Chapter Text
Sirius felt the slim body writhe underneath him, even as he pinned it down with his knee. The other boy was bucking and twisting wildly trying to shake Sirius’s weigh off, but Sirius was much stronger. He leaned down and took the ball from white hands—and as he did so, Sirius was suddenly aware of the stiffness of his cock against the other boy’s back. He rose, throwing the ball forward and taking off at a run, he shoved the dark-haired head into the dirt for good measure.
He forgot about Snape as the game went on, and the Slytherin House team had soon swapped him out for Crouch anyway, Snape being a known failure at the sport of Quidditch. Snape wouldn’t even be on the team if it weren’t an unspoken requirement for all later-year boys in each house to take part in Quidditch for at least one season. Only when the match ended with a slim Gryffindor victory and he saw Snape slinking to the change rooms at the very back of the Slytherin team did Sirius think again about what had happened.
He was a teenage boy, so logically he knew that it wasn’t unusual to have these reactions, it was just that he had never considered the possibility that these reactions could be caused by Snape of all people. Thin, ghostly-pale Snape. Beaky nose and lanky hair and always that frown on that unpleasant face. His cock twitched again at the thought of that face upturned, and smoothed over in mindless pleasure. Snape was always thinking, plotting, scheming—to reduce those thoughts to nothing, to have those black eyes hazy and glazed—well, that might make up for all of Snape’s lack of conventional attractiveness.
“Oi, where are you going?” James, captain’s badge glinting on his chest, was waving at him from further up the pitch, where the rest of team were still celebrating.
“I’ll catch you up later,” Sirius called with a dismissive wave, “Good job today, mate.”
James, raising an eyebrow, just shook his head and turned back to the celebrations.
The teams shared the locker rooms, so Sirius knew about storage closet just outside the door. It was a perfect place in which to hide to observe his quarry. He knew that Snape would linger, being his slimy self around the changing rooms to avoid showering with the rest of his teammates. It had been a habit Sirius noticed, tucked away for future pranks.
Sirius settled in the dark space, ducking his head, and caught the Slytherin captain, Mulciber’s, voice.
“—you, Crouch, you have to be quicker to dodge their bludgers but otherwise a good showing. Lestrange, no notes—keep at it. And Snape. Jesus Christ what were you doing? Next game you might try sprain something beforehand and spare us all the embarrassment.” A chorus of guffaws at Mulciber’s words.
Snape muttered something waspish and indistinct which Sirius couldn’t hear.
“Yeah, yeah—Slughorn and Hooch made you—fucking hell, I’ll deal with you later—okay scram everyone. Double training on Wednesday. Snape, you’d better be there. I don’t give a damn about your grades—we all know you’re going to win the end of year prizes anyway.” Clattering and movement and running water.
Then, Snape, slipping out of the locker rooms without having changed at all. His black hair was still plastered to the back of his neck with sweat, and he was walking hunched over, a threadbare towel in his hands.
Sirius slipped out quietly from his hiding spot, one hand propping the door open. “You going to the girls’ change rooms, Snivellus?”
Snape whirled around so quickly it might have been that he was expecting it. But that couldn’t be it, could it?
“Black—” But before Snape said anything else, Sirius had clapped a hand over the other boy’s mouth and pulled him into the storage cupboard with bruising force. He closed the door.
“Shut up, okay? For once in your life, Snivellus—ow!” Snape had bit hard into his palm.
“What the fuck are you doing, Black—where the fuck are your friends? What were you all planning—” Then Snape’s voice, high and reedy whenever he was distressed, suddenly stopped. His hand reached out towards Sirius, and then past his shoulder, to flick on the light switch. The dusty yellow light made Snape sallower and nastier looking than ever, but his eyes were dark with knowing—and Sirius wondered—maybe something else. “This is about earlier, isn’t it? During the match.” Snape’s eyes flickered down.
Ah. So he definitely had noticed. In close proximity, Sirius noticed the half-moon of Snape’s eyelashes when he blinked, and the dark circles under the eyes. Snape’s lips looked dry, but they seemed pinkish at the corners.
“Right, so—I won’t tell anyone if you just leave me alone for—”
Sirius didn’t think. He surged forward, pressing Snape’s thin shoulders into the wall, and kissed him. The lips were softer than he expected, and salty from sweat and—
Snape’s hands were also on his shoulders, but pushing away, not drawing Sirius toward him. Snape’s face was twisted, he was pressing his fingers to his mouth as though confused. Then it was as though Snape had changed his mind, and he tilted his head in the dim light, looking into Sirius’s face with a contemplative expression. He leaned forward deliberately and pressed his lips to Sirius’s jaw, then the corner of his mouth. Snape’s movements spoke of a tentativeness that would never be voiced. Sirius became sure that he had never done this before.
Sirius certainly had more than his fair share of admirers, and he had reciprocated on occasion. A few girls and a couple of boys too, one of whom had blabbed to his parents about their fumbling. Then of course, it had all gone to shit and that was why he was living with his equally dissolute, lifelong bachelor of an uncle, along with summer holidays spent at the Potters’ house.
Snape wouldn’t tell of this to Sirius’s parents at least—for some reason he knew that to be the case. And they hadn’t quite disowned Sirius yet, so that was something.
Snape’s slow kisses moving over his face were sweet, in their own way, and different to how those other times had felt—a thought that Sirius quickly banished as he became frustrated with Snape’s soft movements against his lips. Sirius pressed forward again, this time he was more insistent, pushing Snape into the wall with his knee between skinny thighs and grinding his erection into Snape’s hip.
Snape yelped, and then quickly stifled the sound. “Stop it, Black, whatever this is.” Snape’s voice was uncertain, emerging as it did, between gasps.
“Stop? It doesn’t seem like you want me to stop.” Sirius reached for Snape’s cock, found it hard. He palmed it through the uniform tracksuit pants and elicited more gasps from the other boy.
“I don’t—I can’t—” The words were half-swallowed before they emerged. And Sirius thought that he was on the verge of being rewarded, the recently-formed fantasies of his mind becoming reality as Snape’s eyes looked up at him glazed, a sheen like unshed tears over them.
“If you want me to stop now, I’ll—”
“This—it’s a joke—a prank isn’t it? You’re planning something. You and Potter and Pettigrew and Lupin. Where are they? Fucking—”
“Fucking is right, Snivellus. Can we get to it? You want this.”
Sirius couldn’t say what it was—an ill-thought-out whim perhaps—but one that had seized him hard and fast and now he couldn’t let it go. The automatic, unthinking reaction of his body on that Quidditch field had just been a trigger for something that had built up over the years. But it wasn’t a prank. And if Snape really didn’t want it, he would stop.
“Come on. It’s not a prank,” Sirius said, and pressed his overheated body even closer to Snape’s.
“What do you want from me, Black? This is—if you..” Snape was uncertain, his uneven teeth biting down hard against his lips. So now there was colour to those lips. Pink and swollen with kisses and darker marks were teeth met flesh. Sirius knew the taste of those lips now, and the shape of them when Snape panted and moaned. “I’ll tell—”
But both Snape and Sirius knew that he would never tell, despite his initial instinctual threat. All he had wanted then was only to be left alone anyway. Sirius felt something like pity rising up in him. Snape would never tell because who would believe that Sirius Black, the most handsome boy at Hogwarts would come onto someone like Snivellus? He was quite at the bottom of the social pecking order: ugly, awkward and poor, despite all his cleverness.
“It’s simple, I want your cock in my mouth,” Sirius said.
A blush, and Snape’s face seemed suddenly humiliated and broken. His eyes, the tears gathered there had almost begun to spill over those dark lashes. Then Snape nodded, grinding his cock against Sirius’s hand.
“Yes—Black—yes—oh—”
His hands, usually graceful, moved clumsily to loosen the knot in the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms and skim them down his legs. He pushed them down to his ankles, and then aware and ashamed of his threadbare underwear, hastily pushed them down as well.
Snape’s cock was stiff and already leaking, nestled in its bed of dark curls and flesh made yellow by the light. Sirius found it quite striking. He knelt, one hand braced against Snape’s hips and the other reaching inside his own pants and stroking himself.
Sirius touched Snape’s cock first, giving it a few strokes in time with his other hand. The flesh was soft and velvety against his palm. He kissed it at the tip, licking at the salty fluid there before taking it into his mouth. Snape was trembling against him, one hand scrabbling behind him for purchase against the buckling of his legs and the other tangling itself in Sirius’s hair. Sirius took the cock deeper into his mouth, moving with his tongue and lips, coaxing Snape to a shaking orgasm. He looked up then and met Snape’s eyes. His pupils were wide, truly black against the dark brown of his eyes. Snape was looking at him, his swollen lips parted and panting frantically.
Snape was looking at him as though there was nothing else he could do, helpless.
“Sirius. Oh God,” Snape’s voice was harsh and low, and he sank to his knees, legs and arms awkwardly bumping against the walls.
He watched Sirius jerking himself for a few moments, before reaching forward and replacing Sirius’s hand with his own, touching him, running his fingers from base to tip over and over, and stroking the tip tentatively with his thumb until Sirius spilled over his fingers. Abruptly, Snape withdrew. He wiped his hand on his own pants before contorting his body to pull them on again, still half sitting and half kneeling on the dusty floor.
Sirius had adjusted his own clothes and was leaning against the opposite wall, watching Snape’s twitchy movements. His hair was a black curtain over his face, and the flushed pink skin was almost back to its usual sallowness. Snape straightened finally, picking up his discarded towel and twisting it in his hands, refusing to meet Sirius’s gaze.
“Fuck—fuck—” Snape was biting his lips hard again and flicking out his tongue as though still tasting something of Sirius there. His hands were curling and unfurling around the towel as though he did not know what to do with them. Finally, they fell to his sides. The words he muttered to himself were indistinct, but their tone was—Sirius couldn’t quite tell—but he had never seen Snape so disordered.
This was what you wanted, a sly voice said in his head. And it was, except that he had never thought that it would give him a feeling other than triumph.
“Snivellus—”
At that—that word that came so unthinkingly to the tongue—Snape finally looked at him, head snapping up as though he had been jolted by electricity. There was something brittle and hard come over his eyes.
“You—you! Black—I don’t ever want to talk to you again. Do your worst.” With that, Snape shoved open the door. Sirius did not say anything so foolish like “Don’t go, stay” or “Sorry”. There wasn’t anything to be sorry for. The door slammed shut in Snape’s wake, and the sound seemed to echo in the now-silent change rooms.
Sirius glanced around him. He turned the dim light off so that he sat there in the dark and silence for a few minutes. He listened to the fast beating of his heart slow. Then, he went into the locker rooms and ran a shower, scrubbing Snape’s scent off, even when the memory of his touch lingered.
Severus couldn’t sleep. No matter how he told his mind to stop thinking about the events of that day, it would not listen. It was outside of his control.
When Black’s hands had first closed on him in the locker room he had panicked. A pure, concentrated instinct honed over the past few years. He made to twist and kick and punch at Black—but the other boy was stronger, and always had been.
When Black had first descended on him with his lips and tongue, Severus had wanted to bite him there too. He was sure it was some trick—because Black could not—would not be there with him and doing this, whatever he thought he had felt during the Quidditch game.
It had all been perfunctory, telling Black to stop, because his body had responded right away. Surging immediately with long-suppressed and half-formed desires that drove coherent thoughts out of his mind.
Who wouldn’t have responded, under the gaze of those bright grey eyes, glinting almost silver in the dimness? And those warm hands and lips, touching skin that prickled at the mere closeness of another human being.
Severus quivered still at the thought. Even lying on his bed, acutely aware of his aloneness, his cock twitched at the memory.
As soon as he had got back to the Slytherin dormitories, Severus had drawn up a bath in one of the little-used tubs, filled it with lukewarm water and a quantity of soap and scoured his body all over.
Black had been—oh God—it was obvious that Black had done it before, while no one had ever touched him there—anywhere. Severus had been completely undone.
And then, he was foolish enough to think, when Black told him that it was Severus’s cock that he wanted, that it meant something. A soft and tender thing had begun to bud in his chest. A hope that he had always crushed to the very bottom of his thoughts because he knew that this was never what he, Severus Snape, had been meant for.
That hope had stirred awake. Severus had taken Black’s cock in his hand and touched it the way he touched himself. He withdrew when Black had come, sure that Black would shove him away if he lingered.
Still, that electricity made his hands curl. He had wanted to stroke Black’s hair, which had been soft and sweat-damp in his hand. He had wanted to touch Black’s beautiful body, smooth and muscled like a Renaissance statue, and thought that Black might have let him. In that brief moment, he had wanted to ask Sirius—to pull the sweat-soaked shirt from his back, to stroke the broad chest and shoulders and—
Then came Black’s “Snivellus” and he realised it was a trick. Maybe not one that Potter and Pettigrew and Lupin was in on, but a trick nonetheless. Perhaps to lull Severus into a false sense of security, so new humiliations could be wrought. Perhaps to make him come was the humiliation, to show him to be a hypocrite who was not immune to Black’s considerable charms. Maybe it was a bet to see who could debase himself with a disgusting Slytherin. He might have been the easiest target. It wasn’t as though he had any suitors lined up at his door.
Whatever it was, it was just a continuation of their animosity. It was just an elaborate degradation. Nothing had changed.
Severus turned again on his bed, kicking at his bedsheets. Shame was a familiar feeling to him by now—and he felt its dull sting now as he hated himself for thinking it might be different. He hated himself for that spark of hope that Black had elicited with his parody of want.
Severus would put this and those other thoughts all out of his head. That was the only way. He had been losing Lily for months, years even. She fit better into this world than he did. She had always been meant for good things. But he had never found ease among his housemates. It was only one example today, belittled at every turn for his lack of prowess on the Quidditch field. A fucking made up sport played only at Hogwarts and by a handful of other pompous toffs.
Of course, he came inevitably back to the knowledge that nobody cared. When Black had been touching him, putting his mouth on him and panting so sweetly, he had thought that it might have meant something. But it was nothing still—he was nothing.