Sixteen
Severus doesn't ask. He doesn't talk. He just breathes. In and out. He needs to concentrate. He needs to catalogue the entirety of the day, the single points that contain it, to point them out and think about them separately. They are all entangled now. The apartment, Lupin, Tobias's death, Black breathing on his face with his eyes closed.
Two places of contact. His forehead and then his nose. Too much for a meaningless death. Entangled all of it and messy enough that Severus can't take a single thread of each and let it out from the beginning to the end.
Black offers support, it seems—support that isn’t needed, that nobody asked for.
Perhaps it's a debt repaid for the times he panicked and lost control, and Severus grounded him.
Perhaps it's because Severus's thoughts, the disarray of them, it's written on his face. Perhaps Black finally used his head and he's trying to put a stop to it, because it's insufficient, because Severus needs to be ready for the next step, the next attack. Because he can't afford to stop now and think about what his father’s death means to him.
Black opens his eyes and it's too soon for a stare like that. Severus barely managed to trace back his logic. He barely managed to stop his hands from trembling in anger.
Black looks him in the eye and Severus tries a breath again. In and out. A process that must be followed—a meticulous separation of thoughts that refuses to happen.
An inhale of air, an exhale. Black follows the notion with his eyes. It's mere breathing Severus wants to tell him. Nothing remarkable.
He wants to say something sharp, something like do you need assistance in breathing now.
Something to cut this moment in half, snap it, fast and cutting, erase it from existence.
Black matches his breathing, then he opposes it. An exhale for his every inhale.
Severus is still clenching his shirt. Black is brushing his ear absent-mindedly, persistently.
It needs only a step, an unclenching of his fingers, a word, from either of them. Something loud, something spoken beyond the space between lips, something to erase Black's okay. His ridiculous promise.
Severus needs to speak. He is the sane one. Black was ready to go and dig his father's grave. He is not someone to be followed into whatever madness he dreams up with every rise and fall of his chest.
A step. A mistake. Forward. A brush of lips, a desperate attempt to make Black focus again—a way to show him: here, this is what you’re staring at.
A shared breath—now is the time to function properly again. This isn’t a stranger in a bar, a man whose name he doesn’t know and will never learn.
Black catches his bottom lip with his own—a pull, only that—a pull with his mouth. No bite, no urgency, just a press as if he's trying to breathe Severus in. To taste without hurting. Warm and almost hesitant. Severus should pull away.
This is wrong, messy in ways that he understands, if he takes a moment to think, he can list them all. He knows this man's name. He will have to see him again after this madness stops. He will have to work with him—because there is a war outside this moment. People are relying on him, on him and the man who puts his hands in his hair, caressing it—the skin underneath—with inappropriate delicacy.
Fingers pressing his head lightly—hesitant, searching. Severus should push him away, he could if he wanted to. Black is not demanding, he pauses just enough for a shift, the barelest tilt of a head. Severus's lips brush his—once, twice—a slow drag, like he's waiting for either of them to come to their senses and stop.
Severus can list them all. He can go on and on as to why he should stop grabbing Black's shirt, as to why he shouldn't trace his lips with his tongue. Why his breath shouldn't stutter, as Black parts his lips -an invitation that Severus shouldn't take and yet he does, following the heat of his mouth.
This is a man Severus knows, a chant he keeps saying. His name, the way his foot bounces on the floor when he's anxious, the mad glow in his eyes when he's fighting, how they lose their focus when he's drowning in dread, how they regain it again when Severus says something that angers him.
How he grabs and pulls, because he barely forms correct sentences in the best of days, an ability he completes loses in his rage.
And now he knows, how his mouth tastes, how his tongue feels against his own, how his fingers twitch and curl against his hair when Severus deepens the kiss, when his chest is touching his own. He's holding Severus there, like he's afraid of letting go too soon—as if moving faster, moving at all, would erase this space.
Severus needs to breathe. He needs to. He pulls his head away, not far, just an inch, just enough for Black to follow, chasing the kiss.
His hand moves to his jaw, a thumb tracing it, pressing at the hinge.
He's staring at him, a question or surprise, Severus isn't sure which one.
Then- true to his nature- as if he doesn't care enough, he moves, his nose caressing Severus cheek.
It's all too soft, too intimate.
Severus puts his hands on his face, holding him there and this time he bites. Hard, demanding for Black to part his lips again. And when he does, Severus doesn't stop, he isn't slow -he devours him.
Black lets out a moan, that Severus swallows, burying it inside his throat.
He unclenches his fist, an open palm at his stomach as he's pushing him back. Walking him backwards without thought, just intent-until the hard surface halts them both. Severus isn't sure if it's a wall or the door, he's watching Black's blue stare, glowing like when he's fighting.
He asked for this, when he took him out, when he brought him to the cemetery, when he touched him like he understood.
He asked for this, Severus thinks and he bites his neck. Black's breath hitches, so Severus does it again, a different spot, a tensed muscle as Black raises his head, hitting the wall on his back, putting both hands on Severus arms, grabbing him, an anchor as he's falling apart.
Uneven breaths-Severus feels them with his tongue, with his teeth.
"Fuck, this is..." Black speaks and he sounds disbelieving and wrecked.
Severus abandons his throat, the red mess of it. The mess that he caused, that Black will feel when this ends and he kisses him again.
He had his chance to talk -to stop this.
Now it's too late.
He puts his hands at his waist, pulls him, to show him exactly how late it is.
Severus is hard, painfully so. He isn't sure what he expects when he presses Black against his body. Perhaps nothing, perhaps an indication of how wrong this whole thing is.
Black is hard too. Enough for Severus to feel it. Enough to grind against him. Hard, fast- chasing oblivion.
"Fuck, yes," Black gasps, breath quickening with each touch.
Severus moves his hands under his shirt, on his waist, further up, until he feels his ribs. His skin is burning, like his magic, like the fire with which he erases his enemies.
Severus wants this madness to stop. He wants to know how fast Black loses his patience when Severus touches him. If it's quicker than when they're fighting, if it's more intense.
Footsteps above. They are not alone. This is bound to stop, to halt again—left incomplete. Severus stills, then moves, his hands retreating from the heat of the body beneath him.
Black grabs them, puts them on his waist, keeps them there.
"Not yet." He says and he's exposing his neck. "Not yet." Again, firmer this time
"Black." Severus speaks. He leaves one hand clentched where Black put them, as he takes the other away. Black grabs his wrist, an attempt to keep it there, but Severus moves it above Black's erection. A touch, a push, a warning.
Black moves his hips forward unconsciously and desperately, a hand on his mouth as he bites hard to hide his moan.
"Black." Severus warns him again. A door opens somewhere that seems afar. Except it's not. Except this is it. This where it ends.
But Black doesn't care, he leans forward and he kisses him again. It's not even a kiss, it's a clatter of teeth, a collide. Reckless and stupid even now.
"Follow." Severus says because stupidity is catching on. Because Black doesn't let him go. Not now. Not since they started this mission. "Follow." He commands with the same urgency his tone has when they are been chased. He thinks of the last place they've been, of the reckless of the action, of how enemies would be there, that perhaps Lupin never left.
Black nods, determined as if it's a last resort, as if they have no other option, as if it's life and death situation.
Severus grabs his neck and kisses him properly, before speaking the destination against Black’s lips.
______
"Follow," Snape says. And how can he not? He’s followed him everywhere until now—why should this be different? If anything, it’s easier. Easy as breathing when the word comes wrecked, commanding in its desperation.
Keep talking, Sirius wants to say—and more. More of whatever this is.
There’s a moment of stillness as they land. Clenched together still, hands on waists, on arms, in hair. Glued together.
Sirius watches him breathe the way he does when he panics—except he isn't panicking now. He’s hyper-aware, of every sound, every point of contact.
Snape has that look again, the little frown he had after the first time they kissed. Like he’s waiting for Sirius to come to his senses, like he doesn’t know what to do with him.
Too bad, Sirius thinks, because he has no senses left. He’s mad—getting madder with every second, caught in Snape’s orbit, unable to break free.
Maybe later, he thinks. Maybe never. He was never one to think things through.
So he chases this madness. He yanks Snape forward, burying his face at the side of his neck, licking the shell of his ear. Snape trembles, his throat contracts, tenses, exposing that ridiculous vein of his—the one that starts under his jaw, carving a path down his throat, ending...
Sirius doesn’t know where it ends.
It angers him that thought. He wants to know. Maybe that's why, he bites it—just enough for Snape to speak.
"God," Snape says, and it throws Sirius off. The calling of a Muggle deity, a figure of speech Snape never uses. A plea, a frustration, a helplessness Snape never has. A calling to his roots, to a side of him that only Lily knows.
Sirius goes into a frenzy.
He wants to see where that vein ends. He wants Snape to keep fucking talking.
He is already raising Snape's shirt with an urgency that makes his hands shake.
He's halfway through, an exposed stomach, pale skin and scars, when he falls to knees to kiss it.
It’s not a kiss. It’s an inhale of skin, a tongue tracing the barely-there line of a knife, of a hit Snape took instead of him.
It’s insane how a neck, a stomach—nothing, really—has him buckling his hips forward, searching for friction.
It’s completely hysterical. Maybe that’s why he licks under his belly button, at the start of his trousers.
Snape is looking down at him. Black eyes fixed, with the same intensity they always have.
Sirius has had girls on their knees for him. Not for him, not exactly—for the pleasure of the moment, for a partner who happened to be him.
And now, as he kneels, as Snape watches him with that expectant gaze, Sirius registers it. The position. The meaning of it.
And he registers, too, that he has never done this before. That perhaps he will fail spectacularly, and Snape will be there to catalog another of his failures. That he will disappoint him at last.
Snape touches his hair, brushing it to the side.
"Get up," he says. As if he knows. As if he senses Sirius’s panic. Perhaps he does. He has before. He has seen Sirius cry.
He has, and he’s still here—hard for him, breathless.
Perhaps it’s because of that, that he unbuttons his trousers. The ones he borrowed from Sirius weeks before, when they were here again, in this tiny flat of a man who resembles Sirius, who shares his name, who looks like him but is not him, not exactly.
"Black." Snape says—a warning. His fingers curl in Sirius’s hair.
Sirius presses his hand to the black fabric that hides the last of Snape’s skin.
He’s breathing hard, anticipation clawing at his throat. He tries to keep his hands still. Not to expose.
Snape hates being exposed. Demanding a distance from everyone.
"Stop me or let me. I-fuck, I want to." Even if he fails. Even if Snape mocks him for his lack of experience.
Snape places his hand over Sirius’s, a push—dragging the fabric down. An exposure.
Like he’s saying: Here. Try.
Sirius’s breath stutters. He swallows, dragging his fingers along the bared skin, tracing, testing. He is too aware of the heat against his palm, the way Snape twitches at the first touch.
His grip grows firmer. His fingers circle, tighten—like when he touches himself. Snape’s hips stutter forward, his stare half-helpless, half-angry, like he’s mad at himself for reacting, like he can’t help it.
If Sirius had a shred of clarity—just a fraction—he would linger. He would watch. The shape of him. The length. But Snape makes a sound—not a word, not quite, but something close to it. Sirius feels it more than anything—the way Snape’s body tenses beneath him, the way his fingers tighten briefly in Sirius’s hair before easing, like an unspoken answer.
So he swallows him down.
It’s foreign—the taste, the weight of it—but Snape moans. That rough voice, his voice, unmistakable, distinct. Him. Him.
Sirius presses his hands to Snape’s hips and moves his tongue, trying to recreate whatever had felt good for him before.
He fails, of course. He’s awful at it. His teeth keep getting in the way. He stops. Tries again. He groans in frustration, convinced Snape will—
His mouth is open, unmoving, just there. He looks up.
Snape is staring at him, his eyes unchanged. He moves his hips forward, back again, a hand in Sirius’s hair to keep him steady.
"You're awful at this." Snape says—without stopping. His voice is rough, wrecked. Sirius knows that if he so much as touches himself now, he’ll be done.
Snape stops. Like he’s deciding something. A plan only he knows. Like he’s compelling him to stop.
He grabs Sirius’s shirt, yanking him up. A rough kiss, unexpected and short-lived, before he shoves Sirius toward the bed. Hard. Until his knees buckle and he sits down, almost falls.
"Take your clothes off." He says. But he’s already undressing him, impatient when Sirius doesn’t follow the command immediately.
"You too." Sirius tells him, throwing the last piece of clothing to the floor. "I want-
"Yes," Snape cuts him off. "Yes." Like he knows. Like he doesn’t need Sirius to say it. Sirius can't think of anything else except the whole of Snape's body standing in front of him.
Two naked men staring at each other.
Sirius grips the edge of the bed. An action Snape follows with his eyes.
"I'm going to fuck you." Snape tells him —with the same certainty he had when he said he’d kill Peter. "And then we will never speak of it again."
He doesn’t move. He waits. Barely touching Sirius’s knees.
Sirius thinks he should say something. Maybe that he hasn’t done this before. Maybe a confirmation. But Snape is watching—and the only response Sirius’s body gives, the only thing he can do, is wrap his hand around his cock and moan, breath catching at the weight of Snape’s stare.
Snape is on him in the next breath.
A palm against his chest, a push until Sirius’s back hits the mattress. He feels his legs parting, then Snape’s magic washing over him, inside him.
A clatter on the floor—Snape’s wand. A weight over him, between his legs.
Snape removes Sirius's hand, replacing it with his own.
"Fuck, I'm..."
Snape grips him tighter, warm hands around his cock.
"Merlin, if you keep this up—" Sirius doesn’t dare open his eyes. If he does—if he looks—
A slick finger caresses his entrance, pressing just enough. Sirius doesn’t know if he should tense, if he should moan, but Snape doesn’t let him decide. He controls the pace, the pressure—pressing inside, stretching him open with slow, deliberate movements. Sirius’s breath stutters, his head pressing back against the mattress.
He exhales shakily—tries to—but every touch feels overwhelming. Too much and not enough at the same time. His hands find Snape’s arms, gripping tight, grounding himself.
Snape moves deeper this time. Sirius’s legs twitch, his back arches—fuck.
"Look at me." Snape says. "I'm not some stranger you picked up in a bar."
Sirius opens his eyes, stares at Snape on top of him.
"I've never picked up a guy anywhere." He replies. A smirk to Snape's frown. "You're my first. Are you scared?"
Snape looks at him with disbelief. The finger inside him starts to retreat. Sirius grabs his wrist, holding him in place.
"Are you insane?" Snape asks, but his voice is quiet. "We don’t need to…" A shake of his head. "Black, you don’t need to—" His thumb brushes absently over the skin at the edge of Sirius’s thigh.
Sirius smiles. Severus Snape, hesitant. Isn’t that a first? Caring, perhaps. Caring enough to stop. Caring enough to not hurt him.
"Does it seem like I do anything because I need to?" Sirius moves, fucks himself on Snape's finger. "Talk. Fuck, talk." He moves again, chasing sensation, watching Snape watching him.
Snape doesn’t speak at first—just exhales, his grip tightening. A hesitation. Then—
"You are a lunatic," he mutters, voice rough, and he adds a second finger.
It’s after the third—after Sirius moves with him—that Snape decides to follow through on his promise.
"Turn around," he says. "It’ll be easier." He tries to be commanding. He almost is. But Sirius touches him, just a brush, and Snape closes his eyes, breath caught in his throat.
"Turn around, Black." Snape watches, unmoving, eyes sharp and unreadable. "Now."
Sirius does. He feels exposed for a moment—just one—his back turned to Snape, his palms open on the mattress.
But Snape kisses his back, bites it—the heat of him at his entrance.
He doesn’t rush. He enters him slowly, maddeningly deliberate, the pressure unbearable.
"God," he says again, and it sounds like both a curse and a plea.
Sirius just breathes. Pictures Snape doing the same.
It takes a while. Sirius focuses on Snape’s hand on his thigh—a caress, a press of fingers. A trace along his right side, a touch that barely touches his cock, and Sirius moves instinctively, taking Snape deeper.
"Move." He says. "Fucking move. Fuck me."
Snape slides a hand under his arm, pulling him up, chest flush against Sirius’s back. The other presses against his stomach, holding him steady as he moves. A slow stroke, two—then hard, like he’s showing Sirius exactly what he’s asking for.
A breath at his ear, hot, quick—matching the pace Snape sets.
"This means nothing." Snape tells him, biting the shell of his ear, his neck. A hand at his stomach, pulling him closer.
Sirius moans, throwing his head back onto Snape’s shoulder.
"Yeah. Yes." His breath shutters. "Nothing at all."
Sirius places his hand over Snape’s, fingers lacing together—a response. Snape lets him. Two hands in one.
"Touch me. Touch me. Fuck—" Sirius almost screams. "Make me— Harder."
Severus Snape doesn't do anything lightly. He doesn’t do halves. He’s precise, even in this. Focused.
Sirius turns his head slightly—he needs to look.
Snape is staring down at him, their lips barely touching—just enough for Sirius to breathe him in.
"Touch me." He says and it's wrecked.
"You're..." Snape starts, but Sirius never learns the end of that sentence.
Because Snape wraps a hand around his cock, matching the pace of his thrusts.
"Fuck. Snape. Snape." Sirius doesn't know what to do with himself. He’s looking at Snape, and he knows—knows—it’s helpless.
He comes in the next breath, the next chant of his name—a mess on Snape’s hand, a moan that feels like a yell.
Snape follows with a groan, resonating in his mouth, on the skin of his back—hard thrusts that make Sirius almost fall forward.
They don’t move. A moment. A minute. A time that cannot be measured. They breathe each other in.
"Never again." Snape says, breath short, fingers still entangled with Sirius’s.
"This was...fun." Sirius replies and it feels fake. "I've.." Never wanted a man like this. "Done it before."
"Remember, Black." Snape pulls away, and Sirius groans at the loss. "We will never talk about this again." Snape retrieves his wand, mutters a spell—cleansing them both.
"So, have you...?" Sirius asks as Snape pulls his clothes from the floor, putting them on.
"Yes." A shirt over his chest. "Get dressed."
"I didn't know... Since you and Lily..." Sirius feels unsteady.
Snape crosses his arms.
"As I have told you countless times, I don’t view Lily like that. Get dressed." His voice is sharp, irritated.
"I haven't thought..." Sirius starts.
"Clearly." Snape interrupts.
He taps a finger against his arm. Looks at the wall. The window.
They are already fighting.
"Are you hurt?" Snape asks, still not looking at him.
Sirius watches the stillness of him, the stopped tapping of his finger.
This means nothing.
Except Sirius is already thinking about what it means.
A crisis of self, perhaps—like he hasn’t had enough of those for a lifetime.
Except Snape unbalances him. Grounds him. In a way that compels Sirius to be honest—that shakes his core.
The silence stretches. Snape turns, looks at him.
"Does something feel wrong?" He asks again.
Everything, Sirius wants to say.
"No." He lies.
But Snape isn't satisfied. He doesn't believe him.
Exposed under that stare.
"I'm pretty tough." Sirius hides with a smirk. He grabs his clothes from the floor, walking toward the bathroom.
"Black." Snape says.
"I'm fine."
Yet, because he’s trying to be honest—less fake than he was—he adds, "I don’t regret it."
And he closes the bathroom door before Snape can reply.