Title: Not for You
Author: thegildedmagpie
Characters/Pairings: Unidentified male/Severus Snape
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Please your mod: BDSM, desk!sex (well, lab table!sex), masturbation
Other Warnings: hot and dirty and foul-mouthed, a bit dubconny, with a facial.
Word Count: 1745
Summary/Description: Severus is over his lab table. What more does anyone need?
Author's Notes: Thanks to pre_raphaelite1 for help with the ending. I rarely (i.e. never) write unidentified-character stuff, but this one, I think, needed it.



He's been sore for days. His – he hesitates to say partner – has to be aching too from all this, from the swift brutal movements, the bruising blows that seem an inextricable part of it, from both of them coming like the randy teenagers they've neither of them been for decades – has to be feeling it by now. Even though it's Severus who's on the suffering end of the coupling. Somehow this isn't stopping either of them. Severus refuses to be the one to give in first, no matter the bruises on his hips or how the scrape of his nipples over the wooden table makes them burn. And there's a bitter, biting pleasure in the suspicion that even if Severus did object to the days of rough use, it just might not matter.

He ought to be taking advantage of that precious working time when his attention can be fully on maintaining the precision of his product, in between irritating interruptions by fresh-faced teenagers who can always be expected to touch things they shouldn't, and visits from poncy arses who patronize his experimentation (usually in both senses, because that's how Lucius is), and times when he actually has to stop and eat the meals that are quietly left covered for him on the appointed table – these productive hours are not to be squandered. And he's spent them with his sleeves rolled up in the dim, steaming laboratory with its familiar arcane smells of heavy metals and trade secrets and seductive danger. Where he ought to be. The only demesne where he is master. But instead of cutting and combining and making careful crabbed notes of results, he's spent most of the last week on his knees, or over the lab table, or under it, being fucked like an inexperienced schoolboy in over his head.

A sharp slap across his jaw makes him grimace against the table. “I thought I told you to move,” the now-familiar voice growls behind him.

“Fuck you,” Severus snarls – about as erudite as he can manage.

“I'm doing that,” the other returns shortly, and his right hand closes over Severus's wrist, pushing it up, stretching his arm forward across the table and pinning him there. Severus growls faintly again at the jump he feels in his cock when he sees the fingers, shades darker than his own untanned wrist, imprison his chemical-stained hand at eye level. The other hand stays on Severus's hip, fingers surely leaving a large, neat leopard-spot cluster of bruises, which will draw his eye when he glimpses himself in the mirror like an out-of-place tool on a workdesk.

He should be working. Even now he should be bent over some task of impossible precision, black eyes squinting from behind smoked goggles at bright sparks and unthought-of combinations, the tools of his trade poised in his long thin fingers that grip them like he means to strangle them into creating in reality that which his mind has conceived. Not bent over the table for someone he ought not to want, ought not to have responded to the first time he threw Severus over the table and held him there. Ought not to still be allowing to catch him.

He should be accomplishing something. He's never been Between Projects for this long in his life. But somehow this territory that's his and his alone has been invaded; common purpose put them both here, the common purpose that should make it impossible for them to touch each other; he didn't even realize the other liked men, and it's not as though he's to Severus's usual taste either.

The fingers leave his hip and he's slapped on the other side of his face, making him hiss as his nose flattens against the table when he flinches from it. “I said move, Severus.”

“Stop that. I'm not a child,” he snarls.

“You're right,” growls the other. “Never met a child who would be turned on by this.”

Somehow, instead of insisting on returning to his work, Severus lets this happen to him. Somehow, instead of exchanging crabby greetings as they pass, backbiting when their separate tasks bring them together – now they argue, and fight, and claw, and fuck.

The cock in him is large, satisfyingly thick, making him shudder at the burning stretch as his narrow thighs spread without his bidding them to. In his mind he sees it dark and flushed as it takes him, a glistening counterpart to the marks the bigger man's large hands leave on his hips and thighs and arse.

Then it's withdrawn. He nearly falls, cries out low and hard and too loud for the necessary subtlety as his wrist twists when he's rolled over, thudding onto his back. Their mouths jam together as his partner climbs onto the table with him; papers flutter onto the floor with a sound like a startled dovecote, metal clatters over the stonework and he takes only half a moment to hope very much that if that was some container amongst the evil-looking detritus that always covers his work tables, it was an empty one – before he's absorbed in the biting, tearing kiss. His shirt is torn open, a button or four popping loose; he rips open the other's waistcoat, blunt nails scoring the chest beneath.

Even in the kiss he's being crushed and dominated and forced down like a clawing beast. Their teeth scrape each other's lips. He gets one hand free and tangles it in long, unbound hair that, whatever its owner insists, is curly in the laboratory's steam, making it a better place to catch fingers and pull hard – giving back enough pain to make him feel not a trapped thing at the hunter's mercy, enough pain to demand more.

One of his hands is grabbed and shoved down in the general direction of his groin, with another low, brutal growl: “Touch yourself.” No names, no insults – he was clear enough about that with his fists and poisoned words that it hasn't been repeated since the first time it was tried. But more words now, and another slap that pierces his mouth with pain: “Stroke your cock. Come on. Let me see it.” Then the hand across his throat, pushing his chin up, making him snarl ineffectually as the greater strength forces his head back.

He tries to bite the second hand that approaches his face, his crooked teeth glancing over the calloused skin before it clamps firmly over his mouth and nose. The one on his throat tightens too, between them holding him inextricably in place and cutting off his air completely. He thrashes, but a lifetime bent over work tables has not given him enough strength to fight this; manual dexterity enough, maybe, to neatly disjoint fingers if he could get to them, but he can't even as his short nails try again to catch in the muscular forearms, and at last he reaches down to take himself in hand.

The fingers on his face are taken back as soon as he does and he draws great rushing gasps of air, his legs spreading unconsciously across the scarred wooden surface of the table because he can't turn away, his throat still held tight enough to faintly restrict his panting and keep him sprawled on his back. He pumps his cock as his mouth is covered again, and this is all it takes: the smears of moisture slicking his cock (he gets wet when he's fucked, the precome beading and running, like an overexcited girl – and he'd go for the balls if anyone pointed it out), the grip on his throat just tight enough that he can feel each individual finger and how his breath whistles against them, another rough kiss with scraping teeth that breaks with a barked order when he's too far gone to disobey it – “Come for me” – and he's darkly, poisonously pleased to know that the thin white spurts that are jerked from him adorn the trousers of his not-exactly-lover even as he comes harder than should even be possible after the many days they've done this with the regularity that most people eat meals and sleep.

“Not – for – you,” he grits into the trembling aftershocks.

“Open your fucking mouth,” is the only reply he gets as a knee descends to pin his shoulder. The cock is in front of his eyes now, as large and dark as he imagined it, a broad hand fisting it.

“Fuck you,” he snaps, and clenches his teeth tightly. Last time, his lips parted to this command and he swore bitterly to himself he wouldn't do it again.

“Going on your face, then,” is shot back and he closes his eyes, not wanting the burn of come in them, as his lips and jawline are humiliatingly decorated with sticky heat. He'll remember this next time. He'll harden faster for it. They both know it, and Severus wonders momentarily, but bites back on asking, whether his lover prefers the sight of thin white come spattering his face – or of Severus opening his mouth.

Too quickly, the other man slides off the tabletop – something else falls to the floor with a thud – and Severus hears the small noises of him redressing. Instead of looking, to admire the body he perversely finds so beautiful, Severus scowls at the steam curling over his head. He should get up. Continue something useful.

“No post-coital smoke? Some tender words of love?” he asks sarcastically.

The other snorts. “If you're looking to get tender words of love you're being fucked by the wrong person.”

Severus pushes himself up, rubbing at his shoulder where the knee was planted when (he shudders only slightly with remembered arousal) his partner was wanking over his face. “That,” he says with bitter feeling, “is true on so very many levels.”

“And that's your favorite part,” says the other man, and runs his knuckles over the gloss of Severus's hair, an absent, almost certainly unconscious touch of affection. And before Severus can react to it, he's gone.

“Oh yes,” Severus snaps to no one in particular. “How foolish of me.”

And then he tells himself firmly that he has been looking forward to the chance to get some real work done.