disc: don't own it, don't sue me (please)
warnings: slash, a bit of violence, a bit of sex, a bit of swearing
a/n: well, after posting "For Better or Worse" i decided it was so bad i was going to remove it again, but ure reviews were all so complementary i decided to keep it in the series and try rewriting it instead when i have time, so thankyou very much for that encouragement. i hope this story is a bit better (i certainly felt it was) and that's it's up to standard. i hope it's not too graphic or anything, please say in the review if you find it a bit too much, cos i don't want to put anyone off! well, enjoy and happy valentine's day!
"THIS IS A SCHOOL HALL NOT A BROTHEL! 20 POINTS FROM HUFFLEPUFF AND DON'T LET ME CATCH YOU AGAIN!"
The roar carries easily down the old stone passage and through the oak door, causing you to wince, despite yourself, as you carefully tie the golden ribbon in a perfect bow.
He doesn't sound in the best of moods- nothing new there, you're used to dealing with his temper- however Valentines Day does seem to lend him a sort of, well, utterly terrifying disposition which you're not sure even your Gryffindor courage can get you through alive. Still. It's not everyday you get to show him how much he means to you, is it?
The door is flung open, hitting the wall with an echoing thump before slamming shut again.
He looks at you, glowers, and heads straight for the firewhisky.
"Tough day?" you ask dryly.
"Don't start," he snaps, and you frown slightly at the unusual ineloquence of his words. He must be pissed off.
You toy with the carefully curled ribbon on your gift. Maybe now isn't the best time.
"Can I, um, get you anything?"
He tosses his drink back in one swallow, then fixes you with the kind of glare that goes directly to your trousers, or rather what's in them.
"You can cease asking me idiotic questions for one thing."
You swallow, glancing at the floor. Oh crap, now you've only made him even more irritated.
He sighs as he sinks into his favourite blue armchair, closing his eyes, his head tilted forward so you can see the tension in his muscles, under his robes.
You smile, suddenly knowing exactly what he needs, and move forward until you are right behind him, your hands on his shoulders.
He opens one eye and glares at you suspiciously.
"What are you doing, Potter?"
You lean forward, whispering breathily into his ear "Relieving your stress" and feeling a glimmer of satisfaction as he shivers slightly.
Your hands begin to carefully work the taut muscles, moving in fluid, circular motions over his robes.
"Mmm," he murmurs softly.
You smile, bending to gently kiss the back of his neck, exposed between curtains of dark hair.
"That's good."
Your lips move around his neck, hands still working, until you reach his earlobe, which you flick your tongue over, delighting in the groan it produces.
"I bought you a gift," you whisper.
You instantly feel him stiffen, head coming up, pushing you back slightly.
He turns to face you, dislodging your hands from his shoulders, and fixes you with an unreadable expression.
"A gift."
You nod slowly, suddenly unsure of yourself.
"And what, prey tell, is the occasion for this 'gift'?"
You frown, feeling thoroughly confused.
"It's Valentines Day."
He sneers slightly.
"Valentines Day," he repeats, with the tone one uses to describe pond sludge. "What makes you think, for one moment, that I would be willing to participate in such a revolting tradition, designed only to make those who are alone feel even more so?"
You open your mouth, close it again, then open it and whisper "But it's different-"
"How, exactly, is it different?"
This isn't turning out the way you planned it at all.
"You've got me."
The words are so quiet you wonder if he can hear them, but his mouth curves into a cruel sneer that tells you he did, indeed, hear them perfectly.
"Ah yes. I've got you." He smiles mockingly. "How could I forget?"
You're horrified to feel a distinct lump in you throat, a wetness behind your eyes.
Don't break down now. Shit, don't let him see you cry.
Too late.
You hear him laugh slightly, a cruel, pitiless laugh that cuts your heart straight in half.
"Are you going to cry, Potter?"
And that's it.
With those words a blinding, white-hot hatred fills you, drenches you, and you hardly recognise your own voice as you scream "HARRY! FUCKING HARRY! MY FUCKING NAME IS FUCKING HARRY!"
Through a mist of rage you see his eyebrows crease in displeasure at your language. You know he despises swearing, considers it undignified, and right now you hate him for that more than anything else. Hate that he won't just bloody let you swear.
You lose control.
You fly at him, fists swinging, and connect with something solid before he has time to realise what is happening, pleasure coursing through your veins as you hear his surprised grunt. He tries to grab your wrists, but you're fuelled by an inexorable fury and lash out against his grip, the crunching, shattering of bone echoing in your ears as warmth runs across your hand and his sharp cry reverberates around the room.
You jerk back, startled by the sight of blood running across your fingers, down your wrist and the misshapen, swollen mess that only moments before was his nose.
You've broken his bloody nose.
For a moment you stare at each other, then with a roar he launches himself at you, pinning you against the wall, his hands latched around your wrists, his leg between yours.
The fury in his eyes goes straight to your groin, and, despite the situation, you feel a definite stirring down below.
His expression of acute anger rapidly becomes one of sickening smugness as he feels the hardness pressing against his thigh. He moves his leg ever so slightly, and you hate yourself for gasping at the pleasure.
He smirks.
"Fuck you," you spit.
He leans closer.
"Be my guest," he hisses.
And once again you lose control.
He gasps as you knock his painful nose, but you are past caring as you devour his lips with your own, whimpering in pleasure as he bites you, teeth sinking into soft flesh. You tear at each others clothes, satisfaction thrilling at the sound of the material ripping, his hands are on you, then his lips and– oh Merlin- you grab handfuls of his hair, pulling, relishing the grunts of pain. Then he's shoving you backwards onto his desk, attacking your lips with renewed fury. Bottles smash, papers scatter, your foot hits something square which goes flying across the room, but you barely notice. He pushes himself down onto you, and you both cry out at the pleasure in the pain it causes, and it's harsh and fast and crude but you love every second.
Then it's over and you lay side by side on his redwood desk, blood, sweat and semen decorating your torn clothes and slick skin, breath ripped from you in harsh pants, limbs shaking with drained energy.
You wonder vaguely what in heaven just happened. How had giving him a simple valentines gift turned into a brawl followed by gratifyingly painful sex? How the hell had you managed to break his nose? Oh yeah, his nose.
"Sorry I broke your nose."
He grunts slightly.
"I-" he hesitates "apologise for being a-" hesitates again "bastard."
You grin.
"You're always a bastard."
"True," he concedes. "But today was…uncalled for. And untrue."
Oh good. He doesn't hate you after all.
You feel him stir slightly.
"Was that my gift?"
You follow his sightline to a crumpled red box, heart shaped chocolates spilling across the floor from the split seam, golden ribbon in a wrinkle heap.
"Yes," you say sorrowfully. "I know you can never resist chocolate."
He stands, looking sinfully sexy with his torn robes exposing one white shoulder, sleeve hiding his fingers, a long leg revealed from behind a large rip, and picks a chocolate up from the floor, placing it in his mouth.
"Hmm," he murmurs. "Not bad. Quite delicious in fact."
You beam at him.
"I made it myself."
He raises an eyebrow.
"You made chocolate?"
You nod. "Yep. I skipped my charms lesson. Took me all period"
He closes his eyes briefly.
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."
You laugh, and can see he's fighting a smile.
"Harry?"
"Yes?"
He sighs, reaching for your hand, pulling you close, kissing the top of your head in a sweet, gentle gesture.
"Thank you."
You smile.
"Anytime, Severus. Anytime."