appears to be holding his breath, as if the invocation of Severus’ other lover might cause him to appear, wrathful and malignant – or worse, might give Severus pause. And perhaps it should – but it does not. The only times Regulus Black has not fallen on his feet have been the many occasions upon which he has decided an alternative position would be more pleasurable. Severus grabs a handful of Floo powder from the pot on the mantelpiece with one hand and a handful of Potter with the other, breathes a silent prayer that his mother will not be in and Flooes them both to Spinner’s End.
For once in his life, it appears he is in luck. “Upstairs,” Severus rasps, dragging the boy along. The stairs have never seemed so narrow, or so steep, but at length they are at the top and through the doorway and Severus throws Potter down upon the unmade bed. Potter oofs with the impact and fumbles at the fastenings of his jeans. Severus is already tearing off his robes. Potter – Harry – pauses, wide-eyed, as Severus’ cock springs free from his (clean, white) underpants.
“Bloody hell! OK, so I might have been wrong about why Regulus is going out with you.”
Severus smirks. “Why change the habit of a lifetime, Harry?”
“Bastard.” White teeth worry at a plump bottom lip. Suddenly Severus wants nothing more than to thrust his aching cock into that warm, wilful mouth. “Um, so you, er, like to top?” There is more than a hint of a quaver in Potter’s voice.
“Scared, Harry? I fear Godric Gryffindor would be most disappointed in his heir.” Severus smiles to take the sting from his words.
The boy is predictably indignant. “I’m not scared! I just – haven’t seen one that big before, that’s all.” He swallows. “Can I suck it?”
“That, Potter, is the most idiotic question you have ever asked. And believe me, the competition is stiff.”
“Not the only thing, is it?” A cheeky grin heralds the return of a little of the boy’s confidence. Perhaps he prefers to be spoken to in this manner? Severus tries an experiment.
“Come here, Harry,” he murmurs.
He is quite confident that only one wizard in a hundred would have caught the flicker of uncertainty in the boy’s eyes. “Sometime today would suit me, Potter,” he sneers and is hard pressed not to laugh as the boy visibly relaxes. Well, well.
Potter scoots to the edge of the bed and takes hold of Severus’ erection with one tentative hand, whilst the other slips around to hang onto a buttock like grim death. A tongue teases across those lips and then they are upon him, stretching around the head of his undeniably large girth and sucking him into a world of heat and pleasure. It is almost too much, and he is grateful when teeth rasp painfully across his engorged flesh, bringing him back to himself with a hissed intake of breath.
“Sorry,” Potter says, backing off nervously. “I haven’t done this a lot. Or, um, at all, really.” Gamely – there is, in certain circumstances, a lot to be said for Gryffindor courage – he swoops back down for another attempt.
“Touch yourself,” Severus rasps out, desperate to concentrate on anything but the extraordinary sensations in his cock. Potter’s technique is not so much bad as non-existent, yet Severus has never known anything more arousing in his life. His hands fall to Potter’s head and it is only with a superhuman effort of will that he manages to refrain from holding it, vice-like, whilst he plunges his needy flesh down that virginal young throat.
That thought gives him pause, however. “Potter, are you telling me you have never had sex with a man?”
The boy pulls off, licking his lips in a way that should be illegal and for all Severus knows, probably is. “Yes! I mean no – I mean, I have. Done it, I mean. Just – he sort of did all the work. He, er, sucked me off and then he, well, shagged me. A couple of times.” Apparently it’s now time to get tough with those lips as Potter starts to chew the lower one nervously. “He, er, wasn’t quite as big as you, though.” Potter hesitates. “You know, it’s a bit creepy when you smile like that.”
Severus moves a little closer, his smile broadening. “Tell me, Potter, what would you prefer that I do with my mouth?” he growls in his huskiest tones.
There is a fertile pause. “Um, Accio me a towel?” the boy asks weakly, an expression of utmost mortification upon his face.
“Ah, the impatience of youth,” Severus smirks. “But how thoughtful, to provide your own lubrication. Now, hands and knees.”
Potter’s arse, despite being apparently no longer virgin, is as tight as a Grindylow’s grasp although not, Severus hopes, as fragile. Three fingers and a handful of spunk will have to do or Severus will be in serious danger of climaxing prematurely himself and then he’d have to Obliviate the boy. Potter whimpers as the fingers are withdrawn. Severus wonders if it is at the sense of loss or if it is merely the fear of what is to come next.
As Severus plunges in, the boy yelps in pain, but gradually his body accustoms itself to the invasion, and soon he is half-hard. Severus reaches a hand between their sweating bodies and coaxes the boy to full hardness once more. He changes the angle of his thrusts and Potter yelps once more – but this time it is not with pain. Gleefully, Severus nails the boy’s prostate again and again, revelling in the disintegration of his lover from conquering hero to quivering, needy wreck.
Unfortunately he is revelling a little too much. Gritting his teeth, Severus holds back his orgasm by sheer force of will. Imagining Albus pole-dancing undoubtedly helps.
“Oh, God, going to…” The sentence remains uncompleted but Potter, quite clearly, does not as his arse clamps down rhythmically on Severus with an exquisite tightness and his cock pulses in Severus’ hand, shooting out a quantity of pearly white that is not unimpressive given his earlier indiscretion. As rigid self-control is something upon which Severus prides himself it is fortunate that he has already decided to let go at this point, and he slams into the boy one last time and stills, shuddering as he empties all his burdens into that delicious, wilful, inexperienced arse before collapsing upon Potter’s back, utterly spent.
Both of them freeze at the sound of the front door slamming.
A strident call comes from below. “Severus?”
“Mother?”
“Where are you, Severus? And why haven’t you come down to greet me?”
“I’m in bed, Mother.”
“At this time of day? What on earth are you doing there?”
Severus allows a pregnant pause. “Taking your advice, Mother.”
There follows a silence even more laden. “Good boy. I’ll be in the Hog’s Head if you need me.”
“And he’ll be in the Gryffindor’s arse!” Harry calls after her and collapses into endorphin-fuelled giggles.
He stills abruptly after a moment. “Um, she had gone by the time I said that, hadn’t she?”
…
Regulus is in pensive mood as he Flooes back from Malfoy Manor. He has spent an enjoyable and distinctly informative day there, including a most delicious lunch; a welcome change from Kreacher’s misguided offerings. The years, so cruel to poor Severus, have behaved with far greater civility to Lucius. A shame that dear cousin Cissy was also there, but Lucius has assured him that she will be visiting a spa in Switzerland in the tolerably near future.
However, Lucius has also made it quite plain how mistaken Regulus has been as to Severus’ standing in this post-war world. It is quite obvious what he must do, but there is an unfamiliar pricking at his soul that gives him pause. It must be his conscience, Regulus supposes. Or the remnant of his feelings for Severus, which were, back in the day, considerably deeper than he ever allowed to be seen. Severus is… a difficult man. It is unlikely he will soon find another lover without employing either large sums of money or the Imperius curse.
Regulus brightens. After all, he is ideally placed to help Severus with whichever of those options proves to be most appropriate.
Emerging from the fireplace, Regulus is a little surprised not to find his lover awaiting his return as arranged. He searches the house, anxious to get all difficulties over with.
“Kreacher?”
“Yes, master Regulus? What can Kreacher be doing to serve master Regulus? Kreacher lives to serve master Regulus, yes he does…”
Regulus interrupts hastily. The elf could be all night at this. “Do you know where Severus is?” He watches in surprise as the house-elf twists himself into what appears to be a whole-body scowl.
“The filthy half-blood is leaving with the other filthy half-blood, master. Filthy half-bloods are being disloyal to master. Kreacher is not liking what they is doing, no he is not.”
“What in Merlin’s name were Severus and Harry doing?” Regulus asks curiously.
Kreacher contorts himself even further. “They is kissing, master Regulus. And then they is saying they is not wanting to be shagging in this house. Nasty half-bloodses.”
With an effort, Regulus refrains from asking the ancient retainer how in Merlin’s name he’s managed to watch Lord of the Rings and forces himself to focus on what is important. “Severus and Harry are… lovers?” Hah. Regulus knew the boy was simply bragging about his resistance to Imperius.
“Kreacher will be happy to be poisoning their food, yes he will,” the elf mutters.
“No, no, Kreacher. I’m touched by your loyalty, but that won’t be necessary. Indeed, it is a weight off my mind. I had decided, in any case, that there was no future in my relationship with Severus.” He frowns. It is, nevertheless, a betrayal. “However, you may feel free to pack Harry’s belongings and send them to Spinner’s End. No need to punish yourself for any breakages.”
The elf’s eyes light up. “Kreacher is getting very clumsy in his old age, master Regulus,” he croons, scurrying off to do his master’s bidding.
…
Sitting at the tiny kitchen table in Spinner’s End with a surly-looking Snape (not a morning person, apparently, but then with the amount of sleep Harry let him get last night, who would be?) Harry reckons he’s never had a better breakfast in his life. The toast may be burnt and the milk is definitely sour (maybe Snape’s mum happened to look at it before heading out to Save Our Squibs or wherever it is she’s mercifully disappeared to this morning after inquiring frostily of Harry why there is a heap of broken old junk in her living room), but Harry’s survived on worse. And anyway, who needs to eat when every time you look across the table your heart does flip-flops and your mouth starts grinning so widely your ears are in serious danger of falling in?
There’s only one cloud on the horizon Harry can see and it’s only a wispy little one: cirrus, perhaps, or altocumulus at worst. (Aunt Marge gave Dudley an I Spy Book of Clouds for Christmas one year. It was the first brand-new book Harry ever had and he spent many happy – all right, terminally bored – hours in his cupboard committing it to memory.) “S’pose I’m going to have to get round to telling Ron and Hermione I’m gay, now,” he announces to the top of Snape’s head, the rest of his face being presently buried in this morning’s Prophet.
Snape raises an eyebrow, his whole head seeming to follow the motion as if someone’s pulling on a string. Dumbledore, probably, based on past events. “I believe, Potter, that that will be unnecessary.”
Just as Harry’s about to protest that surely they’re not going to hide their relationship – bloody hell, he’s been half-thinking about getting hitched – Snape raises The Prophet up so that Harry can read the headlines.
Potter in Porno Photo-Shoot Shocker! See pages 4-17.
As Harry gapes, Snape obligingly turns to page 4:
Kinky Cross-Channel Cavorting with Sexy Squib
And page 7:
Boy Who Lived to Love Leather
And page 10:
I said my name was Neil and he took it as an order
“Shall I go on? There is a particularly fetching two-page spread further on…”
Harry collapses weakly in his chair. “Um, no, I’m good,” he mutters faintly.
“Not according to the report on page 14, you’re not,” Snape tells him with an evil smirk. “More toast?”
Fin.
Notes:
1. The Englische Hollunder hotel may just possibly bear some slight similarity to the Deutsche Eiche, a popular meeting place for the gay scene in Munich.
2. Harry’s bike
3. The one Severus thinks he should have got
4. Readers of The Sun newspaper are renowned for having a vocabulary of only 500 words. This is possibly slanderous.
5. I may have been channelling Terry Pratchett when naming the pub housing the International Floo in Munich (Zum Reparierten Kessel=The Mended Cauldron)
6. RAB’s profession was inspired by this post by
esmestrella
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Yay snarry^^
Date: 2014-02-22 03:18 pm (UTC)