Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

Desperate Times, Desperate Measures
Zyta

Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the characters or the world that they are playing within- that honor goes to the genius JK Rowling. I’m just playing with her toys, but I promise to give them back with all their hair and clothes in tact. Maybe. I don’t make money from this, and I doubt anyone would pay anyway.

A/N: Slash. If you don’t like Male/Male pairings with sex involved then you shouldn’t read this. There’s also quite a bit crude language in here, mostly the F dash dash dash word. If you’re uncomfortable with adult language, move on to the monkey bars kiddies. This is the adult’s sandbox.

This story was an idea born from one question. What if Snape decided to ‘save his own neck’?


(¯`•._.•[Chapter I]•._.•´¯)
Make Believe After The Walls Crumble Down

His body was in a great arc, muscles and bones stretched so far they felt ready to snap. Snap they did, in an explosion of release that was echoed with a throat-shredding howl. A haze descended over his mind and body in the aftermath, a lethargic glow nearly like a drug. Perhaps it was a drug, an opiate that seemed to suck every bit of the energy he had been using so frantically to pound away the need. A disgusting need that left his body satiated, but Remus himself reeling from self hatred as he slumped with dead weight into the mattress.

He could feel the pounding invasion, over and over and over, but could do nothing about it. Much as he wished to simply shove the body in him out and away, leaving Snbrokbroken on the floor. His eyes caught a flash of the face, turned upwards so that he was staring straight up at the gargantuan nose and thin twisted lips that were curled to reveal those yellow, crooked, teeth. Remus screwed his eyes shut tightly and found the strength to turn his own face away, but he could still feel the heat from Snape. The sweat that dripped down onto his chest and abdomen, the lubricant that slipped between their meeting thighs in a sigh of flesh, and he felt sickened by it.

The original dream was shattered; he could no long see Sirius. Just Snape.

The other man was always eerily silent, perhaps a grunt that seem torn from his belly towards the end. Snape’s arms, so thin Remus could make the outline of Snape’s bones, trembled before his eyes, while the long fingers curled into the sheet like talons. Remus bit back a cry as Snape broke his rhythm, driving into Remus’ body with an animalistic craze that was raw and painful in a disgustingly delicious way.

And then there was one final push that seemed to split him right down the middle, and he tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth from biting on his tongue. Snape’s body gave a shudder before his arms refused to hold his nearly non-existent weight, and the lanky Potion Master collapsed onto Remus’ chest just as he came.

Remus tried to lay still as the panted breaths hit his cheek with an acidic burn. Snape’s hair fell like a slithering curtain of inky oil over his lips and nose, and Remus’ nostrils twitched involuntarily. There was nothing about the man he found the least attractive. Nothing in his appearance, certainly nothing with his personality, and nothing in the man he was. Snape was merely convenient, and they shared a mutual loathing that had turned into an unhealthy lust for vengeance.

Snape, undoubtedly, like to think of James or Sirius’ reaction of seeing him fucking their little werewolf. Remus liked to imagine that Snape was Sirius, knowing that Snape knew, and loving the hatred that flared in those malicious eyes. Yes, it was very convenient.

Perhaps not exactly healthy or conductive to healing, but he was a werewolf, and well used to illness. And no one could dispute that sleeping with Severus Snape was anything but an illness.

“Get off.” Remus finally stated, barely louder than a whisper.

He felt Snape shift, finally pulling out of him, and falling back on the mattress beside him. There was enough room between the two to ensure they were not touching, but Remus could feel the dent in the mattress, the heat of Snape, the smell of their recent activities, and Snape’s slightly steadier breaths. There was a harsh, humorless, chuckle. It cut the silence between them and lit the fire of quiet anger in Remus. “You never cease to amaze me Lupin.”

Remus balled his fists as Snape’s drawl, filled with no small amount of hatred despite the satiation in it. He resisted the urge to turn towards Snape and snap back at him. It was what he wanted, a good fight after a good fuck. Well, he could get his jollies somewhere else. “Whatever you say.” Lupin replied once he trusted his voice.

Snape snorted, seeing his attempt thwarted again, and the bed creaked as the Slytherin swung his legs over the side of the mattress. Remus lifted as Snape’s weight left the bed, leaving a chill behind that was more than welcomed.

There were no more words exchanged, only the sound of Snape’s feet as they slapped against the hardwood floor. The door to the bathroom opened, and then slammed behind him. Remus sighed and flipped onto his back, wincing slightly at the discomfort from his lower body. He’d be sore tomorrow; he usually was after one of their rendezvous. He wasn’t sure if Snape needed to be rough to get off, or if he just liked to see how far he could bend Remus’ legs. This time his knobby knees had actually dug painfully into his shoulders.

He was too old for that sort of contortion.

Light sneaked it’s way back into the darkness, and Snape’s silhouette glided out of the crack in the door. Remus watched with half closed eyes as the other man walked over to his clothes, dressing with a sort of deliberate perfectionism. Snape didn’t look over towards the bed. He wouldn’t the rest of the night. Perhaps he too felt disgusted. Fucking a werewolf. Remus was sure that must have gone against some sort of standard.

But neither man had the luxury of options.

Snape finally swung his cloak over his shoulders, pausing to clasp it at his throat, before turning in a great flurry and stalking across the room. The door opened, admitting a blast of cold air that made Remus shiver, and then he was gone. Snape left Remus once again alone, empty, and hating himself for allowing it to happen again.

The werewolf drove off these thoughts, reaching down and gasping the worn blanket before pulling it up and over his tired body. Then he thought of the scent of musk and sweat still in the air and groped for his wand on the bedside table. His hands clasped around the wood, pulling it towards him. He whispered a charm and waved. The smell finally disappeared, erasing the last traces of evidence.

He laid the wand back onto the table and shut his eyes. Willing the pictures that floated in his mind to go away. Remus didn’t want to deal with any of it. Just relax with the after-sex and slip into a dreamless darkness.

But it was not his fate. Again the last moment of Sirius’ life visited him from the land of Morpheus. This time, however, his face was not shocked- but screwed up with disgust.


••.•´¯`•.•• ••.•´¯`•.••

The next day was one of those perfect mornings. The sort where the golden and red hues of a rising sun slowly give way to a lovely feathery purple until finally breaking into a brilliant crystal blue. The birds were singing and the earth smelled fresh after a late night’s mist that seemed to cleanse the trees and grass as the slight breeze fluttered the flowered curtains through the open window of the kitchen. Remus himself stood with his hands braced on the counter and looking out at a sort of day where mothers would be compelled to take the little ones off to the park, since weather like this was a rarity in London. He was enjoying it immensely and hoped the afternoon would turn out to be much the same.

With a final look out the window at a view even the cracked white paint and rotting boards of the neighbor house couldn’t spoil, Remus pulled himself away to finish pouring the tea. It was a day so different from the one that had pushed Snape, the most unlikely of companions (if one could call him that), into his bed. That day had been dreary and depressed, with the sky a muted gray and a drizzle falling steadily enough against the thin panes of glass to make it seem the entire world was weeping at Sirius’ small gathering. They had all stood silently together, one of his arms braced around Harry’s already weighted shoulders, as Dumbledore said a fitting farewell to the last of his friends.

He still had no answer to why Snape had come, which was the original question posed that had landed him in so much trouble. The figure, always clad in black, which was rather convenient for such somber occasions, had stood apart from the rest in a corner of the parlor hidden by shadows and no one’s desire to share their pain with him. Harry had been furious at his presence, as had Remus- though he hid it well while the rest were still there. Still, despite Harry’s keening howls for Snape to get the hell out, the Potion Master simply remained silent and still. Dumbledore and Mrs. Weasley had finally convinced Harry to leave the man be.

But he stayed far too long. Past the serving of the food, which he didn’t eat, and then till the wee hours of the morning after Harry had been taken back to the Dursleys. The Weasleys had gone, Dumbledore had gone, Tonks had left last with a sniffling goodbye to Remus, and then it was just Snape and the Werewolf at one in the morning.

And with all the drain of holding himself in check, of the piece of his heart that had been torn from his chest, of the anger and sadness swallowing him whole, and with the tears stinging the back of his eyes-- Remus had simply exploded.

He shouted words at Snape he never even realized he knew. He had called the man’s entire family, back to his greasy hooked nosed ancestors, into question. He had even thrown old school nicknames at his face, the ones he had never said aloud before, one’s that were much worse than ‘Snivellus’. His roar was far louder than Mrs. Black’s scream. Finally, when his throat was raw and his face red, he had settled for striking the bastard across the face before telling him to get out of Sirius’ house. Or Merlin help what he’d do.

Throughout it all Snape had stood rigidly still, a statue, and the words rolled right off him like water off a duck’s back. Perhaps that was what the oil and grease were meant for. But even in his rage, Remus could see something simmering behind those black eyes. A loathing there that had nothing to do with him or the things he was saying, but everything to do with Snape. When his fist connected, it was as if a damn had broken. For them both.

Years of hatred and loathing, pent up frustration, and isolation had turned into a need to hurt with pleasure and a painful lust. Snape had moved first, but Remus hadn’t resisted. He forgot in that moment who the black hair had belonged to and all his mind saw was Sirius. The two Marauders had never actually been lovers, Sirius was as straight as they came, but that wasn’t for lack of Remus’ most deepest and desperate wish.

What Snape was thinking or seeing, Remus didn’t know and didn’t particularly care. All he knew was for that span of time he forgot Sirius was dead, forgot what human was pressing their skin against his while the ache which had been there for five years had finally been rubbed and scratched.

In the aftermath, after Snape left without saying a single cutting word, Remus had finally been able to release his tears as well.

Now it was nearly two months since that night, and Remus was sitting in Sirius’ kitchen sipping tea and wondering how much longer this was going to last. He had a home for the first time in his life; Sirius’ had left the house to Remus, though it was still hard to think of it as his. Sirius’ mother certainly didn’t think of it as the House of Lupin. He had finally sewn the curtains shut, hoping that would drown her out, and it did muffle her for the most part.

He knew Sirius would most definitely not approve of what went on upstairs in the guest room, since Remus couldn’t bear to bring himself to sleep in Sirius’ room. Sirius would likely try to knock sense into the Werewolf’s head, or shout some into his ear. Then again, if Sirius hadn’t died then that night would never have happened. It shouldn’t have. It really shouldn’t have. He should stop it. The reality was he couldn’t, and the disgusting part was he didn’t really want to.

Even if it was Snape, it was someone, and he had nothing left. Ironically enough, he had Snape to thank for that. That anger seemed to turn itself into a fire that burned whenever he and Snape were alone. It was wrong and he was sick, but that was simply how it was. If Remus Lupin knew anything, it was to accept what had been handed to him and make the best of it.

Sitting in the sunshine and with pleasant warmth of tea seeping through the chill, it was nearly easy to forget what the night would eventually bring.

••.•´¯`•.•• ••.•´¯`•.••

It was five days until the door to his bedroom opened. Remus was on his side, curled slightly, the wool blanket itching against his bare skin. He heard the snap of robes as Snape entered, the impossibly loud clunk of his boots as he stepped across the wooden floor. Then, a whisper of magic and the door shutting resoundingly closed, and an insulating bubble as Snape cast the spell for silence.

The bed springs creaked with Snape’s weight, and it was then Remus caught the scent of blood. An unmistakable tint of essence, and for the first time he turned and lifted his head to look at Snape and not Sirius.

He was bleeding, a sticky gash on the side of his head. In the waning firelight he could see the colors of blood, the wolf in him took careful study. The harsh burgundy giving way to a near black flakes that had dried against pale skin. Impossibly pale skin, and sweat- he recognized that scent from Snape easily enough. “What happened?” He asked gently, pushing himself up and reaching out to inspect the wound.

But Snape jerked away as if Remus’ hand was a hot iron brand rather than flesh and bone. “It’s none of your concern.” He replied, and not in his usual silken tenor. His voice was scratchy, raw, and harsher than Remus’. As if his throat was raw and itching.

And then Snape’s eyes met his own, and for the first time Remus could see the glint of someone on the edge. Like prey that had been cornered and bitten raw, no longer fighting but accepting- and still terrified of the kill. “Severus?”

“Shut up.” Came the hoarse statement, but it lacked any real bite. He was defeated.

It terrified Remus more than it ought to.

“Severus.” He stated with concern tinting the name into a quiet plea. Remus sat up and bent towards the table next to the bed. There, a glass of water sat, where it always did. In case he awoke trembling from nightmares of an animal presence running through the woods, and then the jaws snapping down on a human or a large black dog. He had too many of those dreams.

Ignoring them, he took the water and offered it to Snape, who snatched it away greedily and gulped down half of it before wrenching the glass away and coughed roughly. Remus took the glass back, from slightly trembling fingers, before getting up.

He only wore his tattered boxers, the cuff of the left leg far to worn and threadbare. He padded silently to the corner, where his handkerchief settled in the pocket of his robes. He fished it out, poured a bit of water over it before making his way back to the bed. Snape hadn’t moved from his perch, long legs curled so they didn’t touch the ground. He was shaking a bit more now, and his teeth clattered together.

Remus sighed as he sat before him, tucking one leg up on the mattress, bent, while the other remained straight out to support his weight and provide balance. The floor was cold, chilling him, but not nearly as much as the look Snape still possessed.

The journey the handkerchief made towards Snape’s wound was slow, deliberately slow. Remus saw his eyes widen a bit, but he didn’t move otherwise. There was a hiss, a jerk of the head that caused a few slippery strands of hair to slap into Remus’ hand. He ignored it, instead running the wet cloth carefully down the side of Severus’ face. Snape’s blood smearing pink, or plucking painfully off where it had dried as he cleaned. His hair was matted beside it, and Remus had to gently pry out the black strands with his free hand as he worked. Snape shuddered at the feel of a compassionate caress.

Remus had to wonder how long it had been since someone had touched him seeing only him with care and love. He felt a burning shame then, for he had certainly used Snape just as everyone else seemed to. Even with the bitter temper and the cutting remarks, he was still human. More than Remus could say for himself.

“What happened?” He asked just as gently as the fingers running their way through the midnight locks.

Snape inhaled sharply through his nose, his large nostrils flaring. “There was a problem.” He replied, swallowing after he managed to speak.

“So I gathered.” Remus pulled the handkerchief away, and found a clean corner before reaching for the water. He poured a bit more onto it before retuning to his ministrations. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“Everywhere.”

Remus paused, blinking at the sudden and unexpected admission. Snape’s teeth were still clattering loudly, but his eyes were now focused on something Remus doubted anyone else could see.

He felt angry for a moment. Why say something like that to him? Like they were intimate in mind and heart. They weren’t, they couldn’t stand each other whenever the sun was high. Only at night, only in cloaked secrecy and desperation. These sorts of confessions were for Dumbledore, not him. He never wanted to hear Snape’s heart, had even doubted on occasion that there was one.

And then there was that small fraction of his mind that was afraid. If Snape was capable of breaking, what did that mean for everyone else? No, better to think nothing chipped that icy demeanor. Snape was too proud, to strong, for that.

Remus continued to clean the gash as best he could, but whenever he came to close to the actual cut and pressed even slightly, it oozed angrily. He could see the skin tinted an angry green and yellow near it, and he felt the hard knot when he pressed. Snape would have a very noticeable bump next to his brow in the morning.

“Are you cut anywhere?” Remus finally tried, hoping to get a more expected answer. He nearly smiled at the thought of wishing to hear Snape’s arctic sarcasm flowing again.

“No.” Was the only answer, and nothing else. No werewolf remarks, no tirades against nosy Gryffindors. Nothing. Remus was beginning to really worry. Perhaps the ice was wearing thin, about to crack.

He finished cleaning the wound and set the water and pink handkerchief aside. He sat silently next to Snape, unsure of why he had come. He was in no condition for sex that was certain. He didn’t see why the private man would seek him out instead of licking his wounds alone in the Dungeon he dwelled in.

And then the long fingers moved of their own accord, fumbling with the clasps on his robes and the tiny buttons. It was a long and tired struggle, one Remus felt compelled to help with. It was nearly five minutes or more before the robes and petticoat were lying discarded on the floor. Only Snape’s shirt and trousers remaining, and then the potion Master set to work on those as well. Remus watched silently as he peeled of his shirt, wincing visibly with each stretch of his arms.

It was hard not to glance away from the impossibly bony sight of Snape’s body. Under his robes, he seemed to have more bulk than he really did. In actually, Snape was no better than a tall skeleton, and Remus could see every single rib, and when Snape bent over to work on his trousers, the individual disks of his spine poked out like tiny bumps.

Remus drew his knees up and curled his arms around them as he watched. Snape was in bad shape, getting worse it seemed. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Dinner.” Snape replied, pushing his trousers down the sumptuously long legs. The only feature of the Slytherin Remus had ever found worthy of perusing with his eyes.

“Tonight?”

Snape peered over, and Remus saw the first hint of the usual irate glitter in those black orbs. “No.”

“You should eat something, then.” Remus pointed out sensibly, with a meaningful look at Snape’s body. “You look as if you’re starving.”

Snape didn’t reply, only turned to work his way across the mattress. Tossing the blanket aside and laid down on his back. His gaze returned to Remus, and the werewolf couldn’t help but wonder what on earth Snape was trying to communicate silently.

Remus bit the inside of his cheek as he lifted his own legs back onto the bed and slid under the blankets. There was an awkward silence, with only the cracking of the logs in the fireplace to fill the room. Remus kept his hands to himself, still uncertain of Snape’s intentions. He was fairly certain that whatever had gone wrong tonight had resulted in punishment. And that likely meant the Cruciatus Curse. He couldn’t imagine Snape being the least bit interested in any sort of sex tonight. If he was, he was far more masochistic than even Remus believed.

And then, his breath left in a whoosh of surprise when Snape suddenly reached out with his arms and clung to him like a man drowning. Remus gazed over with an owlish expression on his face, but Snape’s eyes were tightly shut, so tightly that the edges were crinkling from the effort.

And the werewolf decided that he was very deeply concerned about Snape’s mental well fare. It was for that reason alone that his larger arms wrapped themselves around Snape, and pressed him close. Snape didn’t do anything so alarming as weep, and so Remus’ world only tipped instead of toppling over completely.

The night dragged on, and Remus eventually gave up hope of Snape falling asleep first. It seemed the man had no intention of dreaming tonight, so Remus gave into his own heavy weighted eyelids. Even though it was Snape who was pressed so intimately within his arms, he felt a strange sort of comfort with it. He hoped Snape was receiving the same, since it was the only thing Remus could think the man desperately wanted.

As he slowly lost himself in the warmth, and his mind floated down into unconsciousness, he could have sworn he heard Snape mutter something. Something vaguely resembling I’m sorry, but he fell asleep the next moment and was never completely sure.

••.•´¯`•.•• ••.•´¯`•.••