Impurturbatus spell
Silence has its benefits.
Things are simpler, THEY are simpler with no words getting between them, twisting words, tearing words, burning words.
In the silence, it’s only skin, bone, and what lies hidden under the school robe’s secretive shroud.
Lips gleam brighter, with blood, spit, or spunk.
Skin pulses hotter, harder when all there is to hear is the rush of blood inside it.
No sound, only fury; sturm und drang rendered down into pure movement, pure sensation.
No screams, no pleas, no whines, but oh yes, there are tears.
It wouldn’t be the same without tears now, would it?
Challenge:
Hunting Machine
What the FUCK was in that?
Surely you don't want an itemized list?
Don't you arse me about you wanker, TELL ME! You said it would help me hunt-
I said it would grant you the sight of a cat without resorting to your animagus form where the wards could destroy you. And the fact that Pettigrew is dead and you are here to rant in my workroom proves my word to have been truth. Hence, I see no problem!
You didn't say ANYTHING about the prick!
...Prick?
*ZipRustle*
Oh. My. That is certainly... odd. Does it hurt when I-
Don't touch it, you ohmerlin...oh, that's nice. Oh, fuck -- I can feel your fucking *fingerprints*! Fuckyes, just like that! Don't stop, I'm -- OH!
Hmm... interesting.
Bloody great's what it was... what are you staring at?
*ZipRustle*
Your tongue...
Challenge:
"I say there are spots that don't come off, Snape. Spots that never come off, know what I mean?" (GoF, Ch. 25)
Afterward, he couldn't say what the veil had been like. One moment he'd been facing down his mad-as-a-bag-of-weasels cousin in the Ministry of Magic, and the next...
And the next, he was horny. No, more than horny -- *hungry!* He was writhing and rolling in a strange, grey place under fingers that had never been familiar, under a tongue that had never tasted him before. He was winding his hands tightly into greasy black hair, thrusting his tongue between sharply snaggled teeth, and arching up against savage thrusts.
And loving it. Howling aloud, like an infant's first breath, like a dying scream, he comes -- impaled, transfixed. Severus pours life, quick and hot into his body, with barely a sigh.
The world turns right. He takes flesh. He lives again.
"Always said..." Sirius pants as the room swims into focus, "you knew more dark arts than anyone."
Severus only smiled.
Challenge:
One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets himself be tamed.
He never had to tell Snape not to hold back, never had to gasp and pant for more, harder, deeper goddamnit. He never had to push back or arch up -- Snape never gave him the leverage. He never had to bare his throat to those ragged teeth, because Snape would always knock Sirius' chin out of the way to get to at it without invitation. The marks were, without fail, black and stark, not love bites, but hate.
Often, Sirius lost use of his rope-numbed hands for nearly an hour after Snape cut him down and stalked to the bath alone. Bruised, raw, cold and sated, he would sit and carefully flex blood back into his limbs, loudly cursing the ugly bastard. But he never refused, never locked the door, and never, ever failed to fight Snape's ropes. After all -- it was the fight that kept him free.
Challenge:
You heard that rumor where?
Sirius hit the floor with a yelp and a snarl.
"What the hell was THAT for?!" He demanded, rubbing his bruised tailbone.
"You BIT me!" Snape glowered poisonously from the bed, clutching the duvet to his chest with both hands.
"It was just a little nipple. Nibble. Just a little nibble, Sni-" Where had Snape gotten his wand from so quickly? Sirius checked himself under that cobra glare. "No call to bloody well kick me, you arse! Now let me back-"
The wand didn't waver. "It's call to hex you flat! Why would you do that?! Haven't you had enough of my-"
"Look, calm down will you? I thought you'd like it is all!" Sirius shouted. "I wasn't after-"
Then he glanced up at Snape's outraged eyes and had to laugh. Time delay punchline.
"Good one, Prongs," was all he could think of to say.
Challenge:
Every force evolves a form.
"Snape manor?" Sirius sneered. "Since when do the Snapes have a manor?"
Severus frowned, continued buttoning his shirt. "If you'd prefer sleeping in a cave with that animal, then do not let me stop you. Disbelieve my offer, and it shall oblige you by disappearing."
"No, no," Sirius grinned, "It's just a bit of a thing, you know? I mean you were always so..." Snape's glare stopped the word 'poor' on his lips.
"One may come by wealth by other means than inheritance, Mr. Black." But the glower didn't linger on him. Wasn't meant for him. Buttons closed. Secrets skulked away in the silence. This was important.
"Severus?" Sirius touched his shoulder.
"Voldemort's gift." He answered.
And it all made sense: Snape manor, because then there would be one ancient threshold where the houses of Malfoy and Black would never be good enough to enter.
The house that Hatred built.
Challenge:
"Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!"
"Sweet Merlin, Black, what the HELL did you eat for dinner?"
"Oh, belt up, Sniv! It isn't me, it's the effing drains!" He glowered around the hovel and pulled his cloak tighter, "And if it keeps on raining like this, we'll be in for more than foul smells."
Snape peered out the grimed, fogged glass. "Penned in by Death Eaters," he intoned, "roads out for leagues, no dry wood, clothes, or bedding, no food, and no clean water." Snape turned back to him with a sneer, "And you cannot even admit to a little flatulence?"
Sirius shrugged, "You know what they say, Snape -- he who smelt it probably dealt it."
"What?" Snape cried, whirling, "why you-" a groaning rumble from the corner cut him off. The pair locked eyes and found a sudden horrified unity of purpose; getting away from Hagrid's infernal boarhound.
The storm was far more welcome.
Challenge:
Cops & Robbers
"Absolutely not!"
"Come on, don't be a wet blanket!"
"Wet blanket? I fail to see how your untrustworthiness with locking mechanisms and my safety render me into a killjoy!"
"Hey, we got you out of the handcuffs last time, didn't we?"
"Yes; We -- as in you, and FLITWICK, who decidedly did NOT need to know what we'd been doing with handcuffs!"
"Wasn't my fault that time. Moody hexed them to bounce releasing spells."
"And my point still stands."
*Whine* "But I really, really want to play. You'll like it -- I promise I'll make it worth your while!"
"Oh dear Merlin..."
"Wow. I could hear your eyes rolling there. C'mon. Say you'll do it?"
"To shut you up, fine. NO cuffs!"
"Alright!" Thud!
"OW! Cretin!"
"You have the right to remain naked! Everything you're wearing can, and will be ripped off you --"
Challenge:
Who wants to see me take off Snivelly's pants?
The laughter was nasty, taunting, evil. It grated in his ears, made him thrash and struggle against the magical bonds that held him suspended. The spell clenched tighter, winning a whimpering gasp from him, wringing tears from his eyes. A finger parted the black curtain of his hair to gather the moisture up, and hold it to the light.
"Let me down!" He demanded, knowing who was responsible for this horror, no matter that he couldn't actually see his tormentor's face. "Face me like a man, you coward!"
The slap stole his breath again. He heard the spell, and tensed as it crawled over his skin, unravelling his robes and the clothes underneath into so much lint. He twisted again, still helplessly hanging, then noticed with horror that his pants were intact. Oh Merlin, he wouldn't! Not that, not in front of all these... But his tormentor gave his cheek another caress, and he knew there would be no stopping it now.
"Who wants to see me take down Snivelly's pants?" Snape asked the crowd.
Sirius blanched to hear the assembled Death Eaters' enthusiastic cheer.
Challenge:
"This is a dark house, very big. I made it myself, Cell by cell from a quiet corner"
Most people don't know he's agoraphobic. I spotted it years ago -- the way he could barely keep his eyes open on a broomstick, never looked up from his books when he had to leave the castle. Others might've thought he was too studious for games, too proud to tear about the lawn, too dark to bear the sunlight, but not me. I knew fear when I saw it. And I knew what to do with fear.
Ironic now that my pulse races at these looming, grimy walls and I can't find a breath under the press of this horrid old house around me. Claustrophobia shakes my willpower down to a frantic, ragged thing, and he sees it. And he knows what to do with fear too. And we both know where he learned it.