Ghost Story

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Snape had arrived at Grimmauld Place at precisely 11:28 PM, not that Sirius had been checking the clock. The Potions Master looked even greasier than usual, hair plastered damply over his forehead by the rain.

Sirius gave an involuntary low growl, that of a wild dog defending his territory. He’d never quite warmed to these visits, but had grown to expect them, and perhaps, in some strange way, appreciate what fleeting relief they brought.

Snape raised two pale hands to his face, drawing the damp black tendrils back from his forehead with the grace of some dark jungle creature. His movements were slow, his gait unhurried as he stepped further into the room. He ignored Sirius, refusing to meet his gaze, but Black would have none of that.

For the third time that week, Sirius had shoved Snape back against the wall before either of their minds seemed to have registered it.

But this time it was different. Sirius’ palms were warm, not cold, and his breath came out in hot spurts that seethed with a vengeful lust.

His fingers clipped at Snape’s shoulders, forcing him back, pinning him against the crumbling plaster. It was a maneuver had become quick and rough, an instinct. Sirius had an anger that leapt up like hot blue flames. Remus had always been the one to reign it in. But when Remus nodded off to sleep and Sirius was left, effectively alone, the anger always spiraled into something far more complex, something even Snape in his stoic posture and dark overly calm voice couldn’t ration or control.

“Black! Get the hell off of me!” Snape tried to command, but it came out as more of a whimper because Sirius’ strong fingers were crushing against his windpipe. The plea was a futile one even before it had left Snape’s lips; whatever he put up would only be for show anyway.

The other man didn’t even say anything. He’d always acted in silence, afraid that words would betray him, and perhaps they would.

“B-Black!” Snape’s voice again attempted to wrench itself free of the stale air of his throat, but this time it was only a short gasp. The man wondered if Sirius was going to strangle him. He had no doubt that he could, if he felt so inclined.

But instead Sirius did something rather unexpected, his lips, hard and dry from months’ imprisonment, pressed fiercely against Snape’s, almost as though trying to reclaim something. This was not a tender kiss; there was nothing gentle about this moment. It was an act of vengeance, his lips roughly scraping over the other man’s, half-hoping to leave a bruise, a mark, some sign that he had won. They had never kissed before this. It had always been cold, skin touching only where necessary to bring each other to completion. Before it had only been about the ending, it had only been about parting again.

But now they were coming together. Sirius was forcing a thirsty, chapped pressure over Snape’s mouth before the other man even had time to think to breathe through his nose instead. He had no time to think of things like details, patterns, the things he could control; this was just reckless.

Snape wasn’t about to let Sirius triumph so easily. While his airways were being filled with hot, used air from the other man’s mouth, he still managed to free his hands. They flapped like angry bird wings, struggling against Black’s grip. He felt like a helpless schoolchild, but didn’t cease his efforts, only moved his hands more frantically, scratching with long yellowing nails at the skin of Sirius’ forearms. Once, only once, he heard that sweet sound of defeat in the other man’s voice. But it was an illusion.

Soon Sirius had Snape thrown against the back of one of the dusty sofas in the parlor. Snape protested with half-breaths, his cock giving what must’ve been an involuntary twinge of anticipation. This was disgusting, he told himself, that he was getting aroused at the prospect of being beaten to an unrecognizable pulp by Sirius Black.

And then Sirius’ had his hands over his chest, the touches harsh; Snape half-wondered what organs he was trying to crush with that grip – he wasn’t sure his heart was even in there still. And he wondered just how long Sirius had been waiting to do this, to unleash his reckless anger on him. He had him now. Snape knew that fighting would, in the end, be futile. But still he struggled, crying out as he was spun around, thrown over the back of the couch so that he could smell the deep musk of the cushions. This really was a hideous couch, he noted, his face shoved, rather unceremoniously, into the rough material. His breath was stifled again, his nostrils invaded by the thick, dank smell of decay.

This was wrong. How was it that he always ended up in this position? How was it that Sirius could master him in under a minute? Did he allow this to happen? No, he had fought, or tried to. Maybe if he said that enough it would convince him, convince him that he had not only allowed it, but had wanted it.

And now Sirius was grinding against his back, his hard, angry cock pressing its length against him through their clothes. But he still said nothing. In public he could lash out with harsh words and caustic insults, but when they were alone, he had no voice. Perhaps he was afraid of what might come out.

Snape was forming the words for both of them. He did enough moaning to make up for Sirius’ silence. Where Snape used words, Sirius made his wants known only through thrusts and touches and kisses that felt more like the stings of open wounds.

“Please…” He was begging now. He sounded pathetic, but Sirius was loving it, if the grunt over his left shoulder was any indication. Snape wasn’t sure what he was begging for, exactly; Just something, anything. He didn’t care at the moment, but this hanging in limbo between one thing and another. This lack of decision, of resolve, was driving him insane.

And maybe that was just what Black wanted. A madness to match his own.

Snape could hear a belt buckle being loosened, a zipper undone, trousers sliding off legs and collapsing to the floor. And then he felt hands over his back, down his thighs, deft fingertips working up under his robes.

And then, in a moment that passed with the blink of an eye, Snape was exposed. And he still couldn’t move. Sirius had him trapped. He was caught between the other man’s strong body and the couch that he was beginning to so despise. It reeked of fallen aristocracy and dilapidation and something else, loneliness, perhaps. He wondered what it was Sirius was hoping to find in this. He wondered how the other man expected this to solve anything.

Snape could feel the eyes on him. Those angry, wild eyes he so loathed. With each rocking motion against him, he could feel that gaze tremor, waver. But Sirius never acknowledged this uncertainty – if truly uncertainty was what it was. Sirius was always confident, unyielding to the flecks of hesitation that flickered across the silvery grey sheen of his irises.

And then Sirius thrust into him, fast, without warning. And god, how Snape screamed. It was a cry that echoed strangely in the dank room, like the wail of a ghost, a spirit, something gone and lost. The sound was muted on the peeling plaster, vibrating lowly like a dark rumble of storms to come.

In an attempt to muffle his own cries, Snape bit down into the horrid cushion of the couch, tasting insect feces and dust, and he was sure there were shards of broken glass there too. But the disgust was overwhelmed by this rough feeling of skin inside his own, invading his shell, unbidden, but not wholly unwanted. There was nothing gentle about it, and it hurt with a burn that was worse than any fire could ever hope to be. He felt like he was being torn apart from the inside, and yet, in a way it was necessary. This pain was entirely needed, by both of them.

Sirius had never given Remus pain; he’d always been too afraid to hurt him and, as a result, whatever they’d had only provided a false sense of security, a comfort that never lasted. He was just a momentary buffer between the horrors that tormented Sirius’ mind and the darkness in the slowly constricting world around them. When the two collided, as they were in this moment, Snape was sure of it, the resulting cataclysm of rage unbridled was near disastrous.

Sirius was moaning in half-sobs, as if this were the most painful thing he’d ever done. He’d fallen so far from that devious teenager he’d once been, Snape mused, almost smugly. But then there was another thrust, another stab of that knife, and all amusement was forgotten.

And there was only the pain again.

And Snape was ashamed to admit that there was something strangely erotic about the whole thing. He could feel himself moving closer to orgasm, and he felt himself rock back into that heat now, trying to ignore the raw, tight pain of each thrust, the lack of preparation, or maybe to embrace it. Somehow the pain made it all feel so much more real, or perhaps just made it feel more.

There was no barrier between them, no spell to make the feeling slick and smooth and enjoyable. Every inch of agony and loss and rage that Sirius had in him was felt in its entirety. And somehow Snape found himself wanting to shoulder that burden.

Sirius moved quicker, eyes drawn tightly shut now, as if he didn’t want the act to be drawn out any longer than it had to, didn’t want any illusion of love or feeling or attachment. It was still just about the ending. That was all that mattered. Maybe that was all that had ever mattered. It wasn’t important how the conclusion was reached, just that it was.

Snape retched deep in his throat, biting his lip so hard it drew blood that trailed down the sallow flesh of his neck in some ghastly pattern. He swore he could feel the dust motes in his nostrils; he was sure that later, when this was all over, that acrid smell of sex and shadow would remain, would haunt him. Snape had always been afraid of ghosts.

But when Sirius thrust into him again that final time, spilling warm and hot and filling him, Snape knew there weren’t ghosts here.

Just two people who were hopelessly lost.

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