Nice

It wasn’t nice, what they did. It had never been nice, because that wasn’t in Snape’s nature, and it wasn’t in Remus’ nature to be kind to someone so vile, not any more.

He had tried, and he had tried, and he had tried, and all Snape had ever done was snipe and snap at him, call him filthy, call him a beast, an animal, and Remus found that the only way to shut his sneering, jagged mouth was to prove him right.

So they fucked, and it wasn’t pretty or nice or any of the sort of thing that Remus might have liked, with any other. It was ugly – colored in gray-blue-purple-yellows of bruises – and it was cruel, and it was everything Remus had ever hoped to do to Snape all his life, except he somehow hadn’t, because he’d felt sorry for him.

Now, if Snape called him a half-breed, Remus drew blood from both of them to prove it looked no different.

Now, if Snape called him shabby, Remus stripped them both naked, fucked him in front of a mirror to prove that Remus, Remus was the pretty one, despite his weakness, despite his illness.

Now, if Snape called him a beast, Remus growled into his ear and fucked him harder, called him names back, cruel, cruel names that should never have come from his lips.

Remus called him ugly, called him pathetic, called him desperate, called him a filthy slag, told him he was no better than Remus, really.

And Snape still came, in every sense of the word. He came to meet Remus, came closer to him when Remus said so, came all over his hand or in his robes or on his belly or down Remus’ throat, and most nights, Remus chose where and when and how.

But some nights, some nights Snape fought back. Those were the nights Remus loved best, because he always won – he was a Gryffindor, after all, and Snape could only scheme and dream and claw for success from the shadows, where Remus had it naturally. By right or by brashness or by willpower, he would always win in the end.

Tonight, Snape spit in his face and Remus claimed his sour mouth, bit at his lips with no care for finesse, only for punishment. Tonight, Snape bit him back and Remus fisted a hand in lank, greasy hair, pulling hard enough that Snape hissed. Tonight, Snape clawed at him with jagged, bitten nails and Remus wrestled him into the wall, pinned Snape’s hands behind his back.

They rubbed against each other like rutting animals, Remus’ thigh shoved tight between Snape’s legs, his cock against Snape’s hip and moving, moving, as though he could hurt him this way, as though he could bring back the things, the people, the time to which only Snape remained a link.

Remus moved furiously, and Snape gritted his uneven, yellow teeth and did the same against him, panting, slimy black strands of hair streaking over his face. Remus watched him, didn’t allow himself to look away or to imagine he could do better, and when they came, nearly at the same time, Remus still didn’t feel very nice.