hp fic // the best part of waking up [remus/sirius; r.]
title: the best part of waking up
author: crooked
pairing: Remus/Sirius
rating: R
word count: 1495
summary: Remus Lupin doesn’t cry over spilt coffee; he gets even.
disclaimer: not mine.
a/n: inspired by this lovely piece of art by nk_aoede. ♥
the best part of waking up
It starts off as any other morning in Sirius' flat. Remus is awake first, as usual, leaving Sirius sprawled out on his stomach in the bed. He takes a shower and only half-dresses, his shirt left open as he pads into the kitchen.
Just like he always does as he makes the morning coffee and puts the toast on the grill, Remus idly wonders why he hasn't moved in yet - well, why he hasn't moved in completely anyway. At least three-quarters of his clothes and belongings share the shelves with Sirius' things, and he can't even recall the last time he slept at his own flat. He supposes it's like the light blue blanket Peter kept stuffed into the bottom of his trunk throughout all seven years of school, or the fifteen-sizes-too-small Puddlemere United shirt James refuses to get rid of; it's about some small, misguided sense of security.
By the time Remus has thought and re-thought and over-thought the entire topic to death, Sirius is awake (though just barely) and comes ambling into the kitchen. Remus can't help but grin at the sight: eyes half-closed, hair stuck up at odd angles all over, pyjama bottoms miraculously staying up on narrow hips against all odds. Sirius mumbles something that resembles 'good morning' and plops into a chair, letting his head fall to the small table with a soft thud.
Remus brushes his fingertips along the line of Sirius' bare shoulders as he passes by, grabbing two mismatched mugs (Sirius' only mugs; the red one with the chipped handle designated as Remus') from the cupboard over the sink. He grabs the toast from the grill just before it starts to burn and turns his attention back to the coffee - his cup with three generous teaspoons of sugar, Sirius' cup the same as his last name.
Remus doesn't even see it coming, mostly because Sirius appears to be in a semi-comatose state.
He has barely set down the plate of toast and the two mugs when suddenly Remus feels Sirius press up against him, and he can almost feel his grin.
"Sirius, wha-" he begins to say, but Sirius kisses at the back of his neck, sucking softly on the skin, and Remus can only moan. A hand placed squarely between his shoulder blades pushes Remus forward until he's bent over the edge of the table, and he doesn't even think about voicing the usual half-hearted protests - none of which he ever means, by the by, but he likes to keep up some appearance of not being a complete slag for Sirius. (He is.)
Remus gives up in record time, pushing back a bit to give himself room to unfasten his trousers and push them down to pool at his ankles. Sirius mutters 'good boy', tugging Remus' pants down and barely managing to get his pyjama trousers just past his hips. He thinks about lecturing Sirius on that fact that patience is a virtue and why don't they just move it into the bedroom, but suddenly he gasps as Sirius pushes a slick finger inside him. He realises this was all planned, he just wasn't let in on it until now.
It's the most ridiculous image ever, Remus can only imagine, as Sirius reaches for a slice of toast with one hand and works gently at him with the other. He doesn't really care, though, and moans, his head dropping down to the table like Sirius' did moments earlier.
"Fuck, you really... really ought to warn a bloke," Remus pants out, fingers curling around the edge of the table, eyes closing as Sirius leans over his back.
"That would take all the fun out of it, wouldn't it?" Sirius asks, and Remus can definitely feel him grinning against his ear now. "You've got to have a sense of adventure about these things, Moony."
His reply is lost to a long, low moan as Sirius pulls his hand away, fingers curling tight over Remus' hip, a corner of the piece of toast shoved between his teeth as he pushes his hips forward. Remus bites his lip, flicking his eyes up to the cracked ceiling above the kitchen table; Mrs Waltham lives upstairs from Sirius, and she is notorious for hearing every little noise they make (and complaining about it when she passes Sirius in the hall).
Soon, though, Mrs Waltham and everything else is pushed aside as Sirius falls into an easy rhythm, and Remus lets out the breath he's been holding. He moans Sirius' name into every corner of the kitchen, fingers curling around the edges of the table for leverage, and he hears him give a grunt of approval in reply. Remus frowns and twists to see Sirius chewing a too-large bite of his toast, his eyes closed and an extremely self-satisfied look on his face. He hates that Sirius looks so smug while he's fucking him over toast, but he hates even more that he doesn't really mind it in the least.
Until Sirius starts to get a bit overzealous in his movements, and Remus' hips start to bump into the table. A low scraping noise sounds as the table jerks forward across the kitchen floor.
"Oi, w-watch it," he warns, eyeing the mugs - his in particular. Sirius, still chewing his toast and fingertips digging into Remus' hip with an almost-bruising force, doesn't seem to take notice. He just keeps at it, in and out, his hips losing their steady rhythm as his breath starts to hitch in his throat. Sirius is starting to lose it; Remus can feel his fingers slipping, trembling slightly against the jut of his hip. He starts to whimper softly, nearly choking on the stupid piece of toast as he tries to shallow it, and Remus feels him leaning into him even more.
"Sir- Sirius! The... fuck, the cof-"
It's too late. The red mug is toppled over as Remus' hips bang against the table, his hand reaching out to save it a second too late. He watches, helpless and eyes wide with horror, as the coffee - his coffee - spills out of the mug and runs dark brown across the surface of the table. For the briefest of moments, Remus thinks about pushing Sirius away and cleaning up the whole mess but thinks better of it when he realises it feels too good to even consider stopping. (It helps when Sirius leans forward, chest to his back and lips at the back of his shoulder where Remus' shirt has slipped, and curls long fingers around him, stroking and pulling insistently.)
Sirius comes first, shuddering and panting at Remus' back, hips snapping forward once more before he collapses in a heap of hot, sticky boy on top of him. He apparently has enough energy to keep jerking his wrist smoothly, though, fingers at Remus' hip stroking the skin now rather than gripping. Remus' legs are starting to tremble, his knees feeling as if ready to betray him at any moment, and he has to shut his eyes against the tragic spill to really concentrate. It only takes a moment - and Sirius whispering God-knows-what against the back of his shoulder as he traces the skin with his tongue because really - before he's clinging to the table edges again, hips pushing into Sirius' hand desperately as he cries out and adds to the mess of the kitchen.
"Fuck," Sirius breathes out in his eloquent way, not bothering to pull his trousers back up. In fact, he just kicks out of them altogether, running his fingers appreciatively over the curve of Remus' arse as he reaches for the one mug of coffee that survived. Remus, still half-sprawled on the table, stares up at him incredulously and resists the urge to hit him when Sirius grins, lifts his mug in a lazy gesture of cheers.
"Shower," he mumbles, leaning over to drop a kiss on Remus' lips, and then he simply shuffles out of the kitchen.
Remus rolls his eyes and sighs, trying to recapture at least a hint of his dignity by pulling his trousers back up. He surveys the damage, hands on hips and far too much like his mother, and sets about cleaning up, listening to the most off-key rendition of Band on the Run he's ever heard.
With a smirk suddenly curving his lips, Remus temporarily abandons the clean-up effort to wander into the bathroom. He spies Sirius through the incredibly transparent shower curtain - the one he insisted was there when he moved in - washing his hair and singing into the spray of hot water. Remus says nothing as he flushes the toilet, grabbing Sirius' half-full mug of coffee from the edge of the sink.
He's not sure another sip of coffee ever tasted so good as the one he takes as he saunters back down the hall, Sirius' high-pitched yelps from the blast of cold water echoing behind him.
author: crooked
pairing: Remus/Sirius
rating: R
word count: 1495
summary: Remus Lupin doesn’t cry over spilt coffee; he gets even.
disclaimer: not mine.
a/n: inspired by this lovely piece of art by nk_aoede. ♥
the best part of waking up
It starts off as any other morning in Sirius' flat. Remus is awake first, as usual, leaving Sirius sprawled out on his stomach in the bed. He takes a shower and only half-dresses, his shirt left open as he pads into the kitchen.
Just like he always does as he makes the morning coffee and puts the toast on the grill, Remus idly wonders why he hasn't moved in yet - well, why he hasn't moved in completely anyway. At least three-quarters of his clothes and belongings share the shelves with Sirius' things, and he can't even recall the last time he slept at his own flat. He supposes it's like the light blue blanket Peter kept stuffed into the bottom of his trunk throughout all seven years of school, or the fifteen-sizes-too-small Puddlemere United shirt James refuses to get rid of; it's about some small, misguided sense of security.
By the time Remus has thought and re-thought and over-thought the entire topic to death, Sirius is awake (though just barely) and comes ambling into the kitchen. Remus can't help but grin at the sight: eyes half-closed, hair stuck up at odd angles all over, pyjama bottoms miraculously staying up on narrow hips against all odds. Sirius mumbles something that resembles 'good morning' and plops into a chair, letting his head fall to the small table with a soft thud.
Remus brushes his fingertips along the line of Sirius' bare shoulders as he passes by, grabbing two mismatched mugs (Sirius' only mugs; the red one with the chipped handle designated as Remus') from the cupboard over the sink. He grabs the toast from the grill just before it starts to burn and turns his attention back to the coffee - his cup with three generous teaspoons of sugar, Sirius' cup the same as his last name.
Remus doesn't even see it coming, mostly because Sirius appears to be in a semi-comatose state.
He has barely set down the plate of toast and the two mugs when suddenly Remus feels Sirius press up against him, and he can almost feel his grin.
"Sirius, wha-" he begins to say, but Sirius kisses at the back of his neck, sucking softly on the skin, and Remus can only moan. A hand placed squarely between his shoulder blades pushes Remus forward until he's bent over the edge of the table, and he doesn't even think about voicing the usual half-hearted protests - none of which he ever means, by the by, but he likes to keep up some appearance of not being a complete slag for Sirius. (He is.)
Remus gives up in record time, pushing back a bit to give himself room to unfasten his trousers and push them down to pool at his ankles. Sirius mutters 'good boy', tugging Remus' pants down and barely managing to get his pyjama trousers just past his hips. He thinks about lecturing Sirius on that fact that patience is a virtue and why don't they just move it into the bedroom, but suddenly he gasps as Sirius pushes a slick finger inside him. He realises this was all planned, he just wasn't let in on it until now.
It's the most ridiculous image ever, Remus can only imagine, as Sirius reaches for a slice of toast with one hand and works gently at him with the other. He doesn't really care, though, and moans, his head dropping down to the table like Sirius' did moments earlier.
"Fuck, you really... really ought to warn a bloke," Remus pants out, fingers curling around the edge of the table, eyes closing as Sirius leans over his back.
"That would take all the fun out of it, wouldn't it?" Sirius asks, and Remus can definitely feel him grinning against his ear now. "You've got to have a sense of adventure about these things, Moony."
His reply is lost to a long, low moan as Sirius pulls his hand away, fingers curling tight over Remus' hip, a corner of the piece of toast shoved between his teeth as he pushes his hips forward. Remus bites his lip, flicking his eyes up to the cracked ceiling above the kitchen table; Mrs Waltham lives upstairs from Sirius, and she is notorious for hearing every little noise they make (and complaining about it when she passes Sirius in the hall).
Soon, though, Mrs Waltham and everything else is pushed aside as Sirius falls into an easy rhythm, and Remus lets out the breath he's been holding. He moans Sirius' name into every corner of the kitchen, fingers curling around the edges of the table for leverage, and he hears him give a grunt of approval in reply. Remus frowns and twists to see Sirius chewing a too-large bite of his toast, his eyes closed and an extremely self-satisfied look on his face. He hates that Sirius looks so smug while he's fucking him over toast, but he hates even more that he doesn't really mind it in the least.
Until Sirius starts to get a bit overzealous in his movements, and Remus' hips start to bump into the table. A low scraping noise sounds as the table jerks forward across the kitchen floor.
"Oi, w-watch it," he warns, eyeing the mugs - his in particular. Sirius, still chewing his toast and fingertips digging into Remus' hip with an almost-bruising force, doesn't seem to take notice. He just keeps at it, in and out, his hips losing their steady rhythm as his breath starts to hitch in his throat. Sirius is starting to lose it; Remus can feel his fingers slipping, trembling slightly against the jut of his hip. He starts to whimper softly, nearly choking on the stupid piece of toast as he tries to shallow it, and Remus feels him leaning into him even more.
"Sir- Sirius! The... fuck, the cof-"
It's too late. The red mug is toppled over as Remus' hips bang against the table, his hand reaching out to save it a second too late. He watches, helpless and eyes wide with horror, as the coffee - his coffee - spills out of the mug and runs dark brown across the surface of the table. For the briefest of moments, Remus thinks about pushing Sirius away and cleaning up the whole mess but thinks better of it when he realises it feels too good to even consider stopping. (It helps when Sirius leans forward, chest to his back and lips at the back of his shoulder where Remus' shirt has slipped, and curls long fingers around him, stroking and pulling insistently.)
Sirius comes first, shuddering and panting at Remus' back, hips snapping forward once more before he collapses in a heap of hot, sticky boy on top of him. He apparently has enough energy to keep jerking his wrist smoothly, though, fingers at Remus' hip stroking the skin now rather than gripping. Remus' legs are starting to tremble, his knees feeling as if ready to betray him at any moment, and he has to shut his eyes against the tragic spill to really concentrate. It only takes a moment - and Sirius whispering God-knows-what against the back of his shoulder as he traces the skin with his tongue because really - before he's clinging to the table edges again, hips pushing into Sirius' hand desperately as he cries out and adds to the mess of the kitchen.
"Fuck," Sirius breathes out in his eloquent way, not bothering to pull his trousers back up. In fact, he just kicks out of them altogether, running his fingers appreciatively over the curve of Remus' arse as he reaches for the one mug of coffee that survived. Remus, still half-sprawled on the table, stares up at him incredulously and resists the urge to hit him when Sirius grins, lifts his mug in a lazy gesture of cheers.
"Shower," he mumbles, leaning over to drop a kiss on Remus' lips, and then he simply shuffles out of the kitchen.
Remus rolls his eyes and sighs, trying to recapture at least a hint of his dignity by pulling his trousers back up. He surveys the damage, hands on hips and far too much like his mother, and sets about cleaning up, listening to the most off-key rendition of Band on the Run he's ever heard.
With a smirk suddenly curving his lips, Remus temporarily abandons the clean-up effort to wander into the bathroom. He spies Sirius through the incredibly transparent shower curtain - the one he insisted was there when he moved in - washing his hair and singing into the spray of hot water. Remus says nothing as he flushes the toilet, grabbing Sirius' half-full mug of coffee from the edge of the sink.
He's not sure another sip of coffee ever tasted so good as the one he takes as he saunters back down the hall, Sirius' high-pitched yelps from the blast of cold water echoing behind him.