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The Music We Make

10 Mar

Title: The Music We Make
Rating: NC-17 (duh)
Pairing: Severus Snape/Sirius Black
Word Count: 2,458
Summary: Sirius accepts what he needs, even though he really doesn’t understand why he needs it. A kitchen-sink drama in two unnatural acts.
A/N: This short story is for my precious and dear friend, akatnamedeaster. You are such an inspiration, a generous and talented and supportive friend. I hope you will enjoy this, and forgive me that Sirius got a little cerebral on me right in the middle of all the smut. I hope this makes sense. It is un-beta’d, because I was too impatient, and these characters are not owned by me. If they were, I swear they would still be alive and fucking their way through the Wizarding world forever.

The Music We Make

“You’re late.”

The words ooze from the darkness of the room, and Sirius hesitates before shrugging out of his robes. “It couldn’t be helped. There was a collision on the Quidditch pitch and Poppy─”

“I’m not interested in your excuses, Black.”

How can one short word roll from that sharp tongue, and land with such percussive elegance at the back of a throat? Has anyone ever been able to utter his name with more nuance and meaning? It becomes a barometer from those sneering lips; said casually, indifferently, it is no more than a word, a colour, a name for the absence of light. But now, spoken in that low, guttural rasp, it has its own prisms of colour. Coming from Severus’ mouth, it holds its own definition.

Sirius stills, and the robe slips from his nerveless fingers. He carefully retrieves it to hang on a hook, but Sirius is hit with a sharp rush of wandless magic and it flutters to the ground again. His hands are bound behind him, and he is spun toward the wooden table. “Fuck, Severus!” he barks, shocked into protest. A bright, harsh light shines down from above, like an interrogation room in one of those Muggle films Severus pretends not to watch. Magically he is swatted, pinned face down, his hips crashing uncomfortably against the table’s edge. Another sharp curse gusts from him, along with his breath, and he cannot move.

The little Manc shit always could get the drop on him.

From the darkness beyond, Severus emerges, his smirk almost trademark Slytherin. He taps his wand against his thigh with studied nonchalance, regarding Sirius as if he is a particularly interesting potions ingredient. This could be a game, but Sirius knows it is much more than that. After all, he orchestrated it himself.

Though it strains his neck, Sirius lifts his head and defiantly meets those black, black eyes. They are large and hot and snapping fire, and the lust he sees in them arouses him so quickly he feels momentarily dizzy. The discomfort of his hips locked against the table’s edge ramps into a higher gear as his cock punches against the zip of his fly.

He knows what will come next. Oh gods, he knows, and it thrills him down to his boots. It shouldn’t; their history has been fraught with every emotion in the world, but Severus has always known what he needed, almost before Sirius does himself. That realisation is as exciting as the adrenaline pumping through his body, in time with his swiftly beating heart.

Another whisper of magic, and Sirius is naked, and that is both a relief and a concern. He rises up on tiptoe to dislodge his rigid cock, pinned between his body and the table. He sighs as it bounces free.

“Oh, my,” Severus purrs, and Sirius can hear the smug in his tone. “A little uncomfortable, are we?”

“Just a bit,” Sirius manages through gritted teeth. He may be gagging for it inside, but he’s damned if he wants Severus to know just how desperate he is. Severus has left him choking on his own lust for less.

Now he drawls, “Only a bit? Well, then. Perhaps I should truly apply myself.”

Sirius yelps as each leg is yanked outward and bound to the legs of the table. Not unbearably uncomfortable, no. Just enough to remind them both exactly who is in charge.

“Do you accept this, Sirius?”

The voice in his ear is cool and low and intimate; it is a lover’s voice, but it is tainted with power. Power is something Severus still understands and appreciates, and Sirius knows his trust is the only thing that truly holds Severus Snape in check. It is the only thing that matters at this point. Everything else comes later.

He turns so that his lips are very near Severus’. “Yes,” he whispers into that mouth, that beautiful, haughty, twisted mouth that would taste of firewhisky and desire, if he could only get to it. “Please,” he adds, hoping to seal the deal. A hand cups his sac, and Sirius shivers. Knowing, talented fingers deliciously caress his balls before sliding between his bum cheeks and devilishly circling his anus. Sirius almost swoons. Touch me, he prays. Just stroke my cock, once, please, oh gods, just touch it, play with it─

But Severus moves away from him, and Sirius grinds his teeth in frustration. Behind him, he hears another whisper. It is one that has called to him many times, and he relaxes. It is the whisper of leather swishing through the air. It is a flail, and Severus is testing his aim and his pitching arm.

The first blow comes too quickly; Sirius hasn’t had time to prepare. It stripes across his arse like heat lightning, and his senses are both dulled and pricked by it. Sometimes Sirius wants to ask where Severus learned his talent with the flail, the cane, the whip, but he is almost afraid of the answer. In a last bid for defiance, he keeps his breathing even, and tries not to react. He doesn’t know why he does this; perhaps to show a little power of his own. Perhaps also because he knows Severus will see it as incentive.

The flail slashes through the air, licking at his skin like tongues of fire, and Severus taunts him with each rise and fall of his arm. “So you want to be a big man, eh, Black? Want to be tough? Is that why you defy me? Look at that gorgeous arse, striped and red. I’ll bet you’re as hard as a broom handle, aren’t you, Black? You just can’t wait for my cock up your arse, can you? Just another bitch on heat.”

Sirius tries to speak, but he is caught up in the music of the flail, its voice a duet, a tenor to Severus’ drawling, jeering bass. It sings on him and with him, the harsh, discordant music of pain. The next blows sear and sting and his arse is burning and Sirius is trying to cry, trying so, so hard to cry. Not because his tears will make Severus stop, but because he needs to cry. He needs this, and Severus is his catalyst, and Severus always gives him what he needs.

It is that thought that brings the tears. Not the pain of the flail, nor his lover’s silken goading, but the knowledge that he needs this. Is something wrong with him that he needs Severus to spank him like a child?

And does Severus think less of him because of it?

That is the final blow, the one unbearable thing. Sirius feels the sting behind his eyes, the sudden salt in the back of his throat. The tears flow, then the weeping, then the sobs. Severus is relentless and selfless; he keeps on until the sobs turn to wails.

Then. He. Stops. The only sounds in the room are Severus’ harsh breathing, and Sirius’ weeping; the clock ticks in the hall, a slow dirge in 4/4 time. Together, they create the most desolate sound on earth.

A gentle hand, calloused and showing the first signs of arthritis in the joints, rides up the back of Sirius’ spine. It gently strokes his blistered backside, sliding underneath to caress his sac once again. Finding Sirius’ cock flaccid, Severus releases the bonds with a soft murmur. He has to pull Sirius upright from the table; he cannot do it unaided. He is too distraught and afraid.

Sirius turns to Severus, knowing he’s a mess, all red-rimmed eyes and clogged nose and mussed hair. He can’t bring himself to look at him. He blindly allows Severus to pull him onto their battered sofa and into his arms. Sirius chokes through a slime of mucus and terror, “You won’t go, will you? You won’t ever leave─”

“Hush, you old fool.” Severus’ voice is brusque, almost angry. He strokes Sirius’ hair, and passes him a handkerchief. “You ask me that every sodding time. When will you get it through your thick skull I’m going nowhere?”

Looking up into his severe face, Sirius sees tears pooling in those large, expressive eyes, and his own dry immediately. There was a time, oh, yes, don’t they both know, there was a time when Severus would have rejoiced in making Sirius truly suffer. Severus has lost any taste for inflicting this kind of pain, if he ever truly had it in the first place. He brings his talents to bear purely for Sirius, and only then very reluctantly─the price is very, very high.

“Gods, what a fucked up pair we are,” Severus says with a sigh. He tenderly wipes Sirius’ face with the handkerchief. “There’s you, asking─no, begging me to spank you because you need that catharsis. And there’s me, wailing away at you because I need prove to myself that I could never truly hurt you.”

Then, to Sirius’ surprise, Severus actually laughs, a rusty old sound few are privileged to hear. “Merlin, Black, who else would put up with us?”

Severus is warm, his robes soft and smelling of woodsmoke and herbs, and that old twisting need for release is soon replaced with something far harder to tame. Sirius stretches, and rubs against Severus, reveling in the feel of his cock against the cloth. He is hard again, straining against Severus like a cat, moaning softly as Severus’ body joins his in arousal. He strokes Severus’ cock through the robes, shamelessly humping against his leg. Sirius has been cleaned out; now he needs to be filled again, and thank Merlin, Severus understands this as well.

“You’re a randy old dog,” Severus rumbles, but there is a sneer of pure lust on his face as Sirius parts his robe and frees his cock. It is beautiful; coarse and gaudy and brutal, like its owner. Sirius knows it will burn like pepper on the first thrust and open him up like a crowbar. It will hit every sweet spot he owns, and feel like heaven as it fills him over and over again. Sirius leans down and plants wet kisses up the shaft, burying his nose in Severus’ pubic hair, snuffling, licking, listening as Severus’ even breathing turns deep and fast.

Severus rises and drags Sirius over to his favourite chair. He sits, and makes Sirius sit on his lap, facing away. Sirius smiles as his thighs are draped over the arms of the chair. “I’m going to fuck that tight arse of yours, Black,” he croons, his sinister voice glossy and a little drunk. He pushes Sirius’ arse cheeks apart, and slowly lowers him onto that heavy cock. Sirius pants hard as he is eased down, pierced through the last of his need and his desire.

Severus takes the first strokes slow, sliding in, pulling Sirius down, and his arse feels greedy and hungry. He lies back against Severus’ chest, and rocks, hissing at the pain/pleasure coursing through his groin. Gripping his thighs, Sirius strains against his lover, thrusting back with what little leverage he is allowed. When Severus wraps one long arm around his waist and drives upward hard, Sirius cannot hold himself back any longer.

“Please, touch me,” he whimpers. “Touch my cock, stroke it. Oh gods, please Severus! I need it!”

“Like this?” Those long fingers encircle Sirius’ cock and tug, hard. Twisting, jerking, ruthless and arduous. “Do you want me to play with it? Yeah? Tell me. Tell me what a sweet little slut wants, Black. The sweet─sweetest─” His voice breaks and spins away in a growl of pleasure.

The cock in his arse is like a battering ram, and Sirius is caught between that demanding pole and that cruel, twisting hand, and pleasure boils into his groin and he shouts his climax into the room. And like before, Severus goes on, wringing every ounce of pleasure from his hypersensitive glans, making his arse and the tip of his cock tingle and pulse until Sirius is a bleak, demented husk, boneless and spent.

Severus’ rhythm becomes erratic, uncontrollable. He leans forward as if to kiss Sirius’ shoulder, but in truth it is to muffle the noises of his climax. Sirius feels the hot breath as Severus cries out against his skin, feels the hot liquid as it sprays into his hole, and he clenches as hard as he is able. Severus shudders beneath him, holding on to Sirius’ waist like a man drowning. He falls back against the chair, sucking wind like a marathon runner. Neither can move.

Finally, Severus pushes at Sirius’ back. “The weight-lightening charm wore off five minutes ago. Gerroff.”

With a silent laugh, Sirius somehow manages to struggle onto his feet, but he is as wobbly as a new-born colt. Severus’ not inconsiderable issue runs down the back of his thigh. “Where did you vanish my wand?” he pants, groaning as his knees pop loudly.

“Upstairs. I’ll do it, mutt.” In the space of an eye blink, Sirius is clean and fresh, and whole again. He turns to his lover. Severus’ cheeks are stained with colour from his exertions, and he looks tiredly sated.

Sirius holds out his hand and pulls Severus to his feet. “Hungry?”

“You know I am. Molly sent over some stew. Be a lad and warm it up. I’m off for a piss.”

The bread and stew are on the table by the time Severus returns, and they eat with relish. Good sex has made Severus gain two stone, and it suits him.

There are few people that Severus truly cares about, and even less that it could be said he loves. Tonight, he will finish grading papers and crawl into bed beside Sirius and sleep deeply, without the nightmares that haunted him for so long. Sirius has seen to that. It was the least he could do. Sirius is loved. He is loved enough to be given pain, so that he can receive pleasure again. He is loved with every stitch that sews the sinews of Severus Snape’s tough heart, and that is a gift.

Sirius has spent a lot of time examining his motives; he is grateful that Severus gives him what he needs without question, without judgement, without demands for recompense. On selfish nights like this, when it is all about him, Sirius looks at his lover, and wishes he were as eloquent as Severus. He wishes he could tell him all these things, because he instinctively knows Severus will understand.

He meets those black eyes, and Severus returns his gaze keenly, almost pityingly. “I do know,” he says, with that beautiful voice, full of colour and meaning and emotion. “And I do understand. Now pass the bread, and stop thinking yourself into an early grave, Black.”

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