Entry tags:

arthur weasley, fic, severus snape, slash

FIC: 'Antidote' for Anonymous (one of *two* gifts!)
Recipient: Anonymous
Author: shocfix
Title: Antidote
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Arthur/Severus
Word Count: 1069
Warnings: None.
Summary: See below
Author's Notes:Written for Anonymous, for the inaugural hp_beholder, the fest for romancing those characters who usually get the fuzzy end of the lollipop, romance-wise.

She asked for Arthur, which warms my cockles - she also asked if her neglected character could hook up with some Snape, which is funny, because he is the least sexual character in my corner of the fandom, so, for me, the fest is kinda backwards, and poor neglected Severus is gonna score with a Weasley.

So.

Many thanks to the luminous M for the beta and hand holding and to the very patient bethbethbeth for running this unique fest.

---

Antidote

~<>~<>~<>~

The kitchen door opened and the entire Weasley family, plus Hermione, came inside, all looking very happy, with Mr Weasley walking proudly in their midst dressed in a pair of striped pyjamas covered by a mackintosh.

'Cured!' he announced brightly to the kitchen at large. 'Completely cured!'

He and all the other Weasleys froze on the threshold, gazing at the scene in front of them, which was also suspended in mid-action, both Sirius and Snape looking towards the door with their wands pointing into each other's faces and Harry immobile between them, a hand stretched out to each, trying to force them apart.

'Merlin's beard,' said Mr Weasley, the smile sliding off his face, 'what's going on here?'

You slip away from the warmth and life and bustle in the kitchen, knowing he is still upstairs, and you are right. He is standing in the hallway, his slender fingers idly caressing a serpentine doorknob, but you can see the tension in his shoulders and you approach and place two fingertips on his wrist.

"I have to go," he says, unconvincingly, because he could be far away by now, couldn't he, if he hadn't wanted to see you.

"It was you, wasn't it, Severus," you ask, as he turns his hand over and your fingers slide across his pulse point, feeling it throb with his life force. "You brought the antidote to St Mungo's."

He grunts and leans back into you, seemingly despite himself, because he is as tense as ever.

"Let us say your Healers were not as...familiar with that particular snake as I am," he murmurs, his hand dropping to your thigh and you watch his bony fingers running up and down the ridiculously cheery stripes of your pyjamas and you shiver. "That is one antidote I should always carry with me."

You frown at this reminder that he endangers himself, but there are no soft words between you. Everything about him is hard and controlled and uncompromising; his life, his voice, his hip bone as you reach round him and palm it. Everything about him is so in contrast to the softness, the warmth, the chaos that usually surrounds you. You tell yourself that this isn't infidelity; that touching another woman's soft curves would be disloyalty, burying yourself in yielding warmth would be betrayal, that the living weight of his cock in your hand is not the same as the weight of a motherly breast.

You tell yourself that every time; every time he comes to the house and torments poor Sirius, every time his scorn and disdain for what they have achieved leaves the rest of the Order frustrated with him.

Every time you take your frustration out on his body, thrusting against his answering hardness until you both gasp and falter, turning away from him and feeling him stretch you with precise and careful fingers, with the surprising intimacy of his tongue, feeling him fill you and take strength from the fact, the lights popping behind your eyes and the frustration ebbing and blending into the background levels of disappointment and dissatisfaction in this house.

This isn't infidelity; it is something separate from love and warmth and family.

And pressure.

Pressure to protect.

He doesn't need your protection; would sneer at the suggestion. But he needs the release, just as much as you do, he needs to step outside the stress and the lies and the balancing act of serving two Masters.

So you pull him closer but he shakes his head, turning to face you, your hand dropping uselessly away from his body.

"Not now, Arthur," he says firmly. "They are waiting for you, downstairs."

"You didn't visit me," you say and his eyebrow lifts scornfully and you don't care. "You could have visited me in hospital. You could have brought the antidote."

You are stubborn.

He sighs and his brows draw together - only slightly, but you have grown used to reading his expression.

"We agreed that last summer was a mistake," he says levelly, but his face is almost expectant.

"Possibly," you say, stepping closer, "but then I almost died."

"And how does that make it any less ridiculous for us to continue these assignations," he murmurs, pulling you deeper into the shadows beneath the stairs. "It was risky enough in a house full of people last year, but at least they were busy, weren't expecting you downstairs for your welcome home feast."

"Then we will have to be quick," you say simply.

"You're just out of hospital, man," he protests, but he leans back against the wall and spreads his legs, and you step between them.

There are things you could say, things about proving that you are still alive, about dramatic life affirming gestures, about sacrifices to capricious gods, but if you'd wanted to talk, you could have stayed downstairs. You part his robes and he is semi erect, despite his half hearted complaints. You free your own cock from the pyjamas your wife had dressed you in and you spare a moment's thought for being comfortably middle aged and unselfconscious about what you wear during sex.

You lean in and press your length against his and his gloriously long fingers wrap around you both, his other arm holding you firmly and you know that this is his way of protecting you - if only from the folly of exerting yourself so soon after your release from the Healer's tender ministrations - and his strokes are brisk, not tender, but it is what you both need and no one knows that as well as he does.

You shudder in his hands and he milks every drop from you, thoughtfully keeping the damning evidence clear of your pyjama bottoms as your deflating cock slips free. He is close behind you and your seed slides over his shaft as he tips his head back and you raise your eyes to watch his face as he reaches for his climax, and you see something move in the shadows.

Someone has been watching you - bright eyes meet yours as you turn your head and a slim hand covers an open mouth as Snape grunts and spills across his fingers.

There is a flick of hair as your watcher turns and returns to the kitchen and Snape's forehead briefly lowers to your shoulder as he composes himself. You wonder if you should say anything about your audience, but the alarm doesn't seem to have been raised and no urgency pierces your post-climax languor, so you tuck yourself away and take a step backwards.

Snape tidies himself up and raises a wry eyebrow. "Can you go back downstairs to your party now, then?" he asks, but the tension is gone from his shoulders and he places a comforting hand on your shoulder as he leaves.

You take a deep breath and return to the kitchen, where your family descends upon you once more, clucking about you over exerting yourself and making sure you put your feet up and take it easy.

Everyone is festive, everyone watches the festivities happily.

One pair of bright eyes watches you.