Unexpected 2, by Seeker. Rated NC17. Just borrowing, don't own them. Hopefully nobody who owns these characters will ever read it. I blame Alan Rickman for being so damned sexy.

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If one more person gawked at him, Snape had the sneaking suspicion he'd throw a hex. A nasty hex. Something permanently wielding jaws together, perhaps.

McGonagall kept blinking at him. Shaking her head, and blinking at him. Hooch kept licking her lips. Unnervingly, so did Flitwick. Dumbledore took one look at him and bellowed, "My dear boy!" bringing the entire surviving faculty's attention to his changed demeanor.

Potter smirked at him through it all.

Ignoring the loony lot of them as best he could, Snape held his head high and stomped through the no-longer-Forbidden Forest toward the school. It was in good shape, a few scorch marks and slimy streaks marring the stone walls but on the whole intact. The sixth year and graduating students were literally dancing on the grounds, adrenaline and relief making them giddier than usual. Percy Weasley, youngest faculty member if one didn't take into account Snape's sudden reversal of chronology, hugged a tree near the main entryway. When he saw Snape, he let go of the tree and fell flat on his arse. Shock could take a man that way.

"Master Snape! What happened to you?!" The question began with genuine surprise and transmuted into sexual arousal by the final syllables, a change that made Snape genuinely twitchy. Not that Percy was a bad sort, really, for a Weasley ...

Mentally slapping himself across the face, blaming Potter for his slide into salaciousness if only internally, Snape snarled at Weasley. It didn't have the usual effect. If anything, Percy's look of mild interest bloomed into full-bore lust. Not the standard reaction at all. Grumpily, Snape wondered if his snarl was now 'cute' as well.

Yet another mental readjustment to blame on Potter.

Escaping Weasley by ducking down the back steps and uttering a password only he and Dumbledore knew, Snape burrowed far into the dank lower passages of the school until he made it to the sanctuary of his rooms. He was in no mood for company, convivial as it no doubt would attempt to be. It wasn't every day the ultimate evil was overcome, after all. But he wasn't up for more slack jaws, more lustful glances, or the failure of any of the other tried and true weapons in his professorial armory. After all, in the space of twenty minutes both his glare and his snarl had evoked, not squelched, naughty thoughts. He had some re-evaluating to do before he could face his fellow faculty again.

Not to mention his students.

With a shudder, he ran a bath and slowly sank below the surface of the steaming water. It felt good, easing the aches of the day, both from battle and the unaccustomed strain of sexual intercourse. He scrubbed and scrubbed, emptied the tub and filled it up twice, washing away the memories of the day from his skin, if not from the nerves still singing beneath the skin. Dipping his head, he blew bubbles into the water above him, until he had to surface for breath. The hot water felt wonderful streaming from his scalp down over his chest and back. Finally, finally he could relax.

Blinking droplets from his lashes, he glanced lazily about the room, then nearly levitated from shocked disapproval. The frisson of arousal lurking below his official reaction was something he refused to admit. Harry Potter sat, sprawled more like, on the toilet, one foot pulled up to rest on the lid, his chin propped on his knee. He stared at Snape, half-reclined, half-recoiled in the bath. He was smiling.

Snape tried to expostulate. Tried to call upon his famous sarcastic wit and shrivel the impertinent bastard with a few pithy, well-chosen words. What actually came out of his mouth sounded closer to "Awck!"

"You should get wet and naked more often, Snape," Potter told him seriously. "It's a very good look for you."

The half-recoil closed more tightly, until Snape was in an utterly unrelaxed ball of stressed bone and muscle huddled against the far edge of the bath. He tried glaring at Potter, a little more wildly than was his norm. Potter looked intrigued, not intimidated.

Damn. It wasn't working.

After gulping several times, actions which trained Potter's attention on Snape's neck and did nothing to calm either of them, Snape was finally able to speak. "How the bloody hell did you get in here?" It came out an enraged squawk. Potter shifted forward on his perch, smiling at Snape with an innocence that bordered on evil.

"Headmaster sent me down to make sure you were all right," he informed Snape silkily.

Snape's eyes snapped shut, then flew open, pinning Potter in place. Betrayed, by Albus, at the last. And betrayed to Potter, at that. "Leave," he commanded stiffly.

Potter shrugged one shoulder. His robe slipped, baring one rounded shoulder in a torn red jumper. Snape gulped again, finding his mouth inexplicably dry. "I'm not certain you *are* all right. After all, it has been a trying day, and you've been through so much ..."

Such caring words had never been uttered in such a caressing voice, at least not to Severus Snape. He had no idea how to respond. Potter even managed to lose the smirk, appearing completely sincere in his concern for Snape's welfare.

"Have you been playing with forbidden magicks again, Potter?" That earned him a startled look. "Or are you perhaps possessed? I told you to leave, and I mean you to LEAVE!" Snape's voice gradually grew louder until by the end of the sentence he was roaring.

Potter smiled at him. Snape attempted to glare. The smile turned sultry. Snape gulped again. Potter handed him a towel.

A hand towel.

Snape glared again, and Potter also handed over a robe. Snape waited for Potter to turn his back so he could maintain some modesty removing himself from bath. Potter continued to stare at him.

The bath water got colder.

Snape gnashed his teeth. "Turn around!" he finally ordered. Potter gave him his trademark expression of innocent inquiry.

"Why? It's not like I haven't seen it before."

It was amazing how close to "Awck!" the phrase "Piss off and die!" sounded when forced through clenched jaws. Determined not to let the little bugger get the better of him, Snape defiantly stood up and reached for the robe.

Potter dropped it. Snape opened his mouth to rage some more when the glazed look in Potter's eyes decided him against it. The boy was in no state to hear anything Snape had to say. He was too busy being mesmerized by rivulets of water as they disappeared into Snape's chest hair and down along his torso. Snape sighed.

Bent over to pick up the robe.

Potter made a sound quite like "Awck!" himself.

Snape wrapped his robe defensively around his body, tightened the sash with a yank, and stormed out into his study. Standing at his desk, he stared at the scrolls, assorted roots in various stages of preparation, and jumble of essays, the grading of which had been postponed due to Voldemort's version of the Apocalypse. He supposed he could get to work on those. Perhaps when he got no further reaction from Snape Potter would grow bored and leave.

It had been a long time since Severus Snape put any credence in Hope. She betrayed him as thoroughly as Dumbledore.

As he reached out toward the first essay, a long, muscular arm moved past his, stroking across the surface of the desk and sweeping everything onto the floor. "What the --" Snape began to demand in an outraged tone. Midway through the words he found himself face-first, bent over the desk, with the trailing tail of his robe tossed up over his shoulders.

The cold chill of air across his bare arse barely registered before it was replaced with warm hands. With wicked, brazen fingers. Whatever the rest of his words might have been became abruptly moot as the only sound his tongue was capable of making was "God!" His hands scrabbled at the surface of the desk, fingers finally wrapping around the edges of the top as he went up on his toes from the intrusion of a wet, questing tongue where the fingers had previously explored. At which point "God!" became "Yes!" and there wasn't a bloody thing he could do about it. His mouth had a mind of its own.

So did his body, and Potter was making it sing. No one, but no one at all, had ever kissed that particular portion of Snape's body, and Potter was going at it like a starving man at a banquet. Snape shuddered as the tongue ranged around and inside him, then up between thighs that spread of their own accord, slut that it made him, to testicles pressing tightly against the edge of the desk as if to escape the bathing they knew was coming. Nibbling and sucking and nipping, the last causing a moan Snape found positively embarrassing to emanate from his own chest, then back down again.

It wasn't merely the hands pinching and roaming his thighs, nor the tongue, as well-traveled as it became, that unnerved Snape. It was the prickle of beard-burn warming his skin, the way his balls tried to crawl up into his body and Potter tugged them back down again, the sheer need left unattended in his prick, now leaking across the top of the desk and smearing against his belly where it was trapped. Words fell from his lips and he thought they must be gibberish, but Potter responded to something he said.

Or perhaps he simply read it in Snape's body.

However he got the idea, it was a splendid one. Reaching up with one hand he slipped it against Snape's belly, pulling his prick back and down, shoving his balls roughly out of the way to tug the leaking erection until it bent back far enough for Potter to suck the end of it into his mouth. The unnatural angle hurt, and the strong sucking on the tip of his prick felt incredibly good, and the combination of both sensations melted what was left of his brain. He found himself humping backward, and Potter met the movement with his fingers, sliding back into his arse and working away at it.

The pressure against his balls kept Snape from coming, as the suction on his prick and the busy fingers working up his fundament demanded. "Yes!" eventually became "Please!" and there wasn't a blasted thing he could do about it, but it worked. Potter reared up, wrapped one hand around Snape's hip and yanked him up just far enough to relieve the pressure on his balls, then dove back down and sucked the still-down-bent prick as hard as he could. Snape couldn't be certain, because his head felt as if it exploded, but he didn't believe he had ever come so hard and so long. Even the tryst in the Forest wasn't that intense.

Sprawling bonelessly across the desk, the hard surface as homely and comforting as a feather bed, Snape made no protest as Potter steadied himself between Snape's still wide-spread thighs and pushed himself home. Snape grunted as he was shoved forward by Potter's weight, the edge of the desk cutting into his half-hard, extremely sensitive prick, then gasped as Potter withdrew equally as abruptly. The cycle continued, the pleasure of the thickness impaling him coupled with the lance of agony at his groin, then the absence of both, then filled and caught again, until he could do more than moan into the wood below his face and try uselessly to catch his breath.

He felt fluid dripping down his inner thigh, as his prick slapped against the front of the desk and rebounded against his leg, captured as it was by the proximity of his balls and the unrelenting pressure of Potter fucking him. Snape hadn't had many hard rides in his life, but even if he had, this surely would have ranked at the top. By the time Potter finally gave in and sped up, slamming him into the desk nearly hard enough to shatter both Snape and the furniture, Snape was nothing more than the delicious ache in his prick and the equally delicious fullness up his arse.

Then Potter crashed into him as far as he could go, and Snape couldn't contain the scream as his prick was pinched cruelly against the edge of the desk. His muscles contracted helplessly in response, and Potter groaned against his neck, humping against him as he climaxed. More fluid splashed down, leaking out, covering Snape's cockhead, and he arched, clearing enough space for what little remained in his balls to spurt out.

It felt like forever before Potter gathered his composure enough to pull out and lean back, giving Snape necessary room to breathe. Curious fingers ringed and tugged his prick, pulling and twisting the foreskin, pinching the tip, and he groaned as the incredibly sensitive flesh was tormented.

"Does that hurt?" Potter whispered above him. Snape nodded. "Do you want me to stop?" Snape shook his head, a decided negative. Potter laughed softly and suddenly tightened his grip. Snape's entire body shuddered. "God, you're sexy," Potter muttered, fingers milking hard now, and if it had been humanly possible Snape would have come again. As it was, his body reacted as if he had, and he humped Potter's hand and writhed against him as best he could.

Potter took that as encouragement and brought his face back down to Snape's arse, licking at the fluids spilled there, snapping at the tender flesh between his thighs and biting his balls, making the contractions there even fiercer. When the skin was clean, wet and red, he scraped the tiny bristles of his beard shadow all over the area, concentrating on the stretched arsehole, until a fresh rash stretched from Snape's tailbone over his testicles. Snape was too busy panting, "Fuck, yes! Harry!", not knowing when "God" had become "Harry", to make any complaint. Not that he would have if he could.

It felt too bloody incredible to protest.

When he finally couldn't move at all, completely wrung out, muscles limp as boiled noodles, Potter took pity, or perhaps got bored when Snape wasn't able to give him any further reaction. Bundling Snape up in his robe, he helped him to his feet, then half-dragged, half-carried him over to his bed. Dumping him on his side, Potter tugged until he freed the duvet and tucked it around Snape's nearly insensate body.

"Sleep well, Master mine," he murmured, then kissed Snape, biting his lips the way he'd bitten other parts, leaving Snape's mouth as wet and red as his arse had been. Snape barely felt it, being so close to unconscious as would make no difference.

When he woke, it was morning. He'd slept the night through, and felt the better for it. Rolling out of bed, he flinched and moaned involuntarily. His arse felt as if it had been reamed out by a wizard's staff, and in truth, it had been. As he pulled himself from bed and walked gingerly over to pull on his clothes, he spread his thighs and gently stroked the burning skin between them. His balls felt swollen, his prick extremely tender, his arse, utterly pulverized. Wrapping his hand around his prick, he squeezed hard. His breath caught in his throat and he whimpered, feeling light-headed. Dropping the reddened flesh, he stared down at the marks Potter had left on his body for a very long time before finally dressing and heading out to join the rest of the population of Hogwarts.

He smiled the entire day, ignoring everyone who commented on it. The day was interminable, filled with speeches to which he refused to contribute and merriment he preferred to observe rather than join. Throughout, he sat with his legs spread beneath his robes, closing them occasionally and flexing his thighs in order to feel the skin burn, fighting the urge to squirm and rub the beard-rash branding his flesh. Every time he did, he glanced over at Potter, sitting at the head table as befitted a hero. Each time he looked, Potter looked back. The expression in the bright green eyes was easy to read. It was a threat.

And a promise.

END