Title: Not Enough Black Ink
Rating: R
Author: Claggart
Summary: "If I do it, then I don't want money. I want you to pose for a drawing in whatever setting I choose." Snape's cheeks redden. At least he catches my meaning... HP/SS

Not Enough Black Ink

I know what this is about. I stand in front of his desk feeling more vulnerable than I ever have before – as if we're in another Occlumency session that I am unprepared for. He finally clears his throat and puts away the stern looking quill he'd been grading with. His fingers clasp, and I idly wonder if my pitiful doodles could ever capture the exact essence of his hands. I repress the urge to whip out my stubby pencil and start sketching him. After all, that's what got me into this mess in the first place.

"I'm sure you know why you're here," he begins in a voice that I can't quite describe. The urge to draw overwhelms me again, but I know before I even try that any attempt to draw Severus Snape's voice would be a practice in futility.

"I could take a wild guess...sir," I add mockingly, knowing I sound disrespectful. I can't help it. Years of belittlement under his acerbic tongue has made me naturally defensive around him. Something hardens in his eyes – are there pencils dark enough to capture the pallet of black that his orbs alone present?

"Then take a wild guess at what I'm thinking right now, Potter," Snape replies bitingly.

No doubt he's thinking of how he'll punish me, how he'll humiliate me with the conclusion he's surely drawn from all this.

"I'm thinking," he begins before I can respond, "that it has been a long time since I've seen such...talent. Perhaps the first sign of which I've seen out of you in the seven years you've been here. May I inquire as to why you've kept it such a secret?" He asks in a deceptively polite voice. To say that I am shell shocked at his admittance of my "talent" would be the understatement of the century. Surely it's a trap. He wants to humiliate me somehow, and this is how he's going to do it.

My confusion must clearly show on my face.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I reply stupidly. Best to play it dumb. I don't know where he's going with this. My reply is clearly not what he wanted. He rolls his eyes and pulls the paper, my paper, out of his top drawer. He delicately holds it up for me to see, as if I hadn't labored over it for hours and wouldn't recognize it instantly.

"This talent, Potter. I knew your mother was artistic, but the few sketches I'd seen of hers were nothing so impressive. You'll find I have no trouble giving praise when it is warranted, even to someone such as yourself. Now tell me why such a fame hungry boy as yourself didn't broadcasted such a gift at the top of his lungs at the first chance he had?"

He thinks I'm fame hungry, does he? The sodding bastard. Holding up my drawing as if it's no more incriminating than a sketch of fruit in a basket.

"Now you're the one playing dumb, Professor. I don't know what exactly is wrong with me in the head that's resulted in me having this...obsession with you. You know very well that the last thing I would do is to broadcast it around. I have enough people staring at me all the time as it is." He's silent for a moment, his face revealing nothing on the surface, but I know he's surprised.

"Do you mean to tell me I am the only person you draw?"

Uh oh. Maybe he hadn't found all my drawings as I'd assumed he had...

"Err...I don't suppose there's any chance that you'll return the drawing and any copies you've made and pretend this never happened."

He suddenly smirks.

"Not likely. Tell me, Potter, in your other drawings of my person, did you go below the waist?" Definite amusement in his voice. My cheeks are burning with shame.

"What do you want from me?" I ask disparaged. His amused face instantly sobers.

"I want you to paint a portrait for me. I admit, the thought never occurred to me that I was the only subject of your drawings, but the original reason I confronted you still stands. I have only one photograph of my mother left, and I wish to have a portrait done of her. Until I happened across your drawing, I have not found an artist I think talented enough to perform the task up to my standards."

I'm already shaking my head.

"I've never had a set of paints in my life, Snape. I know absolutely nothing about portraits. If you want a sketch, I could probably manage something that could pass for her..."

Snape cuts me off instantly.

"It's Professor Snape, Mr. Potter, and you will do a portrait. I will cover any expenses you might accumulate in the making of it, and I will give you all the time you feel necessary to research. I will arrange for you to meet a few of my acquaintances. They can tutor you in the process of creating a moving portrait. I will, in addition, pay you a ridiculously large amount of money if the portrait is what I'm looking for." His tone leaves no room for argument. This portrait of his mother must mean a great deal to him, especially if he's willing to exchange such good blackmail on me for it.

An image of Snape's mother comes to my mind, the one that was in Snape's pensieve. She was beautiful...like Snape. A sudden thought comes to my mind and I can't repress the urge to speak it out loud.

"If I do it, then I don't want money. I want you to pose for a drawing in whatever setting I choose."

Snape's cheeks redden. At least he catches my meaning. Hopefully he won't make me say it.

"And what setting is that, Mr. Potter?"

So much for hopes. Oh well, I've come this far.

"Nude, sir," I hesitate only a second, "in your personal quarters."

He snorts in disbelief and shakes his head.

"You're insane, Potter," he finally spits at me. I think he thinks I'm making fun of him.

"That's fine then. I probably couldn't have done the portrait anyway. I'm not an artist or anything. I just sketch when I'm bored or when I'm...well, when I'm bored." No need to tell him about all those sketches I did last year of all the mutilated bodies Voldemort caused. He doesn't need to know how I sat in the infirmary under my invisibility cloak sketching every one of them as they died. Aurors, volunteers, innocent children...

Snape clears his throat uncomfortably. "If that's what it will take for you to do the portrait, then I will not refuse. This is...very important to me."

I suddenly feel kind of guilty. Making Snape play out my sexual fantasies so he can get a portrait of his dead mother...what kind of heartless bastard am I?

I sigh. It was a golden opportunity, but I can't take advantage of it.

"I was out of line, sir. You don't have to give me anything. I...I'd be happy to try and paint your mother. No big deal."

He stares at me, and I can't turn away from his smoldering gaze. His black eyes are lit with something that I recognize...

Could it be desire?

"Follow me." He stands quite abruptly and heads towards the store room. I follow him a bit unsurely. I notice as I pass his desk that he took my drawing with him.

He leads me to the back of the storeroom and pauses in front of what looks like an ordinary book shelf filled with jars. He reaches to the back of one of the shelves and rotates a jar. The whole thing swings forward, as if on a hinge, and reveals a shadowy passage way. He descends the stairs gracefully, then turns and waits for me to follow. Nervously, I do. The shelf swings closed behind me. My hands tremble as I stand on the top stair. I pause only a second before I clench my fists and follow him swiftly down.

His personal quarters are pretty much what I imagined. They're stark and done in grays and charcoals. There's some green shades here and there, but for the most part it's very severe. Just as I'd imagined. That is why I wanted him here. I wanted him relaxed, naked, uninhibited even as he was surrounded by such an austere setting. It would, in my mind, represent him perfectly. It would make the perfect picture of Snape that had been so elusive to me in the past.

Before I can even whistle in appreciation, he has disrobed almost entirely. Only his pants and his stern dragon hide boots remain on his sculpted frame. My hand positively itches to draw him as he looks right now, his overly starched shirt held so casually in one powerful hand, his dramatic robes discarded in a loose puddle at the corner of his stone looking chair. It is the only furniture in the living room aside from an abused looking writing desk shoved into a dark corner. The black leather on the chair is almost as dark as the soot coating the inside of the bare fireplace. There wouldn't be enough black ink in the world to draw this.

"There is parchment and a drawing utensil on the desk," he informs crisply before taking a seat and undoing the laces on his boots. I watch almost mesmerized before my feet move on their own accord, and my hands greedily pick up the heavy parchment and the perfectly sharpened pencil. It looks to be of a better quality than I've ever had the opportunity to use before. My stubby number two pencil pales in comparison to the rich quality of these supplies. I drool over them only until I realize that Snape is now fully undressed, sitting stiffly in the chair, waiting for me to direct him. I don't know what comes over me, but I'm glad that it does.

"Sit back further in the chair," I order, moving towards him. I think he knows I'm going to touch him, and he doesn't protest when I use my free hand to position him. There's a curiosity in his eyes, and a small amount of shame. This is the most open I've ever seen his expression, and the desire to kiss him almost overwhelms my desire to preserve his beauty on paper. I set the parchment and pencil down reverently on the floor, so that I can have both hands free to mould him.

"I didn't know you sculpted as well," Snape says dryly, though his eyes express a hunger and a longing that can't be hidden with words. I only smile.

I run my hands over his face, tilting it gently this way and that, reveling in what he's letting me do to him. Surely I must be dreaming.

"What...what expression do you want me to have?" He asks when my hands move to his broad shoulders. He keeps his head just where I've positioned it in the crook of the chair. I lick my lips. In for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose. I lean over and kiss his cool lips until they are warm and moving under mine. His hands entangle in my hair and I somehow end up in the chair as well. When we finally part, I can only stare at his visage in pure wonder.

"That one. That expression right there." He nods, and keeps the heavy lidded look of lust on his face. I'm pleased to see that he doesn't appear to have to try very hard. I gently pull some of his long, admittedly oily locks of hair out from behind him so that they rest on his pale chest. I run the pads of my thumbs over his nipples until they harden perfectly. He half growls and pulls me in for another kiss, one where he is taking control. It leaves me breathless. This time, when we part, I take much longer to recover.

The look of lust is compounded with a gentle curve of his lips and a dangerously tempting light in his eyes that tells me I've become his very willing prey. I swallow hard in response, moving more quickly to finish positioning him. I drape one of his long pale arms over the side of the chair, the other I position across his sculpted, porcelain abdomen. I spread his legs so that he is sprawled lazily in the chair, such a contradiction to his normal posture that it excites me to my core. The last part of him needs no positioning at all, because it is just how I want it – full with arousal and heavy with cum for me. All the same, I wrap my hand around it and feel it pulse in response. I explore it with my fingertips lovingly, causing Snape to buck into my hand and moan beautifully.

Then, he is perfect. I move hurriedly to my discarded pencil and paper. My sketching is empowered in a way it never has been before. I know I'm not just doodling like I did before to release all the emotion wreaking turmoil inside me. This time I really am creating art.

The lines flow like a potion into a vial. I know it will be perfect before I've even got the outline. It will be my best work. It is as certain as the black lines that are becoming flesh and heat and passion. Snape grins at me and moves his hand downwards until it is wrapped around his straining cock. I want to reprimand him for moving, but the picture he is making for me is too inspiring to rebuke him for. I capture the arc of his thumb ghosting over the tip of his penis and jump down to the way his toes curl into the dusty stone floor. My breathing quickens as the lines thicken. In my haste to capture the exact curve in a lock of his hair, I smudge some of the chalky line across his chest. It creates a shadow that I would have never thought to put there but is perfect for him – a shadow that covers his heart.

His hips buck forward and my hand moves faster. I numbly realize I have stopped breathing. My own arousal begs for attention, but I ignore it for the moment. This, everything about it, is purely Snape. I feel like a mortal who has been allowed into the domain of God for only a few precious moments.

Snape growls deep in his chest and squeezes his flesh harder, his breathing labored and his eyes animalistic. A whimper escapes my constricted throat. Did I say a mortal in the presence of a God? No – it is more thrilling than that. I am a man that has been tossed into a basilisk's den. He is lurking in the shadows with his head thrust back and thrashing from side to side in warning; his fangs are glistening white, a glimmer of light reveals a sinuous white underbelly slick with sweat.

Faster, I have to draw faster! The drawing has a life of its own. I'm not even sure my hand is creating the lines anymore. The arc of a calf, the curl of a toe, the flash of pink tongue...

And that beautiful hand wrapped around thick, engorged cock.

I finish the last crucial line and drop the parchment, uncaring of how it lands. The pencil clatters to the floor and rolls into a groove in the stone floor. I collapse the distance between us and cover his hot mouth with my own, tugging off my clothes as he undulates beneath me. My robes are gone, as if erased from my body, and I am there with him when he climaxes. Our bodies are pressed together, and the chair really is as uncomfortable as it looks, but I don't think I've ever had a moment more perfect than this in my entire life.

He's drinking my life out of me with his kisses. Our gazes meet and he's sucking the very green out of my eyes. He's ripping my heart out through my chest, and stitching the wound back together using his long fingers as thread.

Fuck me, Professor Snape, oh fuck me now.


He disappears into one of the back rooms, and leaves me to collect myself.

Which will be quite impossible, because every ounce of my being is still in a puddle around the chair that he fucked me in.

Snape has been starring in my sexual fantasies ever since the beginning of my sixth year. Of course I've never told anyone – no one even knows I'm gay. But I knew there was something between the two of us. I may have not realized he felt the same desire for me that I felt for him, but now I can look back and see every smoldering glare he gave me in a new light. I look around his living room, absently pulling my clothing on as questions swim around in my head.

At least I know it wasn't just sexual. I want more than some kinky student/teacher role playing. I denied it at first, but I think I always knew, even before I did my first drawing of him. I've fallen completely, head over heels in...

A love letter from Malfoy. He has a love letter from Malfoy in his desk drawer. What in the hell is that doing there?

I just gave my virginity to a man that's in a relationship with Malfoy. In fact, Malfoy will probably pop in any second. I bet Snape even calls him some ridiculous pet name when they aren't in class. Snape's going to tell him that I begged him to sleep with me, and that it was the only way I'd paint a portrait for him, and I was so pathetic and utterly stupid. Then the two of them will have a great laugh at my expense, and I...I...

I am NOT crying.

I light the fire without using my wand in a moment of complete agony and absolute fury. Without a second thought, I fling the slightly rolled parchment I've just finished drawing into the fire. I storm to the door, violently pull it open, and surprise the hell out of Draco Malfoy who was just about to knock.

A/N: Thanks so much for all the reviews I received on "All Things Considered". They were highly appreciated.