Chapter Text
Snivellus in a fucking dress.
Someone’s poured bubbling hot potion over Sirius’ grey matter, the pretty pearl one he joked with James looked like cum and smelled like it too; cum and potion fumes. James didn’t laugh; it smelled of strawberry shampoo, he said. He, Remus, and Peter looked at him the way they did whenever his gaze lingered too long. Easy enough fix, harass the next witch he laid eyes on. No one ever suspected a thing.
Except Snivellus in his fucking dress, dark gaze meeting his from across the room where some bloke talks into all that pale neck. He’s got a necklace, a gaudy little, absolutely-not-a-real-fucking-emerald, pendant hanging off a tarnished chain. The man trying to commune with Snape’s windpipe fiddles with it as Severus watches Sirius watch him.
He’s got fucking eyeliner on, and Sirius grips his glass because where the hell does fucking Snivellus get off looking that fucking good when he’s trying to get laid over here?
Sirius watches him the rest of the night and Snape watches him right back. He’ll look away, smile with all his crooked teeth at something whoever-the-fuck said, then look back at Sirius.
Why? Well, why not? Has to keep an eye on him, doesn’t he? Has to know if Sirius is going to run off and tell all his friends he saw Snivellus in a fucking dress at a fucking gay bar.
Which isn’t going to happen, because Sirius is also at the fucking gay bar—no way to spin that.
Snape’s better at this. The man trying to taste his esophagus doesn’t look anywhere else. Sirius is lucky to get a glance, and lies about how he’s not looking for company when he does.
Coward.
It’s one thing to be here, another thing entirely to get on his knees and suck a man’s cock, no matter how much he wants to. And once he does…well, then he’s done it, hasn’t he? It’s real.
It can’t be real. Neither can the way Snape looks over his shoulder as he leaves on the arm of someone braver.
That painted fucking smirk.
It goes on awhile, each haunting the dingy muggle establishment weekly like departed shades of the men they’re supposed to be. Well, weekly for Sirius. Maybe Snape’s here every night.
Fuck.
“Are you ever going to talk to her?” His neck cracks as the bartender puts another glass of cheap scotch in front of him. He can afford better, but Sirius doesn’t want to when he’s here.
“Her?” Blinks back tears as he chokes on scotch, “Her?”
He looks at her—not a dress tonight, but a skirt short enough McGonagall’s quill would smoke with how fast she’d write home to her parents if she caught her in the corridors like that. She’s got an equally short shirt on, falling off one shoulder—is that a fucking bra strap?—and of course, Snape’s so skinny, her abs are just barely visible, carved into pale marble, but they look soft.
Fuck.
The bartender leaves Sirius to his epiphanies, to staring at Severus Snape the Her, until she peels herself off the plaster.
Those aren’t sensible, tall heels, the long, thin, fucking shaved legs, Sirius drinks them in until they pop onto the barstool beside him. She crosses them, for modesty one would assume, but that’s plainly not the concern here. Her thighs press into each other, and look like they taste sweet.
Fuck.
“I’m starting to think you might actually be gay, and not just following me.” Her voice punches Sirius on the chin. It’s not different, but used differently. Softer, frying it a little. She doesn’t sound like a woman, just sounds like she could boil his blood by singing.
Fuck.
“Well?”
“Can I get an explanation?” Sirius manages speech.
“Explain yourself.” She reaches over and sticks two claws in his drink. Pulls it down the bar before taking a sip.
“That’s awful. It’ll serve.” She slides it back, Sirius too busy blinking at her nails to parse. Thought them black first, but hazy light hits them just so and reveals they’re red. Dark, like blood left to rot, and her lips don’t look so thin painted. Sirius imagines shades of Gryffindor crimson, nails, lips, lingerie.
Fuck, Sirius looks away, “One for the lady then,” Too hoarse to come off smooth.
“I always suspected something homoerotic between you and Potter,” she downs half her scotch. Trying to get shitfaced, and Sirius feels something like hope bloom alongside irritation—how dare she mention Potter when he’s right here for her.
“Get fucked.”
“Oh, always—can’t help but notice you never have much luck. Why’s that? No one here have untidy enough hair for you?”
Always? Sirius suspected Snape let the men she left with fuck her. Had thought about it, at his flat, in the shower, doing the crossword, standing in queues, in bed starting at the ceiling, failing to think Christian thoughts—but now he knew.
“Sniv—”
“It’s Sev.” Her painted lips twist. Looks back over at the patch of wall she wandered over from.
Fuck.
“Sev?” Sirius blinks, “Sev?”
“Yes?” She snarls.
“That’s—that’s not even a real name.”
“It’s my name, you gormless louse,” she hisses—still a serpent then; one of those pretty, particularly poisonous ones now.
“It’s less than half your name, and doesn’t the lady deserves a name of her own anyhow?”
Sev flinches and stares down her drink. The frayed bit of ribbon tied round her neck stretches around her bobbing throat.
“If I give her a name, then she’s real,” whispered syllables punctuated by painted nails tapping glass, “But she’s not, is she?”
“She looks real enough to me.” Sirius downs his drink, “And well—same, I suppose.”
“What?”
“The, uh…luck I don’t have. It’ll be real if I…manage.”
“…Oh. You’re a virgin.”
Sirius sees red, can’t let it stand. “You fucking know I’m not.” He’d be so good—perfect—for her.
Fuck.
Those crooked teeth smile at him now.
Fuck.
“Those poor girls…” She tuts.
“Maybe, maybe not—you’ll know soon enough considering you’re about to be one of them.”
Sev covers her mouth as she barks baritone laughter, then buries her face in her arms on the bar to stifle nearly girlish giggling.
Sirius frowns; she’s laughing at him, the sound of it makes his cock twitch.
Fuck.
“I’m not going to let you touch me, Black.” She says when she surfaces, poking at the corners of her glistening eyes so the tears don’t muss her makeup.
Fuck.
“…Let me buy you another drink then, see if you don’t change your mind.”
Sev shakes her head, the long strands liquid, like smooth rivers of some black potion poured from a cauldron, “You’ll only use it against me.”
“How?” It’s Sirius’s turn to laugh, “I can hardly explain I ran into you here, sweet talked my way into your skirt then shagged you out of it.”
Sev frowns, dark eyes darting, “Surprised you haven’t told anyone already.”
“Well…yeah. Figured it’d be much harder to sweet talk my way into your skirt if you stopped wearing them.”
“And if you don’t manage it?”
Sirius shrugs like it wouldn’t ruin his life, “There’s always next week. You seem a creature of habit.”
“I’m considering changing my habits.” She doesn’t say it like a threat, but it sounds like one, “And I’ve never seen any evidence of this ability to talk sweetly you claim to posses.”
Sirius flashes all his dazzling teeth. Leans over, one hand on the back of her barstool, “Baby, we’ve only just met; how could you know that?” he whispers.
Sev scoffs, but pink blooms on her cheeks, “You’re absurd. And too much of an insufferable pretty boy, besides. I happen to have a type.”
“Well, that’s rich, coming from you—you have any shorter skirts or are they just knickers at that point?”
“Think I’m pretty, do you? Pervert.” Sev finishes her drink.
“But you’re going to let me buy you another, aren’t you?”
Sev scoffs.
She’s still scoffing when she hits the mattress, the ancient thing squeaking under her as she shimmies up to the headboard. She scowls at him, but those dark eyes don’t leave Sirius as he shucks his shirt.
“Thought I was too pretty for you?” Sirius smirks.
“You are. Try not to cry if I can’t get it up for you.”
Sirius hums, “Does that mean…can I see it? Touch? Or should I not—”
“You should fucking touch me, yes.” Sev snaps. She’s glaring at him, has for nearly an hour now. Angry, but still let him bring her to his late uncle’s bachelor pad, so Sirius isn’t sure what her problem is; not until he sees how tightly she’s fisting the duvet.
Thinks I’ll hurt her, meaning she still thinks she’s someone else, someone Sirius hurt. Still, she wants it, or wouldn’t sit so pretty on his bed.
Just needs to forget who she thinks she is first.
Who Sirius is.
“Relax,” he murmurs, belt clinking as he undoes it. She twitches at the sound; Sirius drops it far away from the bed, “I’m going to take such good care of you.”
“You don’t even know what you’re doing! You said as much.” She bites back, eyes scanning his tattoos. She’s right, but only about the sex. Talking pretty girls out of their better instincts on the other hand…
Sirius stands by the bed, trails a finger over her shoulder. Slips it under the bra strap and pulls up, but doesn’t let it snap. Flattens his palm and gives her shoulder a squeeze, before trailing down. He gropes the bra cup through her little shirt, but it’s not just fabric and padding Sirius feels; his eyes widen as his breath catches in his throat.
“Oh, sweetheart—please tell me I get to see your pretty tits,” he whispers, makes sure she hears that mangled note of desperation in it. Sev scowls again but it falters this time. Her choker stretches against her throat. She drops her gaze, peels the little black shirt off. The bra isn’t anything fancy; black cotton with thinly padded cups clinging to the suggestion of cleavage. Sirius has half a mind to show off, remove it one-handed, but decides to watch her instead. He lays down on the bed, propped up on one elbow, eyes wide and unblinking. She stalls, pretends to struggle with the clasp; Sirius catches her gaze from behind her hair, evaluating him. Looks away, unhooks it, and shrugs it off.
They’re barely there and beautiful. Sirius finds himself breathless—he’s seen a lot of tits in his life, and he’s faked a lot of reactions to seeing them, but not these. She’s gone shy, looking at the bedside lamp, a curtain of hair hiding her from view. She makes to tuck it behind her ear, stops, then does the opposite side instead, so Sirius can’t see her.
He tries to think of something to say, something charming, something reassuring, but the only thing his mouth wants to do is kiss the pretty blushing peaks pebbling in the air instead of around his lips. He scoots toward her, clocks the way she jerks her head. Keeping eyes on him. He touches her waist first, trails a finger over her lean abdomen. Bends his head to kiss her at the hip, just above her skirt. Palms her thighs—she makes space for his hands, pretending to shift, pretending she’s not spreading her legs for him.
He’s rewarded eventually; long dark nails stroke his scalp. He kisses up her waist, up the ribcage, finally sucks a perfect nipple into his mouth. Sev mewls when Sirius flicks his tongue. He plays with the other, nudging it softly with his thumb, while the other wanders upskirt to cup her. He finds the fabric wet and he moans around his mouthful of her.
“Fuck it, fine!” She eventually loses some argument with herself and pushes him off. Her face flushed, dark eyes wide, eyeliner smudged. She reaches under her skirt and slides off a pair of black panties, flings them at Sirius’s face.
She smells like cum and potion fumes and cheap scotch.
Sirius watches dumbstruck as Sev fishes his cock out and mounts him, drawing her wand—from Godric only knows where—and doing something that makes her wet and the heat of a thousand suns.
“Fuck!” Sirius grips her when she starts to roll those thin hips, five seconds from coming already. Her pale thighs are so warm.
“That good?” Dark nails tracing tattoos.
“Fucking perfect.” Sirius rasps, “Knew you fucking would be, you gorgeous fucking girl.”
“Yeah?” She shifts on his cock and he groans, stupid smile on his face. Can hear it in her voice: she believes him. Sirius smooths his hands up to her chest.
“Are you going to make these pretty tits bounce for me, baby?”
Sev scoffs—still scoffing impaled on his fucking cock—then plants her hands behind her.
“Of course he’s fucking huge,” she whispers. If she did it loud enough so Sirius would buck up into her, then she played him like a fiddle. They’re barely at it thirty seconds before she begs him to touch her. She explodes with a strangled shriek when Sirius rucks her skirt up and strokes her thrice, and pearly white come splatters across his tattoos. He follows and Sev bears down, grinding against him to milk his cock through his release until Sirius decides he’s just going to have to marry her now.
‘Tis the season.
She falls forward, breathing hard by his ear. Sirius strokes her back, kisses her forehead, jaw, tells her she’s a goddess, does everything he can think so he doesn’t wake up alone.
But he does.
Hardly a mystery—she doesn’t feel safe with him. Thought better of it. Of him. And as much as Sirius wants to lay in bed and lament his past self for fucking this up, his best friend is getting married today.
He’s half dressed when he spots a pair of stained black knickers and a tiny bra hanging off the doorknob.
Just like that, it’s real for him.
He doesn’t know what to feel, but expects she hopes he’ll hate her for it. For everything he’s done, she finally ruined him in turn.
I didn’t even get to kiss her properly.