Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: akatnamedeasterFrom: thegildedmagpieTitle:
Bondage, rough sexOther Warnings/Content:
Vague implication of underage dubcon back in the day, as it wereWord Count:
It's Christmas Eve and someone has to clean up after the Order meeting. Eventually Severus knew he'd wind up alone with Black, but he wasn't expecting these … solicitations.
Alternate title: “A Smorgasbord of Snack,” featuring a meaty entree of rough sex with an enhancing side of angst, a piquant bounty of insults, and a subtle dash of revenge.Author's Notes:
This was an immense challenge, especially with Sev and his adorable flaily incoherence of RAGE in charge of the narration, but I hope it meets your hopes!
“You're a stinking prancing girly-haired halfwit bastard
, you know that? You think you kill a few Death Eaters and you're everything and know everything, do you? You think you know all about my loyalties
and my priorities
and my trustworthiness
. Well, I'll have you know I have fucking nightmares
about having to watch one of the Order die in front of me, but I'll do it if I have to
because I care more about the Order and saving the damned world from him than about my own pathetic little best friendships and my stupid pride and how my pretty little arse looks in Hit-Wizard robes!” Severus shoves his chair back so viciously it clatters on the floor. “Nightmares every night about having to torture to death Moody or Professor McGonagall and I get up and cope with it while my mind is full of pictures that would make you shit
yourself. But I have fucking wet dreams
about them catching you. I am not fifteen years old anymore and I am. Not. Afraid. Of you.
For a moment they stare at each other over the table of the safe-house kitchen, littered with paper plates and muffin crumbs, and cheerful paper cups with reindeer on them holding dregs of whiskey and wine. Neither of them were expecting the speech, least of all the speaker – not from a young man who used to be a young boy who went spittingly incoherent with rage when tormented by Black and his insufferable mates.
And then Black does that irritating sort of stretch and grin and hair-flip thing
of his and says, “So I got that you have wet dreams about me and you think you have a pretty little arse.”
“You – you utter – fuck
you!” There's the incoherent for a comeback tour then.
“So you think I've
got a pretty little arse.”
Severus stares, blinks, and snarls, “I've got work to do.
” He pulls himself together. Gives a short order. “Clean up and I'll pull down the enchantments.” He stalks stiffly as an offended Siamese out of the cozy dining room with its popcorn scent and rooster wallpaper, into the commandeered house's lounge, pulling his wand from its sleeve holster. If it weren't Christmas Eve, perhaps this wouldn't have been his task tonight – but those who have children's stockings to fill and siblings' gifts to wrap ducked the cleanup, leaving behind the two without families to spend the holiday with to take care of erasing their presence. It's necessary, always, to leave the places perfect so the Muggles that live there won't know that, while they were cheerfully on holiday, their house was shield-charmed to the eaves and used for a bunch of wizards to drink wine and make plans and talk, with a low constant thrum of barely-hidden anxiety, about what can be expected of the Ministry and where friends have gone into hiding and which cousins have died.
He also has nightmares about his Muggle-baiting associates coming to visit a former Order safe house. Being expected to butcher the children whose crayon drawings and primary-school Christmas cards were on the refrigerator in which they stashed the pies. To rape the woman who applies furniture polish to the dining room table around which the worried wizards gathered. Being unable to refuse to turn a wand on the father who saved his wages so they could vacate the premises over Christmas.
He pulls down the first charm and dammit Black has followed him.
Severus jumps out of his skin at the tap on the shoulder, and his hackles rise more at the familiar cheerful sneer: “I think you get to do the dishes, Snivelly. You're still on probation.”
“If you call me that again I'll hand you over to the Death Eaters myself.”
“Empty threats, Mr. Severus O. Snape, esquire, potion master extraordinaire.”
He turns like a jerky automaton doll to see Black grinning confidently at him. “I'm finished talking to you.”
“Wasn't talking I had in mind. I haven't got a notch in my bedpost for you, see. You're next on the list.”
“You utter brazen idiot,” Severus says with flat astonishment.
“That a yes?”
me in a safe house. Me.
He looks up. Down. Around. Back at Severus. “Looks that way, doesn't it?”
“Are you incapable of using both a subject and a verb together?” Severus snaps.
“Is flawless grammar a requirement for buggering you over a table?”
“I can't – You absolute – I don't even. There are no words.”
“Obviously not,” Black drawls, and saunters closer. Apparently Severus backed away from him. He makes up his mind to forget having evidently done this. “So you know what I'm going to do?”
He grates, holding his ground, “I expect you intend to inform me at ungrammatical length.”
“I'm going to earn that notch, Snape. I'm working my way through the Order. I've got a spot right in between McGonagall's and Molly's that I think you'll fit nicely in.”
“Don't talk about her that way,” he snaps. He's been eating Molly's soup and scones at every meeting too long to let that go undefended, and Minerva is – well, Professor McGonagall. “Either of them.”
“I'm going to bend you over that table and lift up your robes and shove down your trousers.” Black is advancing. Severus blanches but holds his ground. “Hope you're planning to do the dishes first, eh, Snape? I've even got lube. Kept it in my pocket through the whole meeting keeping it warm for your arse. Going to slick you and stretch you and force you open.” Severus stares with his mouth slightly open. There are no words. None. Black continues without pause. “Then while you stay there waiting for me to fuck you, I'm going to give you a good hard slap. See if you've actually got any blood in there. If you do, your arse will turn pink. Want to find out?”
“How. Dare. You.” His voice is utterly cold and colorless.
“Because it's making you hard when I talk about it.”
The sheer blinding arrogance is the worst. The shiny-haired prettiness, contributing. The fact that he's right. Still. “I thought I already got a tally mark in your sordid little record when I was fifteen and you were making me choke on your cock
They're both silent for a moment when it's out. As if the words have hit “play” on the mental wireless, his mind echoes it: Seems to
me you run that mouth too much, Snivellus. Why don't we stop it up?
A toss of Black's hair seems to recover him, a wave of his hand clear the air – as far as he's concerned. “You bit me. We're square. Anyway, blowjobs don't count. You telling me that you and your Death Eater pals don't suck each other off?”
“I'd rather the Dark Lord himself than you,” Severus spits.
“How's he?” Black remarks, utterly blasé in a way that makes Severus see red ever more – but when he speaks, his voice is soft and cold.
“Very well,” he says in a voice like thick carpet. “After you.”
Black gives him a look redolent of self-aware skepticism. “You're agreeing?”
“I'm very aware you think I'm pathetic. Let's see if you still think so in half an hour's time.”
After a moment, Black shrugs, turns toward the kitchen, and starts walking.
“You don't turn your back on an enemy,” Severus snarls, and with a flick of his wand the thin cords he's so very good at, the ones he can almost conjure wandless in his better moments and which he's had so much more practice with than he ever wanted – the cords snap Black's wrists painfully together behind his oh-so-perfect arse and the long leash of them behind the knot flies to Severus's hand.
“We'll be earning that notch for you, Black,” he says, his voice cutting coldly through Black's cry of rage, which turns to one of surprised pain as Severus viciously jerks the cords upward, nearly bringing Black to his knees. “One way or another.”
There's a poufy little ottoman before one of the armchairs, and Severus draws it up with his wand, letting it bang hard against Black's shins before taking his hands to bend his back over it. Black snarls – it's a good one, Severus thinks with bitter-coffee humor, almost as good as his own, but not enough, it only encourages – and Black's bent over, arse up, a humiliating position that makes something in the dark poison well of his mind give an evil, evil chuckle.
This is what he wished for when he first went with Rodolphus for “a bit of fun,” as the older Death Eater called it. Not beating innocent housewives and Crucioing children. This sweet struggling power to surprise his enemies. Once, when he was a teenager (never mind that he's less than a year out of his teens) he was Black's kitten to torture like any pretty sociopath, and it's a warm shiver of sharp pleasure to turn and scratch. This
is what he wanted.
He drags Black's robes up and reaches around his narrow waist, careful to keep a precise amount of tension on the cord to hold Black's shoulders at the edge of pain so he can't move without worsening it. Thin potion-stained fingers grope at his flies, drag his waistband down his hips.
He becomes aware that Black is still talking, and snipes at him, “Don't you ever shut your damned mouth?”
“Bet you'd like to shut it for me,” is shot back from the vicinity of the carpet. “What's a rough blowjob among allies
Striking blind, his hand slaps firmly onto Black's pale, tight arse. He stares at the crimson mark he's left for a moment.
Black says, in a low voice, “Like I said. Lube's in my pocket.”
A short laugh cracks from Severus's lips. “Bet you're hoping I'll use it, too.”
“You wouldn't dare.” And then, with the sound of a smirk, “Wouldn't suggest it if you'd tried topping without lube, either.”
He colors a little and searches Black's pockets roughly, fingers brushing a beginning stiffness which makes them both jump. The tube in his pocket, a firm tube like toothpaste, bears a lurid name from some Muggle shop which makes him sneer more. The contents are thick and slippery on his bony fingertips, dripping glutinously where he squeezed out too much in his over-eagerness. The tube he casts to the floor as he shoves his trousers down, taking into his hand a cock narrow and pale but prominently veined and proud – somehow fully hard. Somehow.
Ink and potion spots vanish into the tight ring of Black's arse. This is pathetic, hedonistic, exactly Black's
sort of thing. It can't feel as good as it does. Surely it doesn't.
His cock and Black's arse both glisten but he tries to be restrained, not considerate
, not with Black, but to demonstrate he can wait, that he's
not too without patience or self-control to wait.
Black cries out, higher and fuller than that obviously-stylized sardonic growl of his that makes Severus's hackles rise. He feels how his skin tightens on his arms as Black starts to move, long legs in crinkled jeans pushing against the floor to shove his arse higher still, fucking himself on one and then two of Severus's fingers. Severus keeps the pressure on his wrists, his cock throbbing at the sight of the ripple of narrow muscle stretched to the extreme behind Black's shoulderblades.
When his cock plunges home he has to bite his tongue to not come in half a minute.
It's quick regardless, the slick slide of his cock not enough, not enough, and then abruptly too much for his so-recently-teenaged libido, and his blunt, chipped nails rake down Black's smooth pale back, leaving four rosy trails that make the man under him arch and keen, thighs spreading wider as they nearly overbalance. When he's finished (too little, too much, and the spurts of his seed filling his enemy's arse) he pulls out too fast for either of them, making himself shudder and Black's spine bow the other direction when he's startlingly unfilled.
Trying for cold but mostly winding up with shaky, he tells Black, “I have some cleaning up to do. And you can bloody well wait there out of the way.”
He forgets or doesn't bother to check if Black has come. One or the other.
By his calculations it's precisely one minute and forty seconds before the ranting yields to muttering, but only about fifty seconds to the thud when Black struggles himself off the ottoman and hits the floor. And the picture of him waiting there for him, bound on the floor, helpless –
Well, it makes him far less annoyed at being the one left to straighten the chairs and Vanish all the disposable cutlery.