Word Count: 2139
Summary: Kingsley Shacklebolt needs a break—and someone with whom to share it.
Disclaimer: This piece is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers, including, but not limited to: Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Note: Written for a_belladonna (inspired by her NWS illustration, A small break in the tidying-up) as part of tarie's Illustrated Ficcish Wish FulFillment Swap.
Kingsley Shacklebolt wasn't one to complain or explain; he merely did his duty to the best of his ability—and this was always better than that of most people's—and looked forward to a good book and a full mug of beer at the end of his day, rather than to the gossiping, cheerful company of his co-workers. This was not because the Auror was un-liked or anti-social in any way; he merely preferred to keep his professional life separate from his private one, having long since discovered that it was all too easy to ruin a perfectly decent partnership by becoming partners with a colleague.
I won't be making that mistake again.
A quietly passionate, greatly charismatic man, Kingsley knew—as a humble fact and not an arrogant fancy—that he had several admirers in the Corps., and felt it best not to give those witches and wizards the opportunity to speak of their admiration.
It made the job easier, and it prevented him from becoming the subject of idle tongues.
Of course, Kingsley liked tongues. He missed them, in fact. He had his needs, and, of late, they were threatening to interfere with his work. He knew that if he did not find someone with whom to slake his lusts, he would eventually fall into distraction and make a mistake.
That was unacceptable for a man in his profession.
Therefore, Auror Shacklebolt, while assisting in the tidying up of Twelve, Grimmauld Place, began to consider those members of the Order with whom he might safely conduct a discreet affair; not everyone worked with Dumbledore, but those who did understood the need for privacy and the expediency of the one night stand—or a string of them.
Or just the occasional shag when the opportunity presents itself, Kingsley told himself, despite the fact that he'd never actually taken any such opportunity in the past.
But there was no time like the present to consider becoming more . . . flexible in his habits, as long as he was cautious.
There were three people, in particular, with whom Kingsley thought it would be quite pleasant to spend some unprofessional time. The first of these, the subject of many of his masturbatory fantasies, was Bill Weasley. He knew that Bill would never scruple to break a confidence, but also that the younger wizard's intellectual pursuits were somewhat limited to his curse-breaking needs; therefore, Kingsley rejected Bill as a candidate because he couldn't see
sleeping with someone who didn't also stimulate his mind. Remus Lupin, his second candidate, was, on the other hand, intelligent, well read, and full of interesting conversation; unfortunately, much of it revolved around Sirius Black, and Kingsley had never much cared for the taste of ash. He sighed as he considered his third option, Nymphadora Tonks. She was a goer, full of fun, and not unintelligent; unfortunately, it seemed to Kingsley that she was smitten with Lupin, and he had no desire to be anyone's substitute. It was a matter of pride.
That, and she's just too . . . sweet. I don't want sweet.
"Sweet" led to romantic feelings, the kind that compelled even a cautious man to forget that he was becoming involved with his partner.
No, Kingsley wanted sour. He wanted a quick, undemanding liaison with someone who wouldn't assume anything more than sex was involved.
Pity Ron's not old enough, he thought, watching the boy frown in concentration as they together gathered up some enchanted artifacts and shoved them into a sack for later destruction. He shows all the signs of possessing a healthy romantic pragmatism. He'd take Potter or Granger—perhaps both at once—if he thought he could.
"If I thought I could, what?" Ron asked, pulling his hand off a small jeweled bowl for which he and the Auror had just reached.
His ear tips were flaming.
"What?" Kingsley asked in consternation, jerking the bowl away.
"You just said—"
"Nothing. I haven't spoken, Weasley, and we're done here. Take these to your mother—and stop daydreaming."
Ron muttered something under his breath but did as he was told, looking relieved to leave the room, in fact. This left Kingsley standing in the neglected bedchamber holding the artifact.
He stared at it. "What the hell are you?" he asked, opening the bowl's lid.
A diaphanous thread of smoke whirled up out of it and began to disperse. Kingsley slammed the lid shut in surprise.
Shit. That looked like a memory. "Did Weasley hear my thoughts just now?"
"If you were touching the Sharing Bowl at the same time, yes," said a voice behind him.
Kingsley turned to find Severus Snape shutting and bolting the door.
"Why'd you do that, Snape?"
"Why are you still holding that artifact, Shacklebolt?"
The two wizards locked eyes together, and, as Kingsley took in Snape's dark, burning ones, he thought, Sour. It doesn't get more sour than Snape.
The Potions master crossed the room and wrapped his hand around the Auror's, the one holding the Sharing Bowl, and smirked.
"Why, thank you, Kingsley," he said silkily, moving closer to him. "I had no idea you cared."
Kingsley blinked as a strong sensation of desire coursed through his body. His cock twitched. He knew at once that it wasn't just his lust he was feeling, but Snape's, as well, and that the other wizard's feelings and thoughts were being broadcast into his consciousness through the Sharing Bowl.
I've never much cared for sweets, myself, thought Snape.
"What are you suggesting?"
"Keep holding the bowl, man, and you'll know as I do," Snape promised, pressing his body against Kingsley's and then kissing him, hard.
Kingsley responded in kind, wrestling his tongue against Snape's in an instinctive maneuver to gain control of the kiss, which was rough and wet and probing and exactly what he had been wanting.
With a mutual groan of need, the two men began to pull at each other's clothing, Kingsley making short work of the Snape's buttons by ripping his coat open with one hand, while Snape frantically undid the buttons of Kingsley's trousers with rather more care.
Passionate but controlled. I like that.
"Good," Snape said, sinking to his knees and grasping Kingsley's cock at the base with his right hand.
His left, he kept wrapped around the Auror's fingers and the Sharing Bowl.
Harder. Faster. . . . Yes!
Snape's throat and mouth seemed to vibrate then as he increased his suction, and Kingsley thought his knees would buckle. He was close; it had been so long since anyone had sucked him.
Sucked so well. So . . . good. "Guh!" he exclaimed, as he felt his bollocks begin to tighten. "Stop!"
The flat of Snape's tongue caressing his prick from base to head drew a whimper from Kingsley then.
Snape's voice was low, heated, silky. His face was flushed, and Kingsley drank in the sight of the man as he lapped at a pearlescent drop of pre-come from his pulsing cock, reflecting, No one's ugly after he's had your prick in his mouth.
"Truer words," Snape murmured, his expression expectant.
Kingsley wasn't surprised that, in spite of the Sharing Bowl, he couldn't "hear" anything that Snape didn't want him to, but he knew well enough what the man wanted. I top, he thought, his gaze directed emphatically at Snape's own.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
"Strip off," Kingsley ordered, pushing off his shoes and stepping out of his trousers as he approached the bed, releasing the Sharing Bowl in his haste to get on with it.
"True," Snape said, as he did as Kingsley had asked after setting the object aside. "We don't need that anymore, do we?"
"You talk too much."
"Make me stop, then."
Kingsley threw himself down onto the bed in a graceful sprawl of well muscled body and murmured a silencing charm before replying, "No. I want to hear your voice. I like it. Tell me what you want," he demanded, as the sallow, lean form of Snape loomed over him.
"I want," he said, crawling on top of Kingsley, "to feel those fingers of yours in my arse. Get me ready."
But Kingsley found that Snape was already prepared as his fingers breached the wizard's rough outer ring of muscle and slid inside of the beguiling heat of his body. He didn't comment on it, but searched out and massaged Snape's prostate until the man's thighs were quivering against Kingsley's sides.
"Enough!" Snape shouted, clamping his thighs firmly against Kingsley's body.
"Is it?" Kingsley asked, stopping his ministrations to Snape's arse and easily reaching for his shoulders to pull him down for another bruising kiss.
The kiss ended abruptly when Snape bit Kingsley's lower lip.
Kingsley laughed. No, not sweet at all, he thought, shifting their positions until he was spooning Snape. "Knees," he ordered, pushing himself up into a kneeling stance behind the other man, and then he thrusting his prick inside of Snape's greedy arse with one smooth forward motion.
"Yeah, you like that. Tell me."
"I like it. I want more," Snape said, quickly and desperately pushing back to meet Kingsley's thrusts.
Leaning on his right arm, Kingsley pulled Snape's left thigh up and held him steady as he increased the tempo of his strokes, and Snape, keening throaty nonsense that made Kingsley's cock throb as more blood rushed into it to harden it further, reached an arm up to grab the Auror's head, forcing Kingsley's lips to his shoulder.
Kingsley bit it.
It was an awkward position to shag in, but Kingsley was strong enough to keep Snape in position and from thrashing too much as he altered his thrusts from fast and deep to slow and shallow, a rhythm that would enable him to last—at least for as long as Snape could.
Soon enough, Snape's legs began to tremble violently, his body tensed, and he was gasping out incoherent screams of pleasure. "Nyahgodsfff—ungh!"
With a growl of effort, Kingsley slid out of Snape, slammed him chest first into the bed, grasped his hips, and lined his prick up with the crease of Snape's arse. "Brace yourself," he demanded, slamming himself into the almost impossibly tight channel of Snape's shuddering body and fucking him unmercifully.
"Can't, can't, can't . . . ."
"Yes, you ca—oh, fuck yes!" Kingsley cried, as his orgasm tore through him and caused him to fall forward.
He barely had the presence of mind to push himself off of Snape and onto the bed beside him before his full weight could crush the other wizard.
They lay there, inadvertently spooning again, breathing heavily.
At last, Snape spoke. "Well."
"Don't get sentimental."
"Don't bark at me."
"'M not," Kingsley replied sleepily, one lazy hand reaching out to slide down Snape's side in a caress.
Snape bucked his hips.
"Are you still hard?"
"Ah," Kingsley said, rolling over and flipping Snape onto his back without ceremony. "I suppose I don't need the Sharing Bowl, now," he said, curling one large hand around Snape's long, slickened prick and pulling on it rapidly until the other man was frantically thrusting his hips into the welcome column of fingers.
"N—n—n—no," Snape choked out, as he spent himself all over his chest and Kingsley's hand. "Fuck, no. No."
"That really was more of a 'yes', wasn't it?"
"Stop grinning at me."
"Can't," Kingsley replied, rolling over into Snape's body and throwing his arm across him after wiping his hand on the coverlet. "I haven't felt this relaxed in months."
"Fortunately for you, it will take at least weeks to deal adequately with this gods-forsaken tidy up."
"You always so damn alert after sex?" Kingsley murmured, close to sleep.
"You'll just have to see, won't you?"
"Keep th' box."
Before Snape could reply to the Auror's unexpected answer, Shacklebolt began to snore.
Of course I'll keep the damn box, Snape thought. It's mine.
And arranging a brief break in the tidying up hadn't been as difficult as the Potions master had initially expected it to be after the last full meeting of the Order—a meeting in which he'd sat next to Shacklebolt for well over five long tedious hours. There had been time enough then to plan.
A Legilimans really has no use for a dark object such as a Sharing Bowl, Snape thought matter-of-factly, reaching out to touch the object laying next to him on the bedside table. But such an item is a useful prop in a seduction.
Being in the Order had its benefits, as well, and Shape's favorite among them was having his pick of partners from among the frustrated, would-be noble lot of bloody unobservant Aurors whose company he was expected to cheerfully endure. He had dealt with his circumstances by relying upon his unique understanding of pragmatism.
"Listening" to the loose mental gossip of his colleagues had also been of service to him.