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Get Back | Tomorrow Never Knows

Monday, 27 December, 1976

Severus Snape was a remarkably complicated young man.

Even for a teenager, his teachers agreed, he had quite a few of what the Muggles liked to call "issues." He had anger issues. He had control issues. He had self-esteem issues. To these teachers, and indeed, to many of his peers, this made him not so much an enigma as an exasperating poseur: a passable-looking boy who deliberately made himself ugly; a quiet, rule-abiding boy who resorted to violence and Dark magic at the slimmest provocation; a brilliant boy who squandered his intelligence and talent on subjects no right-thinking wizard would, or should, ever want to learn. If only he could manage his temper, they said. If only he would study Charms or Arithmancy with the same hunger as he learned deadly potions and disfigurement curses. If only he cared more for friendship and acceptance, they said, and less for the shock value of having - and apparently relishing - the worst reputation in school.

Among his peers, the discussion was little different, if slightly lower in tone. Did he have to wear black all the time? Would it kill him to wash his hair once in awhile? Sure, maybe his folks were hard up for money, and maybe his Dad drank and was maybe a bit quick with his fists, but did that mean Snape had to take it out on the rest of the world? Everyone had problems; not everyone went slogging through life with a crapped-out face and a mouthful of hexes.

What none of these people - excepting, perhaps, Albus Dumbledore - seemed to understand was how little of Snape's I-hate-the-world pose was a pose at all. And perhaps not even Dumbledore realized how fundamentally damaged he was - indeed, how damaged he had been even before he had wandered into the headmaster's rather eccentric care. Not Dumbledore, who termed his insults clever and his moody silences profound, Dumbledore who defended his bouts of curse-flinging temper as "high spirits" and his interest in Dark magic as the perfectly normal fascination of many a bright young boy for the grotesque and bizarre. Alone of all his teachers, Dumbledore neither condescended nor pandered to him; alone of the entire school, Dumbledore seemed to genuinely like him.

Dumbledore, gods bless him, was a fool.

Dumbledore didn't know Severus at all. Didn't know who he was, what he was, what he wanted, where he came from. What he came from. His mother was a gifted healer, mousy-pretty, deeply intellectual but emotionally frail. His father had been an Auror - a very good one, by all accounts - before injury forced him to retire. He was a cold man when sober, moralistic and rigidly controlled, but when he drank, he could turn violent and vicious, as unpredictable as a wild animal. Bred by two people so cataclysmically ill-matched, betrayed by the passivity of one and hardened by the abuse of the other, Severus was, like the union that had produced him, a volatile, dysfunctional, contrary mess.

And, certainly, Dumbledore did not know the depth of his hate. Severus Snape all but pulsed with hate, an all-encompassing, uncompromising wall of it. He hated his parents, he hated his poverty, he hated his looks. He hated the classmates who unfailingly noticed his outdated texts, his outsize robes and second-hand wand; he hated even more the teachers who never seemed to notice when those books were knocked out of his arms, or the robes used to send him sprawling, or the wand snatched away and flung far into lake or tree. These were the same teachers who never saw how much he dreaded going home on holiday, the same teachers who never saw the occasional limp or bruise his mother was no longer around to heal...the same teachers who believed, with such adamant, bewildered irritation, that he dressed like a vampire and hexed every Gryffindor who crossed his path just to get their attention.

That was too much irony even for a Slytherin.

It bothered him, sometimes, though he took great pains not to show it. He knew it shouldn't, knew he shouldn't give a damn what any of them thought - these people were nothing to him. But it was just so unfair. He hadn't asked for his lot in life, damn it, and he was doing the best he could. Who were they to judge him? If any of them, any of them, had had to face the daily horror show that was life with Augustus Snape, they'd have likely killed themselves ages ago. Or taken the coward's way out and retreated into madness and the relative safety of a room at St. Mungo's.

His mother's way out.

Not Severus. Severus ground on, as grim as a prisoner counting out the days until his release, neither giving nor asking any quarter, going on sheer stubbornness, ambition, and a desperate kind of courage no swaggering, jut-jawed Gryffindor could ever hope to understand.

Ambition. Even for a Slytherin, Severus had it in spades; even at sixteen, Severus knew exactly what he wanted from life. He wanted to study, work hard, get his degree. He wanted to graduate with the highest honors Hogwarts could bestow and get the best job he could find. He wanted to grunt and grind in an apothecary's by day and do his own research and experiments at night. He wanted to bottle and brew anything for anyone at any time if they had enough cold, hard cash, he wanted to squirrel away every last knut and sickle, and he wanted to fuck everyone who could help him and fuck over anyone who stood in his way. He wanted to succeed. More than that, he wanted to escape.

To that end, he needed Hogwarts, and the fools who mocked and misunderstood him at whim were, unfortunately, part of the package. If that made for a lonely and joyless existence, then so be it. There would be time enough later to be kind and warm and friendly, if that was his inclination. When he was grown. When he was free. In the meantime, so long as the fools kept their distance, he could ignore the snickers and giggles, the bad jokes and hissed words behind cupped hands, the pointing fingers and pointed stares.

But he couldn't ignore the Marauders.

The Marauders, that band of self-styled, James Potter-led, vicious Gryffindor idiots, did not allow themselves to be ignored, not by anyone, and certainly not by the likes of Severus Snape. For five-and-a-half years, Severus had been their favorite target, the butt of their worst jokes, the vent for whatever frustrations such empty-headed but glorified wastes could have. For five-and-a-half years, they had conspired at every turn to make his life at Hogwarts an exercise in humiliation, frustration, and pain. No, he couldn't ignore the Marauders. Not before, and definitely not now.

Not after last night.

Severus put his face in his hands.

Long after Black had left him, he had laid awake, replaying every word, every touch, his thoughts circling and fighting like vicious little animals in a cage. He had been raped. He had been raped by Sirius Black. He had been raped by Sirius Black until he was shaking with ecstasy and demanding mindlessly to be raped some more. Black would tell. Black wouldn't dare tell. Black didn't have the brains not to tell. Round and round he went, thinking and rethinking and over-thinking, by turns hot with shame and cold with fear, hating Black more than ever, hating himself even more.

He had fallen asleep thinking about it and he had awakened thinking about it, and he had been thinking about it all day, but he was no closer to understanding than he had been twenty-four hours ago. And the question that plagued him most was why? Why Black, why him, why now?

It gnawed at him, more troubling than the shame or the fear or even the anger. Shame he was used to, fear and anger were constant companions, but if there was one thing Severus Snape couldn't stand, it was being confused. Not knowing the answer to something, to anything, made him feel lost and small and powerless in ways Augustus, even at his most brutally creative, never could.

And the hell of it was, he had the answer already. He knew what they were up to; he'd been down this road with the Marauders a hundred times before. This was just another cheap trick, an elaborate set-up, the granddaddy of all pranks; this was a few hours of Black sacrificing his body to the greasy git in exchange for hours of enjoyment at the git's expense. Severus could just imagine the catcalls and insults, the furtive pinches and gropings and knowing leers. Shit! Just the verbal picture Black could draw, for anyone who cared to listen - Snape across his lap, ass red and wriggling; Snape's legs wrapped around his neck and Snape's hole wrapped around his cock - would have been too tempting for the bastards to resist. And it was all so Black, so Potter...so them.

So why didn't he believe it?

Because it didn't feel like that, Severus thought, and that was the simple truth. Black hadn't acted like it was a prank; he certainly hadn't acted like he was doing some dirty job none of his asshole friends wanted to do, just to set up a laugh. His lust had felt real, rather frighteningly real, and the small tastes Severus had gotten of his thoughts had been a revelation: hate, certainly, and anger and disdain, but also flashes of amusement, guilt, pity...even, at some points, a quirky sort of affection.

Affection. Severus cringed at the thought, but he couldn't deny it. He had had strong psychic ability - what his mother's mother had called the Reach - since his magic had manifested itself at six years old, and he trusted that ability as completely as other people trusted their sight. As impossible as it seemed, he knew what he had felt from Black's mind had been true. Strange, conflicted, and possibly as confusing to Black as it was to Severus - but true.

And there were outward signs as well. The hungry way Black had looked him up and down, his eyes skimming every inch of naked flesh, his mouth twitching as if it longed to follow. The way Black had healed his face. The way Black had entered him so slowly, so carefully, and prepared him with such warm silken oils - a spell that must have taken weeks to find, let alone master. The gentle way Black's hands had soothed and stroked him after the spanking, and the way (Severus blushed furiously at the memory) he had replaced the hands with the starker pleasures of lips and tongue. Even the spanking itself hadn't been that bad--

Well, no. The spanking had been plenty bad, humiliating and painful as hell. It was still painful. But Severus was rather an expert on harsh discipline, and he knew it hadn't been nearly as bad as it could have been. As it certainly would have been, he had to admit, if their positions had been reversed.

No, there was no way around it. As rapists went, Black had been almost considerate.

Of course he was considerate, you fool! That was the point of the whole joke, wasn't it? Hell, it was the punchline. If Black had hurt him, if Black hadn't pleasured him, Black couldn't tell everybody what a whore Severus had been. How he had begged for it. How he had panted and whined and humped like an animal, like the bitch Black had said he was, like--

No. No, it was no good. Even when he tried to feel it, he didn't feel it. Didn't believe it. Why couldn't he believe it?

Why did Black kiss you? his mind countered immediately, and Severus sighed. Why, indeed.

He had not been unconscious when Black left him last night. Black had obviously thought he was, and Severus, his body exhausted, his emotions a hot stew, had let him. But he had been awake when Black left him, and fully aware of the Gryffindor's explorations. Black's finger, warm and Quidditch-calloused, delicately tracing his features. Black's hand running through his hair. Black's lips taking his in a soft parting kiss.

Soft! Soft and slow and thorough and - Severus cringed again - almost tender.

Why, why, why?

"Why what, Severus?"

Startled, Severus raised his head and looked up into the clear, questioning blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore. Fuck. Obviously, he had been thinking aloud, and he wondered what else the headmaster had overheard. "Sir?"

"You were talking to yourself," Dumbledore said. "A vastly underrated pastime, in my view, and one I highly recommend." He cocked his head. "But it is rather late, and very cold out here...and you sounded upset."

Severus was silent. He didn't trust himself to say anything intelligent, but even startled, it simply wasn't in Severus Snape to stammer.

Dumbledore pressed gently. "Is something troubling you, Severus? Perhaps I can help."

He almost did it, then. The genuine kindness in the old man's eyes, the warmth in his voice, almost broke him. Only his inability to articulate what was troubling him stopped him from blurting out the whole story - for what was he going to say? "Well, you see, sir, Sirius Black raped me last night, and it was horrible, it was, but he made me come, too, made me come so hard I can still feel it, and I feel dirty and stupid and used, but then he kissed me and stroked my hair and needless to say, sir, I'm rather confused about the whole thing." Oh, yes. That wouldn't be embarrassing at all. Perhaps he could add that Black had spanked his naughty bare bottom and French-kissed his asshole, just in case he hadn't actually expired from humiliation by then. "No. No, sir. There's nothing troubling me, sir."

"Are you certain? 'Why' is a vast and complicated question, Severus. Even for minds such as ours."

Severus forced a dutiful smile. Dumbledore often joked that he and Severus were two of a kind, deep thinkers, the school's resident philosophers. At least, Severus assumed he was joking, though it was hard to tell with Dumbledore - such a genial old fart could probably find common ground with a flobberworm. "I suppose so, sir." He rose from the low stone bench, suppressing the pain the movement caused him with an ease born of long practice. "I should be going in now, sir."

It was a dismissal, just short of rude, but if Dumbledore recognized it as such, he gave no sign. "Very well. I'll walk you back, if that's agreeable to you. I'm afraid Mr. Filch is on the prowl for strays."

Severus gritted his teeth. No, it's NOT agreeable, you barmy old git, so why don't you just piss off and leave me alone? "Of course, Headmaster. Thank you."

They headed up the hill toward the castle. It was a fair distance - Severus had walked much farther than he'd realized - but to his relief, Dumbledore made no more attempts at conversation. The silence between them was not uncomfortable, and for the first time since Black had attacked him, Severus began to feel a measure of peace. It was odd, how Dumbledore's mere presence could do that to him sometimes, could still his most chaotic thoughts, calm his jangled nerves, soothe his smaller hurts and angers. At such times, when he sat across a chess board from the man, or they shared a table laden with holiday treats, Severus felt how truly perfect the old wizard was. How perfect, and how unique. His parents had taught him, largely by example, that people were either powerful or kind, but Dumbledore was different. Dumbledore was both.

It occurred to him that he might actually love the old coot; somehow, the thought didn't annoy him nearly as much as it should have.

Still, as soon as they reached the Great Hall, he tried to make his escape. "Thank you for walking with me, sir, but I'd like to go to bed now."

"Of course, dear boy. You must be exhausted." He didn't venture any theory as to why Snape should be exhausted on the fourth day of a holiday fortnight, and Severus, wisely, didn't ask. "Perhaps after breakfast, you will join me for a game of chess?"

"Yes, sir. Perhaps." He gave Dumbledore a short nod and turned toward the stairs leading down to the dungeons, wondering how far he'd get before--

"Oh, and Severus?"

Not even a step. Severus turned back with a sigh, wearing a look that tried very hard not to say All right, all right, get on with it, but said it anyway.

"The answer is in your heart, not your head."

Severus frowned. He had expected some parting piece of worthless advice; he had not expected greeting-card blather. "I...I beg your pardon?"

"The answer. To your question. To your 'why.' It always lies much more in what you feel than what you think." The brilliant blue eyes were narrow and thoughtful, and Severus fought a sudden urge to squirm beneath that shrewd gaze. "You should learn to trust your instincts, Severus. They are good and true, as true as any I have ever seen, and well worthy of your trust - why do you fight them so?"

It was an apt question. It was a bit too apt for Severus's comfort, given what he had been wrestling with all this night, but he couldn't have answered it even if he'd wanted to. "I don't know what you mean. Sir."

"Then you're not nearly as bright as your grades would indicate." Severus frowned; Dumbledore sighed. "I'm sorry, child, but I know a lie when I hear one."

Snape said nothing.

"And I know it must be difficult for you," Dumbledore continued. "You are a logical young man. You deal in facts, and you disdain fancy. I was much the same at your age, believe it or not; I, too, prided myself on my superior intellect, my supreme rationality." He swept Severus with that grave, considering gaze once more. "Of course, I was not so hard as you are, so cautious, so closed, and so I was able to teach myself to feel. You are different, Severus. You have taught yourself not to feel. At any cost."

Severus snorted. "Is that so unusual?"

"In one so young? Yes. I find it most unusual." That look again. "And unspeakably sad."

Anger stiffened Severus's spine. "I've no need of your pity, Headmaster," he spat. "Save it for your Gryffindors."

"Pity implies contempt, Severus; you will never get pity from me." Severus blinked. Was that anger in Dumbledore's tone? "This is concern. This is counsel. Sound counsel, I might add, even if it does come from a Gryffindor."

Severus glared at him. Dumbledore gazed calmly back, not blinking, not speaking, until at last Severus looked at the floor. He didn't know what to say, or what Dumbledore wanted to hear. He was tired, and he was hurting, and he was so confused...and the headmaster's "counsel," sound or not, was only making his head spin more.

"Severus." Dumbledore put a hand under his chin and lifted it. The hand was warm and strong and gentle, and for no reason at all Severus felt absurd tears threaten. "At least consider what I've said. Please. At least do that much."

"Yes, sir." At last, a question he could answer. Even if that answer was a lie. "But now I...I just want to go to bed. I'm very tired, and..." He trailed off, reluctant to be rude under that wonderful touch.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "And...?"

He took a deep breath. "And I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Dumbledore nodded, and Severus thought he saw a flicker of approval on the ancient face. "As you wish, child. Perhaps you should sleep on it, as the Muggles say. We shall talk more in the morning, if you like." And before Severus could say No or Yes or Like hell we will, you old crackpot, Dumbledore did a shocking thing, something no one had done to Severus Snape in a dozen years or more: he bent and pressed a kiss to the young wizard's brow. "Good night, Severus."

Severus watched him down the hall and out of sight. He hadn't lied; he was tired, and he did want to go to bed. And he knew that Argus Filch could pop his ugly head around a corner at any moment. Still, he stood, touching his forehead, dimly registering that it was warm, and that his fingers were cold. And trembling.

And his sense of peace was gone.


There was a house elf in the common room, stoking the roaring fire, and just the sight set Severus's nerves further on edge. He hated house elves. They were such pathetic creatures, mindless, simpering, obsequious, nauseatingly ugly...and he was the only Slytherin in sixth year whose family couldn't afford even one.

He vaguely recognized this one - enormous blue eyes, enormous persimmon lips, greeny-blue skin the color of moldy cheese. And a typically ridiculous name - Hanky or Panky or Wanky or some such nonsense. Severus's lip curled. As if he needed even one more reason to hate them, did they all have to have names right out of Snow Witch and the Seven Orgs? "Bugger off, you nasty little thing."

The house elf froze, clearly torn between its compulsion to immediately obey and its equally-ingrained desire to serve. "May Pucky get young master something first, perhaps? Perhaps young master would like a bath? Or a snack? Or--?"

"No, young master would not like a bath, or a snack, or a blow-job in the Astronomy Tower on New Year's Eve. Young master would like Pucky to get out of here. Now. Before young master conjures a live snake up Pucky's arse."

Pucky Disapparated with a squeak.

With a certain sullen satisfaction, Severus dragged himself upstairs. He removed his winter cloak and flopped down on the bed in his robes, too exhausted even to undress. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind, and for once it didn't fight him at all.

No, tonight it was his body that wouldn't cooperate.

Severus sighed. He was exhausted, but he was also sore. The myriad pains and strains he had been holding at bay all day long were catching up with him now, and he couldn't find a comfortable position. His shoulders ached, his thighs ached, and his ass burned and throbbed, inside and out, with every beat of his heart. After fifteen minutes of restless turning, he was up again and rummaging through the trunk at the end of his bed. His belongings were sparse - his school texts, his cauldron, a small picture of his mother and a few of her letters - and he found what he was looking for almost immediately.

He took out the small gold-capped jar and palmed it, warming it in his hands. The salve was Magdalena Snape's personal recipe; she had created it especially for Severus, she had taught him how to make it, and she had used it on him more times than he could count. "Something special, just for our special situation," she had often said, and it certainly was that - Severus would have bet it could mend the dead. There were benefits, he supposed, to living with a world-class healer. Even a world-class healer who let her husband beat the shit out of their son every chance he got and called it "our special situation."

Get on with it.

He unscrewed the cap. A familiar scent drifted up, faint and pleasant - almonds and rosehips, aloe and a touch of mint - and his stomach clenched. He hated that smell. He had never opened this jar without some part of him damaged or hurting, battered or bleeding, and for all that he could tell the difference, almonds and aloe smelled like sweat and fear and the bitter whiskey-reek of his father's breath.

Get on with it, you idiot.

"Lumos," he said. Even such a brief lie-down had made him stiffen up alarmingly; his movements were a creaky old man's as he stood and stripped down, examining his body in the dim torchlight. Some ingredients in the salve could react badly to open wounds. He didn't think Black had left any cuts or sores on him - or in him - but it was best to be sure...

Hang it! He just couldn't see. He spelled the torch flames higher. No. Still no good. He sighed and glanced across the room, to the full-length mirror against the far wall. So far as he knew, it was the only Muggle mirror in all of Hogwarts - Slytherins did not take kindly to such taunts as Nice robes; do they come in your size? from people, let alone inanimate objects - and for once, Severus was grateful for the lack of magic. He didn't need any commentary on the embarrassing and intimate examination he was going to have to make right now.

He walked over to it and stared into it. A gaunt, ghost-eyed boy stared impassively back.

Black didn't look at you like that.

No, Black hadn't looked at him like that. Black had looked at him as if Severus had an apple in his gob and Black hadn't eaten for a month.

He narrowed his eyes at his reflection, trying to see himself objectively. It was almost a surprise to discover that he wasn't repulsive. He was still too thin, still growing into his gawky teenager's body, but there was something to him now besides skin and bone, a fine layer of muscle overlaying his long frame that had not been there before. He had spent the summer apprenticing at an apothecary's in Diagon Alley, and it had been mostly elf work, cleaning, preparing ingredients, and loading and unloading supplies. At the time, Severus had resented the physical labor (he knew damn well they could have allowed him a little magic, underage restrictions or not) but, looking at himself now, he had to admit that it had paid off in unexpected ways. Genes were genes, and no amount of hard work would ever give him Black's kind of sculpted, muscle-heavy physique, but slogging cauldrons all summer had created a sleek and subtle definition that he'd never had. And rather liked.

Sleek. Yes, all right. He could see that. Not scrawny anymore, but sleek. Slim. Firm.

He ran his palms lightly over his arms, down his chest, along his stomach, all of it pleasantly taut beneath the smooth skin. He turned sideways and inspected his buttocks, mouth drawn down in a clinical frown. They were smooth as well, sweetly rounded, and tight as ever - arse like a little girl, his father sometimes snorted - but harder now, higher, more defined. He slid his hands behind him and cupped them. The milky flesh was still latticed with faint pink welts that prickled to life under his touch, and he squeezed, squeezed until the stripes flared into a sweet-sharp throb and his breath caught hard in his chest. His cock twitched in appreciation.

He faced forward again. His cock. That was one place where he knew he had an edge. Not that Black was small, exactly, but-

Severus almost smiled.

He had realized long ago that he was unusually well-endowed; he had seen enough of the other boys, in the showers, in the dorms, to know that. And he had heard all the comments, of course. That's some tackle, Snape; too bad about your face. Hey, Snape, what you gonna grow into first, the cock or the nose? Merlin, Snape, what happened, did your mum shag a centaur? Always, there were the comments. At least in this case, Severus realized there was jealousy behind most of the taunts, with a smattering of genuine awe; he had seen their jealousy in their eyes. But it was still somewhat embarrassing. His member would have been impressive on a boy twice his size; on him, on his slender, still-gangling teenage frame, it was outlandish. Freakish, almost. When he was nude like this, damned if it didn't look like his cock was just going to topple him forward, flat on his face.

Black didn't think it was freakish.

Severus ignored the voice and continued to touch himself, caressing his bottom, his thighs, his belly and chest. He was stroking himself more languidly now, largely unaware that somewhere along the line his all-business self-examination had become an exercise in self-pleasure.

Black thought it was gorgeous. "Gorgeous monster cock." That's what he thought; you heard him. That's what he called it.

Severus closed his eyes. His breathing was getting quicker, his skin vibrating with sensation. He ran his palm low along his belly, edging closer and closer to the line where white skin became dense black curls. His cock, fully hard now, bobbed up eagerly toward the teasing hand, like a dog snuffling for a friendly pat, but Severus would not oblige. He'd be damned if he'd wank while thinking of Sirius Black.

Black would wank you, if he were here. Black would grab that gorgeous monster cock and just wank away, just stroke you off until you couldn't fucking see stra--

Black! Hang Black! Who cared what that smirking, swaggering, empty-headed bastard would or wouldn't do? Who cared what he did or said or thought?

If he thought you were dinner, Sev, he thought your cock was dessert.

Severus groaned. He slid his hand down his belly and closed it around his shaft, gripping until his head went swimmy and his knees went weak. The hard length pulsed protestingly in his fist, demanding more, and he gave it a lingering stroke, hips twitching, free hand coming up to toy with his nipples.

It was the sight of himself in the mirror - flushed face, trembling legs, prick jutting obscenely from his closed fist - that caught him up short. No. No, gods damn it, no. He was not going to do this, not when Black wouldn't get out of his head, not after what Black had done to him. It would be like getting raped all over again.

He released his prick - just the simple act of unclenching his fist required a Merlinean effort - and settled resolutely into one of the overstuffed chairs behind him. He picked up the jar again and dipped two fingers into the creamy salve, smoothing it over his right shoulder, working it into the aching muscle. Within seconds the soreness faded, replaced with a pleasant, tingling warmth. Yes, Magdalena's balm was indeed wondrous stuff. Once upon a time, he had even been grateful for it.

He rubbed the other shoulder and both arms, trying all the while to ignore the erection still screaming up from his groin. It was like trying to ignore a heart attack. The stiff shaft bobbed this way and that as he worked; when he started on his thighs, his fingers brushed it repeatedly, and each touch sent tiny sparks skittering along the flesh. He bit his lip, fighting for control, refusing to give in; by the time he was finished, he was panting lightly and trembling from head to toe.

Severus took an unsteady breath. Correction: almost finished.

He sat back deeper in the chair and lifted his knees, rubbing the salve into his buttocks. The signature tingling sensation raced across his skin, settling deep into the flesh; his head went back briefly, and he bit his lip again. Ooh. Magda's salve on a well-spanked ass was a forgotten delight, and he found himself still rubbing long after the balm was gone.

He wondered what it would feel like inside him.

He spread his legs, still bent, and scooped out some more of the cream, smearing it over his anus. He coated a shaking finger, pressed it to the hole - then hesitated. It was probably safe; despite the intense soreness, there had been no bleeding at all. But if he was wrong...

If you're wrong, you're wrong. That wasn't the reason he was hesitating anyway, and he knew it.

He slid the finger in. The salve was cool on the tender spots, warm on the ache and the bruises, creamy-soft on every inch of him. He worked the finger in and out slowly, watching in the mirror, fascinated in spite of himself. Merlin, it was hot in there, and the hold...No wonder Lucius always went on and on about how tight he was. No wonder Black had been so wild.

"Gods!" Light exploded behind his eyelids; he bucked and the jar fell to the floor, thudding on the thick braided rug. What the hell was that? What - oh, gods, that was what Black had tortured him with, that was that spot, that wonderful spot that Black had found with his prick, over and over again, and had used to drive Severus straight out of his mind.

Prostate, he thought hazily, Lucius says that's my prostate--

But Lucius had never made it feel like this.

He touched it again. Inexperience made him clumsy, a bit too rough, and he had to bite back a scream, body twisting helplessly out of the chair before he fell back, shaken and dazed. His eyes in the mirror were wide and stunned. The pleasure was so intense it was almost frightening.

But, oh, it was sweet. Far too sweet to resist.

Trust your instincts, Dumbledore had said. Well, all right. Somehow Severus doubted this was exactly what he'd had in mind when he had said Severus should teach himself to feel, but it was a start - and he simply could not fight the pull of his body any longer.

He closed his hand over his prick again and began stroking, hard and slow, keeping time with the finger now steadily reaming his ass. All the waiting and ignoring and denying he'd done had him right on the brink, primed to come, and after only half a dozen strokes he did, spilling all over his stomach, his finger stuffed so far up his hole it felt like his fist was trying to follow.

"Great gods, what a show. You look like Christmas all over again."

Severus's eyes flew open. So did his mouth. No. No. It couldn't be. He'd changed the password himself, just this evening, and all the wards, too--

Sirius Black leaned in the doorway. He was applauding slowly, a mocking grin stretched ear to ear.



( 1 Thing We Said Today — Dear Sir or Madam )
May. 28th, 2014 02:59 pm (UTC)
um...this was a long time since fic was posted.

dumbledore appearing out of nowhere to tell snape that sirius raping him was ok becasue sirius loves him IS NOT RIGHT(even if he doesnt say it outright that was the general idea i believe). its so disgusting it completely put me off reading more. i dont mind reading rape to love fics if its done nice, but some things are just...no.

sorry if you take offense to this.
( 1 Thing We Said Today — Dear Sir or Madam )