"Unleashed"
Feb. 9th, 2004 01:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thrihyrneWell, I'm trying my hand at R/S, so feedback would definitely be appreciated.
Summary: One should always expect the unexpected when Sirius Black leaves Grimmauld Place. Gap-filling OotP, a story in two parts. Explicit Remus/Sirius slash. Rating: NC-17
Massive thanks to Jen for the beta.
Unleashed
The joyous black dog bounded around the kitchen, jostling some stray dishes from the morning’s rushed breakfast off the edge of the table and crashing to the floor.
“Sirius! Merlin’s beard! Get a hold of yourself, man!”
Remus was chastising, but the undercurrent of relief in his voice was audible. Padfoot continued to run, almost knocking Remus over as he hung up his threadbare coat and knitted scarf. The portrait of Mrs. Black was blissfully silent, for which Remus counted several blessings in a row. He found that a wet nose and lapping tongue were insistently rubbing against his hand, and he grinned, then rubbed behind the dog’s ears.
“You really are miserable being stuck here, aren’t you?”
The big coal-black head nodded vigorously, then nosed at Remus’ middle, as though begging for more attention. Remus took both hands to knead under Padfoot’s chin, scratching vigorously as the dog panted, small drops of saliva hitting the floor next to his shoddy shoes.
“Well, I know that Harry appreciated you seeing him off, though I don’t think it was the safest thing to do. You are a wanted man, you know.”
Remus stood and looked accusingly at the dog, who returned his gaze, unrepentant.
“I can’t just leave this mess for Molly,” Remus said, turning toward the kitchen and getting his wand. “Reparo,” he muttered, his right wrist making a gentle circle toward the shattered plates on the floor. As he strode toward a corner cabinet he asked jokingly, “Where do you keep the dog biscuits?” Seconds later, he jumped gracelessly as a low voice right behind him growled, “Under the sink, but I’m all out.”
Remus whirled around, his eyes wide. “Sirius!” he gasped. “Do you mind not doing that?”
Sirius ran a bony hand through his dark hair and grinned wickedly. “Didn’t mean to scare you, Moony.”
Remus stood, his heart cautiously returning to non-racing speed. Pale eyes above a toothy smile bored through him.
“But I think I’m more in the mood for a bone, to be honest.”
The breath caught in Remus’ throat. Does he mean?… Shit. What can he mean? He felt a slight flush in his cheeks, assaulted by memories he thought had been locked far away. But no, all it had taken was that initial shock of re-being, when Sirius was there, bodily, in the Shrieking Shack. One embrace by painfully thin arms, the key effectively turned in Remus’s treasure trove of thoughts not to be remembered.
“Why don’t you go upstairs and I’ll join you,” Remus said, trying to sound more nonchalant than he felt.
Sirius’ expression hardened, as fine porcelain suddenly exposed to the kiln’s heat. Though only inches away from Remus’ face, the defenses he had so recently let down were now newly raised, and his stormy eyes revealed nothing, save contempt.
“Fine. I’ll go see if I can find better company. Like Kreacher,” he replied, and turned, stalking from the kitchen to the stairway and up to his room.
Remus swore under his breath, pocketing his wand into his robe.
It had been so many years, so many… For a few wretchedly silent moments, Remus allowed himself to wallow, sitting at the breakfast table, cradling his head and its werewolfian hallmark of prematurely grey hair, his fingers idly running through rather unkempt locks. Who was he, anyway, to begrudge Sirius, his old friend - no, it went beyond that, but they had not yet had the fortitude to discuss what that “that” was, nor what it might mean - a moonsliver of happiness? He had just trod on it, as oafish as any giant, and it made him miserable. But then the adult in him, who had a rather extensive responsibility to help protect all of the wizarding world in the British Isles, bade him to hush up and make himself presentable again for his afternoon tour of duty.
He shook his head, still held in his hands, then resigned himself to the fact that he was always going to be the one who did the Right Thing. He was the one who had been named prefect, after all. He had worn the shiny badge, the source of endless grief, of being ostracized from his closest friends on the train, when all he had tried to do for those years prior was to fit in. To bow gracefully under the burden of Hogwart’s rules and regulations, and to enforce them, at least when he admitted to having seen the infractions at all. He, Remus, his own burden hidden as inconspicuously as could be by a teenager who became an animal once a month. Back then the decisions had seemed easier: tolerate, joke, suppress all dark, midnight-addled thoughts of ending it all, since disappointing those who actually looked up to him was more than he could bear.
Remus Lupin, at 35, found that he could drop himself emotionally into those later years at Hogwarts rather easily, and it made him feel unmoored and exceedingly uncomfortable, as though he were a moth ready to molt, yet trapped within his own cocoon.
The irritated sound of scuffling boots on the floor above him brought him back to the present. After taking a quick satisfactory survey of the room, Remus decided to go check up on Sirius. All of this time in his parents’ abrasively haunted house was bound to make anyone testy, much less one who had felt himself free of it over a decade ago, only to be reshackled within its fetid walls.
Listening to Sirius’ feet pace briefly on the upper floor, Remus felt an almost visceral kick to his chest. The unasked questions would be unheeded no more. He stood up and walked up the stairway, his own shoes silent, the soles worn almost through.
He paused for a moment, realizing that Sirius was not in his own room, he was in his room. Walking more quickly, he turned down a corridor then stopped when he could place his hand on the doorframe, and leaned his thin body against the hard wood.
Sirius sat, all angles and sharp edges of elbows and knees, juxtaposed against the overstuffed chair, reading. Remus tilted his head, wishing he could rush over to him, to caress tenderly back into Sirius all of the happy memories which had been extracted so cruelly from him, the years in Azkaban a deadened smear of darkness. He was somewhat startled to see that Sirius had glasses on. His coal-black hair bore rogue strands of silver; nothing like his own greying hair, but time had stood still for neither of them.
“What are you reading?” Remus asked casually, though his posture was taut, his senses keen to all sounds or sighs.
Sirius raised his eyes from the heavy book and with a rebellious gaze stared for a moment before answering. “The Lord of the Rings,” he replied, then after looking at the tome in his lap, continued, a shimmer of disgust in his voice. “Muggle tripe. Merlin knows how any of them get through this. The names never end.” He paused, then glanced back up at Remus. “How ever did you force yourself to finish it?”
Remus felt suddenly exposed and raw, caught in an unpleasant rippling sensation of shame and indignation.
“How do you know I did?” Remus asked crossly, scowling from the doorjamb. “And besides, if you think it’s so awful, why are you - ” he hastily stole a glance at the widespread book spine, trying not to focus on the groin in which the book was cradled, “ - three-quarters through it?”
Sirius snorted and ran a hand through his hair. “I have to know how much more jewellery this Aragorn of a dozen names is going to end up with.” He flashed a painfully sarcastic grin, then returned his attentions to the book, sprawling further into the chair.
Remus quickly contemplated several acerbic comments with which to retaliate, then stopped. He did not want to drive Sirius further away. It was his very nearness that he missed; furred companions, panting under the basking moon; of shocks of glittering silver he saw behind closed eyes, from distant almost-dreamed memories of hungry mouths pressed together, the sense of same-yet-not-same…
“He’s an honorable character,” he said, then hesitantly continued, “as are you.”
Sirius looked spitefully up at him. “I’m not a character. And the one thing that I’ve managed to do exceedingly well is bring about stunning dishonor, at least to the family name.”
Under Black’s challenging gaze, Remus finally snapped.
“Look, Sirius,” he said bitterly, striding past his chair and stopping in front of a desk, leaning back against it, “I know being in this house is shit. But kindly stop taking all of your anger out on me or you will be spending all of your time with Kreacher.” Remus’ knuckles were white where they grasped the wood. “Why are you like this? Don’t you know that we go back too far for you to be treating me like a fucking chewtoy? Or have you forgotten everything?”
The words settling quietly into the uncomfortable still air. A clock chimed near the bed and both men started. In the ensuing quiet, Sirius closed the book, lowered his head for a moment, then looked over at Remus, now standing with his arms crossed defensively across his chest.
“They took so much, Moony,” Sirius spoke evenly, though his voice was edged with melancholy. “So much. You just can’t know.”
With long fingers, he took off his glasses, putting them and the book on the floor. He uncurled from the chair to walk toward Remus, who now wished that his wand were much closer so that he could conveniently fall down a very discreet self-made hole.
But then Sirius’ surprisingly warm hands were on his shoulders, and they stood, silent, appraising each other. Remus found himself drinking in the starkly handsome features, a mere arm’s length away, as though he were an Egyptian eyeing an oasis; yet it was somehow across a chasm which remained absolutely impassible. He could not fathom all that those blue eyes had seen, nor the horrors suffered and hidden away behind them.
“No. I can’t,” he replied, finding that as his anger fled, he could not withstand Sirius’ compassionate gaze. He studied his old shoes, trying to will away a longingly familiar stirring in his groin. “I was married, you know,” he confessed. “Briefly.” Remus raised his head placed a hand above the one on his right shoulder.
Sirius raised an eyebrow, but remained mute.
“I couldn’t bring myself to believe you’d done it- what you were accused of- but I also had to move on. But being married wasn’t right. Not like - ” He faltered, then asked the question he dreaded most to ask. “We were right once. More than once. Will that ever be right again, or should I plan on just standing here while you tighten your noose of self-loathing to its end?”
Dust motes danced unobtrusively through stripes of sunlight hitting the floor. Two men, adults now, contemplated scenarios done and undone, until the surprisingly gracious one answered the question without words, as was his wont. He always did fuck things up when he tried to use speech to articulate his moods.
Heated lips seared an unmistakable brand of mine onto his lips, and Remus wanted to gasp, but he couldn’t breathe. His own fingers began to rake paths over Sirius’ back through his antiquated shirt. With a distant coherent thought, Remus wished that he had clipped his fingernails.
A few moments later, he knew that he heard something in English, though the fire throbbing in his cock threatened to render him beyond all speech.
“What?” Remus murmured into Sirius’ ear, which was now covered in sloppy kisses. Sirius’ pants were far past undone, greedy fingers grasping at a straining and very hard member, cradling sacs as gentle as musk itself. He was going to go mad if he didn’t have all of him in his mouth, and very soon. “What??”
“You sound like a Professor.”
Remus dropped to his knees, took Sirius into his mouth, tongue lapping greedily around the rounded tip, tasting bittersweet Sirius. It was what it was. Remus wanted to hear him shout aloud. Not in vengeance; Remus wanted to hear beautiful desperation.
He drew back from the pulsing cock, looked up, feigning petulance. “I am a professor. Or was.”
Sirius looked back at him, beads of sweat on his forehead, chest heaving. “You’ll understand this, then, though I’m no academic.” Before resuming his tender and relentless worship, Remus let his eyes flicker appreciatively over Sirius’ upper body. He was covered in a y-shape of black hair which, to Remus, had always seemed to stand for yesyesyes…
“Don’t ever.” Sirius gasped, his breathing haggard as Remus deftly worked his mouth around him, his skilled tongue tracing salty lines of throbbing veins, listening for the catches in his breath; Remus’ lips teasing up and down, teeth barely grazing his unbearably tender skin. “Get married.” Untrimmed fingernails kneading into his buttocks, then straining, holding on to the back up his upper thighs; Sirius’ hands now whiter than snow, holding on to the desk for dear life. “Again.”
Straining against the inevitable, before a crushing wave of release took him, Sirius intertwined his fingers in Remus’ hair.
“I’m a jealous man, you know.” Then he came, white hot, eyes clamped shut, mouth wide open. “Oh god, ahhhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrrRemus, Remus, Remus,” he chanted, his prayer to life and love alike, one and the same, brilliant, blinding, fractious.
Remus took it all as Sirius shuddered, sinking even further into the table. Then he shifted backward onto his heels, gingerly releasing Sirius’ cock from his mouth. Bittersweet it was, salt rubbed into the wound of the willingly possessed.
Remus sat, his own passion unrepentant and untended.
“Not to worry,” he replied.
He was stunned when moments later Sirius buried his face in his hands, crying.
*****
Remus whistled as he traipsed down Diagon Alley, a few select parcels under his left arm. He wasn’t much of one to treat himself to things, but the holiday frivolity in the shops was quite infectious. Ducking into The Three Broomsticks, he ordered a drink he only got as a rare treat, a Bitter Banshee. It was served with a rather alarming green flame emanating from the top, was mind-bogglingly potent, and as soothing as wind on the heaths. Or so it said in the advertisements. He only knew that he could nurse one for a good while and do some leisurely reading, something else he had not had much time for.
Ensconced in a corner booth, he delved into an early Christmas present for himself, bought mere hours ago. Since he had lived alone for so many years, he had gotten into the habit of indulging himself in one gift at Christmas, though he felt that wrapping it would have been going a bit too far. After taking a rather overwhelming mouthful of his drink, he ran his fingers over the covers of a book. Not a new book, but recently resold: Arithmancy for the Artistic Alchemist. He could positively feel the singing power of numbers and runes in it, his own skills tuned to their music in ways that seemed to confound others. He took another sip as the dancing flames lowered in the stubby glass. For a moment he wondered if he had always had that skill, or if it had been some other odd side-effect to the werewolf-bite, the same one which had rendered him colorblind and therefore absolutely useless at potions.
Soothing thoughts soon washed through him, enhanced by the cheery holiday music. Feeling suddenly spontaneous, he decided to return to Grimmauld Place, immediately. He downed the rest of his Bitter Banshee, stood up, weaved just slightly, then sat down again. Then stood up once more, not weaving, made sure that he had all of his purchases, approached the bar, and asked for some water. After drinking the contents, he went to the large fireplace, threw in some floo powder, and spoke the name clearly but quietly.
He stumbled into the living room, which was strangely quiet. Everyone else seemed to be out doing something important, or doing their own shopping. Tonks especially liked to browse Muggle shops in the most shocking appearance possible, which only meant that no one paid a whit of attention to her. Remus shook his head, willing away the lingering effects of his beverage, then placed his packages on a couch, took off his coat and scarf and tossed them on a nearby table. Then he scooped up the gifts and walked quietly upstairs, worried about waking up Mrs. Black’s portrait. Despite himself, he found himself humming, “Three hooting owls, two chocolate frogs, and gold-dust from a faerie.”
He swung open Sirius’ door, but he wasn’t there. “Sirius?” he said, regardless, still hopeful. There was no answer. “Sirius!” Frowning, he put the parcels in the overstuffed chair, and wondered if there was any wrapping paper remaining in the house. Molly Weasley had been staying up until wee hours in the morning with miles of multi-colored papers and ribbons, but she was out. It was possible to charm a gift to look like something other than what it was, but that took all the fun out of it, and Remus was especially proud of the gift he had gotten for Harry, Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts. Speaking into the empty room, he asked, “Now, if I were wrapping paper, and recently used, where would I be hiding?”
Not surprisingly, there was no answer. Remus picked up the Dark Arts book and opened the cover to the unblemished first page, void of illustration. “I should inscribe something,” he muttered, thumbing through the rest of the book. “'To Harry at Christmas, 1995. Study these well, as you’ll need them.'” He shook his head. “No, too dramatic.” He stopped at a page describing how to perform a counter-jinx against a particularly atrocious spell which rendered the recipient both deaf and blind, and therefore completely unable to anticipate any other spells or curses which might follow. “'To Harry at Christmas,'” he began again. “May this book-”
“Moony!” Sirius came swaggering into the room, clad head to foot in black leather.
Remus turned at hearing his name then faltered, dropping the book but managing to catch it seconds later before it hit the floor. “Wow,” he murmured appreciatively as he unfurled, standing upright.
Sirius had a small parcel in his right hand which he tossed aside to a chair, then shrugged off his jacket. Remus watched as Sirius more carefully hung the calfskin coat on the back of the nearby chair, then winced.
“Wow, what?” Black asked, recovering his composure and fixing Remus with a heavy-lidded gaze. “See something you like?” he teased.
Remus found that he was clutching the book in his hands, staring at Sirius through an onset of thinly-disguised lust.
“You. Leather,” he replied. “You always did look good in black.”
Sirius grinned. “I got your Christmas present today, Moony.”
Remus looked down at the book, put it on the desk, then focused his attentions on Sirius. “You are Christmas, Sirius. Every day.”
Remus was grateful that the moon was midway through its cycle, and all torrents of animal-like need he could claim as his own, not those of the wolf. He walked toward Sirius, then grasped him by the back of the head, pushing his lips insistently on Black’s. Remus was dazzled, his eyes closed, his tongue flickering around that of his lover, delving deeper as a heated shudder resonated through his groin, wanting to taste all that he could, feeling Sirius’ growing erection grinding into his thigh…
Sirius drew back from him, panting. “Merry Christmas to you, too, Remus!”
As he stepped backward, Remus almost fell over, but caught himself in time.
“Someone is very full of holiday cheer, it appears,” Sirius joked, then with an actor’s aplomb, leaned in and sniffed around Remus’s face. “Very full.” He stepped back. “And where have we been?”
Remus shuffled back toward him, raising his hands to caress Sirius’ eyebrows and cheekbones. “None of your business,” he countered, then nibbled gently on the left side of Sirius’ neck. “Where have you been?” Suddenly he grew serious. “You haven’t been out, have you?”
Sirius ducked from Remus’ affectionate hands and stood back, a smirk on his face.
“Sirius!” Remus chastised, immediately hating the tone of his voice, which sounded terrifyingly like that of Molly Weasley. “After what happened in September… how could you? Where did you go? You could have been killed.” He began to pace. “You could have been recognized. Wizards and muggles alike. What were you--?”
“Shut up, Remus,” Sirius said, his voice affectionate, but on the verge of testy.
“Sirius,” Remus replied, standing still, “What were you out doing?”
Sirius stared at him for a moment, then in a resolute voice, uttered both an imperturbable and a silencing charm toward the door of the room.
Gold-hazel eyes gazed questioningly at Sirius.
“Weasley twins. They listen to everything.”
Remus nodded, then let his mind switch over to 'everyday-Order-potential-trauma' mode, and in a suddenly businesslike tone, he asked, “Did Dumbledore allow you to join the Order?”
Sirius continued his silence for a few moments. All at once, he rolled his eyes, grasped his black t-shirt by the bottom hem, and pulled it over his head, then dropped it on the floor. Making the most of the moment, he stood quietly, allowing Remus to take in the sight of him, now clad only in tight leather pants and boots, a recently-inked tattoo still oozing small droplets of blood on his chest above his heart.
“I was out getting a tattoo, Moony,” he drawled, as Remus stared at him with a shocked expression. “Yes, I was out at a Muggle tattoo parlor. The last place that anyone who would care would be looking for me.” He walked the few steps toward Remus, pale blue eyes fixated on gold, Remus’ mouth still hanging open. “Do you like it?”
Remus gaped, flabbergasted. He wasn’t exactly sure what had been inked in; it was so recently-done that a scab was forming over it, but it seemed to be in the form of an upside-down trident, a rune of the moon.
“Sirius…” it came out of his mouth more like a hiss than a word. “What have you done to yourself?”
He had meant to sound concerned, but Black heard it as a warning.
“I’m a fucking adult, Remus. We both are.” He turned his back, walked agitatedly around the room to a chest of drawers which had a small flask on it, unscrewed the cap, and drank whatever were the contents. He continued to stare at the wall, his voice sullen. “I thought you would like it. The moon and all, Mr. Arithmancy and Astronomy.” Sirius turned around and his pale-eyed gaze shot daggers at Remus. “It means I’m yours, Moony.”
Remus watched helplessly as Sirius looked down at his recently-inked chest, running a finger over the tender skin. “Should you still want me, anyway.” Black shrugged, resigned. “Maybe there’s some other werewolf who is interested-”
Remus growled, causing Sirius to look up at him. “Don’t even joke about that,” he said, taking the few steps to cross the room and hold Sirius’ hands. “You just make me crazy sometimes- I was afraid that somebody would have recognized you.”
Sirius laughed, an abrasive sound in the quiet room. “You sound like Molly.”
“I know,” Remus replied, resignation in his voice. “I hate it.” He leaned his head down, raising Sirius’ fingers to his mouth, kissing each knuckle in order from left to right. “But you,” he intoned quietly, a whisper of lips against each bit of clenched hand, “I love.”
Sirius held his breath for a moment, then shivered. “It’s cold.”
Remus looked up from the pale fingers in his grasp and eyed the swollen skin on Sirius’ chest. “Care to get under the covers?”
Sirius nodded. “About time you asked. I thought I was going to have to shag you with a gag around your mouth if you used your 'work-voice' around me anymore.” He smiled, cold-chapped lips pink around white, slightly crooked teeth.
“Hush, you,” Remus said, drawing their heads together so that their foreheads rested on each other. “I think,” he said smoothly, “that you should stand there just a moment longer so I can see what these barbarians have done to you.” He moved away, shucking off his turtleneck, then unfastening his belt which seemed to be held together through sheer determination of its owner.
Sirius valiantly suppressed a chuckle as Remus pulled off his jeans, first over one foot and then the other.
“I hear that,” Remus said, perturbed. “You just shut your eyes, then. Use your other senses, while I sit in the bed, warming up what are sure to be horrifyingly cold sheets, and I’ll admire your fair form while you decide how to get from there to here.”
“Hmmmmmmmh,” Sirius hummed, shutting his eyes. “What was that song?” He began provocatively moving his hips from side to side, and running his hands up his sides, careful not to get too close to his new markings on his left chest. “It’s… the… one… thing… You… want… my… thing…”
Since his eyes were closed, Sirius couldn’t see Remus both press his teeth down on his lower lip to stop from laughing, but also take his right hand down under the elastic of his boxer briefs to stroke himself, his thumb and fist starting down a well-known path of release, albeit a potentially slow one. He wanted to see where this dance went, and he trusted that the dancer would not take too long to make his way to join him.
Sirius, eyes shut, changed his tune, stopped his hip rocking. “Wait.” His brows creased, trying desperately to - remember. “Moony.” His voice was frantic, grasping. “Remus. Who were they? A band. Blokes. From Australia. Lead singer was brilliant.” His fingers ground into his forehead and eyes, his weight leaning over his right leg, seeking deep within himself for something the Dementors might have missed.
“Remus,” he whined, almost panting; anxious. “Remus. I didn’t make them up.”
Remus had stopped feeling himself and was wracking his mind for names of bands from the early 1980’s. A spark of recognition came to him. “INXS,” he moaned.
Sirius’ face was awash in light and validation. “INXS,” he agreed. “That’s it.” He started to undo his pants matter-of-factly, then he slowed. “Are you still watching?” he asked, his voice teasing.
“Yes,” was Remus’ husky reply.
“Is that band still around?” Sirius asked, his fly unzipped, now making a grand show of peeling the tight leather from his lightly-muscled thighs, then down past his knees.
Remus found that he was stroking himself quite quickly, and he wasn’t in the mood to play Twenty Questions. He wanted Sirius on him, now, and it made his response more terse than he intended. “I think so. Haven't been listening to Muggle radio much these days.”
Sirius smirked. He was still taking off his pants in a mostly elegant fashion, his erect member making a tent of his boxer shorts, which were a shocking pattern of blazing yellow smiley faces on a white background. “I’m not coordinated enough to take off my pants and boots with my eyes shut. May I?”
Remus nodded, and scooted over in the bed, letting out a low howl as he did so. “Cold, cold…” He looked provocatively at Sirius, who had sat down on the chair to remove his boots and the pants currently stuck at mid-calf. “Hurry up, or all that heat on your side of the bed will be gone.”
“Well then, I’ll just have to cozy up to you all the closer, won’t I?” Sirius said silkily, finally wearing only his boxers. He stood up, then walked to the bed, burrowing under the covers next to Remus who exhaled a throaty sigh of contentment.
“So,” Sirius’ hot breath was in Remus’ ear, sending a shock of heat through him, “you seem to be well on your way already. I don’t suppose I could help…” Teeth nibbled on Remus’ sensitive earlobe as Sirius snuck his hand onto his cock, sliding under Remus’ hand.
“Mmmm- yes, Sirius, you are so helpful,” Remus mumbled before firmly pressing his lips against his lovers’.
There was not much speech after that, as Remus used one hand to fondle Sirius’ newly-exposed and very hard erection, the other at the back of his head, almost absent-mindedly massaging his scalp. They had been newly rediscovered lovers for only a couple of months, and kissing still sent a thrill through Remus, especially when Sirius sucked on his lower lip, his tongue plundering his warm mouth.
Remus used his shoulder to push Sirius over onto his back, who moaned in protest.
“Ow!” he exclaimed, wincing, his blue eyes partially shut. “Careful with your bony arms, Moony- my skin’s all tender.”
Remus was feral, teeth bared, eyes glinting. “Oh, I’ll be careful.” He grinned down at Sirius, admiring the form below him which had withstood such deprivation, now able to accept as much pleasure as Remus could bestow. He ran a finger lightly around the barely oozing skin, while with the other hand he took Sirius’ nipple and ran his thumb over it, slowly, then faster as the nub hardened. Sirius’ hips bucked upward, while he continued to fist Remus’ achingly hard cock. “You’re a handsome bastard, Black.”
“More handsome,” Sirius panted, “when shagged rotten.”
At that, Remus lost the faint tendril of control that had kept him from doing just that.
“Vial…” he growled, sitting up. Sirius wriggled backward to reach over into the bedside table, fumbled as he pulled open the drawer, then lobbed the small bottle in a surprisingly accurate arc straight into Remus’ hand.
“Yes,” Sirius smirked, moving his hand to stroke himself. “Vile to the core.” He watched Remus as he poured he lubricant onto his palms, then over himself.
Remus leaned forward then paused, his hard cock just barely pressing into the tight entrance, his breath coming in gasps. It was inexplicable bliss, this frighteningly needy intrusion into heat and hidden muscle and-
“Moony…” Sirius moaned.
At that entreaty, Remus sheathed himself slowly, then withdrew slightly, the tension of keeping control settling firmly into his upper back like taut bat wings. Home. The thought bloomed through his fingers which clasped bruisingly to Sirius’ shoulders. He thrust again and again, listening intently through the quickening haze as he heard Sirius’ gasps, which meant “have me, free me free me free me…” Sirius fisted himself, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. Remus felt the familiar slap of skin on skin, trying to silence his mind, in which he heard self-berating thoughts of “out of shape, saggy ass, god I love him fuck it all luckiest man alive romantic idiot.” He leaned into Sirius’ neck, inhaling his faint scent of mint aftershave and musky sex until he came moments later. As he did, he arched even further into Sirius, who suddenly cried out, “God! Remus!” and came as well, babbling unintelligible glorious profanity, warm liquid covering his hand, which then trailed down to his stomach.
Remus shook with waves of surging pleasure until the world resolutely re-established itself around him and he collapsed on Sirius. They lay silently, catching their breath, Remus’ long fingers playing with long black hair as a small puddle of come slowly leaked into the sheets.
“Wand?”
Remus raised his head and looked with unfocused eyes toward a pile of clothing. “Over there,” he murmured, then looked fondly at Sirius. “Should I get it?”
Sirius leaned in, kissed him, then answered, “Yes. I sense a distinct Weasley Twins aura coming from the door.”
Remus shook his head, slowly withdrew from Sirius, dabbed at his now flaccid member with the sheet, and gingerly walked across the cold floor. After picking up his wand, he aimed at the bed and quietly said scourgify.
They dressed in silence, though Sirius opted not to put on his shirt before walking to the door and abruptly pulling it open.
George and Fred stood, somewhat stunned, George’s hand raised as though he were about to knock.
“Um, Mum called a meeting down in the kitchen, ah…”
“Wicked,” Fred breathed, staring at Sirius’ chest, completely disregarding the leather pants.
“Righteous,” George echoed, then looked at his brother.
“I’m getting one!” they exclaimed in tandem, eyes bright with mischief.
“Right,” Remus said, walking to the doorframe, hanging back somewhat from Black. “And what tattoo would you get, exactly?”
George feigned innocence, fingers grasping at glinting red hairs on his unshaven chin. “The word Mum,” he said resolutely. “In a big red heart. Upper left arm, of course,” he said, winking at Fred. “You?”
Fred’s brows creased in thought. “Dunno,” he said finally. “Something. Maybe a Veela in a hula skirt?” He shrugged. “I can think about it on the way there.” He turned toward his twin. “Gotta tell mum. She’ll love it.” The ebullient sarcasm in his voice was almost visible.
“I don’t know that…” Sirius’ baritone trailed off as the two raced down the stairs.
Moment later Remus and Sirius heard the unmistakable shriek of Molly Weasley.
“HE DID WHAT??!”
Sirius pulled Remus to him, pressing their foreheads together. “Merry Christmas, Moony. The old home has never experienced a holiday quite like this.”
Soon the entryway was filled with the unpleasant damning roar of Mrs. Black from her portrait. Remus raised his leg and with a bare foot, pushed the door so that it shut.
the end
Summary: One should always expect the unexpected when Sirius Black leaves Grimmauld Place. Gap-filling OotP, a story in two parts. Explicit Remus/Sirius slash. Rating: NC-17
Massive thanks to Jen for the beta.
September, 1995
The joyous black dog bounded around the kitchen, jostling some stray dishes from the morning’s rushed breakfast off the edge of the table and crashing to the floor.
“Sirius! Merlin’s beard! Get a hold of yourself, man!”
Remus was chastising, but the undercurrent of relief in his voice was audible. Padfoot continued to run, almost knocking Remus over as he hung up his threadbare coat and knitted scarf. The portrait of Mrs. Black was blissfully silent, for which Remus counted several blessings in a row. He found that a wet nose and lapping tongue were insistently rubbing against his hand, and he grinned, then rubbed behind the dog’s ears.
“You really are miserable being stuck here, aren’t you?”
The big coal-black head nodded vigorously, then nosed at Remus’ middle, as though begging for more attention. Remus took both hands to knead under Padfoot’s chin, scratching vigorously as the dog panted, small drops of saliva hitting the floor next to his shoddy shoes.
“Well, I know that Harry appreciated you seeing him off, though I don’t think it was the safest thing to do. You are a wanted man, you know.”
Remus stood and looked accusingly at the dog, who returned his gaze, unrepentant.
“I can’t just leave this mess for Molly,” Remus said, turning toward the kitchen and getting his wand. “Reparo,” he muttered, his right wrist making a gentle circle toward the shattered plates on the floor. As he strode toward a corner cabinet he asked jokingly, “Where do you keep the dog biscuits?” Seconds later, he jumped gracelessly as a low voice right behind him growled, “Under the sink, but I’m all out.”
Remus whirled around, his eyes wide. “Sirius!” he gasped. “Do you mind not doing that?”
Sirius ran a bony hand through his dark hair and grinned wickedly. “Didn’t mean to scare you, Moony.”
Remus stood, his heart cautiously returning to non-racing speed. Pale eyes above a toothy smile bored through him.
“But I think I’m more in the mood for a bone, to be honest.”
The breath caught in Remus’ throat. Does he mean?… Shit. What can he mean? He felt a slight flush in his cheeks, assaulted by memories he thought had been locked far away. But no, all it had taken was that initial shock of re-being, when Sirius was there, bodily, in the Shrieking Shack. One embrace by painfully thin arms, the key effectively turned in Remus’s treasure trove of thoughts not to be remembered.
“Why don’t you go upstairs and I’ll join you,” Remus said, trying to sound more nonchalant than he felt.
Sirius’ expression hardened, as fine porcelain suddenly exposed to the kiln’s heat. Though only inches away from Remus’ face, the defenses he had so recently let down were now newly raised, and his stormy eyes revealed nothing, save contempt.
“Fine. I’ll go see if I can find better company. Like Kreacher,” he replied, and turned, stalking from the kitchen to the stairway and up to his room.
Remus swore under his breath, pocketing his wand into his robe.
It had been so many years, so many… For a few wretchedly silent moments, Remus allowed himself to wallow, sitting at the breakfast table, cradling his head and its werewolfian hallmark of prematurely grey hair, his fingers idly running through rather unkempt locks. Who was he, anyway, to begrudge Sirius, his old friend - no, it went beyond that, but they had not yet had the fortitude to discuss what that “that” was, nor what it might mean - a moonsliver of happiness? He had just trod on it, as oafish as any giant, and it made him miserable. But then the adult in him, who had a rather extensive responsibility to help protect all of the wizarding world in the British Isles, bade him to hush up and make himself presentable again for his afternoon tour of duty.
He shook his head, still held in his hands, then resigned himself to the fact that he was always going to be the one who did the Right Thing. He was the one who had been named prefect, after all. He had worn the shiny badge, the source of endless grief, of being ostracized from his closest friends on the train, when all he had tried to do for those years prior was to fit in. To bow gracefully under the burden of Hogwart’s rules and regulations, and to enforce them, at least when he admitted to having seen the infractions at all. He, Remus, his own burden hidden as inconspicuously as could be by a teenager who became an animal once a month. Back then the decisions had seemed easier: tolerate, joke, suppress all dark, midnight-addled thoughts of ending it all, since disappointing those who actually looked up to him was more than he could bear.
Remus Lupin, at 35, found that he could drop himself emotionally into those later years at Hogwarts rather easily, and it made him feel unmoored and exceedingly uncomfortable, as though he were a moth ready to molt, yet trapped within his own cocoon.
The irritated sound of scuffling boots on the floor above him brought him back to the present. After taking a quick satisfactory survey of the room, Remus decided to go check up on Sirius. All of this time in his parents’ abrasively haunted house was bound to make anyone testy, much less one who had felt himself free of it over a decade ago, only to be reshackled within its fetid walls.
Listening to Sirius’ feet pace briefly on the upper floor, Remus felt an almost visceral kick to his chest. The unasked questions would be unheeded no more. He stood up and walked up the stairway, his own shoes silent, the soles worn almost through.
He paused for a moment, realizing that Sirius was not in his own room, he was in his room. Walking more quickly, he turned down a corridor then stopped when he could place his hand on the doorframe, and leaned his thin body against the hard wood.
Sirius sat, all angles and sharp edges of elbows and knees, juxtaposed against the overstuffed chair, reading. Remus tilted his head, wishing he could rush over to him, to caress tenderly back into Sirius all of the happy memories which had been extracted so cruelly from him, the years in Azkaban a deadened smear of darkness. He was somewhat startled to see that Sirius had glasses on. His coal-black hair bore rogue strands of silver; nothing like his own greying hair, but time had stood still for neither of them.
“What are you reading?” Remus asked casually, though his posture was taut, his senses keen to all sounds or sighs.
Sirius raised his eyes from the heavy book and with a rebellious gaze stared for a moment before answering. “The Lord of the Rings,” he replied, then after looking at the tome in his lap, continued, a shimmer of disgust in his voice. “Muggle tripe. Merlin knows how any of them get through this. The names never end.” He paused, then glanced back up at Remus. “How ever did you force yourself to finish it?”
Remus felt suddenly exposed and raw, caught in an unpleasant rippling sensation of shame and indignation.
“How do you know I did?” Remus asked crossly, scowling from the doorjamb. “And besides, if you think it’s so awful, why are you - ” he hastily stole a glance at the widespread book spine, trying not to focus on the groin in which the book was cradled, “ - three-quarters through it?”
Sirius snorted and ran a hand through his hair. “I have to know how much more jewellery this Aragorn of a dozen names is going to end up with.” He flashed a painfully sarcastic grin, then returned his attentions to the book, sprawling further into the chair.
Remus quickly contemplated several acerbic comments with which to retaliate, then stopped. He did not want to drive Sirius further away. It was his very nearness that he missed; furred companions, panting under the basking moon; of shocks of glittering silver he saw behind closed eyes, from distant almost-dreamed memories of hungry mouths pressed together, the sense of same-yet-not-same…
“He’s an honorable character,” he said, then hesitantly continued, “as are you.”
Sirius looked spitefully up at him. “I’m not a character. And the one thing that I’ve managed to do exceedingly well is bring about stunning dishonor, at least to the family name.”
Under Black’s challenging gaze, Remus finally snapped.
“Look, Sirius,” he said bitterly, striding past his chair and stopping in front of a desk, leaning back against it, “I know being in this house is shit. But kindly stop taking all of your anger out on me or you will be spending all of your time with Kreacher.” Remus’ knuckles were white where they grasped the wood. “Why are you like this? Don’t you know that we go back too far for you to be treating me like a fucking chewtoy? Or have you forgotten everything?”
The words settling quietly into the uncomfortable still air. A clock chimed near the bed and both men started. In the ensuing quiet, Sirius closed the book, lowered his head for a moment, then looked over at Remus, now standing with his arms crossed defensively across his chest.
“They took so much, Moony,” Sirius spoke evenly, though his voice was edged with melancholy. “So much. You just can’t know.”
With long fingers, he took off his glasses, putting them and the book on the floor. He uncurled from the chair to walk toward Remus, who now wished that his wand were much closer so that he could conveniently fall down a very discreet self-made hole.
But then Sirius’ surprisingly warm hands were on his shoulders, and they stood, silent, appraising each other. Remus found himself drinking in the starkly handsome features, a mere arm’s length away, as though he were an Egyptian eyeing an oasis; yet it was somehow across a chasm which remained absolutely impassible. He could not fathom all that those blue eyes had seen, nor the horrors suffered and hidden away behind them.
“No. I can’t,” he replied, finding that as his anger fled, he could not withstand Sirius’ compassionate gaze. He studied his old shoes, trying to will away a longingly familiar stirring in his groin. “I was married, you know,” he confessed. “Briefly.” Remus raised his head placed a hand above the one on his right shoulder.
Sirius raised an eyebrow, but remained mute.
“I couldn’t bring myself to believe you’d done it- what you were accused of- but I also had to move on. But being married wasn’t right. Not like - ” He faltered, then asked the question he dreaded most to ask. “We were right once. More than once. Will that ever be right again, or should I plan on just standing here while you tighten your noose of self-loathing to its end?”
Dust motes danced unobtrusively through stripes of sunlight hitting the floor. Two men, adults now, contemplated scenarios done and undone, until the surprisingly gracious one answered the question without words, as was his wont. He always did fuck things up when he tried to use speech to articulate his moods.
Heated lips seared an unmistakable brand of mine onto his lips, and Remus wanted to gasp, but he couldn’t breathe. His own fingers began to rake paths over Sirius’ back through his antiquated shirt. With a distant coherent thought, Remus wished that he had clipped his fingernails.
A few moments later, he knew that he heard something in English, though the fire throbbing in his cock threatened to render him beyond all speech.
“What?” Remus murmured into Sirius’ ear, which was now covered in sloppy kisses. Sirius’ pants were far past undone, greedy fingers grasping at a straining and very hard member, cradling sacs as gentle as musk itself. He was going to go mad if he didn’t have all of him in his mouth, and very soon. “What??”
“You sound like a Professor.”
Remus dropped to his knees, took Sirius into his mouth, tongue lapping greedily around the rounded tip, tasting bittersweet Sirius. It was what it was. Remus wanted to hear him shout aloud. Not in vengeance; Remus wanted to hear beautiful desperation.
He drew back from the pulsing cock, looked up, feigning petulance. “I am a professor. Or was.”
Sirius looked back at him, beads of sweat on his forehead, chest heaving. “You’ll understand this, then, though I’m no academic.” Before resuming his tender and relentless worship, Remus let his eyes flicker appreciatively over Sirius’ upper body. He was covered in a y-shape of black hair which, to Remus, had always seemed to stand for yesyesyes…
“Don’t ever.” Sirius gasped, his breathing haggard as Remus deftly worked his mouth around him, his skilled tongue tracing salty lines of throbbing veins, listening for the catches in his breath; Remus’ lips teasing up and down, teeth barely grazing his unbearably tender skin. “Get married.” Untrimmed fingernails kneading into his buttocks, then straining, holding on to the back up his upper thighs; Sirius’ hands now whiter than snow, holding on to the desk for dear life. “Again.”
Straining against the inevitable, before a crushing wave of release took him, Sirius intertwined his fingers in Remus’ hair.
“I’m a jealous man, you know.” Then he came, white hot, eyes clamped shut, mouth wide open. “Oh god, ahhhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrrRemus, Remus, Remus,” he chanted, his prayer to life and love alike, one and the same, brilliant, blinding, fractious.
Remus took it all as Sirius shuddered, sinking even further into the table. Then he shifted backward onto his heels, gingerly releasing Sirius’ cock from his mouth. Bittersweet it was, salt rubbed into the wound of the willingly possessed.
Remus sat, his own passion unrepentant and untended.
“Not to worry,” he replied.
He was stunned when moments later Sirius buried his face in his hands, crying.
*****
December 23rd
Remus whistled as he traipsed down Diagon Alley, a few select parcels under his left arm. He wasn’t much of one to treat himself to things, but the holiday frivolity in the shops was quite infectious. Ducking into The Three Broomsticks, he ordered a drink he only got as a rare treat, a Bitter Banshee. It was served with a rather alarming green flame emanating from the top, was mind-bogglingly potent, and as soothing as wind on the heaths. Or so it said in the advertisements. He only knew that he could nurse one for a good while and do some leisurely reading, something else he had not had much time for.
Ensconced in a corner booth, he delved into an early Christmas present for himself, bought mere hours ago. Since he had lived alone for so many years, he had gotten into the habit of indulging himself in one gift at Christmas, though he felt that wrapping it would have been going a bit too far. After taking a rather overwhelming mouthful of his drink, he ran his fingers over the covers of a book. Not a new book, but recently resold: Arithmancy for the Artistic Alchemist. He could positively feel the singing power of numbers and runes in it, his own skills tuned to their music in ways that seemed to confound others. He took another sip as the dancing flames lowered in the stubby glass. For a moment he wondered if he had always had that skill, or if it had been some other odd side-effect to the werewolf-bite, the same one which had rendered him colorblind and therefore absolutely useless at potions.
Soothing thoughts soon washed through him, enhanced by the cheery holiday music. Feeling suddenly spontaneous, he decided to return to Grimmauld Place, immediately. He downed the rest of his Bitter Banshee, stood up, weaved just slightly, then sat down again. Then stood up once more, not weaving, made sure that he had all of his purchases, approached the bar, and asked for some water. After drinking the contents, he went to the large fireplace, threw in some floo powder, and spoke the name clearly but quietly.
He stumbled into the living room, which was strangely quiet. Everyone else seemed to be out doing something important, or doing their own shopping. Tonks especially liked to browse Muggle shops in the most shocking appearance possible, which only meant that no one paid a whit of attention to her. Remus shook his head, willing away the lingering effects of his beverage, then placed his packages on a couch, took off his coat and scarf and tossed them on a nearby table. Then he scooped up the gifts and walked quietly upstairs, worried about waking up Mrs. Black’s portrait. Despite himself, he found himself humming, “Three hooting owls, two chocolate frogs, and gold-dust from a faerie.”
He swung open Sirius’ door, but he wasn’t there. “Sirius?” he said, regardless, still hopeful. There was no answer. “Sirius!” Frowning, he put the parcels in the overstuffed chair, and wondered if there was any wrapping paper remaining in the house. Molly Weasley had been staying up until wee hours in the morning with miles of multi-colored papers and ribbons, but she was out. It was possible to charm a gift to look like something other than what it was, but that took all the fun out of it, and Remus was especially proud of the gift he had gotten for Harry, Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts. Speaking into the empty room, he asked, “Now, if I were wrapping paper, and recently used, where would I be hiding?”
Not surprisingly, there was no answer. Remus picked up the Dark Arts book and opened the cover to the unblemished first page, void of illustration. “I should inscribe something,” he muttered, thumbing through the rest of the book. “'To Harry at Christmas, 1995. Study these well, as you’ll need them.'” He shook his head. “No, too dramatic.” He stopped at a page describing how to perform a counter-jinx against a particularly atrocious spell which rendered the recipient both deaf and blind, and therefore completely unable to anticipate any other spells or curses which might follow. “'To Harry at Christmas,'” he began again. “May this book-”
“Moony!” Sirius came swaggering into the room, clad head to foot in black leather.
Remus turned at hearing his name then faltered, dropping the book but managing to catch it seconds later before it hit the floor. “Wow,” he murmured appreciatively as he unfurled, standing upright.
Sirius had a small parcel in his right hand which he tossed aside to a chair, then shrugged off his jacket. Remus watched as Sirius more carefully hung the calfskin coat on the back of the nearby chair, then winced.
“Wow, what?” Black asked, recovering his composure and fixing Remus with a heavy-lidded gaze. “See something you like?” he teased.
Remus found that he was clutching the book in his hands, staring at Sirius through an onset of thinly-disguised lust.
“You. Leather,” he replied. “You always did look good in black.”
Sirius grinned. “I got your Christmas present today, Moony.”
Remus looked down at the book, put it on the desk, then focused his attentions on Sirius. “You are Christmas, Sirius. Every day.”
Remus was grateful that the moon was midway through its cycle, and all torrents of animal-like need he could claim as his own, not those of the wolf. He walked toward Sirius, then grasped him by the back of the head, pushing his lips insistently on Black’s. Remus was dazzled, his eyes closed, his tongue flickering around that of his lover, delving deeper as a heated shudder resonated through his groin, wanting to taste all that he could, feeling Sirius’ growing erection grinding into his thigh…
Sirius drew back from him, panting. “Merry Christmas to you, too, Remus!”
As he stepped backward, Remus almost fell over, but caught himself in time.
“Someone is very full of holiday cheer, it appears,” Sirius joked, then with an actor’s aplomb, leaned in and sniffed around Remus’s face. “Very full.” He stepped back. “And where have we been?”
Remus shuffled back toward him, raising his hands to caress Sirius’ eyebrows and cheekbones. “None of your business,” he countered, then nibbled gently on the left side of Sirius’ neck. “Where have you been?” Suddenly he grew serious. “You haven’t been out, have you?”
Sirius ducked from Remus’ affectionate hands and stood back, a smirk on his face.
“Sirius!” Remus chastised, immediately hating the tone of his voice, which sounded terrifyingly like that of Molly Weasley. “After what happened in September… how could you? Where did you go? You could have been killed.” He began to pace. “You could have been recognized. Wizards and muggles alike. What were you--?”
“Shut up, Remus,” Sirius said, his voice affectionate, but on the verge of testy.
“Sirius,” Remus replied, standing still, “What were you out doing?”
Sirius stared at him for a moment, then in a resolute voice, uttered both an imperturbable and a silencing charm toward the door of the room.
Gold-hazel eyes gazed questioningly at Sirius.
“Weasley twins. They listen to everything.”
Remus nodded, then let his mind switch over to 'everyday-Order-potential-trauma' mode, and in a suddenly businesslike tone, he asked, “Did Dumbledore allow you to join the Order?”
Sirius continued his silence for a few moments. All at once, he rolled his eyes, grasped his black t-shirt by the bottom hem, and pulled it over his head, then dropped it on the floor. Making the most of the moment, he stood quietly, allowing Remus to take in the sight of him, now clad only in tight leather pants and boots, a recently-inked tattoo still oozing small droplets of blood on his chest above his heart.
“I was out getting a tattoo, Moony,” he drawled, as Remus stared at him with a shocked expression. “Yes, I was out at a Muggle tattoo parlor. The last place that anyone who would care would be looking for me.” He walked the few steps toward Remus, pale blue eyes fixated on gold, Remus’ mouth still hanging open. “Do you like it?”
Remus gaped, flabbergasted. He wasn’t exactly sure what had been inked in; it was so recently-done that a scab was forming over it, but it seemed to be in the form of an upside-down trident, a rune of the moon.
“Sirius…” it came out of his mouth more like a hiss than a word. “What have you done to yourself?”
He had meant to sound concerned, but Black heard it as a warning.
“I’m a fucking adult, Remus. We both are.” He turned his back, walked agitatedly around the room to a chest of drawers which had a small flask on it, unscrewed the cap, and drank whatever were the contents. He continued to stare at the wall, his voice sullen. “I thought you would like it. The moon and all, Mr. Arithmancy and Astronomy.” Sirius turned around and his pale-eyed gaze shot daggers at Remus. “It means I’m yours, Moony.”
Remus watched helplessly as Sirius looked down at his recently-inked chest, running a finger over the tender skin. “Should you still want me, anyway.” Black shrugged, resigned. “Maybe there’s some other werewolf who is interested-”
Remus growled, causing Sirius to look up at him. “Don’t even joke about that,” he said, taking the few steps to cross the room and hold Sirius’ hands. “You just make me crazy sometimes- I was afraid that somebody would have recognized you.”
Sirius laughed, an abrasive sound in the quiet room. “You sound like Molly.”
“I know,” Remus replied, resignation in his voice. “I hate it.” He leaned his head down, raising Sirius’ fingers to his mouth, kissing each knuckle in order from left to right. “But you,” he intoned quietly, a whisper of lips against each bit of clenched hand, “I love.”
Sirius held his breath for a moment, then shivered. “It’s cold.”
Remus looked up from the pale fingers in his grasp and eyed the swollen skin on Sirius’ chest. “Care to get under the covers?”
Sirius nodded. “About time you asked. I thought I was going to have to shag you with a gag around your mouth if you used your 'work-voice' around me anymore.” He smiled, cold-chapped lips pink around white, slightly crooked teeth.
“Hush, you,” Remus said, drawing their heads together so that their foreheads rested on each other. “I think,” he said smoothly, “that you should stand there just a moment longer so I can see what these barbarians have done to you.” He moved away, shucking off his turtleneck, then unfastening his belt which seemed to be held together through sheer determination of its owner.
Sirius valiantly suppressed a chuckle as Remus pulled off his jeans, first over one foot and then the other.
“I hear that,” Remus said, perturbed. “You just shut your eyes, then. Use your other senses, while I sit in the bed, warming up what are sure to be horrifyingly cold sheets, and I’ll admire your fair form while you decide how to get from there to here.”
“Hmmmmmmmh,” Sirius hummed, shutting his eyes. “What was that song?” He began provocatively moving his hips from side to side, and running his hands up his sides, careful not to get too close to his new markings on his left chest. “It’s… the… one… thing… You… want… my… thing…”
Since his eyes were closed, Sirius couldn’t see Remus both press his teeth down on his lower lip to stop from laughing, but also take his right hand down under the elastic of his boxer briefs to stroke himself, his thumb and fist starting down a well-known path of release, albeit a potentially slow one. He wanted to see where this dance went, and he trusted that the dancer would not take too long to make his way to join him.
Sirius, eyes shut, changed his tune, stopped his hip rocking. “Wait.” His brows creased, trying desperately to - remember. “Moony.” His voice was frantic, grasping. “Remus. Who were they? A band. Blokes. From Australia. Lead singer was brilliant.” His fingers ground into his forehead and eyes, his weight leaning over his right leg, seeking deep within himself for something the Dementors might have missed.
“Remus,” he whined, almost panting; anxious. “Remus. I didn’t make them up.”
Remus had stopped feeling himself and was wracking his mind for names of bands from the early 1980’s. A spark of recognition came to him. “INXS,” he moaned.
Sirius’ face was awash in light and validation. “INXS,” he agreed. “That’s it.” He started to undo his pants matter-of-factly, then he slowed. “Are you still watching?” he asked, his voice teasing.
“Yes,” was Remus’ husky reply.
“Is that band still around?” Sirius asked, his fly unzipped, now making a grand show of peeling the tight leather from his lightly-muscled thighs, then down past his knees.
Remus found that he was stroking himself quite quickly, and he wasn’t in the mood to play Twenty Questions. He wanted Sirius on him, now, and it made his response more terse than he intended. “I think so. Haven't been listening to Muggle radio much these days.”
Sirius smirked. He was still taking off his pants in a mostly elegant fashion, his erect member making a tent of his boxer shorts, which were a shocking pattern of blazing yellow smiley faces on a white background. “I’m not coordinated enough to take off my pants and boots with my eyes shut. May I?”
Remus nodded, and scooted over in the bed, letting out a low howl as he did so. “Cold, cold…” He looked provocatively at Sirius, who had sat down on the chair to remove his boots and the pants currently stuck at mid-calf. “Hurry up, or all that heat on your side of the bed will be gone.”
“Well then, I’ll just have to cozy up to you all the closer, won’t I?” Sirius said silkily, finally wearing only his boxers. He stood up, then walked to the bed, burrowing under the covers next to Remus who exhaled a throaty sigh of contentment.
“So,” Sirius’ hot breath was in Remus’ ear, sending a shock of heat through him, “you seem to be well on your way already. I don’t suppose I could help…” Teeth nibbled on Remus’ sensitive earlobe as Sirius snuck his hand onto his cock, sliding under Remus’ hand.
“Mmmm- yes, Sirius, you are so helpful,” Remus mumbled before firmly pressing his lips against his lovers’.
There was not much speech after that, as Remus used one hand to fondle Sirius’ newly-exposed and very hard erection, the other at the back of his head, almost absent-mindedly massaging his scalp. They had been newly rediscovered lovers for only a couple of months, and kissing still sent a thrill through Remus, especially when Sirius sucked on his lower lip, his tongue plundering his warm mouth.
Remus used his shoulder to push Sirius over onto his back, who moaned in protest.
“Ow!” he exclaimed, wincing, his blue eyes partially shut. “Careful with your bony arms, Moony- my skin’s all tender.”
Remus was feral, teeth bared, eyes glinting. “Oh, I’ll be careful.” He grinned down at Sirius, admiring the form below him which had withstood such deprivation, now able to accept as much pleasure as Remus could bestow. He ran a finger lightly around the barely oozing skin, while with the other hand he took Sirius’ nipple and ran his thumb over it, slowly, then faster as the nub hardened. Sirius’ hips bucked upward, while he continued to fist Remus’ achingly hard cock. “You’re a handsome bastard, Black.”
“More handsome,” Sirius panted, “when shagged rotten.”
At that, Remus lost the faint tendril of control that had kept him from doing just that.
“Vial…” he growled, sitting up. Sirius wriggled backward to reach over into the bedside table, fumbled as he pulled open the drawer, then lobbed the small bottle in a surprisingly accurate arc straight into Remus’ hand.
“Yes,” Sirius smirked, moving his hand to stroke himself. “Vile to the core.” He watched Remus as he poured he lubricant onto his palms, then over himself.
Remus leaned forward then paused, his hard cock just barely pressing into the tight entrance, his breath coming in gasps. It was inexplicable bliss, this frighteningly needy intrusion into heat and hidden muscle and-
“Moony…” Sirius moaned.
At that entreaty, Remus sheathed himself slowly, then withdrew slightly, the tension of keeping control settling firmly into his upper back like taut bat wings. Home. The thought bloomed through his fingers which clasped bruisingly to Sirius’ shoulders. He thrust again and again, listening intently through the quickening haze as he heard Sirius’ gasps, which meant “have me, free me free me free me…” Sirius fisted himself, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. Remus felt the familiar slap of skin on skin, trying to silence his mind, in which he heard self-berating thoughts of “out of shape, saggy ass, god I love him fuck it all luckiest man alive romantic idiot.” He leaned into Sirius’ neck, inhaling his faint scent of mint aftershave and musky sex until he came moments later. As he did, he arched even further into Sirius, who suddenly cried out, “God! Remus!” and came as well, babbling unintelligible glorious profanity, warm liquid covering his hand, which then trailed down to his stomach.
Remus shook with waves of surging pleasure until the world resolutely re-established itself around him and he collapsed on Sirius. They lay silently, catching their breath, Remus’ long fingers playing with long black hair as a small puddle of come slowly leaked into the sheets.
“Wand?”
Remus raised his head and looked with unfocused eyes toward a pile of clothing. “Over there,” he murmured, then looked fondly at Sirius. “Should I get it?”
Sirius leaned in, kissed him, then answered, “Yes. I sense a distinct Weasley Twins aura coming from the door.”
Remus shook his head, slowly withdrew from Sirius, dabbed at his now flaccid member with the sheet, and gingerly walked across the cold floor. After picking up his wand, he aimed at the bed and quietly said scourgify.
They dressed in silence, though Sirius opted not to put on his shirt before walking to the door and abruptly pulling it open.
George and Fred stood, somewhat stunned, George’s hand raised as though he were about to knock.
“Um, Mum called a meeting down in the kitchen, ah…”
“Wicked,” Fred breathed, staring at Sirius’ chest, completely disregarding the leather pants.
“Righteous,” George echoed, then looked at his brother.
“I’m getting one!” they exclaimed in tandem, eyes bright with mischief.
“Right,” Remus said, walking to the doorframe, hanging back somewhat from Black. “And what tattoo would you get, exactly?”
George feigned innocence, fingers grasping at glinting red hairs on his unshaven chin. “The word Mum,” he said resolutely. “In a big red heart. Upper left arm, of course,” he said, winking at Fred. “You?”
Fred’s brows creased in thought. “Dunno,” he said finally. “Something. Maybe a Veela in a hula skirt?” He shrugged. “I can think about it on the way there.” He turned toward his twin. “Gotta tell mum. She’ll love it.” The ebullient sarcasm in his voice was almost visible.
“I don’t know that…” Sirius’ baritone trailed off as the two raced down the stairs.
Moment later Remus and Sirius heard the unmistakable shriek of Molly Weasley.
“HE DID WHAT??!”
Sirius pulled Remus to him, pressing their foreheads together. “Merry Christmas, Moony. The old home has never experienced a holiday quite like this.”
Soon the entryway was filled with the unpleasant damning roar of Mrs. Black from her portrait. Remus raised his leg and with a bare foot, pushed the door so that it shut.
