.Rites of Passage.
Author: ThreeSidedOrchid
Pairing: Snape/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Harry is 18, very slight dub-con at one point
Summary: On the night of their victory, Severus finds himself at last free to play.
A/N: Written as a pitch hit for the snape_potter Snarry-A-Thon, 2010. The first few paragraphs of this fic have been on my hard drive for 2
or 3 years, so I was very glad for the opportunity to complete it for the thon. Huge, HUGE thanks
too to Torino10154 adn Acciolash who not only encouraged me, but beta'd the story for me! : )
Disclaimer:
The Harry Potter universe and its characters belong to JKR and Warner
Brothers, not me. I'm not making any money off of this - it is done
soley for love of the characters and fun.
It is midnight before the house begins, at last, to settle. Severus
listens as Order members troop in ones and twos upstairs to the
assorted bedrooms. He waits through murmured good-nights and Weasley’s
final, drunken cheer for ‘the boy who lived! The man who killed!’
before braving the hallway.
Beneath his hand the banister is
warm, and Severus thinks how this house, like Grimmauld, will forever
wear the shroud of the Order’s wartime presence. It is in the wood now,
in the air and plaster like the particles of dust in a thundercloud.
The
stairs do not creak, nor the floorboards in the hallway, charmed silent
in deference to the value of sleep. His path is illuminated by
moonlight, cobwebbed across a myriad of bottles and glasses, the
remnants of victory revels. Between the silence of his step and the
ethereal light, the hallway seems to take an eternity to cross.
Severus' tread is careful. His eyes are watchful even now, flicking
from the brighter wink of light against a glass to the shadows that,
under his suspicious gaze, darken and begin to breathe. They push
against him, their shifting shapes implying not the dark lord, but all
the boggarts of Severus' childhood. When he arrives, at last, on the
threshold of the kitchen, it is with relief that he has emerged
unharmed, unchanged. He glances back, but the hallway is merely a
hallway, with nothing more hazardous in between than a few bottles and
an eyesore of a carpet. Superstition and flights of fancy are shoved to
the recesses of his mind, left to tar with the other remnants of a
youth unspent. “Ridiculous,” Severus mutters, and moves on.
Someone
had the good sense to brew a pot of tea at some point in the night --
Minerva, or possibly Granger. Regardless, the brown betty sits amid the
rubble of dishes on the kitchen table, eminently practical. Forgotten
the moment it was brewed too, from the sloshing weight as he lifts it.
He splashes some into the nearest empty glass that looks dry enough not
to taint the brew with sour alcohol. It's gone cold, but it's strong
English tea, and that is enough to quench his parched throat. He downs
it swiftly, and pours himself another for the trek back upstairs.
The
sound of voices stops him. Though the words are poorly transcribed
through the walls, the parry and thrust pattern, the rising volume,
signal an argument. Severus traces the sounds, aware even as he enters
the dining room and inches closer to the living room door, that the
argument can have nothing to do with him, nothing to do with the war,
and therefore is not anything he has any right to hear. There's a gap
between the pocket doors, emitting an alluring stripe of warm light
from the room beyond; a welcome mat for eavesdroppers.
"-- wouldn't care."
"I care, and I'm… tired, just really tired."
There's a pause, as Severus watches them. Ginny Weasley's expression eases from anger to something resembling compassion.
"We
could just sleep, we don't have to -- do anything." She steps closer to
Potter, putting her hands up against his chest as if to calm a
frightened animal. Potter remains rigid, even as she slides her hands
around to his back and leans her head against his chest. He touches her
waist, drawing back quickly when he brushes the bare patch of skin
between shirt and shorts.
"Ginny," he says, pushing against her, "please."
Severus
sneers at the scene. If the little chit is too blind to see that
Potter's eyes more often track Kingsley's backside than her own form,
and Potter too much a coward to cut her free, then they are both fools
that deserve all the discomfort of their situation.
"Harry?"
One might almost suspect she knows after all, from the way her voice wavers over the question.
"I --"
Potter
turns his head aside, melodramatic in his hesitation. If they are only
going to continue in this banal dance, his time would be better spent
upstairs in the warmth of his bed.
"Just tired, Gin," Potter mumbles eventually.
In
the days ahead, when Severus looks back on this moment -- memory of his
movements and thoughts still bright -- he won’t rightly know why he
lingered, watching even after Miss Weasley sighs and says goodnight
with an awkward press of her lips to Potter's.
When she is gone
Potter falls back onto the couch. Severus takes in the sight of him,
this newly-minted hero. Potter’s pajamas swamp his slight frame and
make him seem smaller, though Severus knows he has just outgrown the
awkwardness of youth. He’s seen the new surety of Potter’s walk and his
unconscious grace on the battlefield.
Potter sighs and
scratches absently at his chest. Head against the back of the couch he
stares into the fire, exposing the taut line of his throat. Hidden in
the darkness beyond the door, Severus admires the light against
Potter’s skin, the way it seems to shift from gold to copper and back,
an artist undecided on medium.
Severus has always had a weakness
for beauty. It makes him philosophical and before he realizes it his
thoughts have wandered from Potter’s sharp jaw to his Adam’s apple, and
whether that delicate mount signifies anything in Potter’s experience.
Or if, as Severus suspects, it is yet another mark of adulthood thrust
upon him, and he has never truly stepped into the garden.
Potter’s
hand drifts from his chest, down over his abdomen and further. It comes
to rest over his groin and Severus’ lips part in expectation. Shifting
slightly against the couch, Potter squeezes himself through the thin
fabric. He brushes his fingers, almost desultory, along his length.
Teasing
himself to hardness, Potter‘s breath begins to quicken. Lips parting,
his tongue darts out to wet them. Severus’ own mirrors the action,
imagining how the boy’s lips glisten though he cannot see it from this
distance. Potter’s other hand clenches at the couch, gaging his need to
touch himself more in the gripping of fine upholstery.
When
Potter’s hand slips beneath his bottoms Severus presses his own hand to
his cock, feeling its heat and firmness through his trousers. Potter’s
stroking shifts his pajamas, exposing him in increments. The entropy of desire
Severus thinks, as the bottoms slip and he can see the delicate angles
of Potter’s hips, and then his fist, wrapped tight around his prick.
Potter’s body writhes with his stroking, a slow arcing of his hips and
back. Lifting his other hand up to the back of the couch, Potter turns
his head to meet it. Mouth opening on a gasp, it closes about two
fingers, and Severus’ cock twitches as Potter sucks on the digits.
Half-moans, the needy, uncertain sounds of inexperienced youth, escape
Potter‘s throat. He drives his fingers in and out of his mouth, working
his tongue over them in time with his speeding strokes. It begins to be
too much and Potter gasps, fingers slipping free. Fisting his hand in
his hair, he draws his head back roughly and arches up. Mouth open in a
silent scream, Potter spills himself into the palm of his hand.
Severus’
prick throbs in protest of its confines. The fire crackles in the
hearth for minutes as Potter lays sprawled in post-orgasmic
contentment. Pressing closer to the door, Severus wills the boy to lick
up his seed, longing to see Potter’s tongue lapping the mess from his
hand, eyes half-closed in languid satisfaction.
But Potter does not. After the initial lassitude has worn off he stands, tugging his bottoms up with one hand.
Severus
has only a moment to decide what to do as Potter turns to the dinning
room door. Fleeing seems logical, but would not afford him the
opportunity to humiliate Potter, or to smell the sweat and sex on him.
Humiliate, Severus realizes, is not right. The giddy desire that makes
him stand his ground is more an urge to play with Potter.
As Potter gets within steps of the doors, Severus pushes them open.
“Well,” he says. Potter makes a sound of surprise and moves his soiled hand behind his back. “Mr. Potter. Up to no good, I trust?”
“I was just going to bed.” Potter glares, as if that has ever deterred Severus.
“And
what is it that you have so clumsily hidden there?” He reaches for
Potter’s arm, not really aiming to grab so much as test the waters.
Potter steps back neatly, but color rises in his cheeks.
“None of your business.”
“Oh,
but I am making it my business.” Severus lunges then, seizing Potters
arm. Though Potter struggles, Severus is more adept at combat. Spinning
Potter around, he pins his back to Severus’ chest. He hauls Potter’s
soiled hand up by the wrist. Potter’s other arm he traps beneath his
own against the man’s abdomen.
“We’re not at school, you’ve no right--”
“A
shame,” Severus interrupts, “As I am sorely tempted to award points
after a show like that.” He smirks at the dark blush that stains
Potter’s cheeks. Bringing Potter’s hand closer, he sweeps out his
tongue to lick at the pearly come.
With an incoherent sound of
shock, Potter struggles again, but Severus is prepared and keeps him in
place. The movement is delicious, as Potter’s arse rubs against his
groin. Potter stills with the realization and then pushes his hips out
to keep their lower bodies from touching.
Severus licks at
Potter’s hand again, hums as if the bitter-salt taste of Potter is the
sweetest thing he has had against his tongue. “Who was it, I wonder,
that you imagined, driving their cock into your mouth so ruthlessly?”
He questions between licks.
“Not you.”
He smiles
against Potter’s palm. “No. But someone. Did you picture yourself on
your knees for him?” Sucking one long finger into his mouth he gives
Potter time to contemplate the image before speaking again. “Or perhaps
he had you on your back, prick driving down into your throat?”
Potter stares at him, eyes wide as a first-year’s, full of impossible things just made reality.
“You
taste divine,” Severus whispers, nuzzling into Potter’s hair. Nipping
at the shell of his ear he continues, “did you think of him fucking
you?”
He presses his arm against Potter’s, forcing the boy’s
body against his own. Through the layers of fabric he can feel Potter’s
cleft over his cock, the firm buttocks surrounding him. “I thought of
it, watching you writhe into your hand, how delicious you’d look
speared on my cock.”
“Stop,” Potter says, but Severus is barely holding his wrist now and he does not pull away.
Gently,
he begins to thrust against Potter. “Only you wouldn’t be so silent
with me in you. I’d have you screaming.” Severus kisses Potter’s
throat, and when he hears a soft gasp in response, takes the calculated
risk of letting go of Potter’s hand.
Freed, Potter’s arm falls
to his side and he reaches back to grasp Severus’ thigh. Skirting his
hand beneath the hem of Potter’s shirt, Severus trails his fingers over
skin defined by light muscle to pluck at one of Potter’s nipples.
“Stop.” The word is barely a breath this time.
“I’m not keeping you,” Severus replies, breathily mocking Potter’s tone.
Jerking
out of his arms, Potter spins to face him, eyes bright with outrage.
Severus cannot help the smirk that tugs at his lips, and is unsurprised
when Potter lashes out. He lets the slap fall, but not his expression
to change, even as the hot sting spreads across his skin. Perhaps it is
the lack of his wartime responsibilities, but Potter’s indignation
makes him want to laugh as it never has before. With a grand bow he
holds his arm out towards the door, inviting Potter to leave.
Potter
studies him. It’s almost as entertaining as baiting him, watching
Potter’s face go from anger, to uncertainty, to a steely determination.
Licking his lips, Potter reaches out, slowly fisting his hand into
Severus’ shirtfront. With a raised eyebrow, Severus lets himself be
pulled forward until their mouths are inches apart.
“Screaming, eh?”
Severus
smiles. He puts his hand to the back of Potter’s head, fingers curling
into the wayward hair, and tilts the boy’s head back. His lips press,
at last, to the apple of Potter’s throat, the stubble of his jaw
tickling and scratching against Severus’ skin.
It’s like
fighting. Potter pulls at Severus’ shirt, more tearing than
unbuttoning. Yanking Potter‘s top off, Severus runs his hands over the
fine chest revealed like a child with a Christmas present. Potter’s
hands are smaller than his own, but firm and sure in their movements.
They cup his cock through his trousers, rubbing with youthful
enthusiasm until Severus bats Potter’s hands away so that he can push
the oversized pajama bottoms from Potter’s hips. Briefly, Severus loses
himself in the way they bite and suck at each other. How long it has
been since he has been free not to contemplate every action, he cannot
fathom.
They stumble over to the couch, Potter working the
fastenings of Severus’ trousers with a manual dexterity he never
exhibited in class. Grabbing Potter’s pert buttocks in his hands,
Severus hauls Potter forward, unceremoniously pulling their bodies
together. He can feel Potter’s prick, dripping pre-come already,
against his stomach. Moaning, Potter grinds against him shamelessly.
“Kneel
on the couch,” Severus hisses into his ear. Potter complies, leaning
his arms on the back of the couch as he kneels. He looks back at
Severus coquettishly.
“Is this how you want me, professor?”
“Playing
the tart, are we?” He strips off his trousers, retrieving the healing
oil that should do in a pinch before tossing them aside. “Perhaps I
should take you on the carpet then,” he adds, leaning over Potter and
lazily stroking the arse presented so prettily before him. “Let the rug
burn your back and cheeks red as I pound you?”
“Why don’t we start with the pounding and see how red you can get my arse that way?”
“Cheeky,” Severus admonishes, smiling as Potter jerks away from his pinch.
He
pours the oil over his fingers, coating them thoroughly, and tosses the
small bottle onto the couch. Gently, he slides his finger down Potter’s
cleft and strokes against his hole.
“Oh--” Potter says, in breathless surprise.
Severus
teases him. He traces the tight circle of nerves, only occasionally
letting his fingertip breach the ring, until Potter nearly sobs in
frustration. His cock aches as he watches his finger slip, finally,
into tight heat. It feels almost surreal, to think that that same heat
will soon surround his cock.
Potter is pleading by the time
Severus is stretching him with two fingers, whispering a litany against
the back of the couch for now, and more. Severus looks
at him, at the gentle curve of his back, at the ridges of Potter’s
spine, visible beneath his skin, seeming such a fragile chain in the
firelight.
“Tell me you want this,” he says, leaning over to get his mouth close to Potter’s ear.
“I want it!”
“Again.”
Potter
turns his head to look at Severus in annoyance. A flash of clarity
lights his eyes. He blinks at Severus and breathes, “I want it.”
Severus
forgets to think after that. His world narrows down to the heat of
Potter’s body, to the slick glide of his prick, the sound of his balls
slapping forward obscenely. And Potter, moaning and writhing beneath
him, unencumbered by self-consciousness, absolutely shameless in his
pleasure, as Severus has never been. Severus slams into him, ever
faster, aware of his own panting breaths, the tightening in his groin.
Potter’s hands claw at the couch, and Severus is sure his own hands are
leaving bruises in Potter's golden skin; it’s barbaric, and glorious.
Potter
cries out, his own thrusting becoming suddenly arrhythmic, his body
tightening almost impossibly around Severus’ cock. Before Severus can
blink his own orgasm is ripped from him. He spills himself, pulling
Potter back onto him and grinding himself as deep as possible, pleasure
thrumming through him with every pulse. There is a great roaring in his
ears, and Severus realizes it is not only the pounding of his blood in
ecstasy, but a great bellow breaking free from his throat.
Spread
beside Potter in boneless lassitude, Severus begins to think again.
First, of the dining room doors, still open, and whether anyone else
might have been privy to their escapade. Then, to exactly what he
thought he was doing, despoiling the boy hero on the night of their
victory. Playing, indeed. This cannot possibly end well.
He
listens for minutes to the crackle of the fire in the grate, to
Potter’s breathing beside him, before gathering the courage to look
over. Potter’s eyes are closed. Resisting the insane urge to brush
aside the sweaty sweep of hair at Potter’s forehead, Severus moves to
rise.
“Don’t go.”
It’s not request. Looking over, Severus finds Potter watching him steadily. He sits back, opening his mouth to speak.
Potter
silences him by moving, sliding over to straddle Severus’ lap. Their
cocks brush, flaccid and sticky, but warmly pleasant.
As if he
might startle, Potter reaches up slowly to brush the hair from Severus’
eyes. Then he kisses Severus. They hadn’t done this, before, Severus
realizes as their tongues wind together. He thinks maybe Potter
intended it to be fierce and demanding, as their lips meet roughly. But
it gentles quickly, and Severus finds his hands coming up to cradle
Potter’s back, to hold him in place just a little longer.
“You were teasing me, earlier,” Potter says when they part.
“Playing,” Severus corrects.
“I don’t like games.”
He's never seen this expression of Potter's before, thoughtful and serious. It's disconcerting, but strangely pleasant.
“No more,” Severus promises. “We’re both a little old for them.”
“Good.” Potter gives a short, sharp nod and leans to kiss Severus again.
END.
