Entry tags:

beholder_2012, fic, greg goyle, rating:nc17, severus snape, slash, snape/goyle

FIC: "The Oddity of Kisses" for kinky_kneazle
Recipient: kinky_kneazle
Author: ???
Title: The Oddity of Kisses
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Snape/Goyle, background Harry/Draco
Word Count: ~6,300
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): *post-war, EWE, frottage*.
Summary: Sometimes when Greg's flustered his mind doesn't work quite properly, and then things happen. Like kissing Snape.
Author's Notes: Huge thanks to N for betaing and to bethbethbeth for her very gracious modly patience. kinky_kneazle, thank you so much for giving me a chance to write a pairing I've always wanted to try my hand at. \0/

---

Greg doesn't mean to kiss Professor Snape--or just Snape, really, now that all that business with the war has been put behind them and Snape's been banned from Hogwarts for life. Greg never means to do most of what he does. It just happens, or at least that's what he always tells Draco—which usually earns him a patented Malfoy snort and another finger or two of whisky pushed across the table towards him. And it's not even that Greg's thick—well, he is in some ways, he supposes, but not in all, even Millie admits that now and she's nearly as smart as Granger or Blaise or Draco. It's just that sometimes when he's flustered his mind doesn't work quite properly, and then things happen.

Like kissing Snape.

Greg's surprised at how warm and soft Snape's lips are. They're nowhere near as rough and chapped as they'd been in hospital when the breathing charms the Healers had placed on him had dried them out. Greg had rubbed a rose salve on them every night, but it'd only helped for a few hours.

Snape breathes out with a faint rattle in his throat, and a shiver goes through Greg. He doesn't want to open his eyes, doesn't want to see the disdain in Snape's face as he steps back. Greg can feel the heat rising in his cheeks, and he curses himself silently for being such an utter plonker, for Christ's sake. He'd promised himself four months ago when he'd agreed to take Snape home after the Healers had discharged him from hospital that he wouldn't do anything this stupid, no matter how much he fancied the Professor, and he'd been so damned good about it until now, not even peeking into the bath when Snape took his morning shower, and wasn't that a proper temptation to resist?

The room's silent, save for the steady tick of the clock on the chimneypiece. Greg knows without opening his eyes that it'll show his Mumsy and Father still in Azkaban--and most likely himself in Mortal Peril. Seconds drag out, but Greg keeps his eyes screwed shut, just waiting. Stupid, stupid, stupid wanker. The words echo in his head, and his stomach lurches slightly. He worries that he'll sick up on his grandmother's Persian rug that she'd brought home from her wedding trip, and then Mumsy'll be narked when she comes home because Greg has absolutely no idea how to get sick out of wool, and there's no house elf anymore thanks to Granger and her new reforms, although he suspects Draco would know how to find one for him because Greg knows that Draco's flat with Potter is far too tidy not to have an elf coming in. He'd lived with Draco's socks and pants on their dormitory floor for seven years, after all, and who'd been the one to pick up after Draco and Vince and Blaise and Theo? Him, that's who, and not a single one of them thanking him for it, even if the house elves were grateful and left boiled sweets under his pillow.

Greg quite likes house elves. They're friendly to him and don't make him nervous by using words he has to look up, like hermeneutical and feminist dialectic--and Greg's still not certain what Granger meant, really, by that, but she'd looked fierce enough that he'd kept quiet. Besides, Blaise seems happy with her, almost as happy as Draco is with Potter, though Greg doesn't think anyone could look as smug as Draco does now, and really, being happy's all that matters.

They've all been through so much in the three years since the war ended.

For a moment, Greg wonders if Snape's walked off, but he hasn't heard the steady click of Snape's cane on the worn wooden floor of the sitting room. So he takes a deep breath and opens one eye. Not completely, of course. If Snape's going to hex him, it's better for Greg if he doesn't quite see it coming.

Snape leans on his carved ebony cane, just looking at Greg with what Greg thinks is a bemused expression. He's not entirely certain, mostly because he's only partially sure what bemused actually means, but also because he's never really seen that sort of expression on Snape's face. Snape's black hair hangs lankly across his forehead, still shorter than it was in Hogwarts. The Healers had kept it close-cropped the thirty-three months and four days he was in the coma on the Llewellyn ward; it's only just begun to grow again.

There's no wand in Snape's hand, so Greg opens both eyes after a bit of hesitation. He licks his bottom lip. He thinks he can still taste Snape, but that has to be mad because he doesn't even know what Snape tastes like, though if he imagines it, there's a hint of the onions they had for supper and the cigarettes Greg knows Snape likes to sneak out in the back garden when he thinks Greg's not watching.

Greg always watches.

He clears his throat and glances down at his hands. They're big and calloused from his carpentry work and there's a bit of dark wood stain underneath his thumbnail. Vince had always liked Greg's hands, but Vince hasn't been here for over three years now, and even if he were, Greg doesn't quite know if he'd forgive him for choosing the Dark Lord over him and Draco. Even Draco hadn't been that much of a twat, and Draco, Merlin love him, is always a twat. Potter says so all the time, and Greg can't help but agree, which annoys Draco until Potter kisses him madly and makes him laugh.

Greg likes it when Draco laughs. It's a nice sound to hear again. They hadn't laughed those last two years of the war. Not really. Not like they meant it. Laughter's happy, and Greg likes being happy.

He shifts from foot to foot, then he looks up again. It's been long enough that he's probably not going to be hexed. Snape's eyes have narrowed slightly, like he's looking deep into Greg's soul, and Greg barely has enough time to throw the Occlumens Draco taught him into place.

"That's not nice," he says, and a corner of Snape's mouth quirks.

"No." Snape's once-silky voice is hoarse, rough and raw from the damage that bloody snake had done to his throat. There'd been nerve damage, the Healers had said, and they'd had difficulty mending his vocal chords. It's hard to listen to him now, so he barely speaks. Greg's the only one who can make out everything he says, mostly because Greg's the one who listens the most. It's too difficult for the others, that much you can tell by the guilt that crosses their faces when they try to talk too brightly to their former professor, as if he won't realise they're desperate to get out of the room. Sometimes Greg thinks for all they're smarter than him, they're awfully thick at times. Even Draco has moments, and he's the one who'd spent the most time with Snape in hospital--well, after Greg, that is. Greg'd been there every evening, from after supper until the mediwitch'd chucked him out at half-eleven. It wasn't as if he had anything else to do, what with both of his parents in prison and Vince gone.

He'd liked the routine of sitting with Snape, watching him as he'd slept, listening to the steady beep and buzz of the monitoring charms as he'd read to him. He'd left the British Journal of Herbology and Potionbrewing for Draco to read--too many words he'd stumble over and somehow he was certain even Snape in a coma would know. Instead, Greg had read Quidditch Monthly and Witch's Weekly and even the boring bits of the Prophet and those brilliant pulp novels McGonagall had found in Snape's quarters and packed up in a box for him. It was in that pile that Greg'd found a few of the more lurid books, ones that he'd been surprised to see because he'd recognised the titles from the window of the shop in Knockturn Alley that catered to witches and wizards who preferred their own kind--and by that he didn't mean purebloods. Greg had hidden those books away, tucked beneath the mattress of Snape's bed so that no one else would find them. He thought Snape would prefer it that way; whatever Potter might say about Snape fancying his mum, that stash made it pretty bloody clear to Greg that the Professor also had an eye for a prick now and then. It'd taken him six months to gather up the courage to read the first one out loud, late at night when the ward was empty and there were only one or two mediwitches and wizards wandering about in their pale blue robes. He'd gone home an hour later and wanked himself raw, the book still in his hand. If he'd known literature could be this interesting, he'd have paid a lot more attention to reading years ago.

"Greg," Snape says, and his name comes out sounding like a cross between a growl and a grunt, which for some bloody reason makes Greg's cock firm in his trousers instantaneously.

He blinks at Snape, and he wants to lean in and kiss the man again, but that would be utterly mad, and Greg would prefer to keep his balls intact at least right now. So he breathes in and then exhales in a rush of words. "I should go."

"Oh, for--" Snape tries to catch his arm, but Greg sidesteps him gently, and he's already stepping into the Floo in the hall when he remembers that this is his house and he can't really run away. Not the way he wants too. If he could, he'd run and run and not stop until Scotland.

The green fire jumps up around him, and through its flickering flames, Greg can see Snape hobbling out into the hall, watching him oddly, and Greg would almost swear Snape touches his fingertips to his mouth. Perhaps.

The darkness of the Floo spins him away.

***

"You did what?" Potter's glass of whisky nearly slides from his fingers; only Draco's quick reflexes keep it upright and the finish on the polished walnut coffee table pristine. Greg watches as Draco sets it aside, onto a granite coaster from his and Potter's last trip to Reykjavik. They'd brought him back a small black volcanic stone bowl and a huge piece of driftwood that he'd incorporated into the wardrobe he'd made for his parent's room. Snape's room now, and that thought makes him flinch a bit.

"I kissed Snape," Greg says again, and then takes a sip of whisky. It's the good stuff, from a Scottish wizarding distillery hidden in some Highland glen. Probably unlicenced. Draco didn't think anyone who actually knew a damn about distilling spirits would be fool enough to agree to a Ministry inspection. Greg looks down at the delicately cut glass that curves into his palm. Mrs Malfoy had given it to Draco and Potter as a housewarming gift. As far as Greg was aware, Lucius Malfoy hadn't even spoken to his son since Draco'd publicly come out as bent, although how anyone who knew him hadn't known that particular fact puzzled Greg since it'd been obvious to him and Vince from the time they were all thirteen. Boys were so damned much easier than girls. Draco'd only used Pansy to try to bait Potter and had had to bribe her handsomely for the privilege; he'd had cow eyes for the speccy git for most of their Hogwarts years as much as he'd tried to deny it.

He watches the two of them now. Potter looks a bit ill and for a moment Greg thinks he's about to say something, but all it takes is Draco's hand on Potter's arm to keep him silent. They don't even have to speak to each other. Potter relaxes back into his chair, just as Draco leans forward, his blond hair falling into his eyes. He pushes it back and studies Greg.

"I told you this was a terrible idea," Draco says after a long moment. Greg can't deny that fact. Draco'd been blunt with him the day Snape had woken up. You're too attached, Greg, Drao had said when he'd found out Greg had offered him a room. This'll turn into Vince all over again.

Draco hadn't been wrong. Not entirely.

Greg sighs and finishes his whisky. "Well, it's done with now, isn't it." He sets his empty glass down next to Potter's. "That's what he said right before. He thanked me for taking him in and then said he thought it was time he found a flat of his own now that he could move about properly." Greg frowns. "Except that's bollocks. He's shite at stairs--they hurt his hip too damned much--and he still needs that cane, right?" He looks up at Draco. "He's only been awake seven months. I don't care what that idiot Healer who comes to the house tells him. Does that fool see him try to get out of his reading chair? Or help rearrange his pillows when he can't breathe at night because of that sodding scar and the damage to his throat?"

Potter and Draco exchange a look, and Greg suspects he's not supposed to be able to interpret it, but being thick at books and lessons doesn't mean he's thick with people and he's bloody fuckng well tired of everyone assuming he is. He'd been the first of their lot to really fall in love, and it didn't matter that they all just brushed it aside because it was Vince and of course he fancied Vince, they were practically attached at the hip anyway. But he knew that look between Draco and Potter because he'd given Vince that same look every time Draco'd gone a bit mental over something Potter'd done, and it was best just to placate him. He's in no mood to be placated.

Greg stands up. "Fuck it. I've a key to Pans and Anthony's flat and they're still in New York--"

"Sit down," Draco says in that imperious tone of his, and Greg's legs give way automatically. The chair shudders slightly under his heft. Draco just looks at Potter again, and at Potter's nod, he stands himself. "You can have the spare room tonight, but you'll have to go back and talk to him tomorrow."

The enormous white linen and silver lamp floating high above the coffee table flickers a bit, softening the shadows on Draco's face. Greg almost thinks he looks gentle for a moment, but then the sharpness is back, much to Greg's relief. He prefers Draco's razor angles to any flash of kindness. He always has.

Greg nods.

"That's settled then," Draco says, and he leaves Greg with Potter to go freshen the linens, even though he knows Greg doesn't give a damn. Greg'd spent most of his school days sleeping quite comfortably on unwashed sheets--not to mention most of the past three and a half years, for that matter--but he doesn't stop Draco as much as he'd like to do. Once a Malfoy, always a Malfoy, even if a Gryffindor enters the equation.

"So," Potter says after an awkward moment once they're alone. "Snape."

Greg eyes him warily. "Don't start."

"I wasn't going to." Potter pours them both another few fingers of whisky and hands Greg his glass again. "Just...well." He clinks his glass against Greg's. "Wouldn't have thought it, even if Draco's been worried."

"Draco told you?" Greg knocks back half his whisky in one gulp. He supposes he's not terribly surprised. Draco'd given him enough long looks lately, and when Draco's fretting it's Potter he goes to now.

Potter shrugs. "Thought you might be getting in a bit over your head, taking Snape on like that."

"Wasn't anyone else to do it." Greg rolls his glass between his palms. The cut edges press into his skin. "Pansy and Anthony have a new baby and spend half the year in New York. Blaise is arse over tit for Granger, and she's not likely to have Snape in her spare room; Theo's God only knows where now, although I think the last postcard he sent was from Argentina; Draco might have done, but not once he moved in here with you." Greg looks around the sitting room, taking in the shelves of books he knows are Draco's mixed in with the Quidditch memorabilia and photographs he's certain are Potter's. Draco hadn't ever had that many friends to take photos with. "It was just me, really, with all that empty space in the house." He takes another sip of whisky. "Besides, it's up North. Familiar for him."

Potter's just watching him with a thoughtful expression, and it makes Greg nervous. He looks away.

"My mum was from up North," Potter says finally. "Same town as Snape, actually."

Greg shrugs. He knows this already; what he doesn't know is why Potter's so chatty all of a sudden, but, to be honest, he doesn't really care. He's tired, and he just wants a good long sleep and to pretend that none of this really happened until he has to go back tomorrow. He wonders if he could manage a proper Obliviate, but he suspects he'd just end up giving everyone brain damage, and while that might not matter so much to him or Potter, he reckons Draco and Snape would be a bit miffed.

"They were friends," Potter's saying, and Greg looks up.

"Who?"

Potter just gives him a curious look. "Snape and my mum."

"Oh. Right." This again. "Sorry?"

A small smile quirks Potter's mouth to one side. "Do you really fancy him?"

Greg doesn't know what to say. Of course, you twat, why else would I be here? might be too rude, but it seems fairly clear to Greg. You learn a lot about someone when you're taking care of him, he thinks. He knows how Snape takes his tea--milky with just one lump of sugar and the faintest squeeze of lemon, all in a thick brown pottery mug that he prefers because he says it makes his tea less bitter--and he knows that Snape hates wearing slippers even in the winter when he's complaining about his feet being cold because he hates having his toes being confined in boiled wool, and he knows that Snape likes to keep toffees in the pocket of his dressing gown so he can pop one in his mouth and suck on it while he's reading--and he's always reading, even more than Granger and Draco and Millie read. Greg's never seen anything like it. So yeah, he fancies Snape. Even when the bastard's cranky because Greg forgot to pick up shortbread biscuits or when he complains about Greg playing the Weird Sisters so loudly in his workroom that the diamond-paned windows rattle in the sitting room downstairs.

Instead of saying this, however, he shrugs and doesn't look at Potter as he drains the last of his whisky again. Potter reaches for the bottle, and Greg hesitates, then holds his glass out for more. What the hell. He's a big lad, he is, and another glass or two won't lay him out on the ground. He thinks.

"When'd you decide you fancied Draco?" Greg asks, partially out of curiosity and partially out of a desire to distract attention from himself. Draco's never really told him the whole story, and Greg'd been too caught up with sitting at Snape's bedside to really care. All he knows is that Draco came into the ward one day, sat across Snape's unconscious body from him, and said bluntly that he was shagging Harry Potter now and that he did hope that Greg wouldn't have any problems with that given their combined history. All Greg had thought was it's about damned time, but he wasn't idiot enough to say that to his face the way Pansy had over lunch. Draco hadn't spoken to her for two weeks afterwards and the china service had been a complete loss.

Potter's smile widens as he pours himself more whisky. "The night we had a raging shoutdown in a corridor during the Ministry-wide Christmas party. He tossed his wine in my face, called me a fucking half-Knut wanker, and all I wanted to do was throw him up against the wall and snog him senseless." He looks at Greg over the rim of his glass. "Took me another two months to get up the balls to do it."

"Two years for me," Greg admits quietly. "Bit of a problem when you decide you fancy someone while they're in a magically induced coma."

He expects Potter to laugh, but he doesn't. Instead he gives Greg a sympathetic look. "First time I kissed Draco he threw a nasty variant of the Stickfast Hex on my trouser flies. It took Hermione a week and a half to figure out how to break it. I was showering in them, sleeping in them..." Potter grins, and his eyes crinkle up at the sides. "Fucking bastard. He was rather pleased with himself--until I kissed him again."

"Second time's the charm?" Greg sits forward. None of this is anything Draco had told him.

Potter shakes his head. "Try fourth. Second time he hit my mouth with a Stinging Hex and I went about for days looking like Celestina Warbeck until the swelling went down. Third time he just punched me. Fourth time we ended up in my bed for two days straight."

Greg can't stop his snort of amusement. Potter looks far too pleased with himself, and Greg can only imagine Draco's snarky reaction.

"So I reckon what I mean," Potter says calmly, "is that if it's Snape you fancy, then it's Snape you fancy, and maybe one kiss isn't going to convince him. You Slytherins are a pain in the arse when it comes to admitting you're interested in someone."

"Right, like Snape would want someone like me." Greg sets his glass down. "I'm not fit and swotty like the rest of you."

Potter laughs. "I'm scrawny and hate reading, so I think that's a faulty comparison right there."

"You're Harry Potter," Greg says glumly. "I'm just Goyle. There's definitely a difference."

"Snape's not knocking my door down." Potter pours them both another glass of whisky, this one nearly to the rim. "Drink up."

Greg drains half of it, then twists it between his hands. They're his father's hands, heavy and thick-fingered, and Greg knows he's always been good with them. He might not be the best with words or books or making certain charms act the way they should, but the moment he'd picked up a piece of wood and started shaping it with lathing charms, he'd known he'd found something he could do. It's only been three years, and he's been living off the family Gringotts account for most of them, but less and less recently. He's starting to get orders in for his cabinets and tables, and Greg knows he could do this all his life and be happy. He just doesn't know if Snape would agree. If Snape would want a thick bloke who was more muscle than brain.

But Mumsy had. She'd been in Ravenclaw, and her parents had been horrified when she had accepted Father's proposal. He hadn't been smart enough for them--even though his family line was old and well-to-do--and they hadn't cared for his Slytherin heritage. They'd cut Mumsy off the moment she'd shown them Father's ring, telling her they wouldn't stand for her marrying a thug, and she hadn't seen them since. None of them had. Once Greg'd had caught a glimpse of an older wizard in Flourish and Blotts before his father had hurried him away, and he'd recognised the face from the photographs on Mumsy's dressing room table. His grandfather'd looked tired and old, and Greg had felt sorry for him because the old man had never understood how much Mumsy loved Father and what she was willing to do for him. She hadn't even been part of the Death Eaters, but she'd refused to let Father go to Azkaban alone.

He misses her. Terribly.

"All right there?" Potter asks, his voice gentle, and Greg looks up at him, the tightness in his chest easing.

"Yeah," he says, and he means it. "I think it might be."

Potter raises his glass, and Greg clinks his against it. "To difficult men," he says.

"Who's difficult?" Draco asks, walking back into the room with a bath towel.

Greg can't help but laugh.

***

The sanded wood is silky beneath Greg's hands. His wand slides across the joint, sealing it together with a charm. The table leg snaps into place, its intricately carved vines matching with those of the skirt below the heavy tabletop.

He's been awake for hours, having left Potter and Draco's spare room before dawn broke. It's mad of him, perhaps, given how hungover he was when he staggered out of bed, but there's a potion for that, and really, he thinks better when there's wood to be joined together.

The table's something he's been working on for a few weeks now. When it's done he'll polish it dark and leave it in place. It's too heavy to move, but that's been the point of it, really. It's been the point of all of what he's been planning for months. He just thought he'd have a bit more time, to broach the subject is all.

Greg's listening to some new Norwegian band as he works, one Blaise assures him will be hot on the WWN soon. He likes them, he thinks, mostly because he doesn't understand a word they're saying and sometimes that's nice to work to. Lets him focus on his casting without distraction--he'd ruined a perfectly good occasional table earlier in the year by singing along with The Rhythm Runes instead of using the proper charmwork. Fucking bastards and their fucking catchy songs.

"You're back."

Greg swears as Snape's voice startles him, sending his wand clattering to the floor. He stoops and picks it up, looking over his shoulder at Snape in the doorway. He's only partially dressed--at least for Snape--in a pair of black trousers, an unbuttoned waistcoat, and a white shirt rolled up at the sleeves so that Greg can see the grey smudge of his Dark Mark against his pale forearm. His long feet are bare, and Greg hates the way his body responds to the sight of his former Head of House dressed so casually. He turns his wand between his hands, ignoring the faint burst of silver sparks that tumbles through his fingers.

"I'm back," he says finally, and he lets his eyes drift up from Snape's feet to his face. He doesn't know what he expects. Disgust, perhaps, mocking at best. But Snape just looks at him calmly.

"There's bacon in the kitchen." Snape leans on his cane. "Eggs and toast too. I thought you'd need a fry-up this morning."

Greg blinks. "Thanks."

Snape turns to leave, then he stops, his back to Greg. His knuckles are clenched white around the spherical top of his cane. Greg had made it for him before he left hospital. It fit perfectly in Snape's palm. "You'll have to miniaturise that table."

"Didn't plan on it leaving." Greg's throat tightens as Snape turns back around slowly, his gaze running around the entirety of the room. It'd been a fortnight since he'd been in the workroom; Greg knew he'd recognise the new changes to it.

"That's a potions rack," Snape says after a long moment, nodding towards a set of notched shelves that take up nearly the entirety of the back wall.

Greg runs his fingertips along a slick obsidian square set into the tabletop. "And a brewing plate. I've tested the fire charms four times now."

Snape just looks at him. Greg has to remind himself to breathe. His shoulders are tight and tense. He steps forward. To his relief Snape doesn't run. Greg's palms are sweaty and he slides his wand back into the holster hanging from his work belt. If Potter can do this, Greg thinks, so can he. Except there might be a greater chance Snape will flay him alive and leave his rotting corpse for the ravens who for some reason like to gather in the back garden on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

"You need a place to brew," Greg says finally, and he's only a foot away from Snape. "I thought it'd be better for you inside the house."

"This is your workroom." Snape leans against the door frame, a lock of hair falling into his face. He brushes it away impatiently. "Where are you--"

"In the garden. There's a shed the elves used to use, and now Granger says it's not proper to own them, it's just sitting there going to rot." Greg rubs his palm against the back of his neck. "Bit of building charms to shore it up some and make it magical space and it'll do the trick for me." He gives Snape a sideways look. "Thought you might want the garden to grow shite in when it's time again." Greg doesn't think you can plant things properly in mid-September, but he's not certain. He and Vince had never managed to keep anything alive in Herbology, no matter how they tried. It'd upset Vince a bit. He didn't like killing things that couldn't think; Greg thought they'd always seemed a bit too much like Vince for Vince's comfort.

There's a long silence before Snape nods slowly. "Thank you."

A rush of warmth spreads through Greg. "I don't want you to find a flat," he says, his eyes fixed on Snape's face. "I mean, if you have to go, fine. But I don't want you to."

"Your mother and father--" Snape hesitates.

Greg's mouth twists to one side. "Likely to be in Azkaban for a while. You know that as well as me." He takes a deep breath. "Look, I'm not asking for anything if you don't want it. But you're bent a little, I think, and I'm bent a lot, and well, we get along well like this. And Potter says you just have to do things sometimes--"

Snape snorts. "You've been listening to Potter?"

"He's not half-bad," Greg says quietly. "He doesn't treat me like I'm an idiot because I don't know or care what something like expropriation of agency means."

"You're not an idiot." Snape looks at him. "You're a good man, Gregory." He smiles faintly. "Mostly."

Greg touches Snape's cheek. "I'm mostly all right with that." Snape's stubble is rough against his fingertips. He hasn't shaved this morning. Greg watches in fascination as his fingers slip down the angle of Snape's cheek, over his angular jaw to the shiny pink puckered scar that twists across the length of Snape's throat.

Snape's eyes are dark and bright. "Greg," he says, his voice rasping. A faint flush spreads across his high cheekbones.

This is it, Greg thinks. He gives Snape a long look, allowing him a chance to pull away. He doesn't.

When Greg kisses Snape for the second time, he means to do it. Snape's lips are warm and dry and when he opens his mouth to Greg's, Greg makes a soft noise, pushing Snape against the door as his tongue slides over Snape's, tasting him.

Snape's cane falls to the floor with soft thunk and his hands catch Greg's hips, his fingers twisting in the soft, dark wool of Greg's work trousers as he pulls him closer, his breathing heavy. Their bodies press together as they kiss, and a shudder runs through Greg when he realises Snape's cock is swollen and heavy against his hip.

This isn't the awkward, desperate fumbling he'd done with Vince in a dark corridor between afternoon classes. Snape knows how to kiss, and Greg can't help wondering where he learned. Had he spent his school days giving blokes knee-tremblers back behind the greenhouses, or had there been someone he'd been with when Greg was in school? There'd been rumours of Snape with Lupin and Filch and even with Dumbledore, but Draco'd told everyone those were bunk, and Greg figures that Draco would have known.

And then when Snape presses up against Greg, his mouth sliding down to nip along the curve of Greg's jaw, Greg decides he doesn't really care where Snape learned how to do this, just as long as he keeps rutting against Greg's prick because nothing has ever felt as good as Snape's hands gripping Greg's arse as he rolls his hips into Greg's, and Merlin's fucking tit, Greg can't bite back his groans any longer.

His palm hits the door beside Snape's shoulders and his fingers flex into the wood. Greg turns his head and he catches Snape's mouth again, kissing him roughly, as his other hand slides down Snape's side, stopping at the flat plane of Snape's hip pressed against the door behind him. Snape says something Greg can't make out because his mouth is on Greg's throat now, sucking lightly at the ragged pulse just beneath his skin. Greg's terrified that his heart will stop, right here, right now, and he'll die this fucking hard--Christ--and if he does he'll be so fucking narked because Snape's lifting a leg, swearing at him to help.

Greg grabs Snape's thighs and he hefts him up, supporting his weight, letting Snape wrap his long legs around Greg's wide hips. The change in angle makes Greg gasp; Snape digs his sharp fingernails into Greg's shoulder blades.

"Move," Snape says, and Greg thinks he meant it to be irate, but it comes out breathless instead, so Greg kisses Snape again and he moves against him, rubbing their cocks together through their trousers until he's sure he can't take it any more and he'll--

"Oh." Greg's eyes squeeze shut as Snape's hand slides between them, tugging at zips and wool and cotton. Their cocks hit together, hot skin against hot skin, and Snape's fingers are wrapped around both of them, stroking and pressing and pulling until Greg's shaking. His hands are tight on Snape's arse, and he can feel a tiny drop of sweat roll down his back and disappear into the ruched folds of his now-untucked shirt. He buries his face in Snape's neck, breathing in his musky, earthy scent, and his muscles are so fucking tight and tense that Greg's afraid if he moves he'll shatter.

But he does move, when Snape growls at him, when Snape tells him to come on him, and Greg wants to, oh fucking Christ, he wants to. So he pushes his hips forward, his cock sliding through Snape's hand, over the wet head of Snape's prick, with Snape's heels hitting Greg's arse with each rough thrust.

"Greg," Snape grunts, his hand twisting around Greg's cock and that's all it takes to send Greg shuddering against him, coming with a sharp cry.

He's barely aware of Snape moving against him, of Snape's hand and prick bouncing against his stomach until Snape stiffens in his arms, groaning as hot strands of spunk cover their skin.

Greg sinks to the floor, lowering Snape with him, and they lie against the door, tangled together, both breathing hard. Greg smoothes his fingers through Snape's hair, pushing it back from his forehead. He doesn't want to open his eyes, but he does, and Snape's watching him.

"Well," Greg mumbles, and Snape barks a sharp laugh.

"Yes. Well." Snape's hand settles on their sticky pricks. "That was unexpected."

"And?" Greg eyes him warily.

Snape sweeps a thumb along the underside of Greg's cock. "I think next time," he says softly, his mouth just below Greg's ear, "I'll see about fucking you properly. Perhaps even on a bed."

Greg swallows. "Next time?" Something shifts inside of him, letting free a tiny tendril of heat.

Snape looks up at him, his eyes dark. "One hour, for food and recovery, and then I want my cock inside your arse. Yes?"

"That means you're not going to look for another flat?"

Snape's eyes narrow. "You're not that thick, Gregory." He pushes himself up into a crouch, then steadies himself on the door as he stands up. He casts a cleansing spell on both of them, and tucks his prick back into his trousers. He doesn't bother straightening his shirt. "There's brekkers in the kitchen. Most likely cold by now, but a warming charm or two never hurt a decent fry-up."

Greg passes over the cane, looking up at Snape in surprise. "Give me a moment?"

He thinks Snape's mouth twitches, but Snape just nods and turns for the door. Greg can hear the steady thump of his cane along the hall. Blankly, he looks down at his spunk-streaked shirt and open trousers.

A slow, wide grin spreads across Greg's face. He owes Potter a bottle--or two--of whisky, he thinks as he clambers to his feet and zips his flies, and he laughs at the madness of that thought. Five years ago, he'd likely have punched Potter in the face sooner than talk to him. Now look at them.

He can hear the rattle of pans from the kitchen; the hall's filled with the scent of coffee and rewarmed bacon, and by lunch his arse will hopefully have been thoroughly buggered. As he pushes open the kitchen door, he wonders idly if Snape will let him return the favour.

There's a plate piled high with eggs and bacon and toast on the table in front of his chair, and Snape at the hob, putting on a kettle for his tea. It could have been any day of the past seven months, but everything's changed now, and Greg knows as he steps through the door that this life is entirely new.

He thinks, maybe, tucking a napkin into his shirt and taking his chair, that he just might like it.