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The Trains	By : ElectricAndroid Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male Views: 1117 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The Trains
- 1
Title: The Trains

Author: Electricandroid

Rating: NC-17

Pairings: RL/SS

Word count: 995

Warnings: Sex in public, masturbation in public, slight screwiness

AN: For the Sexual Healing challenge at pornish_pixies
Many thanks to illmantrim
and tesria
for their comments... this was written because I had already written a
non-NC-17 fic for this challenge and did not post it
- but wanted to enter challenge anyhow. For autumnchestnut
who took me on the underground - and without whom this bunny would not exist.

The Trains

Making your way down into the bowels of the earth from
platform 9 and � was never that hard a journey. Assuming that the hordes and
the crushing stench of bodies didn�t push you away,
didn�t drag you kicking and screaming into the light. You could purchase a
ticket from a man in a uniform, and walk down the stairs.

And then you plunge downwards into a steaming miasma of filth and rubble and
buskers and sickly stenches of sweat and grime. If you get the ticket right, if
you get everything just so and find a compartment towards the end of the train,
you could sit there half alone, listening to the clack-clang of the wheels in
the empty cart, the shadowed faces through the crisscrossing doorways. The framed outlines of murky people, moving through this city at
dusk.

When night fell, you could be alone. The carriages were empty, completely
bland, and still the trains shuttled. You could loose yourself in the twists
and turns. Switching lines and jump stations and being lost in the lull of the
endless progression of places names on the planet above you.

Sometimes someone would come into the other carriage. You were always left
alone. But sometimes you would see someone, vaguely outlined, stark and staring
behind the glass. Bleary, pitted, wasted on a seat. These night time travelers left you in peace, left
you to your solitary perversions. No one wanted to pick up the greasy mop of black
hair, eyes like the hole of Calcutta,
and the nervous twitch on your arm. Even in Soho
you came back empty handed, to ride the underground. No one wanted your filth
and your baggage. So you waited, lolling in a pool of misery, watching the
people go by.

They were accustomed to each other. The same sparse beat controlled their
lives, the same times and the same waits, and the same night-eyed travelers seeking a lost something in the bowels of the
earth. New and old blended flawlessly with the recalcitrant strangers, the
people who popped on and off, on their way uptown, searching for something not
found in the clack clatter of the trains.

You never expected to find someone you knew amongst these transients. You never
expected to find your lost enemy in these dank corridors and carriages. You
would never have expected the shock of tawny hair, familiar shoulders, neck. He was an A to B�er. You
never expected him to come back.

Except, the next night he did.

Your werewolf made a home in the lost carriages, in the second to last, in the
one step from damnation carriage. You could not fathom why, could not fathom
the wherefore. Though it probably had to with being alone.
Best friends branded traitors, or dead. You knew this. You just could not
figure out why he did not pick that last carriage. The refuge
of the damned.

As the witching hour drew to a close, the silent arterial pump of blood through
the veins of London
moved on, ever circling, diffusing, striating the
underground with its pulses and glottal stops. Two people alone, riding the
night and the darkness. Two carriages steeped in the vile tincture of shattered
hopes.

He steps on again, pulls himself up to the window. You can see it through the
strands of your hair that has not been brushed in a week, washed in a month.
You crawl your way to the front of the carriage, crawl your way to where the
two capsules almost touch. His eyes bored through the pitted Perspex, and his
breath fogged up the window pane, just slightly out of synch with your own, making
him seem ethereal, disconnected from your experience. He traced �Severus� on the pane, and all you could note was that he
got the S�s in the wrong direction. When the clothes started to come off you
barely recognized that your hands were mimicking his, that your unwashed rags
were a bundle on the floor. When he slid a fist, a finger, a cock, and a touch
and the barely visible stain of precome sliding up
and down his hands, it was better than the most lewd pornography. Better than
the rapid fumblings in Lucius�s
closet as he bedded Narcissa, Rabastan,
Bellatrix. The only sound is your breathing, the only
touches and noises the out of synch feelings of your hands as you twist and
touch, always half a second too late.

A stop and a shudder and a station halt. A mouth misting the panel, and the
silent �Come?�. This time all the letters are in the
correct order, the correct orientation, and you feel yourself drawn across, and
out, and up, into the next carriage, as if the very electrical currents, the
third rail, was pulling you there. He touches you, not Lucius,
not Bella, not even Bast spread out and screaming,
puling, begging for more. He touches you.

And your world explodes into a cacophony of sound.

Color leaches into the walls, the seats, the windows
and even the tincture of glass under the bluebottle light. All memory is
encompassed in this touch, sound, taste and feel. It is a form of completion,
bearing no relation to the windowless pornography, to the soulless, sterile
fucking of a minute ago. As you feel fingers, bear down upon them and then
spread your thighs, an epiphany of redemption in the silky slap and tickle of
his balls against your arse. A quick few thrusts, and
you are both sated.

Maybe tomorrow night you can move up one carriage, the next night, another.
When you reach the front of the train, you�ll go see Dumbledore again. Explain
to him about the Potters. But first, you will lie here, in a puddle of come on
a vinyl seat, and try and understand the why, the wherefore, as the trains
slowly circle below London.
Pumping, pulsing, sated.
- 1
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The Trains