Courting Disaster. Chapter 14.

[pekeleke]

Title: Courting Disaster. 14.

Rating : NC-17.

Author: pekeleke

Word Count: 3853

Warnings: None.

Disclaimer: Don't own these characters. No money is being made out of this work.

Summary: For once in his life Harry Potter has a plan. A carefully plotted plan to help him conquer the heart of an extremely reluctant Severus Snape, only... conquering a suspicious ex-spy isn't for the fainthearted and soon Harry finds himself -quite literally- courting disaster.

Courting Disaster.

  

Potter is strutting around shirtless, showing off his maddeningly glorious physique with the sort of shamelessness that Severus finds both deeply uncomfortable and absolutely enthralling in equal measure.  He can't help the gasp that escapes his lips at the sight of all that masculine perfection and the seeker turns towards him as soon as he hears him, looking directly into his eyes while his right hand swiftly removes the loudly whistling kettle from the muggle stove.
“I'll have your tea ready in a tick, my prince.  You don't have to wait for it here, unless you need something else.”

The comment flusters him to no end and his mind begins to scream at him to back away as fast as his legs can take him, to return to the safety of the dining room before he allows his dark gaze to rake that exposed chest once more.  He needs to retreat before he opens his mouth and says something truly foolish.  Before Potter manages to find a way to make him feel even more ridiculous and out of place.  Even more aroused.

“Severus?”

He jumps as the other man whispers his name with obvious puzzlement.  Tanned fingers set the kettle on the polished surface of the huge island that stands in the middle of the kitchen before curling around the marble's edge until the knuckles are white from the effort of supporting their owner's weight as he leans slightly forwards, arms straining to contain the barely restrained energy that imbues every single line of muscle Severus can see.

Harry's posture turns the relaxed fluidity of his gorgeous frame into the chiseled rigidity of a jungle cat frozen in the act of preparing to jump, and Severus is suddenly very aware of the fact that he's alone with this man.  Alone with a hunk who, not only has spelled out his desire for him in multiple occasions, but had also been joking about taking him right in the middle of Hogsmeade's main thoroughfare just last night.

“Are you alright, my love?  You look rattled.”

Severus shivers as the seeker's voice becomes uncharacteristically rough, caressing his agitated senses like the coarse but beguiling touch of a calloused fingertip.
“I—Yes.  Of course I'm alright.  I was just...”

“Lying to me.  To yourself.  To both of us.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do I really scare you so much that you feel compelled to imply you've come into the kitchen looking for tea?  I've told you this a million times already, Severus.  I won't pounce unless you want me to, so you'll have to make your wishes in that direction clear.”

Severus swallows nervously and the wild rush of his blood slows down to a snail-paced meandering inside his veins.  His breathing hitches as he watches Harry push himself ever so slightly forwards against the surface of the island's counter-top, holding so tightly onto the cold marble that Severus becomes convinced that the strained contact is the only thing keeping the Gryffindor firmly pinned to his own side of the kitchen. The only thing restraining his companion from leaping over the relatively flimsy barrier of polished wood and gleaming stone that stands between them to ravish him where he stands.

For the first time in his life the very idea that someone feels passionate enough towards him to actually desire him with such blatant physicality doesn't sound like the most ridiculous fabrication on Earth.  The thought neither humiliates nor terrifies him into his usual denial.  He is not ashamed of his positive reaction to his companion's obvious desire.  He is responsive, engaged and genuinely tempted, so he opens his mouth and allows the first thing that crosses his mind to get past his lips, unbidden:
“I was just admiring the view.”

He cringes as soon as the words are out and he realizes what he said, becoming fully aware of exactly how much he has confessed.  Of how foolishly he's left himself open to the scorn of a man who can't possibly desire him as much as his attitude implies.

Harry doesn't laugh at him, though.  He neither smirks with malicious triumph nor explains in excruciatingly painful detail just how short Severus falls from his ideal of physical perfection.  The seeker flashes him a seductive smile instead, and literally purrs a thoroughly unexpected complaint:
“That's rather unfair.   I'd love to see you without your shirt too.  A little reciprocation will take you a long way with me, Severus.”

Severus recoils, feeling utterly dismayed.  Ebony-black eyes lower towards his own scrawny chest while an instinctively protective hand raises to guard the long line of buttons that keep his prim robes fastened.
“It wouldn't be the same.  I'm not like you, Harry.  And you've already seen everything there is to see.”  He stammers those three half-witted sentences with embarrassed mortification before his mind finally orders him to stop talking, lest he humiliates himself further by attempting to describe his own shortcomings.

“Yes.  I've seen all of you, Severus.  I've seen you fully armored and I've also seen you totally disarmed.  I've seen you strong and I've seen you weak.  I've seen you dressed and also undressed.  I've been given the great honor of having you rest in the cradle of my arms while you were bare and gloriously exposed.”  Harry's quiet answer bridges the mental distance he's so busy trying to build between them, shattering the fragile shield he hasn't yet had enough time to reinforce before it's properly formed and he lashes out:
“Then you know I'm not some goddamned Adonis with a rippling six pack and a year-round tan.”

The Gryffindor looks at him intently, studying him with the quiet thoughtfulness of a man who's determined to unravel him one layer at a time:
“Do you have to be?”

Severus snorts huffily, absolutely miffed at Harry's attempt to play clueless when it comes to this issue.  He pinches the bridge of his nose impatiently before glaring at the seeker with all the venom of a man who's being forced against his will to spell out precisely how hopelessly ugly he knows himself to be.
“Well—you are.  I'd have thought you'd want a lover you can look at without having the awful sight traumatize your myopic eyes, Potter.”

To his credit Harry doesn't even flinch at his abrasive tone.  He straightens himself slowly and proceeds to come around the kitchen island, approaching him with the kind of careful watchfulness that keeps Severus pinned to the spot.  He's unable to retreat towards the sitting room.  Unable to do anything but remain exactly where he is, waiting for the prowling lion before him to finally reach him.  To circle him slowly and do with him what he will.
“I've never particularly cared for fatuous Lockhart lookalikes, Severus.  And, just for your information, the sight of you doesn't hurt my myopic eyes.  It soothes them with the loveliness that embodies the elegant creature I love.”

Severus' heart begins to pound while his breathing halts altogether and his eyes widen with the unnerved fragility of a man who desperately wants to believe every word he hears.
“Love can not survive without desire and I have never been able to inspire that particular emotion in anyone.”

“Yes, you have.  You are inspiring it right now.  I'm dying to posses you in the most physical way you can imagine.  I'm desperate to peel those clothes off you and touch your scarred skin until you carry the imprint of my fingertips on every single inch of your body.  I'm yearning to kiss you passionately.  Taste your unique flavor on my tongue and drink from it until I've forgotten the taste of everything else.  I could devour you inch by inch, Severus.  I could savor you like the most decadent wine, become drunk on the flavor of your skin, your lips, your hair and that lovely long neck of yours.”

Severus shivers as Harry's fierce eyes rake his ugly and reedy body with barely contained hunger.  A deep sense of flustered exhilaration floods his senses when the Gryffindor walks around the kitchen counter to place a brazen right hand over the row of fussily closed buttons that fasten his dark robes.
“Will you let me show you how much I desire you, my love?  Will you let me unleash my hunger upon you?  Will you trust me to keep you safe, to sate all your needs, to love you like I've loved you once before?”

Severus' senses reel as he struggles against the temptation to surrender himself to this man who claims to crave him.  He feels recklessly confident, beautiful and sexy for the first time in his memory.  He's responding with uncharacteristic abandon to the unfamiliar experience of knowing himself so openly desired and feels inexplicably drunk on this man's words, hopelessly snared like a wild doe in the inescapable trap of a relentless hunter.  He tilts his head backwards in unvoiced surrender, offering his pale neck to the lips that are so close to his skin that he can literally feel every warm puff of body-warmed air his companion exhales settling over his tingling nerve endings at rhythmical intervals.

“Blessed Circe... You're actually going to let me have you, aren't you, my Prince?  You're going to give yourself to me, just like you did the last time.” Potter's voice sounds rough and breathless, aroused beyond the restraint of polished civility.  An open-mouthed kiss lands on the pulse-point that beats madly just above the dark hem of Severus' starched collar and the sheer heat fueling that small, reverent contact makes him gasp out loud and close his eyes with trusting abandon.

“You liked that, didn't you?  You like the feel of my lips upon you.  You're going to love having my mouth all over your body.  You.  Are.  Going.  To.  Let.  Me.  Eat.  You.  Alive, Severus.”  Harry growls softly, coming up on his tiptoes to whisper the words directly in his ear before ending his statement with a playful bite to Severus' earlobe, driving him literally mad with pent-up lust.  The Slytherin groans, growing increasingly distressed with unfulfilled desire and turns his head towards the side in a move that leaves his neck exposed even further to the hunger of Harry's wicked lips.

“You want me.  You.  Want.  This.  And I'm going to make you mine, my prince.”

Severus closes his eyes in a vain attempt to remain in control of his unraveling senses, but that's a battle he's definitely losing for the first time in his life.  He's utterly lost and he knows it.  He's never been so turned on in his life, and the scrape of his companion's teeth against the skin of his neck is obliterating whatever is left of his sanity one open-mouthed kiss at a time.

“Pott—Harry, please...”  His own voice sounds odd to his ears and he flinches slightly away, opening dark eyes to stare directly into a bright sea of scorching emerald fire.

“It's alright, my love, it's alright.  I've got you, Severus.  I've.  Got.  You.” Potter shushes him, carding calloused fingertips through the tangled locks of his long hair in a timeless gesture of comfort that coaxes Severus into relaxing under the simple touch, making him feel safe and secure. Loved beyond his wildest dreams. 

A moment later the Gryffindor claims his lips with such sweet kiss that Severus feels it touch the deepest core of him.  It instantly warms him from the outside in, sending wave upon wave of fierce desire through his every vein and sinew.  Through each and every one of his brain-cells. Throughout the entirety of his body and mind and soul.

His lips soften and open under Harry's loving assault.  Unfurling, like the tightly closed petals of a delicate bloom, in silent invitation for Harry's curious tongue to delve in deeper and the seeker doesn't hesitate in taking advantage of the opportunity to explore every inch of his mouth like an overzealous cartographer.

“Severus.  Oh, Merlin!  Severus...” Potter's hands are suddenly pulling at his buttons.  Frantic fingertips wrestle with the small fastenings that keep his robes closed as the brat attempts to open them with the kind of bewildering desperation that no one else has ever displayed when divesting him before.  Severus' heavy-lidded black eyes stare incredulously at the Gryffindor's intently focused expression, marveling at the amount of sheer lust that is plastered all over Harry's young and attractive face.

"I desire you totally, Severus Snape.  I crave your slender body, your razor sharp mind and your loyal, courageous soul with a ravenous hunger that would have frightened regular blokes. I thank Merlin every day for the fact that you're the bravest man I know."“

“Harry...”

"It's true, my love. Sometimes I feel I can not breathe unless I see you.” Harry rasps roughly as his hands finally make contact with the pale skin at the hollow of Severus' neck and the Slytherin frowns with the unpleasantly unwelcome sense of Deja-Vu.  He's about to protest when he finally realizes that he's heard those words before.  He remembers very clearly how much they unnerved him as he stood in this same kitchen, listening intently to them while the most terrible feeling of absolute panic washed over him.

“I'm not ready for this.  I'm not ready for whatever it is that you really want from me.  I can't give you...” He starts whispering frantically and then takes a jerky step backwards, stumbling blindly away as soon as he realizes that he's said those words before.  He's said them in this very context. He remembers with crystal clear recall the sight of Potter's eyes widening in shocked dismay as they watched him shake from head to toes, falling victim to his own growing terror like a small child caught in a nightmare.

Potter grabs him unceremoniously by the shoulders, anchoring him firmly in place with a grip so gentle that it's threatening to break him:
“Ssshhh, Severus, ssshhh.  Listen to me, please.  There's no reason to panic.  I really love you, I swear.  I want you in every platonic way there is and I need you like this, too.  I will never, ever, hurt you.”

Severus wakes with a start, sitting bolt upright in his bed and feeling utterly disoriented.  His dark eyes rake the deserted corners of his shadowy bedroom, seeking the companion he's beginning to realize was never really beside him.  He feels frighteningly breathless and slightly lightheaded.  His heart is pounding a mile a minute and his bed sheets are tangled around his weak-as-jelly legs, sticking unpleasantly to his come-splattered pajamas in a way that finally draws his attention to the fact that he has had his first wet dream in decades.  A dream featuring a thoroughly passionate version of Harry Potter.  A dream that has left him shaken.

His trembling right hand burrows under the crumpled pillow, curling tightly around his wand only a second before he vanishes the cooling mess in his lap with a jerkily pronounced Scourgify.
“I can't believe I just came all over myself like a randy teenager.”  He thinks, feeling utterly mortified.

The conversation they had outside of Hogsmeade the night before must have flustered him more than he'd imagined.  He'd been aware of his own discomfort at the time. He'd realized he was panicking as soon as he noticed that the Gryffindor was trying to grab in the middle of the road, but once he'd allowed Harry's arms to close around him, he'd felt so safe and cared for that he hadn't found the strength to shy away from the loving contact.

The rest of their date had been slightly stilted, despite their mutual efforts to appear untouched by the heaviness of the confessions they'd shared, and Severus had been ultimately unable to withstand both the weight of his companion's understanding gaze and the overwhelming warmth of the hand the brat had wrapped around his own, so he'd ended up cutting their evening short about an hour after they'd exited Rosmerta's with a mumbled excuse that he's pretty sure Harry had been able to see through.

“There's no reason for you to freak out about this so much, Severus.  Sharing your innermost thoughts and fears with someone who's willing to adore you doesn't make you weaker.  Love isn't always a threat. It's not something you should either be ashamed of desiring, or worried about acknowledging.  Lust in itself is all well and good, but it can never give you the sort of emotional support that you need most in your life.  No man is an island, my prince, and you've been forced to live as if you are one for far too long.”  Those had been Harry's parting words to him and they'd kept circling his mind heavily for the rest of the evening.

He'd been too unsettled to read.  Too distracted to attempt brewing.  Too anxious to focus on anything that wasn't the dawning realization that Harry Potter wanted him in a way that no one else had ever wanted him before.  He'd gone to bed feeling still wide awake, head filled to burst with images from their increasingly emotionally involved dates, and must have fallen asleep almost without noticing.

Now he's having trouble coming to terms with the rather disturbing fact that his agitated mind ended up dreaming a steamy encounter worthy of one of those trashy romantic novels that he'd grown tired of confiscating while he'd been a teacher.

He has vague recollections of their drunken one-night-stand, but nothing in his hazy memories can compete with the scorching hot made-up scene that is still blazing across his mind's eye in heart-pounding technicolor.  He'd felt so desired, so utterly wanted in his dream that he can hardly give credit to the vulnerable neediness he allowed himself to display while in its throes. 

His mind had created the perfect of scenario in order to allow him not only to feel safe with the idea of surrendering himself completely to Harry's all-consuming hunger, but also to experience nothing but sheer pleasure as he'd accepted the man's kisses and passionate touch, as he drank in each and every one of his raw-toned avowals of desire.

He shivers suddenly in the eerie quiet of his bedroom, feeling so alone that his mind cringes at the realization that he'd gladly exchange his lonely reality for the bright glow of a dreamed up world that has never been real.  He is inexplicably certain that the Potter of his dreams would come running to comfort him if he ever gathered the courage to call him right now.  The Potter of his dreams would be happy to hold him through the night and whisper sweet nonsense in his ear until his eyes drop closed and he falls back into sleep.

“You know that the real Potter would do the same, don't you, Severus?  He's already done it, in fact. Isn't that what you remember the most from the night you shared with him?  You recall the warmth of his embrace and the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat as he cradled you in his arms with a clarity that unnerves you.  You remember the masculine rumble of his sleep-roughened voice murmuring constantly in your ear, soothing your unvoiced insecurities while he offered you his love without any restraint.”  His treacherous mind reminds him as he flops back against his pillows, feeling way too tired and cranky to control his whirling thoughts.

“I was drunk.  I thought he was drunk, too.  I never even imagined he could desire me so much while he's stone-cold sober.”  He whispers out loud rebelliously and cringes inwardly at his mind's scornful snort.

“How many times has he told you that he loves you?  It's ridiculous to imagine that he could love you only in a platonic way.  He's a Gryffindor, for Merlin's sake!, those bloody lions are as touchy-freely as they come.  They don't have cold, asexual, little minds like yours, Severus.”

“I am not asexual.”

“Of course you are, you frigid bastard.  Although something must have changed in the last few hours or you'd have never dreamed what you did.  That sort of thing may sound tame to everybody else, but it was practically pornographic for prudish little old you.  You've come out of the deep freeze, Severus.  You.  Think.  The.  Savior.  Is.  Hot, don't you?”

“Shut up.  Shut. Up.  SHUT UP!” Severus screeches into the suffocating silence, bringing trembling pale hands up to cover his own ears in a gesture that brims with utter desperation.  His loud words echo around the walls for a full minute, bouncing maddeningly inside his head and settling back into his mind like harmful little thorns that he doesn't have a hope in hell to vanish.

He sits ramrod straight in the middle of his bed, blinking anxiously into empty escape and feels so utterly cold, so goddamned alone after the warm adoration he'd experienced inside that ridiculously sappy dream that he can't stand the solitude that surrounds him.  It threatens to suffocate him, crush him under a weight he can't shake off.  His slender frame begins to shake in the coldness of the room as his heavy blankets form a soft woolen pool around his narrow hips, leaving his pajama-clad body exposed to the unrelenting chill of the early February morning.

In a fit of sheer neediness he Accio's his favorite vest out of the closet.  Snatching the dark cloth out of the air as soon as it comes close enough and holding desperately onto it.  Deeply troubled black eyes settle over the iridescent silver designs that keep shifting magically along the narrow lapel just before he lifts the vest to his chest and presses it against his heart in a thoroughly childlike gesture that he's glad no one can see.

The magic of the runes that soak each individual thread flares up on contact, imbuing his shaking fingertips with the warmth of a paternal embrace, exactly as they've been so lovingly spelled to do by the bright and crazy wizard who had cared enough for him to love him like a son.  He holds onto the vest even more tightly, feeling frightened beyond reason by the nature of his dream, by the aching sense of loneliness it left behind, and can't help his need to voice his misgivings out loud, bringing them into a wobbly and whispered life that breaks the heavy silence:

“I don't know what I'm doing.  I feel so strange...  It's like I'm out of sync with myself, with my own thoughts and desires.  I'm beginning to change, becoming a different man altogether.  And I'm not sure if that is for the better or not.  Harry is so forceful, so certain about us that I feel like a flimsy balloon being swept into a wild ride by a human-shaped hurricane.  I'm disoriented and... lost.  I wish so hard you were here, Albus.  I'd love to know what you'd have made of all this madness, what wise advice you would have given me.  I've never been the best at dealing with emotions and I... I've never needed you more.”

 

TBC.

( Chapter 13. )

( Chapter 15 )