: The People on the Edge of the NightAuthor
: Sirius Black, Severus Snape, mention of James PotterRating
: may offend canon purists, because it's 1982 and James is still alive.Themes/kinks chosen
: January 2008 theme: choose anything from 2007. I chose autagonistophilia (arousal by being on stage) and lap dancesWord Count
: In a dingy red club, almost no one knows who Sirius Black really is.Author's notes
: Many thanks to nimori
for the beta!The People on the Edge of the Night
There is music playing and Sirius knows the bass line like he knows his own name. "Under Pressure" by David Bowie. It is his favorite song to dance to. It sets the rhythm of his heartbeat and dictates the sway of his hips.
There are beautiful women here, and even more beautiful men, and he can be any of theirs for fifteen pounds. He hears them moan as their hands itch and tingle with the want to touch him. He hears their comments over the din of drums and guitars. They want to run their fingers through his long glossy hair, curve their palms over the swell of his arse, part him like the Red Sea and drive into him fast and deep.
There is no touching allowed here.
For all its dirt and confusion and complicated ways of doing things so simple as lighting a room, Sirius is fascinated by the Muggle world and there is no place so fascinating as this club. By day the club is dark wood and glass, dingy red walls, lighting that barely allows patrons to see their wallets, and drinks that are too thin. By night the drinks are too strong and then none of the other details matter. The voyeurism is a secret shared by the hundreds of people that go in and out of the club every night but what they don't know is that they are Sirius's secret as much as he is theirs. This particular rebellion of his is one he knows would put his worthless parents and brother to absolute shame
, and that need for defiance is what brought him here.
What keeps him here is the adrenaline.
It's not like there's a shortage of chances for adrenaline rushes in Sirius's life. He has the motorbike, where the wind tangles his hair and robes. He has his long nights pressed close to James, with the bitter scent of wine on James's breath and the way he licks his lips when he's nervous. But in the club on the stage with the white lights shining over his bare shoulders he is the center of everyone's attention and that is enough to make him hard for hours. Even better is the knowledge that for all their lust, for all the way they shriek and cheer, no one can touch him. He is for display only.
Sirius takes center stage in a set of dress robes, dark gray silk with a close drape, as David Bowie crescendos through the club's speakers. He can see the audience just well enough to see some of the regulars nudging each other, pointing to him. They have come to see him, see what sets him apart from the club's other dancers, and he won't disappoint. Smoke curls under the lights. He moves to the steady beat, arching his back and raising his arms over his head. In the most daring part of his act Sirius pulls his wand from a deep pocket and flicks his wrist. White and purple sparks shower over him, blinding the club's patrons, and when they clear he is naked except for two strips of black leather that cross over his chest and around his waist, as turned on as everyone else in the room.
The screams and applause nearly drown out the music as the sparks land on the stage and begin to swirl around Sirius's legs. This is almost as good as the feeling of taking his illegal Animagus form. He turns through and around the tiny lights as though they are his dance partners. On this stage he has few words in his head but he feels like shouting. A man at a tiny round table in the row closest to the stage undoes a button on his shirt and shakes his hair back. The sight of the man, the knowledge that floods Sirius I did this he's hot because of me he wants me he'd do anything to have me
quickens his pulse and he starts to sweat. He feels a trickle down his back and chest, on his forehead and under his arms. He tastes iron. Hair sticks to the back of his neck. Another swish of his wand and a pole appears in front of him. In secret he thinks the pole is cliché, but it's a crowd pleaser and why else is he here if not to please…
Well, maybe he is here for a reason other than that.
Sirius extends his hands over his head and scales the pole, his wand in his teeth, until he's seven feet from the floor. Then he grips with his knees and takes his hands off the pole, leaning backward until he is fully upside down. The patrons, who have stopped applauding him in favor of sipping their drinks, put their glasses down and clap louder and faster than they did when they saw the shower of sparks. Coupled with the blood in his head the sound makes Sirius feel what he likes to call fuck or flight
. He wants someone, anyone, and he wants them now and it doesn't matter who.
A wave of his wand and he is on his feet again, folded forward at the waist with the heavy lights making the sweat on his back glisten. He starts making small circles at his feet with the tip of his wand and gray silk reappears, covering him from the floor up to his neck. Breathing hard, he bows, sends up another set of sparks, and Apparates into the backstage area while the audience shields their eyes from the sudden light.
The temptation to grab one of the other dancers for a clandestine fuck in the wardrobe closet makes Sirius's knees go weak. There are at least two, maybe three or four of his fellow dancers who wouldn't say no to him. But he can't risk wearing himself out, not yet. After the stage routine he always heads into the audience. Their memory of him is still hot and he wants to take advantage of that.
Weaving through the tables, Sirius sees a hand raise what looks like two hundred pounds into the light from a table in the corner. He doesn't need the money, of course, but anyone willing to put up anything that even resembles two hundred pounds is well worth his twenty minutes. The single votive in the middle of the table casts yellow shadows around Sirius's new client. The figure is male, Sirius is pretty sure, wearing black, with long straight dark hair. It's not until he's barely two feet from the table that he sees the client's face.
His heart nearly stops and the only thing that keeps him from running backstage is the commanding, gravelly tone of Severus Snape's voice.
"Dance for me, Black. Impress me the way you do everyone else."
Sirius turns his back to Snape and swallows hard. His stomach is churning, acid bubbling into his throat. There aren't enough swear words for this moment. This was not what he'd intended when he'd riled up the crowd at all. The very reason he felt comfortable using his wand at all in his act was because Muggles were so unwilling to see what was real when it came to magic. In their disbelief Sirius was safe. Now he is facing someone who knew all his tricks and his history and the truth of who he was and that someone, he is sure, wouldn't think twice about reporting Sirius to the Ministry of Magic for wantonly using magic in front of a room full of Muggles.
The rush threatens to split Sirius open.
With his back still to Snape, Sirius pulls the tip of his wand down the front of his robes like a zipper. The fabric parts and he lowers the robes over his shoulders. His skin feels tight and it prickles with anticipation. He turns toward Snape but cannot bear to look him in the face as he reveals himself inch by inch to…no, he cannot think of Snape as Snape; he must think of him as a client wanting a lap dance, nothing more. Someone else's music is vibrating through the floor. It's Led Zeppelin's "Black Dog" and it's too fast for his liking and the title of the song alone is enough to break Sirius into giggles. He bites the inside of his cheek and opens his robes, revealing everything he is to Snape.
Here, the few secrets that leak through the dark are dangerous.
Ignoring the beat of the music, Sirius drops his robes to the floor and swings one leg over the table that is only big enough to hold a candle and a few drinks. Snape opens his legs. Sirius steps forward and brings his wand front and center but Snape clamps his hand around Sirius's wrist.
Sirius's protest of "Don't touch me" is lost under Snape's diamond-hard gaze and a command of "Don't use your wand."
Nodding, Sirius places his wand carefully on the table and tilts his head back, enjoying the feeling of his loose hair against his spine. He traces his fingertips over his ribs to his waist. Snape remains still, seemingly unfazed by anything Sirius does in the course of his dance. This irritates Sirius. The least Snape could do, he thinks, is show some kind of reaction, even if it isn't the want you need you would give anything to touch you
he gets from all the other patrons. Sirius places one leg on the outside of Severus's, resting it against black cloth. Running his left hand along his inner thigh, Sirius summons every ounce of performer's bravado he has and looks into Snape's eyes.
And there is everything Sirius has been looking for.
Sirius glances around. The bartender is preoccupied with drink orders. The manager is nowhere to be seen. Those who were watching him earlier have turned their attention to the new dancer on the stage, a woman with red hair and perfect breasts who can stand on her hands and bend her legs over her head.
"Touch me," Sirius whispers to Snape as he leans against the table.
The night has begun.