Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6830233.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Severus_Snape
  Character:
      Severus_Snape, Harry_Potter
  Additional Tags:
      Shower_Sex, Teacher-Student_Relationship, snarry-a-thon16, Voyeurism,
      Wall_Sex, Blow_Jobs, Anal_Sex, Romance
  Collections:
      Snarry-a-Thon16
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-05-17 Words: 4427
****** Scattered Showers ******
by accioslash
Summary
     Harry accidentally walks in on Snape masturbating in the showers and
     decides he wants to repeat the experience. He gets more than he
     bargained for.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
If he was honest with himself (a situation he avoided, knowingly, at all
costs), Harry would have said his relationship with Snape bordered on
obsession, even before Slughorn unwittingly gave him that copy of the Half-
blood Prince's Potions text. And that obsession only became stronger after
viewing Snape's memories. There is just something he finds appealing about the
other man despite his foul, disagreeable temper and his vicious tongue.
Harry isn’t a cruel person by nature; he doesn’t believe he has the right to
point out someone’s shortcomings or be a complete bastard on general principle.
He's just not wired that way. But watching Snape cut someone down to size, be
they student or Ministry official, is liberating in a way Harry can't explain.
And not being mean-spirited doesn't mean he can't enjoy it vicariously through
Snape, at least a little. Sometimes. He doesn't feel nearly as guilty about
this as he thinks he ought. There has always been something between them. And
now, every time he sees the man, Harry finds himself wanting to know more.
He's exhausted and filthy and has worked long after the others had quit for the
day. And that's when it happens. He pushes the shower room door open and there
is Snape, standing in the shower with his back to Harry, one arm braced against
the tile and the other mostly hidden by his body. The shower curtain's flimsy
and translucent and Harry can see enough to know that Snape's arm is moving
rhythmically and God, he shouldn't be just standing here watching this. Snape
isn't just one of his dorm mates having a quick wank in the showers. What he
should do is turn around and let himself back out of the changing room, go to
Gryffindor tower to shower and change, then head to the Great Hall for dinner.
So that by the time Snape's done, Harry will have had enough time to forget he
ever saw anything.
Only it's Snape – Snape who's fucking his own hand and when a little moan
escapes him it's all Harry can do to stop himself from stripping off his
clothes and joining Snape in the shower. But he doesn't, because he has no idea
if Snape wants him to. For all he knows Snape could be thinking about some
woman right now – hell, maybe even Harry's mother. And perhaps he's suffered a
blow to the head or heatstroke, but forget wondering if Snape wants him to,
Harry doesn't even know if he really wants to. After all, he isn't gay. Not
that he's had much time to think about it, but he doesn't think so.
Sometimes Harry fantasizes about Snape, slides cool fingers experimentally over
his stomach, teasing and light. He usually tries not to, stops it before it
starts and moves onto someone safer – Ginny, usually, not that she turned out
to be all that safe as she suggested (kindly but still adamant) that perhaps it
would be best if they gave each other some space since so much had changed over
the past year – but there are times late at night when he can't sleep and he's
keyed up, and sometimes he can't help indulging himself. It always makes him
blush and scrub his skin extra hard in the shower the next morning, but at the
time it always feels good. Better than good – better than any fantasy about
Ginny or anyone else, for that matter – and that's the whole problem. Because
he knows if he lets himself want it he'll eventually do something stupid.
Something like watching his former professor have one off in the Quidditch
showers.
Forget not knowing if he likes men, he doesn't even know if Snape likes men, if
he's ever thought about it. Or if he's too uptight even to let his mind wander
down that path. But Snape doesn't look all that uptight right now, back arched
and hips thrusting forward with a force Harry wouldn't have believed if he
wasn't seeing it with his own eyes. And he really should just turn around, walk
out and try to forget this ever happened, because if Snape turns around and
catches him watching that will be the end of any amity they've developed over
the past few months.
He doesn't want to go back to the mix of frosty silences and heated vitriol
that defined his student years, but he can't bring himself to walk away,
either. Not when Snape looks so ... open, legs spread and arm twitching with
the effort of holding himself up. His shoulders are tense, neck arched and
Harry imagines running his tongue along that expanse of pale skin, biting down
just to hear Snape gasp. He wants to push Snape's hand away from his cock – his
cock that Harry still hasn't seen but can easily imagine – and replace it with
his own, perhaps even with his mouth as he drops to his knees on the shower
floor as he's seen a time or two between other boys in the Gryffindor showers.
He wants to be the one making Snape moan, making him arch hard against the
tiles. He wants to tease until Snape's begging him to let him come, moaning his
name and flexing his fingers in Harry's hair. If he's being honest, he's wanted
to feel that body moving under him – on top of him, in him – for years, first
as the faceless Half-blood Prince, then later as Snape once he knew, but now,
now he's never going to be able to think about anything else. Not now that he's
seen Snape like this, obscured by the shower curtain but still every inch
Snape, right down to the way he fights each desperate sound that escapes his
scarred throat.
Harry's own cock is painfully hard, pressing against the zip of his jeans, and
he wonders what it was about today that had Snape so worked up that he couldn't
wait until he was alone in bed to wank. Not that he's complaining, because
Snape's breathing hard and moving even faster, and if this is as close as he
ever gets to sex with Snape he'll take it. And he's not going to think about
what that says about him, about how pathetic Snape would find him, standing
here frozen watching his shoulders flex as Snape brings himself closer to the
edge, especially when Harry has no idea who Snape's thinking about.
If this was a Muggle movie, this would be the moment when Snape said his name,
moaned it low in his throat – a breathless, needy Harry like he does in all
Harry's best fantasies. But it's not, and Snape hasn't said anything, not even
anything as coherent as a murmured 'fuck'.
Harry's not surprised that Snape's not a talker. After all, Snape came up in
the dorms, too, where a Silencing spell was every bit as damning as a shout in
telegraphing what a boy was up to behind his closed bed curtains. But, too,
he's never really struck Harry as the type, no matter how much the Snape in his
fantasies begs and demands and murmurs Harry's name over and over like he can't
get enough. Because that's the Snape in his imagination, the one who can be
exactly what Harry needs when he needs it. The Snape in front of him right now
– this is the real thing, edgy and tense and so damn controlled that even when
he comes the only sound that escapes him is a low, broken moan.
A few seconds later Snape's moving, eyes still closed as he turns into the
shower spray and Harry knows he's about to get caught. And there's a part of
him that wants to get caught, a masochistic part of him that wants to stand
right here until Snape turns and sees that he's not alone. But the part of
Harry that values their fragile, tentative relationship is only just slightly
stronger, and before he realizes he's moving, the shower room door closes
silently behind him and he's halfway across the castle.
He's out of the room before he can change his mind, door pulled shut tight,
shower and dinner forgotten in his haste to get back to Gryffindor tower. He's
pulling his zipper down before he even gets the door to his dorm room closed,
trousers, pants, socks, and dirty trainers kicked off somewhere near the loo.
He doesn't touch himself until he's in the shower, eyes shut tight and
picturing Snape wanking himself as he finally wraps a hand around his own cock.
He'd be embarrassed by how soon he comes if he wasn't too busy being ashamed of
the fact that he watched his former professor jerk off. That he liked it, and
as he catches his breath and lets the shower wash his skin (if not his
conscience) clean, he finds himself wondering just how much it would take to
convince Snape to do it again, and this time to let Harry watch.
                                   * * * * *
Stranger things have happened to Severus Snape, of course, but having an
attractive and previously presumed uninterested and unattainable former student
held spellbound merely by the sight of him tossing off in the showers is
certainly high on the list. As a spy, Snape doesn't let much get past him, no
matter how distracted or preoccupied he might otherwise be. Snape makes sure to
give him a good show, giving Potter both ample time and opportunity to either
leave quickly, flushed and embarrassed or, if he is bold (and experienced)
enough, to join him.
That he chooses neither option, but instead stays until Snape finishes many
long minutes later, tells Snape that (against all reason) Potter is interested,
but as a Gryffindor needs a less subtle invitation.
Snape plans to give him one.
Beginning the next day, Snape makes certain to work late into the evening, but
still finishes before Potter. For three days there is no sign of Potter. On the
fourth day, Potter finishes work early and gives every appearance of heading
back to the Gryffindor Common room with his housemates. Snape continues to work
on his assigned tasks before once again heading to the Quidditch changing rooms
to shower.
Potter isn't an especially cunning opponent, his moves rarely calculated.
Strategy is not his strong suit. He relies on audacity, luck, and sheer bloody-
mindedness to carry him through. Not that this has a deleterious effect on his
skill as an opponent, as the Dark Lord eventually discovered, much to his
detriment (may he roast in all nine circles of hell). Snape has no doubt that
sooner or later, Potter will be back for a repeat performance. Likely under
that blasted Invisibility Cloak this time.
He senses the boy's presence the moment he steps through the doors. It would
appear Potter has been waiting for him to arrive. He tosses a wordless locking
spell on the doors and, as he walks past the boy, Snape yanks the Invisibility
Cloak off him and offers a brisk invitation: "You should join me, Potter."
A dumbfounded Potter is not an unusual sight. Potter gaping like a landed fish
and sucking back air as though his lungs have forgotten how to absorb oxygen,
blushing and wide-eyed and stammering, is a bit more rare but, Snape decides,
still quite fetching.
Since Potter appears to be frozen and not likely to respond any time soon,
Snape unbuttons his robes and shirt, removes his vest and begins to unlace his
boots. He peels off his socks and places them neatly on a bench and walks to
the showers. Once there he hooks a thumb under the waistband of his trousers
and pants and slides them over his hips. Potter is facing the right direction
to get a good look, which is entirely the point.
Snape lets the water heat up until it runs just short of scalding, and the
pressure feels like needles against his skin. Perfect. He lets his head fall
forward as the spray massages his shoulders. He wonders how long Harry's going
to stand outside the bathroom sputtering and indignant now that he has been
caught. He can hear him stomping around, pacing. But the boy doesn't leave.
"I'm not gay, Snape," Harry says as he leans against the sink and glares at
him, his arms crossed.
"Mr Potter, I am neither a mind healer nor a priest. I've no interest in your
sexual orientation except as it relates to me." Snape sticks his head around
the shower curtain. "However, straight men typically do not walk in on their
former professors in the shower and stay to watch them masturbate."
"You aren't masturbating," Potter points out.
"No. Not this time. This time, I have other plans."
Harry flushes, embarrassed. "I'm leaving," he says. "I'm walking out of here
right now."
"Of course you are. That's why you're still out there conversing with me."
Snape spells off the shower, selects a towel from the shelf, wraps it around
his waist and steps out. He pushes forward into Potter's personal space and
Harry's body appears to be at war with his brain as he tries to both back away
and get closer at the same time.
"You're not even attracted to me! And what about my mother?"
"Your mother, Mr Potter, is dead, as is any further discussion on that subject.
However, you are still here."
Snape stalks forward and watches Harry swallow and glance to one side, as if
there's something in the room that might save him. He doesn't pull away when
Snape leans in, and his breathing is rough and uneven.
"Are you seriously attempting to convince me that you're not interested?" Snape
asks.
He walks Potter backwards into the wall, until there's nowhere for him to go.
Snape moves closer and pops open the buttons on Potter's shirt with one hand
and works his belt loose with the other. The towel is doing pretty much nothing
to preserve his modesty or hide his interest, but the same can be said of
Potter's trousers. Snape pauses then, his hand hovering just above Potter's
growing erection; he can feel its heat on his palm. "Tell me now if you wish me
to stop. Despite what you may believe about former Death Eaters, I've no
interest in unwilling partners."
Potter's watching Snape warily and his eyes are dark with arousal. Snape smiles
and lets his hand go where it wants, which is, apparently, unfastening the
button and pulling down the zipper on the fly of Harry’s jeans. Potter breathes
in harshly and his eyes close in an expression that's almost pain. "Oh,
Merlin."
"All right?" Snape asks absently, concentrating on the deliberately light brush
of his fingertips. The look on Potter's face is answer enough, and Snape moves
his hand slowly, brushing past fabric until he's gripping Potter through his
boxers.
Potter's head dips forward, hair falling across his forehead, his lips parting
slightly as he pants. Snape's heart races, and he shifts again until he's
pressing Potter bodily into the wall, his hand trapped between them. Potter's
on the edge of a moan, he knows it, and Snape suddenly decides he wants to hear
that sound more than he can remember ever wanting to hear anything else.
Instead, when Potter looks up again, his eyes are heavy and half-lidded with
pleasure.
When it comes, the first kiss is predictably hard and breathless and a little
awkward, too much teeth and far too little tongue, and he's not surprised at
all when Potter fights him for control. Fighting's what they do best, after all
- baiting each other just because they can.
"You said I should join you." At Snape's puzzled expression, Harry clarifies,
"Before. In the shower."
Snape smirks. "Feeling dirty...Harry?"
"Absolutely filthy, Severus," Harry returns, his confidence increasing with
Snape's obvious interest.
Snape pulls back and gestures for Harry to precede him.
                                   * * * * *
Harry distracts himself with the shower controls, fighting the fog that has
settled over his brain long enough to remember how to turn the water on. By the
time the room begins to fill with steam he has stripped completely. He notices
that Snape takes a long moment to admire him before reaching for Harry again,
pulling him under the hot spray. The tiles are cool against Harry's back when
Snape presses him up against the wall, blocking most of the spray as he claims
Harry's mouth again before bringing his mouth to Harry’s nipples, laving one,
then the other, with his tongue. One of Snape’s hands slips down to stroke
Harry without the obstruction and Harry moans, his reservations finally gone,
at least for the moment. Harry props his hands against the wall, leaning back,
resting his weight on them, and lets Snape do whatever he wants.
He was hesitant before. After all, fantasies are all well and good, but reality
is another thing entirely. But there is no way he could give up Snape's mouth
now that he knows what it feels like against his skin, sucking at his neck and
then down the center of his chest, torturing Harry's nipples before moving
further down and then Snape is on his knees on the shower floor. Harry shudders
and arches against the wall, fingers sliding through wet hair as Snape's tongue
dips into his belly button. And this, seeing Snape on his knees before him for
the first time makes him realize he will never get enough and he is hopelessly
addicted.
He stops thinking about his addiction when Snape turns his head and runs his
cheek along the length of Harry's cock. He stops thinking altogether when Snape
does it again. And he can only gasp as Snape’s mouth closes around his cock.
Snape's mouth on him, surrounding him with moist heat, feels incredible, as he
had known (hoped) it would.
A litany of 'oh god, oh god, my god, dear god, oh god, god, god, god', goes
through his mind, obliterating any and all thought. All those years of furtive,
solitary pleasure in the dorms have trained Harry to be generally quiet during
sex, but he can’t restrain the sounds he’s making, the occasional ‘oh god, yes’
that Snape’s lips and tongue force from him. He has a hand in Snape’s hair, the
other clutching at the wall for dear life as he desperately tries not to just
ram his cock down Snape’s throat. He’s dimly aware that Snape is stroking
himself at the same time ('oh, fuck') making small noises that Harry can feel
as vibration, more than sound. The pleasure grows, inexorably, building until
he can barely speak, but he manages.
“I'm going to…” he warns, but the pressure doesn’t lessen. Instead, Snape
closes his free hand around the shaft of Harry’s cock and strokes firmly, once,
twice, and Harry is twisting helplessly, crying out as his orgasm claims him.
When he comes back to himself he is still on his feet, his back pressed flat
against the tiles and the weight of Snape's body holding him up. He can feel
Snape's cock pressing insistently against his stomach, Snape's breath hot
against his neck and Snape's hands on whatever skin he can reach. Harry lifts a
boneless arm and runs his hand down Snape's forearm over the faded remains of
the Dark Mark, but before his fingers can do more than brush across it, Snape
pulls back to look at him.
Harry's barely given a moment to recover and he's still breathing hard when
Snape again drops to the shower floor and his tongue slips into the crease at
the top of Harry's thigh, sending a wave of fresh shivers down his spine. His
knees want to give so he locks them in place, hoping to God that if he is going
to fall, he'll at least manage to hold out until after he comes a second time.
Snape presses a kiss to the inside of Harry's thigh, hands sliding over his
arse to urge his legs further apart.
A gasp escapes Harry's throat and he arches even harder against the tiles, his
whole body tense with anticipation and nerves. Snape teases him, coaxes
responses from Harry's body with his mouth on the soft skin inside Harry's
thigh and his fingers ghosting over Harry's ass so lightly that Harry is almost
sure he is imagining them and that, any moment now, he will wake up, alone, in
his bed in Gryffindor tower. His lifts his hands from Snape's hair and flattens
them against the shower wall, searching in vain for purchase against the slick
tile. He's not sure how much more of this he can take and when he hears himself
choke out a barely audible 'please' he can't even bring himself to be ashamed
of begging.
Evidently that was what Snape had been waiting for, because as soon as the word
leaves Harry's lips, Snape's mouth once again closes around him. Harry grasps
at empty air, head thrown back, as Snape twirls his tongue around the head of
his cock, and scrapes his teeth, just enough, along his length. He fights with
every scrap of control left in him to keep from bucking forward. He closes his
eyes and focuses on the rhythm of Snape's mouth and the water beating against
his skin until they are inseparable in his mind, every inch of his skin
responding to Snape as he swallows around Harry. Then Harry moans a surprised
grunt when a slick finger slides inside him.
He arches his back for Snape's slick fingers, holds on tightly to Snape's arms,
and opens his mouth for Snape's tongue. Most of Harry's body is already doused
in sweat, the droplets beading along his back as Snape changes position and his
body blocks most of the spray from the shower. His muscles are tight and soft
and wet and actually twitch in anticipation. Snape finger-fucks him, loosening
him as he shudders and whimpers and twists himself more firmly on Snape's
fingers.
Snape rises and wastes no time in wrapping his arms tightly around Harry's
body, closing the gaps between their frames, and it's uncanny how perfectly
they fit together. Snape slides a hand under Harry's thigh, lifting his leg up
and over Snape's hip as he lines himself up and slides inside.
For a few endless seconds all Harry knows is heat and fullness and pleasure so
overwhelming it hurts, then he relaxes and Snape's sinking deeper. He stares at
Harry's mouth and Harry spares a moment to be pleased that Snape isn't looking
into his eyes so that Harry knows it's him Snape is fucking, not some phantom
version of his mother. Snape fucks him hungrily – short, shallow thrusts that
are making it nearly impossible for Harry to draw a breath. Snape's hands push
at the back of his thigh, urging Harry's leg tighter around his waist, pushing
into him at a much sharper angle and temporarily blurring his vision.
Harry can't see much more than the bursts of color behind his eyelids, can't
hear anything but Snape's restrained little moans and his own desperate panting
mingled with the droning of the shower as water, long gone cold despite the
spell, is pelted against their skin. He can't make sense of his muddled
perceptions, the pleasure-pain driving up his spine, the icy flames building in
his muscles, cock twitching every time Snape finds that spot inside him.
Snape takes it slowly, letting Harry adjust to the stretch before he pulls
almost entirely out, then slides back in again even more slowly, torturing them
both with his need to draw this out. Finally losing the battle with his self-
control, he starts moving faster. Harry meets each thrust with a little grunt
that makes Snape move even faster, and then he is screaming, Snape's name mixed
in with a jumble of nonsense words as he comes, his knees trembling with the
intensity of his orgasm, body collapsing against Snape, his muscles burning
with exertion and his release splattering up his chest. He swears he can feel
heat spurt inside him before he finishes, feel Snape's final, frenzied thrusts
drilling into him, making him come past the points of both probability and
endurance.
It takes a full minute for Harry to regain his senses, by which time he
realizes that Snape has apparently spelled the water off and he is still
shaking, trembling from the pleasure, still panting into Snape's neck. By the
time Snape pulls out carefully and lowers them both to the shower room floor,
Harry is a boneless, sodden mess, sore, aching and covered with small bruises,
spit and come.
Not quite ready to give this up just yet, Harry traces the hard knots of
Snape’s spine with his fingertips, committing to memory each depression of
skin, learning more about Snape’s past as it’s written on his body.
He's already thinking about the next time, wishing Snape would collapse above
him, boneless and sated, humid with sweat and smelling of come. But somehow he
suspects affection comes harder than sex for Snape. Harry holds his breath,
swallows words as they are ready to tumble out unchecked. All the things he can
never say fill up his throat, and he feels as though he could choke. But he is
determined that this will not be a one-off because now that he knows what he's
been missing, he's going to want it all the time.
He feels Snape's hand on his shoulder a second later, pushing him back a few
degrees, just enough to speak, his mouth brushing against Harry's ear. "I've no
need to resort to Legilimency to know your every thought. It's written all over
your face. You would have made a dreadful spy," he breathes out, aggravated,
while a wordless cleaning spell erases all evidence of what has happened
between them.
"Good thing I've nothing to hide," Harry says defensively and begins to pull
away, but Snape's unyielding grip on his shoulder stops him.
"Slytherins, Mr Potter, keep what they take. You would be wise to remember
that." His fingers are cold on Harry's jaw, but the kiss he draws him into is
warm, inviting.
"The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin," Harry confesses. "Now I know
why. You would be wise to remember that, too."
Snape summons both Harry's Invisibility Cloak and the last of his energy and
rolls onto his back as Harry stretches out next to him and curls deeper into
his arms, his cloak draped over both their bodies. "I will consider myself duly
warned."
End Notes
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