wanking_mods (wanking_mods) wrote in hp_wankfest, @ 2008-06-06 00:01:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | 2008 fic |
Harry Potter in a Theatre with Harry's Glasses
Title: Intermezzo
Author: monoceros_writ
Character: Harry Potter
Location: theatre
Object: Harry’s glasses
Other Characters: Severus Snape
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: partially public sex
Word Count: 1, 446
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Notes: The story has as inspiration Rossini’s opera Il Barbiere di Siviglia, specifically, this part La Calunnia, which can be found here.
In the half light of the elegant Opera house Harry Potter was panting and obsessively wiping his sweaty palms on the purple, velvet armrests of his seat. His body seemed hyperaware of his surroundings, so much so that he felt nearly suffocated. The closeness of the people around, let alone the women’s perfume were enough to make his head spin, but what really succeeded in doing so was the sight on the stage.
The reason for the full house had been the famous baritone playing Figaro, a fact that the man seemed quite aware of. Harry, though, had come out of sheer boredom. Harry was certainly not bored now, instead he was unbearably aroused. Because what had drawn Harry’s attention was one of the supporting singers, someone he had thought long dead. Severus Snape seemed quite alive and his voice was just as intoxicating as ever. Only that same voice had a rougher edge to it now, which Harry imagined must be from the neck wounds Nagini had caused him.
The almost bass tonality of it was making Harry’s skin tingle and grow warm, as if touched by a lover. That voice had kept him in agonizing bliss for most of his adolescent years. In any way the man choose to use it, whispering menacingly or screaming in rage it had always been like auricular sex to Harry. Even hating the man for seven years, Harry could never deny that the man had a lethal weapon in that voice.
Harry was immensely grateful for whatever had helped the man retain it after the horrible damage the snakebite had caused. As curious as Harry was to find out how the man had survived, he was also aware that he should have suspected that he had in the first place. After all Harry had had the man’s memories as well as the knowledge that he had been the consummate spy and potions expert.
And perhaps if he hadn’t been forced by Kingsley to take a vacation from his Auror duties, he might have never known. In choosing Italy he had looked for a place where “Harry Potter” was not so well known as well as the opportunity to just laze about. Really, he deserved to after the last four years he had spent rounding up the remaining Death Eaters as a field Auror.
But Harry had taken care to clear Snape’s name after finally defeating Voldemort in his Seventh year. In part as a sign of respect for what the man had endured as a spy, but also, Harry had figured that he had probably always hoped the man had survived, after all there was no portrait of him at Hogwarts.
It certainly seemed as if his vacation in Italy was going to become far more interesting with time so far spent seeing the Roman baths, the superb Arab buildings and walking on the beach then toward the steep hillsides of the volcano. And perhaps it was time for the dolce far niente to be replaced by the fire he could see in those eyes that had just spotted him. For the span of two seconds Harry stopped breathing altogether before he abruptly got up and used “Scusi” all the way until he reached the end of the aisle and softly exited the room.
Now would have been the time to leave and regroup in the comfort and security of his room at the quaint villa he was staying at. But the problem was Harry’s legs felt like jelly and the most distance he could put between himself and that intoxicating voice was as far as the first stall at the theater restroom. Once the door was locked, Harry leaned on it, palms splayed against the lacquered wood and forehead bent over his hands. Breathing in and out slowly, misting the surface he was resting against, Harry gradually calmed.
It didn’t last long, because someone exited through the same door Harry had used and was careless enough to not close the door behind him. The music was now clearly audible in the elegant restroom and Harry felt like slipping the floor and begging for mercy. Harry whimpered as the image on the stage flooded back into his mind’s eye, he could easily imagine that face, no longer sneering but transformed by the music. Possibly because of his role Harry had noticed the man also wore glasses, which made his face look unspeakably sexy, underlying his academic side even as his voice was enough to make Harry come on the spot.
Harry’s mind reeled with the possibilities those glasses on that face would mean in a sexual context. As Snape’s solo began Harry trembled as he imagined the route those frames would travel on his overheated skin. First, slowly touching his face with their coldness, as the man would map out his face with his tongue, cheekbones, eyes and forehead. His head would be gently tilted, allowing the man to plunder his mouth, the edges of those glasses digging into his cheeks, alternating until Harry’s head would spin. Harry pushed his pelvis into the door as he became aware of the subtle intoxication that was the whisper of that voice, insensibly enthralling him.
Harry could take no more teasing, and in the dubious privacy of an Italian theatre restroom he whispered the spell that would make his clothes pool at his feet. Thinking of the glasses on that nose, he lifted his own glasses off his nose and enchanted them to obey his fantasies. Soundlessly moving at his back the glasses rested on his shoulder as Harry lost himself in the fantasy. The man would torment him even as he gave Harry pleasure, speaking sottovoce of all he planned to do to Harry. He would nip and lick and kiss at Harry’s shoulder blades and as the glasses followed the erratic pattern, Harry took hold of his erection, feeling it throbbing in his hand.
He could easily imagine it was Snape, no Severus’ hand that was playing with him this way. Harry jumped as the cold wires of his glasses touched his overheated temple, a sign of how the man would pour filthy promises in Harry ear. He dipped the tip of his index finger into his slit, knowing the man would be stunningly good at making him turn to mush, which only served to make him swell all the more. He could no longer contain his frantic thrusts in his fist, and as he gathered the precum it became increasingly easier to increase the thrusting motion.
The crescendo of that voice insinuated itself deeper into Harry’s consciousness, making his already painful arousal grow. The glasses were now at his lower back, pressing hard here and there, making Harry whimper and moan at the spikes of arousal that causes. The rough velvet voice was broken up, staccato, seeming to strike on Harry’s already highly strung nerves like summer thunder. The round shape of the glasses pressed closely to the swell of Harry’s arse cheeks and Harry shivered at the imagined sensation of the reverberations of that voice so close to his hole. The tremors increased until Harry froze when he could feel the rigid shape on his anus, gently pressing, making him spread his legs and stiffen at the cold, rigid pressure there.
At the climax of the solo, Harry could not bear it anymore, cumming as he’d done at Hogwarts, under his Invisibility Cloak when he heard the hoarse boom of that voice. Canon-like, it caused a similar explosion to happen in Harry’s fist. Harry shook like under the force of a localized earthquake, all sound becoming muffled as he lay suspended over the edge. The echo of Harry’s reaction was barely covered by the stage performance, the music louder than Harry’s shout.
Finally, Harry’s muscles ceased trembling, only to refuse to hold him up any longer. Harry collapsed to his knees, drawing painful breaths as his mind spun. The man’s voice should be bottled, plain and simple. Harry knew without a doubt he would never again hear an Italian opera without becoming aroused. As it was, he felt sweaty, sticky and complexly exhausted. He would no doubt present a completely debouched image to the mirror right now. Weak and soft in post coital relaxation, Harry cast a cleaning charm before dressing and attempting to stand. It must have taken him longer then he had thought since the silence indicated the next act had already begun. Thanking his lucky stars, he put his glasses on and opened the stall door only to be confronted with heated black eyes and a cultured voice drawling, “Mr. Potter.”