(no subject)
Wow. I wrote something.
It is always the same.
They meet on Saturday night at the local pub, he under invisibility cloak and Snape under polyjuice. Snape orders a shot of bourbon and a glass of glennfidich, neat. They drink quickly and silently, he having taken the shot under the cloak and Snape savouring the scotch.
Then they leave.
They don't always go to the same place - sometimes Snape lets him into the dungeons, sometimes they go back to his flat, sometimes they simply go upstairs to a rented room - but the result never changes.
It is always timed so when the door closes behind them and he takes off his cloak and sets it onto a chair, Snape's polyjuice falls. Neither of them speaks; this is ritual now.
Clothes are stripped without looking at the other, gently folded and placed in piles. He stands and looks at Snape, Snape nods, and they move to the bed.
Even this never changes. It always starts with Snape's mouth on his cock, taking him to the hilt. The patterns of Snape's tongue, the occasional scrape of teeth, the vibrations of a song quietly hummed are familiar to him now, and when he comes Snape is ready for him, and swallows.
He knows what comes next. He rolls over and spreads his legs and waits for the cool touch of lubricant. It comes, always through a spell, always impersonal and never touching. Snape enters him with a single thrust, and the pain shoots through his body.
It's what he came here for. The pain, the pleasure, mixed up as one and indecipherable, to remind him he's alive. Snape always takes exactly one minute and 15 seconds to come, with a short jerk and a quiet drawn out moan.
They never kiss.
He rolls off the bed when Snape pulls out, and walks over to his clothes. As he pulls on his trousers, he says, "I hate you." I hate myself.
"Yes. And I you," comes the response.
"This is the last time," he says and Snape nods. He walks out the door and back to his life. Back to his fame, his glory, his hoards of adoring fans.
And on Saturday, he goes to the local pub.
It is always the same.
They meet on Saturday night at the local pub, he under invisibility cloak and Snape under polyjuice. Snape orders a shot of bourbon and a glass of glennfidich, neat. They drink quickly and silently, he having taken the shot under the cloak and Snape savouring the scotch.
Then they leave.
They don't always go to the same place - sometimes Snape lets him into the dungeons, sometimes they go back to his flat, sometimes they simply go upstairs to a rented room - but the result never changes.
It is always timed so when the door closes behind them and he takes off his cloak and sets it onto a chair, Snape's polyjuice falls. Neither of them speaks; this is ritual now.
Clothes are stripped without looking at the other, gently folded and placed in piles. He stands and looks at Snape, Snape nods, and they move to the bed.
Even this never changes. It always starts with Snape's mouth on his cock, taking him to the hilt. The patterns of Snape's tongue, the occasional scrape of teeth, the vibrations of a song quietly hummed are familiar to him now, and when he comes Snape is ready for him, and swallows.
He knows what comes next. He rolls over and spreads his legs and waits for the cool touch of lubricant. It comes, always through a spell, always impersonal and never touching. Snape enters him with a single thrust, and the pain shoots through his body.
It's what he came here for. The pain, the pleasure, mixed up as one and indecipherable, to remind him he's alive. Snape always takes exactly one minute and 15 seconds to come, with a short jerk and a quiet drawn out moan.
They never kiss.
He rolls off the bed when Snape pulls out, and walks over to his clothes. As he pulls on his trousers, he says, "I hate you." I hate myself.
"Yes. And I you," comes the response.
"This is the last time," he says and Snape nods. He walks out the door and back to his life. Back to his fame, his glory, his hoards of adoring fans.
And on Saturday, he goes to the local pub.