The hurricane of emotions, feelings and sounds that hit them both as they breathed each other in made them both light headed. Nezza swayed slightly, unbalanced and she was only held upright by Snape's right hand pressed hard between her shoulder blades, pressing her tightly to himself, his left grabbing a fistful of her shaggy dark locks. Snape felt a sensation somewhat akin to apperation – the world spun dizzyingly around him. His mind railed for all of a minute, screaming at him about how nonsensical this was, but then was silenced by a different, stronger kind of logic – a logic that said that the only thing that he needed to do in this moment was to eliminate all space between him and her.
He couldn't say how they ended up in the small flat above her shop - maybe they did actually apperate there. He was barely aware of the space they occupied; for once, he had not sized up the room, immediately cognisant of every entrance, every weakness, every corner, and every nuance.
The only thing he was painfully aware of was Nezza.
The way she smelled - her particular scent that had lingered with him all this time, that had haunted the hallways of Hogwarts two years ago. Ever since she left school, he could not brew with agrimony without thinking of her.
Her hair - his fist still wrapped around hanks of it, and it felt like velvet. It was strong and thick, but soft. Entirely opposite to his own despite the similarity in hues.
The soft skin of her cheek under his palm – it was cool to the touch, chilled by the late winter air they had encountered outside. She was so pale, as if she seldom saw the light of day. With what he knew of her sleeping habits, and that she now lived in the deep shadows of Knockturn Allley, it was plausible; But it was a clear, porcelain like white, not similar at all to his own sallow complexion earned from years of darkness and unhealthy living - his hand was such a contrast in tone to the whiteness of her face.
Her clothes - he was more aware of the layers she wore then he had ever been aware of any garments; customary ratty muggle jeans, and a t-shirt that was entirely too large for her and emblazoned with the Durmstrang school crest of all odd things, and covered over by one of her old school uniform cardigans trimmed in green.
Of all the skills he had acquired through the years, removing articles of clothing off of women was not one he had made a point to refine past natural instinct. Instead he now fumbled awkwardly at the one clasped button of the cardigan, paired lopsidedly with the buttonhole above where it belonged. It opened easily enough despite his unpracticed hands, the material stretched from being often worn, and he pushed the grey wool away from her shoulders and down her arms, only one sleeve sliding past her wrist, the other catching on the pink plastic watch she wore. He barely noticed that she had unclasped the frog on the heavy black cloak he had worn against the mid-winter chill, the charcoal coloured wool collapsing to the crooked floorboards with a heavy rush of air.
She spared him having to think about what to reach for next by shimmying the denim down over her narrow hips. Whatever fantasies Snape might have had over the years about intimate women's underthings he never imagined encountering dingy high-cut briefs, often mockingly referred to as 'granny panties' by the adolescents in the school. For a moment he was startled by their faded grey hue, but quickly was brought back to the moment as she struggled to tug her own shirt over her head, granting him a glance of her bra, which he could only assume was much more fashionable garment. Its simple black lace reminded him of the dress she wore at that summer party at the Argent house. Before he could determine which garment he found her more alluring in, he was startled to have the back of her slender hand smack his nose.
She was caught in a tangle of the shirt, still partially stuck on her head, and the forgotten cardigan, tangling up her one arm. In order to still the violent flailing, Snape braved being hit again, and reached for the garments.
"Easy there, tiger!" She yelped as he ferociously yanked her free, but she quickly silenced herself, gulping back a mouthful of air as he ran his work-worn hands over her exposed torso, marveling at her every contour.
Contrarily, he held his breath; as if he might somehow be stopped in his exploration if he should dare to breathe.
He wasn't sure what he had expected, or if he had expected anything at all, but it struck him as his hand rest on one of her angular hipbones that she was the exact opposite of everything he usually found himself attracted to – she was gaunt where he usually sought soft curves, frail where he usually sought lithe muscles, short rather than tall, raven-haired when his dreams were haunted by . . .but despite all these apparent shortcomings of what he usually longed for, there was not one part of her that slowed his ever quickening pulse. Her standing before him, in a state of undress and practically purring under his touch, with a shadow of mischievous suggestion in her grey eyes served as nothing but a potent catalyst for an already growing need. He was past the point of no return and nothing, not even his own sense of logic or self, would stop him from having her.
Physical strength was not something he sought for himself, but years of slogging full cauldrons, and hauling boxes of glass vials left him well equipped to lift her slyphlike frame, and as if she had anticipated this action, she quickly wrapped her legs around his waist. He didn't know where he intended to take her, but if he didn't find somewhere to lay her down, he ran the risk of pushing her to the floor and having her on the spot. "Bed's over there." She whispered into his ear, before layering alternating kisses and bites along his hard jaw line. Clearly, her thoughts were of the same ilk.
For the first time he looked around the sparse flat. It was nothing more than a large attic room, cleverly sectioned off by shabby bits of furniture, towers of books and an occasional bed sheet acting as a curtain. The dormer on the far end of the room sheltered a tarnished brass bed-frame, topped by a thin mattress.
His long stride had crossed the space in mere seconds and he unceremoniously heaved her onto the bedding of mismatched sheets, flat pillows and an old handmade quilt. The springs creaked under her, and the sound seemed to echo, punctuating his own pulse that pounded in his ears. The creaking continued as she pulled herself up to her knees, edging towards the edge of the bed, to where he still stood, slim fingers walking their way up his chest and tugging at the row of buttons there.
While she worked, his one hand brushed up her side, and gently tugged at the lace-edged bra, nimble fingers pushing the shaped cup aside and rubbing over the nipple it hid, while the other swept up her back, counting the bumps of her vertebrae until it settled at the back clasp of the bra. Living at a school for so long had informed him that there was a particularly good charm for unhooking a bra strap, which apparently was a herculean feat without magic, but he never bothered to learn the incantation, and was left tugging futilely. The contraptions could perplex Cassanova. "Damn this confounded thing!" He hissed angrily, causing her to laugh, a throaty seductive sound.
"Really? You want to complain about two little hook and eye snaps when you've got a million buttons? Pot calling kettle . . ."
He silenced her by closing his mouth over hers, while with a violent tug, the hooks ripped from the fabric they were sewn to, causing the bra's strap to slacken, and droop over her tattooed arms. He vanished the bra as aptly as if he had actually magicked it away, and then set about shrugging out of the coat she had managed to unbutton without damage to the garment, and then did the same for the simple white shirt worn under it.
She had seen the man shirtless before, so she knew what to expect – though that didn't stop her from wanting to make some kind of snarky comment about how it was no wonder he wore infinite layers of buttoned up wool or else fear school girls flinging themselves at them all the time, but he seemed to be concentrating, studying every inch of her.
He still stood, but stepped back for a moment and stared at her. It was as if he was looking both at someone who he had known his whole life, but at the same time he looked at a stranger. There was a nasty scar along her right hip – the effects of a barbarically muggle appendectomy. He had a similar scar himself, but it paled in comparison to the innumerable other scars that he had accumulated throughout his years. He ran a long finger over the reddened and rough line on her body, and then gently hooked his thumb into the worn elastic waistband of her panties, his right hand reaching out to palm the cool marble skin that stretched over her bare, soft bosom. She moaned as his touch lowered into the small patch of dark curls, pushing the underwear down to expose her. It was an achingly intimate sound in response to an equally achingly intimate action and it made his already full erection twinge in need. He pushed her back against the pillows, finally lowering to the mattress himself, but froze when he noticed the angry black ink on his right forearm, practically spotlighted by the moonlight pouring in through the window.
She noticed his sudden hesitation, and followed his glance, though he made a point to look away from his own tattoo as quickly as possible, in hopes she wouldn't. She only spared it the briefest of glances that neither spoke of approval or disgust, then after a split second of eye contact, she set about fumbling with the button fly of his trousers. "Christ! More buttons! Ever heard of a zipper?" He growled in answer, but the noise strangled in his throat as her small, deft hand wrapped itself around his now freed manhood, fingers delicately rubbing up and down its length. With gentle pressure, she pulled him down on top of her. "If you are waiting for an engraved invitation, they were back-ordered at the printers, Snapeykins."
And with no further provocation or invitation, he spread her legs with a press of his knees, and buried himself in her.
They had passed out, exhausted after both had spent their need. The difference was that Snape stayed asleep, whereas, per her normal, Nezza woke up several hours into the dead of night. She looked over at the man asleep next to her – legs still tangled with hers. He slept fitfully, but she had expected that, because the last time she had watched him sleep, he had still managed to toss and turn despite being heavily medicated. But unlike the night when she nursed him back to health, tonight his hand had always managed to find a resting spot somewhere on her despite all his shifting – right now his arm lay limply across her waist.
Like most things half yearned for but never expected, fucking him had defied what limited expectations she had. She had always imagined that if she did ever succeed at getting him into bed, it would be like every interaction they had – her pushing and needling and teasing while he fought desperately to remain in control of the situation.
But while it had an intrinsically similar element, something had changed. Snape had changed. Well, not in any romantic, fluffy way. He was still the gruff, dominating, imposing man he always was, but instead of angrily grasping at what control he could find, he seemed to entirely let himself go, throwing himself into their lovemaking as if it was a reckless grasp at life.
She blushed slightly at the memory and was glad that Snape was asleep and for the darkness; she did not need any sign of weakness or naïveté for him to latch onto to make her feel small. He became almost comically combative and insulting when he was uncomfortable. He might have fallen asleep still wrapped around her, their sweat-slicked skin separated by nothing, as comfortable with each other as long-time lovers, but she fully expected him to react very negatively in the morning. He would return to the same cold, closed-off man, and he would use whatever ammunition he could find to try hurting her - to scare her away. It was not the first time that she realized that perhaps he was such an asshole to keep people away as a means of protection.
Just as she began to ponder whether it was for their protection or his own, he rolled over and his arm fell limply to his side, and she noticed the inky outline of skull and snake that marred the skin just above his wrist. The sight of it reminded her of a different type of intimacy they had also shared that night, one with far less pulse quickening memories, but somehow far more personal.
He had frozen when she saw it, as if he feared her reaction - the man who seemed to fear nothing had been petrified in terror. The lustful gleam in his eyes had disappeared in an instant, as if their lovemaking would have to stop upon her realization of what it was, as if there was no reaction she could have that would allow them to continue. So she simply acted out how she truly felt about it - it was a smudge of magical ink burned into his flesh, no different from her own Dragon or Tree marks. It neither attracted nor repulsed her. The fact that it possibly aligned him with Voldemort did nothing to discourage her, though she highly doubted his allegiances were so straightforward.
He was more complex then that. She was attracted to that complex man, not his allegiances. He was more than a Dark Mark, or a dick-head professor, he was just . . . him. She pitied the people who couldn't see that, and pitied him for the isolation he must feel because they couldn't, but most of all she was afraid. Afraid that maybe he saw past her own tattoos and scars . . . but then again . . . maybe she was afraid he didn't.
That maudlin thought annoyed her and she mentally shook herself. She stretched gently, feeling loose limbed and worn out, and sighed out a huge but silent yawn. "Uh, smells like Caligula's palace in here." She grumbled amiably to herself, the words barely audible in the silence.
She needed to shower, and to smoke at least five cigarettes. Doing her best to avoid all squeaks and shifting of the mattresses she crawled out of bed silently, looking at the clock. It was 4am. That was the closest she had come to sleeping through the night in years. She was sure that had to mean something but such philosophical musings were best left for the shower.
