day 27
Ahem.
Let's just ignore the date, yes?
...I blame my muse. And this is more fluffy smut than you'll ever get from me. Heh. (Yes, yes, I know. The fluff bug gripped me as well. And dream_wia_dream wanted a blowjob, so there. Not my fault.)
Body Language
Translations at the bottom
When the sky is full of hands, full of cloud-palms that stretch and camber, and caged fingers holding stars like fireflies until nightfall pries them apart and the horizon starts to breathe, is when Remus is most restless.
Sirius’s mouth cups French words, it’s calyx-round and Chinese red; his fingertips drag through the glitter on his cheekbones and Remus swallows. His gaze scratches along the day that looks like snow, just-fallen, just-dirtied. Winter rolls on above them recklessly, wind drives the clouds, their ends like dark grey knuckles (grazed by the surface of the earth) stick out sharply in the distance.
Are we there yet?
He sighs and lets his fingertips slide down the windowpane, their warmth leaves soft white mute aspirates on the glass. “How many languages do you speak, Sirius?” he asks, but gets no answer.
Slowly, he turns away from the window, fingers still pressed against the glass. Sirius sits naked on the floor, dictionaries spread out before him. Some are old, shadow-tanned and parched like dried petals; the words inside are hand-written in viridescent ink and foreign letters that Remus doesn’t recognize. They smell of Asian markets, Roman empires and Greek oceans, a little of Sirius and a little of their flat.
Remus walks over to him, folds his legs underneath his body and bends over the books. His heartbeat is louder than the sun.
“I’ve never been to Egypt,” he says, laying his index finger on top of a rolled-up map of Africa. One look in Sirius’s alkaline eyes tells him he has, so he keeps quiet and tries to write something in the dust covering many of the books, but his hands tremble too much.
Sirius smiles back at him when he smiles, only Remus smiles locally and Sirius in a million different tongues. “I’ve never been to Cambridge,” Sirius says, and Remus gets his point, but still.
“Can you,” he begins and touches a little yellow dictionary which seems to fall apart under the weight of his fingers, “can you speak Spanish?”
“Por supuesto.”
His fingers wander further, pull a postcard out from under a pile of books; its backside is empty, smooth and rose-coloured with age. “Where’s that from?” he says and traces the still shore with its lime-green, fossilized marram grass.
Softly, Sirius tugs it out of Remus’s hands and tosses it away. “The banshee room,” he says, (where his mother resides, Remus remembers), and before anything can be done, Sirius has pushed him to the floor and taken hold of his wrists, his eyes are southern bright and northern clear.
“What are you doing?” Remus laughs. Where are you going? He feels Sirius’s knees digging into his sides, feels the sky pressing down on them, like the heel of an illiterate hand. When Sirius leans down, there’s only breath-tide, sprawling little waves reaching out and being sucked back, and the sheer proximity of their raw-sore lips rains down on him like the dying sparks of fireworks.
Before Sirius dips his head down, he whispers something, and the words press against Remus’s lips suspended in heavy-damp breath: « Aucune langue… aucune langue n’a des mots pour cela. Toi, et moi, et nous par terre mais, en même temps, dans le ciel et je sais pas où je suis, je sais pas… »
Remus’s hands twist in the carpet, he wants every word they say to resound in five different languages in his head that express its meaning better, wants to uncurl into a landscape under Sirius’s fingertips (they press into his skin like clouds upon the earth, and he lies fallow)- then wet open oval lips skim the tender line just beneath his jaw lightly and move downwards, describing a thin cobweb-like trail of cooling saliva along the knife-edge of bulging sinews…
“È stupefacente come ti apri sotto di me ogni singola volta,” the words spill against his throat and slip down into the soft valley before his collarbones, and Remus pants, eyes closed, tense; he doesn’t understand, and yet he does.
Fingers crawl down his side, push his jumper up and tug the t-shirt out of his jeans. Remus whimpers a bit, and Sirius whispers “tranquilamente,” as if it’s the name of the world, the name of fucking everywhere and Remus wants to reach up, only his wrists are still caught in that steely worldly grip of one long, tanned hand. (A little glitter flutters down on him, pools between his ribs, in the dark blue folds of his t-shirt.)
“Sirius- please-”
He struggles under him, but Sirius lies his hand flat on his chest and makes him still at once, he’s Arctic tundra, frozen by his touch. Swiftly, Sirius reaches up and draws a perfect circle with his thumb around both of his wrists, and when he lets them go, they’re bound together by a thin, elastic string of magic: iunctura. (This is something Remus knows, this is familiar territory. lingua Latina, spoken by books instead of mouths.)
“You’re not serious,” he breathes, still permafrost under Sirius’s strong, naked stratosphere, but he starts to melt on the surface, at the edges- “come on, this is,” and he doesn’t know how, what this is, doesn’t know where he is, because Sirius has tugged down his trousers, fingers still caught in the belt loops, and swirls his tongue across the insides of his thighs now, just where they fold into his hips.
(Remus quickly stifles a cry; he’s not as eloquent as Sirius is when it comes to this, even though he’s been told he has quite the dirty mouth on more than one occasion and thank you very much for that, by the way)
Sirius doesn’t give him time to think, though; his hands hold him down as he drags his lips along the length of his cock, eyes searing and bright, like just-melting icecream under warm fingertips, and Remus bites the inside of his cheek to keep from sobbing at the sharp brilliance of his look.
« Je veux t’entendre crier pour moi » he says, and when he takes the tip of his erection into his mouth, Remus’s hips buck helplessly, trying to catch the words, snap them into a shape that fits into his head, what do you want? what do you mean? I can’t hear a thing, I’m everywhere and all over the place, oh Merlin
Sirius sucks him off softly, slowly, commandingly: wraps his tongue around him to make him writhe, grazes his skin lightly with his teeth to make him groan, hums in the back of his throat to make him curse; Remus usually never curses, it’s a raw, open, unshaped language inside him, a dull rock with smooth diamond edges, and Sirius cuts it, grinds it, until he has him exactly where he wants him and he yells his name out into the delicate net of the day and tears it to shreds with the wild pulse of those few letters…
“Tranquilamente.” (But he doesn’t know who said it first)
There’s something in Sirius’s voice that calms him down, something that condenses the sweet-white fog in his mind into a single botanical core from which his senses grow anew and gently stretch their tendrils out into the air, the floor, the warm naked body on top of him; coherent thoughts have yet to form in the open earth of his mind, but he’s getting there.
Sirius shifts carefully against him and he stirs, trying to lift his arms. The magical threads that tie his wrists together don’t numb pain, only make it impossible for him to hurt himself by moving his arms, and he struggles, a little frustrated- he wants to touch Sirius- wants to write things on his skin that he doesn’t dare say, ce que je n’ose pas dire, he’s read that somewhere, but the syllables tumble together in his mind and he doesn’t know how to pronounce the words-
Sirius moves again, and finally, Remus can shake off a few of the cobwebs of sleep. (And when he tries to free his leg, his still trembling thigh accidentally rubs against Sirius’s crotch.)
A sharp intake of breath, an almost-noise, speech-
For a moment, Remus listens for the sound of foreign words; then he realizes that Sirius speaks English as he comes (with a feeble moan and a shudder, and a desperate downwards jerk). It’s not easy to make out the rushed sentence. But when Remus has entangled the words, and kissed the dusty-soft spot just beneath his left temple, he can’t help but smile quietly.
I love you too, he whispers against Sirius’s foot with his ankle, and in his head, the words resound in five different gentle languages, just like that.
****
Por supuesto - of course. (Spanish)
Aucune langue… aucune langue n’a des mots pour cela. Toi, et moi, et nous par terre mais, en même temps, dans le ciel et je sais pas où je suis, je sais pas… - No language… no language has words for this. You, and I, and us on the floor but, at the same time, in the sky and I don’t know where I am, I don’t know… (French)
È stupefacente come ti apri sotto di me ogni singola volta - It's amazing how you open up underneath me every single time. (Italian)
Tranquilamente - quietly, calmly. (Spanish)
Iunctura - connection. (Latin)
Je veux t'entendre crier pour moi - I want to hear you scream for me. (French)
Ce que je n'ose pas dire - what I don't dare say. (French)
[If anything isn't correct, then I'm sorry; please do point it out to me. *flails*]
Let's just ignore the date, yes?
...I blame my muse. And this is more fluffy smut than you'll ever get from me. Heh. (Yes, yes, I know. The fluff bug gripped me as well. And dream_wia_dream wanted a blowjob, so there. Not my fault.)
Body Language
Translations at the bottom
When the sky is full of hands, full of cloud-palms that stretch and camber, and caged fingers holding stars like fireflies until nightfall pries them apart and the horizon starts to breathe, is when Remus is most restless.
Sirius’s mouth cups French words, it’s calyx-round and Chinese red; his fingertips drag through the glitter on his cheekbones and Remus swallows. His gaze scratches along the day that looks like snow, just-fallen, just-dirtied. Winter rolls on above them recklessly, wind drives the clouds, their ends like dark grey knuckles (grazed by the surface of the earth) stick out sharply in the distance.
Are we there yet?
He sighs and lets his fingertips slide down the windowpane, their warmth leaves soft white mute aspirates on the glass. “How many languages do you speak, Sirius?” he asks, but gets no answer.
Slowly, he turns away from the window, fingers still pressed against the glass. Sirius sits naked on the floor, dictionaries spread out before him. Some are old, shadow-tanned and parched like dried petals; the words inside are hand-written in viridescent ink and foreign letters that Remus doesn’t recognize. They smell of Asian markets, Roman empires and Greek oceans, a little of Sirius and a little of their flat.
Remus walks over to him, folds his legs underneath his body and bends over the books. His heartbeat is louder than the sun.
“I’ve never been to Egypt,” he says, laying his index finger on top of a rolled-up map of Africa. One look in Sirius’s alkaline eyes tells him he has, so he keeps quiet and tries to write something in the dust covering many of the books, but his hands tremble too much.
Sirius smiles back at him when he smiles, only Remus smiles locally and Sirius in a million different tongues. “I’ve never been to Cambridge,” Sirius says, and Remus gets his point, but still.
“Can you,” he begins and touches a little yellow dictionary which seems to fall apart under the weight of his fingers, “can you speak Spanish?”
“Por supuesto.”
His fingers wander further, pull a postcard out from under a pile of books; its backside is empty, smooth and rose-coloured with age. “Where’s that from?” he says and traces the still shore with its lime-green, fossilized marram grass.
Softly, Sirius tugs it out of Remus’s hands and tosses it away. “The banshee room,” he says, (where his mother resides, Remus remembers), and before anything can be done, Sirius has pushed him to the floor and taken hold of his wrists, his eyes are southern bright and northern clear.
“What are you doing?” Remus laughs. Where are you going? He feels Sirius’s knees digging into his sides, feels the sky pressing down on them, like the heel of an illiterate hand. When Sirius leans down, there’s only breath-tide, sprawling little waves reaching out and being sucked back, and the sheer proximity of their raw-sore lips rains down on him like the dying sparks of fireworks.
Before Sirius dips his head down, he whispers something, and the words press against Remus’s lips suspended in heavy-damp breath: « Aucune langue… aucune langue n’a des mots pour cela. Toi, et moi, et nous par terre mais, en même temps, dans le ciel et je sais pas où je suis, je sais pas… »
Remus’s hands twist in the carpet, he wants every word they say to resound in five different languages in his head that express its meaning better, wants to uncurl into a landscape under Sirius’s fingertips (they press into his skin like clouds upon the earth, and he lies fallow)- then wet open oval lips skim the tender line just beneath his jaw lightly and move downwards, describing a thin cobweb-like trail of cooling saliva along the knife-edge of bulging sinews…
“È stupefacente come ti apri sotto di me ogni singola volta,” the words spill against his throat and slip down into the soft valley before his collarbones, and Remus pants, eyes closed, tense; he doesn’t understand, and yet he does.
Fingers crawl down his side, push his jumper up and tug the t-shirt out of his jeans. Remus whimpers a bit, and Sirius whispers “tranquilamente,” as if it’s the name of the world, the name of fucking everywhere and Remus wants to reach up, only his wrists are still caught in that steely worldly grip of one long, tanned hand. (A little glitter flutters down on him, pools between his ribs, in the dark blue folds of his t-shirt.)
“Sirius- please-”
He struggles under him, but Sirius lies his hand flat on his chest and makes him still at once, he’s Arctic tundra, frozen by his touch. Swiftly, Sirius reaches up and draws a perfect circle with his thumb around both of his wrists, and when he lets them go, they’re bound together by a thin, elastic string of magic: iunctura. (This is something Remus knows, this is familiar territory. lingua Latina, spoken by books instead of mouths.)
“You’re not serious,” he breathes, still permafrost under Sirius’s strong, naked stratosphere, but he starts to melt on the surface, at the edges- “come on, this is,” and he doesn’t know how, what this is, doesn’t know where he is, because Sirius has tugged down his trousers, fingers still caught in the belt loops, and swirls his tongue across the insides of his thighs now, just where they fold into his hips.
(Remus quickly stifles a cry; he’s not as eloquent as Sirius is when it comes to this, even though he’s been told he has quite the dirty mouth on more than one occasion and thank you very much for that, by the way)
Sirius doesn’t give him time to think, though; his hands hold him down as he drags his lips along the length of his cock, eyes searing and bright, like just-melting icecream under warm fingertips, and Remus bites the inside of his cheek to keep from sobbing at the sharp brilliance of his look.
« Je veux t’entendre crier pour moi » he says, and when he takes the tip of his erection into his mouth, Remus’s hips buck helplessly, trying to catch the words, snap them into a shape that fits into his head, what do you want? what do you mean? I can’t hear a thing, I’m everywhere and all over the place, oh Merlin
Sirius sucks him off softly, slowly, commandingly: wraps his tongue around him to make him writhe, grazes his skin lightly with his teeth to make him groan, hums in the back of his throat to make him curse; Remus usually never curses, it’s a raw, open, unshaped language inside him, a dull rock with smooth diamond edges, and Sirius cuts it, grinds it, until he has him exactly where he wants him and he yells his name out into the delicate net of the day and tears it to shreds with the wild pulse of those few letters…
“Tranquilamente.” (But he doesn’t know who said it first)
There’s something in Sirius’s voice that calms him down, something that condenses the sweet-white fog in his mind into a single botanical core from which his senses grow anew and gently stretch their tendrils out into the air, the floor, the warm naked body on top of him; coherent thoughts have yet to form in the open earth of his mind, but he’s getting there.
Sirius shifts carefully against him and he stirs, trying to lift his arms. The magical threads that tie his wrists together don’t numb pain, only make it impossible for him to hurt himself by moving his arms, and he struggles, a little frustrated- he wants to touch Sirius- wants to write things on his skin that he doesn’t dare say, ce que je n’ose pas dire, he’s read that somewhere, but the syllables tumble together in his mind and he doesn’t know how to pronounce the words-
Sirius moves again, and finally, Remus can shake off a few of the cobwebs of sleep. (And when he tries to free his leg, his still trembling thigh accidentally rubs against Sirius’s crotch.)
A sharp intake of breath, an almost-noise, speech-
For a moment, Remus listens for the sound of foreign words; then he realizes that Sirius speaks English as he comes (with a feeble moan and a shudder, and a desperate downwards jerk). It’s not easy to make out the rushed sentence. But when Remus has entangled the words, and kissed the dusty-soft spot just beneath his left temple, he can’t help but smile quietly.
I love you too, he whispers against Sirius’s foot with his ankle, and in his head, the words resound in five different gentle languages, just like that.
****
Por supuesto - of course. (Spanish)
Aucune langue… aucune langue n’a des mots pour cela. Toi, et moi, et nous par terre mais, en même temps, dans le ciel et je sais pas où je suis, je sais pas… - No language… no language has words for this. You, and I, and us on the floor but, at the same time, in the sky and I don’t know where I am, I don’t know… (French)
È stupefacente come ti apri sotto di me ogni singola volta - It's amazing how you open up underneath me every single time. (Italian)
Tranquilamente - quietly, calmly. (Spanish)
Iunctura - connection. (Latin)
Je veux t'entendre crier pour moi - I want to hear you scream for me. (French)
Ce que je n'ose pas dire - what I don't dare say. (French)
[If anything isn't correct, then I'm sorry; please do point it out to me. *flails*]