A reponse to ntamara's call for more somnphilia.
Unedited, unbetaed, completely off the cuff. I thought it'd be fun to go against the grain with this and reverse the usual roles.
"Professor Snape?" Harry whispered, taking a tentative step into the bed chamber. "Are you awake?" He looked at the lump his professor's body formed beneath the matelasse coverlet and, when it didn't stir in the slightest, darted quickly across the room to the loo.
Harry had been staying at Hogwarts all summer - spending three weeks with Professor McGonagall, then three weeks with Professor Flitwick, and now he'd been with Snape for 6 days. Surprisingly, his nemesis had proven to be the best host of the lot. McGonagall had been almost unbearably motherly, wanting to know where Harry was going every time he set foot outside her chambers. The charm had quickly worn off, sometime around when she'd tried to enforce a strict 10pm bedtime. Flitwick had obviously wanted to make up for Harry's lack of similarly aged companionship, which was thoughtful. Unfortunately, it manifested itself by spending every moment of the day glued to Harry, wanting to do what the diminutive wizard insisted on calling "chillin". It was more than a bit eerie, having a short, elderly wizard trying to be Ron Weasley, and Harry had been glad when his days as Flitwick's guest were finally over.
Snape, on the other hand, had simply said "I trust that, at 16, you're capable of conducting yourself in the most adult and respectful of manners while in my home, Potter", showed him to his room, and let him be.
It was wonderful, even with Snape's occasional griping and insults, and when they reached a tentative truce on the third day, it only got better.
Harry had been able to spend his days exploring the castle, alone and accountable to no one. He'd found three invisible books in the library, two of which he was pretty sure even Madame Pince hadn't found, dug out the ancient quidditch gear from the dungeon storage room and taken a spin on an old Nimbus 2, and even spent a considerable amount of time befriending the giant squid in the lake.
Snape had even let Harry help him with a potion or two. Which is why the very volatile Innundus potion had been accidentally spilled all over the floor. Which was why Harry was on his way to Snape's private bathroom, where his sneakers had been decontaminated in a special chamber Snape had built for just that purpose. He wasn't really doing anything wrong... Snape had told him that the shoes would be safe in two hours. He didn't want to wake the professor, though, although Snape had inhaled substantially more of the fumes than Harry himself had, and would probably be quite out of it for at least another hour. Still, Harry felt sure that a cranky, half-asleep Snape would not be a good thing, so as quietly as he could, he darted into the loo, grabbed his sneakers, and slipped back out again.
As he tiptoed across the rug toward the door to safety, Harry's eyes caught on one pale, elegant ankle where it jutted into his line of sight. Before he could help himself, his eyes had traveled down the arch of a lean foot, over five skinny toes, and back up a lightly furred calf to the pale, gathered skin at the inside bend of a knee. Above that, the smooth skin of inner thigh led higher and higher.
Stupidly, Harry's brain seemed stuck on one simple thought.
Snape slept naked.
Harry didn't realize he'd changed direction until his knees hit the side of Snape's bed. He jolted and held still, not even daring to breathe, lest the other man waken. How would ever explain his presence here, standing over the sleeping man, staring as if hypnotized at the freckles that dotted his thigh mere inches from where it met his body?
What would he say? I'm sorry, sir, but it was the closest I've ever been to a naked adult. I think you're hot and I was curious. He could already hear Snape's voice, calling him depraved, mocking him. Threatening to have him expelled.
Luckily, Snape didn't stir. Breathing a sigh of relief, Harry turned toward the door. He'd barely taken one step when he heard the rustling of bed sheets that signaled Snape was moving, and he snapped his head around, expecting to see a cold glare on the other man's face.
Instead, Snape's eyes were closed, and he was slowly wrapping the blanket tighter around his shoulders. Harry relaxed.
Only to freeze when he noticed that all Snape's shifting had rucked the coverlet up higher, exposing even more of his body.
Exposing the side of one pale buttock.
Exposing the ruddy birthmark tucked in the hollow of one hipbone.
Exposing just the very edge of a thatch of thick, dark hair. The hair between Snape's legs. Around his cock.
Heat pooled in Harry's stomach. His eyes were glued to the tangle of hairs, where they pushed up into the coverlet, where they rested against Snape's skin. His fingers itched to touch them, to run against the nap of them, to curl into them and seek out the warm, soft flesh beneath. He couldn't keep the air from rushing out of his lungs in quick bursts, and he could feel the blood rushing between his own legs, thickening the length of flesh there.
For a long minute, he didn't move.
His head was telling him to get out, to flee to the safety of his own bedroom as quickly as possible. His body was urging him to reach out and touch the flesh layed out before him.
He was 16. His body won.
Feeling like he was drugged, Harry watched as one of his hands hovered over the coverlet where it was bunched over Snape's groin. Surely the man wouldn't notice if Harry were to just shift it a tiny bit.
He grasped it loosely between his index finger and thumb and slowly edged it higher on Snape's torso. He could hear a faint rasping sound as the weave of the fabric dragged over the other man's flesh, and Snape moaned softly beneath his breath.
Harry froze. Snape shifted his hips searchingly, and Harry watched as the edge of the coverlet brushed over he end of his cock, baring it to his gaze for a brief moment.
With one last glance at Snape's face, Harry drew the cover completely away, tucking it about Snape's waist. He didn't let himself look down yet, focusing instead on the soft hair surrounding the navel in front of him. His eyes followed the tufts as they swirled down Snape's belly becoming coarser and thicker, before spreading out around the base of his cock.
It was beautiful. Short but thick, lying nestled against the crinkly skin of his bullocks. All the air rushed out of Harry's lungs in one great gasp.
He had to touch it.
It was as if he was no longer in control of his body, the itch of insatiable need tingling his fingertips and demanding to be satisfied.
Holding his breath, Harry rested his fingertips on the inside of Snape's thigh, a bare inch below his balls. For a moment he didn't move, just feeling the heat radiating off of Snape's flesh. Then he began sliding his fingertips back and forth, moving them barely a centimeter either way, lightly petting the skin beneath. So smooth.
He could feel his own prick pounding with every pulse of his heart, the tip beginning to leak where it was pressed against the front of his pants.
This is so wrong, he thought. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The word echoed in his head as he watched his fingers slide up, over the rough loose skin of sac and balls, to curl over the top of Snape's cock.
Snape moaned again under his breath and shifted, driving his hips up ever so slightly, skidding his prick across Harry's palm. Harry could feel the column of flesh beginning to thicken and lengthen in his hand, the blood flowing there and in Snape's neck and face where a blush was slowly spreading. He pressed his free hand to the front of his trousers and pulled tentatively on Snape's cock, just once.
Snape whimpered, just once.
Severus Snape fucking whimpered because of Harry's hand touching him between his legs, touching his cock. Making him hard.
Harry did it again. And again, and again, his eyes flying between Snape's face, which showed no signs of waking, and Snape's prick, which was reddening under his questing fingers.
This was so wrong. So hot. So wrong. So hot.
The chorus of wrongs in his head slowly changed to yes, yes, yes. On each down stroke, Harry slid his pinky into the thatch of hair pressed against Snape's body, and when he saw the head of Snape's cock slide through the top of his fist, he pressed the palm of his other hand into his own cock.
Snape was moaning almost continually now, and his precome was coating Harry's hand, sliding under his fingers. Harry pulled his hand away, ignoring the whimper of loss from his sleeping professor, and pressed it to his own face. Musk. He could smell heat and musk and, before he knew quite what he was doing, he was dragging his tongue over the slick spill on his palm, tasting the salty sweet fluid. His eyes fluttered closed.
He wrapped his spit damp palm around the professor's cock again, speeding it up, sliding his palm over the head on every tug.
His other hand was groping his own cock desperately now, sliding the cotton of his y-fronts over the overheated, damp skin, and he was breathing loudly, panting, but it was nearly drown out by Snape's gasping breaths.
Harry was going to explode. Was going to come, had to come, but first he had to make Snape come, feel the cock in his fist pulsing, feel the come drip over his clutching fist.
He began rubbing his thumb over the slit with each stroke, spreading moisture around the smooth head, then dragging it down the vein on the underside of Snape's cock. He could tell Snape was close, could feel him getting even harder in his hand, could see his balls getting tighter, and then, suddenly -
Snape was coming. His cock was pulsing, come shooting over Harry's clenched fist, and Harry shortened his strokes, pulling harder in short, sharp jerks, trying to draw it out, watching the spilled come well up around the edge of his tight fist as he kept pumping
After a minute that felt like an eternity to Harry, Snape slumped back onto the bed with a long moan. Though his eyelids fluttered, they showed no signs of opening as Harry released his hold on Snape's prick and stepped back from the bed.
Staring down at the flushed, sweaty body of his professor, Harry rubbed frantically between his own legs with one hand, shoving his other hand into his mouth and biting down hard to stop his scream as the cotton abraded his swollen cock. As his mouth filled with the tang of come, his tongue lapped at the slippery mess, and his teeth dug cruelly into the skin, Harry felt himself explode. Ecstasy pulsed through his body in long waves, and he almost doubled over with the force of it.
As the last of the shudders shook his body, he stood there, breathing like a racehorse through his nose, and the reality of what he had done slammed into him.
With one last look at his professor, he all but ran on shaky legs to his room, throwing himself on his bed and burying his face in a pillow. What had he done? Accosted a sleeping professor, wanked off in Snape's bedroom while the other man slept... what kind of pervert was he? His eyes filled with mortified tears, Harry pulled his own blanket over him and tried to go to sleep.
Meanwhile, in the other bedroom, Severus Snape rolled over to face the door and let his eyes slowly open.
Warings: Chan (depending on your definition - 16yrs. old), dubious consent