Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: akatnamedeaster
From: A Wicked Watcher: ravenclawsquill

Title: Sorted
Characters/Pairings: Sirius Black / Severus Snape
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: Spanking, anal fingering, dubious consent
Other Warnings/Content: Dom/sub, mild bondage, dirty talk, hate sex, partial stripping
Word Count: 3,585
Summary:
All rational thought leaves me at the sight of him, sprawled across my thighs with no way of getting up. A pulse of adrenaline tangles with the dark, desperate frustration I’ve been carrying for months, twisting and turning in my chest, and before I even have a chance to think about what I’m doing, I raise my hand and strike him, hard, across the arse.
Author's Notes:
I’d like to say a huge thank you to my brilliant beta, K, whose smart and speedy suggestions improved this fic enormously.



The Order meeting has been going on for almost three hours, and it’s safe to say I’ve lost the will to live. These meetings are supposed to be a break from the relentless boredom of pacing around this miserable house, but recently they’ve become the dullest part of my incarceration. There’s never any real news, just hours of strategizing and thinly veiled arguments.

I lean back in my seat, letting the front legs lift off the floor. I ignore Molly’s reproving look. This is my house, after all. Why shouldn’t I lean back if I want to?

Kingsley’s updates about suspected Ministry informers get longer every week; he’s been talking for at least half an hour and is still going strong. I recognise the occasional name from my time in Azkaban, but it’s not enough to hold my attention.

I look slowly at the familiar faces around the table. Most of them look as bored as I feel, with the exceptions of Kingsley and perhaps Minerva. Fred and George are doodling idly on a copy of the Prophet; beside them, Remus is slumped forward, looking peaky – the full moon is only a few days away. Dora’s bubblegum pink hair can't quite detract from her vacant expression. Dung has given up all pretence and is actually snoring. Even Dumbledore, calmly directing the meeting from the head of the table, looks as though his great mind is elsewhere. Finally, huddled in the corner like a great, greasy bat, is Severus.

He glances up as if he can feel my eyes on him, schooling his features into an expression of intense dislike.

I look quickly away, dropping my gaze lower, in the direction of the door. The unmistakable flesh-coloured tip of an Extendable Ear is poking out from under it. I fight back a smile. At least the kids have enough fire in them not to take no for an answer. Ginny Weasley may be the youngest of the group, but she has more initiative than the rest of us put together.

“What do you think, Sirius?” Kingsley’s deep voice pulls me firmly back to the meeting.

I rack my brain, trying to catch up with the conversation, but before I can so much as open my mouth to reply, Severus cuts in.

“I hardly think that Black’s opinion makes a blind bit of difference,” he says silkily. “What can our resident fugitive possibly do to assist?”

His eyes flit down to the crack beneath the door, and cold fury washes over me as I realise he knows that Harry is listening.

Only the almost imperceptible shake of Remus’s head keeps me in my seat. I’d love nothing more than to hex Severus senseless – he’s been baiting me for weeks – but Remus looks as though he needs the meeting to end as soon as possible. With a great effort, I clench fists beneath the table and mutter to Kingsley that I have nothing more to add.

An awkward silence falls over the table. Thankfully it isn’t too long before Dumbledore steps in, calling the meeting to an end and getting to his feet.

When I offered up my ancestral home as Headquarters for the Order, I never expected for a moment that it would necessitate welcoming miserable, hook-nosed Severus as a regular dinner guest – and what a terrible guest he is. He never socialises before or after meetings, always sits in the corner, and refuses to so much as touch a single morsel of Molly’s delicious cooking.

What’s more, his presence is incredibly distracting. Even when he sits through an entire meeting without saying a word, he somehow manages to fill the room, drawing my attention like a dour-faced magnet.

I’m still seething as we all file out into the hallway, and when I see him talking to a scowling Harry at the foot of the stairs, it’s as if something snaps in my brain.

I push my way through the crowded hallway and grab his arm. “Excuse us, Harry. May I have a word, Severus?” I keep my tone as neutral as possible; it’s best to stay polite until we’re behind closed doors.

He smirks and pulls free. “I’m afraid not, Black. I’m in a hurry. We don’t all have unlimited leisure time, you see.”

“It’ll only take a moment.”

“Very well. What do you wish to say?”

Harry’s watching us warily. The other Order members are pausing in the doorway, fumbling with coats and bags to buy time, craning their necks as they try to see what’s going on. Severus is clearly enjoying the audience; his dark eyes are practically gleaming with malice.

I shake my head. “Not here. Upstairs.”

“I wasn’t aware that dogs were allowed upstairs,” he murmurs. It’s almost inaudible, but he may as well have shouted it.

Hot fury ignites in my chest but I bite my tongue, denying him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, I clench my fists in a desperate attempt to prevent myself from reaching for my wand, and begin to climb the first flight of stairs. For a moment, I don’t think he’s going to follow me, but then I hear the creak of the bottom step.

I lead him all the way to the very far end of the third floor landing, to the room which houses the lightly charred tapestry of my family tree. A dramatic choice, perhaps, but I want to leave him in no doubt as to who’s in charge in this house. Besides, this room has other advantages: it’s far enough away from the rest of the household that nobody will hear us, and there are no portraits in here to bear witness.

“After you,” I say, ushering him inside.

He pauses to roll his eyes, then sweeps through the doorway, his cloak flaring behind him. The bastard certainly knows how to carry off traditional dress.

The moment he’s crossed the threshold, I follow and draw my wand. Within ten seconds I have the door locked and warded so firmly that Dumbledore himself wouldn’t have a hope of breaking through it.

I remain facing the door for a moment, my pulse racing. I don’t have a plan. I’m not entirely sure what I want to say to him, but something has to be done. He’s been winding me up for too long, and this evening’s poisonous little comments are the final straw.

I take a deep breath and turn to face him. He’s holding his own wand out like a sword, his face contorted with malice.

“Expelliarmus!”

We shout the incantation in unison, but my spell is quicker. His wand flies from his fingers and soars into my outstretched left hand. It’s not enough to just disarm him: he’s notoriously proficient at wandless magic. I take advantage of his surprise to put an extra precaution in place.

“Incarcerous!”

Two coils of black rope shoot from the end of my wand. The first binds his wrists tightly behind his back as the second snakes around his ankles. I draw out the spell, pulling the ropes a little too tight for comfort.

Severus teeters on the spot, leaning left and right, battling desperately against gravity. He eventually straightens up, having managed to remain upright through sheer force of will.

“Untie me. Now.” His words are a deadly whisper, so quiet I have to step closer to hear them.

A thrill of fear rushes down the length of my spine at his dangerous tone. I know my life won’t be worth living when he gets free, but for the time being ... this is the most exciting thing I’ve done in months.

I twirl my wand slowly between my fingers, taunting him, before slipping it back into my trouser pocket.

“Hmm … I think not. We need to have a little chat, first.”

His lips are pressed so tightly together they’re all but invisible, but despite his rather undignified position, he juts out his chin and looks down on me as if I’m a naughty schoolboy. The fact that he can look so condescending when at such a disadvantage only serves to fan the flames of my anger.

“You see, I’m sick of your shit, Snivellus. I’ve had enough of you disrespecting me in my own home.” I point sharply to the tapestry which dominates the back wall. “This is my house, and I will not tolerate any more of your shitty little comments. Especially not when Harry can hear them.”

He smirks. “I assure you that the boy is quite aware of your inadequacies without requiring any input from me.”

He starts to shift on the spot, moving his weight from one foot to the other, loosening the ankle bindings with each miniscule step. I’m not letting him get away that easily. I stick out my own foot to trip him and can’t quite hold back my laugh as he stumbles, unbalanced.

The move backfires, though; he somehow manages to fall into me, bringing me down with him.

We fall to the floor together, landing in a heap. With no free hands to put out before him, Severus ends up face down across my lap.

It’s a ridiculous position to end up in. If the circumstances were different, I’d laugh out loud.

As things are, though, it isn’t funny in the slightest.

All rational thought leaves me at the sight of him, sprawled across my thighs with no way of getting up. A pulse of adrenaline tangles with the dark, desperate frustration I’ve been carrying for months, twisting and turning in my chest, and before I even have a chance to think about what I’m doing, I raise my hand and strike him, hard, across the arse.

THWACK!

We’re both stunned into a deafening silence. It drags on for so long that I genuinely begin to wonder if I’ve inadvertently discovered how to make time stand still. I’m about to nudge Severus to check when he finally speaks.

“How dare you.” Each word is as sharp and cold as the blade of a knife, slicing through the air with a precision that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I have no response to that, so I do the only thing I can think of: I spank him again. Then again, only harder.

He takes each hit in silence. The only sounds are the smart slaps of my hand against his arse, muted by the heavy fabric of his robes.

After the third blow, he shifts awkwardly in my lap and I feel something unexpected. At first I’m convinced I must be mistaken. It can’t be what I think it is; it must just be his robes, bunched underneath him. But a few smacks later, I’m left with no doubts: he’s hard. I can feel the bulge of his prick through the layers of our clothing, nudging into my thigh with every blow. I watch his arse closely as I continue to spank him, until I’m certain he’s thrusting against me on purpose.

The realisation is accompanied by such a heady surge of arousal that I lose my rhythm and pause, with my hand on his arse, for so long he turns to look at me.

The sight of his face, carefully neutral, but with dark pupils blown wide, spurs me back into action.

“You love it, don’t you?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady.

“What if I do?” he snarls.

I was expecting a vehement denial, or perhaps a snide insult. His brazen admission takes me aback, and for a moment I’m left gaping, trying to plan my next move.

“If you do … we should do it properly.” I sound infinitely more confident than I feel, but it seems to do the trick.

“Fine.”

I reach awkwardly into my trouser pocket – it’s no easy feat, given that I’m achingly hard – and take out my wand. A voice in the back of my mind tells me this is a very bad idea, that it’s almost certainly a trick, but I’m beyond listening.

“Relashio!”

The bindings fall away, first from his ankles, then his wrists. His sleeves have ridden up during the course of the last few minutes, and I can see the red welts where the rough rope has irritated his skin.

Given what’s just happened, he’d be well within his rights to seek revenge, but he doesn't make any move to recover his wand. He stays in place, laid across my lap, head turned to one side, glaring at me.

“Well? Get on with it then!”

“Get up onto all fours.”

To my utter shock, he follows my order without complaint. He slowly lifts himself off me and gets onto his hands and knees with an air of such insolence it makes my head spin.

I kneel behind him and reach under his chest, setting to work unfastening the buttons of his robes. It’s more difficult than I expected; the angle is awkward, and there are a ridiculous number of them. He tuts and shakes his head as I struggle.

After about a minute of awkward fumbling, my patience gives way and I reach for my wand.

He’s upright in an instant. “Don’t even think about it, Black.”

He reaches up to his throat and unhooks the entire row of buttons in quick succession until his robes hang open, revealing the white shirt and black trousers he wears beneath them. He shrugs out of the heavy fabric and lays them carefully on the floor. Then, with a final exasperated sigh, he returns to all fours.

When he’s back in position, I reach around his waist and unfasten his belt, drawing the supple leather through the cool metal buckle. It feels deliciously indecent against my fingers, but I can’t allow myself to become distracted.

I unbutton his trousers and hook my fingertips under the waistband, pulling them down as far as I can, to the point where his knees touch the floor. The act of doing so leaves his white shirt tails hanging over the curve of his arse. I push them roughly out of the way, shoving his shirt halfway up his back to reveal his black briefs.

It’s still not enough. I tug the offending underwear down unceremoniously, and bite down hard on my bottom lip at the sight of his naked arse.

I wait a moment, hoping to unsettle him, then slap his arse cheek as hard as I can. The sound of my hand against his bare flesh is like the crack of a whip, infinitely more satisfying than when he was clothed. His skin blooms an angry shade of red beneath my palm.

A second smack, to the other cheek, has us both breathing heavily, gasping for air.

“Look at you, on your hands and knees for me. Who’s the dog now, Snivellus?” It’s a low blow, but he deserves it.

I spank him again before he can reply, landing the blow firmly across the center of his arse. He flinches into the sting, inhaling sharply through his teeth.

“It’s not enough for you, is it? Don’t think I can’t feel you, pushing back against my hand. You want more, don’t you?”

“Yes, I want more,” he snaps, turning to scowl at me over his shoulder.

I lean forward as if in a daze and bring my hand to his face, pressing my index and middle fingers against his thin lips. He opens his mouth and runs his tongue across my fingertips, slicking them liberally with saliva.

I push further into his mouth and he sucks lightly on my fingers in a way that sends a blinding rush of heat to my prick. I fight back a moan. I have half a mind to abort this and make him suck me off, instead.

Then he bites me, right across the knuckles. I pull my hand sharply away, deliberately catching my fingers against his teeth.

“You bastard,” I growl.

He gives a sharp, mirthless bark of laughter, but says nothing.

Anticipation hangs heavy in the air as I get into position behind him. He spreads his legs as far as the fabric of his trousers will allow and waits.

He stills as I run the very tip of my index finger in a slow circle around his rim. I pause just long enough to frustrate him, then push firmly inside.

He tenses up as I breach him, but he doesn’t make a sound – not even to draw breath. I wonder if he’s done this before.

I swallow hard and push my finger all the way into him, until my other knuckles are resting against the taut skin of his scrotum. For all his sharp edges and spiky personality, his inner walls are smooth as velvet. My prick throbs against the confines of my clothes as I imagine how the tight heat would feel around it. He has to spoil the moment, of course.

“Get on with it, Black. I really do have somewhere to be.”

Only he could manage to sound so supercilious whilst requesting – no demanding – that I put my fingers up his arse.

I pull out and add my middle finger, sliding both all the way in, rather more roughly than I would have had he kept his caustic mouth shut. He’s very tight; his muscles clench in protest at the intrusion.

I twist my fingers inside him, scissoring, searching, stroking. When my fingertips graze his prostate, he makes a choking sound and arches his back, pushing against me so vigorously he almost knocks me off balance.

I pull back, until only the very tips of my fingers are inside him, teasing his twitching muscles, then push back in almost violently, making him buck against my hand.

He’s unlike any other man I’ve been with. He doesn’t groan or plead, however much I tease. He just breathes deeply, occasionally hissing with pleasure, like the snake he is.

I lean around, just a little, until I can see his cock. It’s impressively thick, flushed an angry red, and as I watch, the clear drop of pre-come which has gathered at the tip falls to the floor.

He turns to look at me over his shoulder, and the look on his face almost undoes me. After so many months of feeling powerless, the knowledge that I’m in control, commanding his body in this way, is intoxicating.

I reach around him with my left hand and grip his prick, squeezing it hard enough to see fear flare in his dark eyes, then loosen my hold until my fingers are a loose circle around him. He thrusts frantically into my hand as I pump my fingers in and out of him, but I keep my grip featherlight, barely enough to pull his foreskin back and forth. He takes one of his own hands off the floor and tries to take over, but I knock it out of the way.

“I don’t think so.”

“Do it properly then, you bastard,” he grinds out through gritted teeth.

I pretend not to hear him and rub a slow, firm circle over his prostate.

“Uhhhhhhhh.”

My stomach swoops with victory at the knowledge that I’ve eroded his iron control enough to coax a moan out of him – even such a small, incoherent one as this.

I take pity on him and grip him firmly, wanking him in time with each merciless thrust of my fingers. I straighten and curve them intermittently, so he never knows when I’ll hit his sweet spot.

It’s a move I’ve used plenty of times in the past, and it’s never failed to draw a scream. If it were anyone else, the silence would concern me: I’d be worried I’d lost my touch. But he isn’t just anyone, and for all of his efforts to maintain his vice-like grip on his self-control, his body betrays him. However hard he tries to keep quiet, the shaking of his legs, the flush which fills his cheeks, the deep, rhythmic contractions of his arse; they all give him away.

His whole body tenses when he comes, silently, with his head hanging down between his braced arms. The tight muscles of his arse clench around my fingers as his release hits the polished floorboards in thick, filthy spurts.

I slip my fingers out of him as I milk the last drops of come from his prick. He winces in discomfort, over-sensitive and over-stimulated.

When I move away, he’s up in an instant. His trousers and belt are already done up by the time I get to my feet.

He makes fast work of the countless buttons on his robes, fastening them all the way up to the neck, masking the pink flush which lingers in the hollow between his collarbones.

When he’s fully dressed, I pick up my wand and unlock the door with a muted click.

He clears his throat. “I’ll be leaving, then.”

“Yes. Glad we got that sorted.” My voice is rough; I sound completely wrecked.

He nods once and stalks from the room, leaving me standing, light-headed, beside the sticky smear of his semen on the floor.

I palm my cock through my trousers as I lock the door behind him. The others haven’t missed me so far; what difference will a few more minutes make?

I lean back against the wall and settle into a slow, satisfying wank. Next Friday’s Order meeting will be very interesting indeed.