lovebites
Title: In the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Part: 3 (Read Prologue, 1, 2)
Rating: R
Summary: A seven-part mood piece about life at 12 Grimmauld Place, before and after.
Part 3 - Hands, Claws
Sirius cups Remus’s face like it’s a delicate thing, hollow or brittle. Like he might pop or shatter. His hand is rough and thick-skinned and veiny; his pulse is strong in it, jittering it, keeping an irregular, private beat against Remus’s cheek.
His thumb runs along Remus’s jawbone, stuttering on the sticky skin.
His head bows and his nose brushes down the side of Remus’s throat, tracing the jugular all the way down, nudging the tender spot at which it disappears into the shoulder.
His mouth presses there, and sucks. Gently, and without greed or haste. The spot grows warm, hot, tingling. A brush of tongue, soft.
He pulls away, and an eddy of cool air takes his place, and he stares at the livid blotch he’s made. Remus’s breath catches in his throat. Sirius’ face, hovering inches over Remus’s, hardens. His lips go thin.
His grip on Remus’s face tightens, and Remus feels the sheets shift where Sirius’s other hand has curled into a fist. Sirius’s scent has changed subtly, in this moment. It’s saltier, flatter. It’s more appealing, and also more frightening, because Remus knows what comes next. Or doesn’t know, rather, because he never knows exactly, and that’s what frightens him.
Sirius’s face swoops down again, quick and predatory, and he bites around the suck mark, a tense and increasing pressure. Remus cries out softly, for Sirius’s benefit. He assumes this is what Sirius wants.
The hand around his face is painful, the untrimmed nails digging in, and he cannot move or speak.
It isn’t always like this. Sirius isn’t always like this. In Azkaban, Sirius has told him, in one of his rare, open moments, no one touched him. For years. And there was not much use touching himself, because any spark of comfort he could give himself would be stolen as soon as it came. Remus resolved to be gentle and generous with his touch, smoothing over all the scars and hollows on Sirius, feeling love leak out through his skin like a warm balm, like a nutrient. But he learned quickly that this was not enough, nor all Sirius needed of him.
In a moment Sirius will pull away again, leaving the bite and the sore spot inside it hot and throbbing. He will kiss Remus hard, gripping his face as if Remus might struggle or try to escape, though he never has. Remus will open up to him, and Sirius’s tongue will push inside and fill up every space it finds, and Sirius’s teeth will cut into Remus’s lips, and Sirius’s weight will be suffocating and sharp, and Remus will shut his eyes and focus on it, live in it. Every pressure point and gritting joint and growing bruise and the tender throb against his belly will seem natural and necessary, something that has always been and will always be, and Sirius will groan into him, a slow guttural vibration, and this will all make a resigned and inevitable kind of sense.
Sirius used to see the claw-marks on Remus and need to sit down. A sudden ghost of dust would come up from that broken-beloved rusting bed in the top room of the hateful-necessary Shack at the end of those exhausting nights as his knees gave out and he landed hard upon it. And Remus would tell him that it’s not so bad; that - and this was meant as a joke, but never really succeeded in being one - he wasn’t dead yet. And Sirius’s eyes wouldn’t leave the blood dripping down him, the black blots growing in his torn-up useless robes, and his mouth would move but he wouldn’t say anything.
Remus would touch him then, usually. He would lay a hand on his shoulder, or the side of his face, and Sirius would start as if he hadn’t realized Remus was in the room, and then relax.
After a certain point, Remus would kiss him instead. Sirius’s reaction would be the same, always. Transfixed, then frightened, then relieved, exhausted.
The bitter fear scent to which Remus has become so sensitive over the years would fade out, replaced by other smells, murky and enticing and as basic as fright but so much more welcome. They would hold each other and Remus would bleed on Sirius’s robes and remember to apologize later, even though Sirius never seemed to mind. The Shack was always freezing at night, and they would cling to each other for warmth and for comfort and Sirius would smooth down Remus’ hair and whisper heavy-sweet aching things into his ear, and the sun would rise.
Things have changed. They both have. Remus can’t predict and measure Sirius the way he used to. It’s the time Sirius spent in Azkaban, he thinks, the despair and starvation, and his time on the run as a dog, his shifting physiology. It’s not that Remus has forgotten; he hasn’t forgotten anything. He’s more attuned and sensitive than he ever was before - before disaster, before Remus had bitten out the pieces of himself that had belonged to Sirius and gone on living like before but less, before this old age and numbness - and everyone else is still an open book to him, but not Sirius. When Sirius gets like this, when he has one of his bad spells, when he goes a bit off (and Remus is an expert at euphemism, at thinking around the jagged things and sore spots and scars) Remus is ashamed to find himself caught off-guard. He adjusts quickly, but it’s not enough. He should be able to tell, he thinks, to stop it before it starts, to give him what he needs before it comes to this. To this. Near-violence, succubus love, desperate pulling and wanting and breaking and, ultimately, pushing away.
“Oh,” Sirius says. “Oh.” It’s hot under the covers with him. Remus notices this only now that they’re both finished and winding down like broken toys. He’s sore and uncomfortable, but Sirius is there beside him and clinging like a scared child.
“You’re good to me,” Sirius whispers into Remus’s trimmed, gray-flecked sideburn. “You’re so good to me.” His touch is light now, soothing and smoothing, brushing over all the love-marks, the need-marks he’s left in Remus. His hand holds Remus’s face again, delicately, reverently, like a valuable thing. Remus has learned from living here that Sirius has his own idea of what is valuable.
“Come closer,” Sirius says, and it’s a plea, not an order. Remus presses as close as he can, even though he’s hot and achy. Sirius settles his head into the niche between Remus’s neck and shoulder and is quiet. Remus feels heavy and exhausted. After nights like this, Sirius is always childlike, apologetic, and confused. Maybe ashamed. These are things Remus is familiar with.
He pulls the covers up over Sirius’s shoulder and tucks them in around his neck, feeling twitchy and suffocated by the heat. In Azkaban, Sirius has told him, he was always cold.
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Part: 3 (Read Prologue, 1, 2)
Rating: R
Summary: A seven-part mood piece about life at 12 Grimmauld Place, before and after.
Part 3 - Hands, Claws
Sirius cups Remus’s face like it’s a delicate thing, hollow or brittle. Like he might pop or shatter. His hand is rough and thick-skinned and veiny; his pulse is strong in it, jittering it, keeping an irregular, private beat against Remus’s cheek.
His thumb runs along Remus’s jawbone, stuttering on the sticky skin.
His head bows and his nose brushes down the side of Remus’s throat, tracing the jugular all the way down, nudging the tender spot at which it disappears into the shoulder.
His mouth presses there, and sucks. Gently, and without greed or haste. The spot grows warm, hot, tingling. A brush of tongue, soft.
He pulls away, and an eddy of cool air takes his place, and he stares at the livid blotch he’s made. Remus’s breath catches in his throat. Sirius’ face, hovering inches over Remus’s, hardens. His lips go thin.
His grip on Remus’s face tightens, and Remus feels the sheets shift where Sirius’s other hand has curled into a fist. Sirius’s scent has changed subtly, in this moment. It’s saltier, flatter. It’s more appealing, and also more frightening, because Remus knows what comes next. Or doesn’t know, rather, because he never knows exactly, and that’s what frightens him.
Sirius’s face swoops down again, quick and predatory, and he bites around the suck mark, a tense and increasing pressure. Remus cries out softly, for Sirius’s benefit. He assumes this is what Sirius wants.
The hand around his face is painful, the untrimmed nails digging in, and he cannot move or speak.
It isn’t always like this. Sirius isn’t always like this. In Azkaban, Sirius has told him, in one of his rare, open moments, no one touched him. For years. And there was not much use touching himself, because any spark of comfort he could give himself would be stolen as soon as it came. Remus resolved to be gentle and generous with his touch, smoothing over all the scars and hollows on Sirius, feeling love leak out through his skin like a warm balm, like a nutrient. But he learned quickly that this was not enough, nor all Sirius needed of him.
In a moment Sirius will pull away again, leaving the bite and the sore spot inside it hot and throbbing. He will kiss Remus hard, gripping his face as if Remus might struggle or try to escape, though he never has. Remus will open up to him, and Sirius’s tongue will push inside and fill up every space it finds, and Sirius’s teeth will cut into Remus’s lips, and Sirius’s weight will be suffocating and sharp, and Remus will shut his eyes and focus on it, live in it. Every pressure point and gritting joint and growing bruise and the tender throb against his belly will seem natural and necessary, something that has always been and will always be, and Sirius will groan into him, a slow guttural vibration, and this will all make a resigned and inevitable kind of sense.
Sirius used to see the claw-marks on Remus and need to sit down. A sudden ghost of dust would come up from that broken-beloved rusting bed in the top room of the hateful-necessary Shack at the end of those exhausting nights as his knees gave out and he landed hard upon it. And Remus would tell him that it’s not so bad; that - and this was meant as a joke, but never really succeeded in being one - he wasn’t dead yet. And Sirius’s eyes wouldn’t leave the blood dripping down him, the black blots growing in his torn-up useless robes, and his mouth would move but he wouldn’t say anything.
Remus would touch him then, usually. He would lay a hand on his shoulder, or the side of his face, and Sirius would start as if he hadn’t realized Remus was in the room, and then relax.
After a certain point, Remus would kiss him instead. Sirius’s reaction would be the same, always. Transfixed, then frightened, then relieved, exhausted.
The bitter fear scent to which Remus has become so sensitive over the years would fade out, replaced by other smells, murky and enticing and as basic as fright but so much more welcome. They would hold each other and Remus would bleed on Sirius’s robes and remember to apologize later, even though Sirius never seemed to mind. The Shack was always freezing at night, and they would cling to each other for warmth and for comfort and Sirius would smooth down Remus’ hair and whisper heavy-sweet aching things into his ear, and the sun would rise.
Things have changed. They both have. Remus can’t predict and measure Sirius the way he used to. It’s the time Sirius spent in Azkaban, he thinks, the despair and starvation, and his time on the run as a dog, his shifting physiology. It’s not that Remus has forgotten; he hasn’t forgotten anything. He’s more attuned and sensitive than he ever was before - before disaster, before Remus had bitten out the pieces of himself that had belonged to Sirius and gone on living like before but less, before this old age and numbness - and everyone else is still an open book to him, but not Sirius. When Sirius gets like this, when he has one of his bad spells, when he goes a bit off (and Remus is an expert at euphemism, at thinking around the jagged things and sore spots and scars) Remus is ashamed to find himself caught off-guard. He adjusts quickly, but it’s not enough. He should be able to tell, he thinks, to stop it before it starts, to give him what he needs before it comes to this. To this. Near-violence, succubus love, desperate pulling and wanting and breaking and, ultimately, pushing away.
“Oh,” Sirius says. “Oh.” It’s hot under the covers with him. Remus notices this only now that they’re both finished and winding down like broken toys. He’s sore and uncomfortable, but Sirius is there beside him and clinging like a scared child.
“You’re good to me,” Sirius whispers into Remus’s trimmed, gray-flecked sideburn. “You’re so good to me.” His touch is light now, soothing and smoothing, brushing over all the love-marks, the need-marks he’s left in Remus. His hand holds Remus’s face again, delicately, reverently, like a valuable thing. Remus has learned from living here that Sirius has his own idea of what is valuable.
“Come closer,” Sirius says, and it’s a plea, not an order. Remus presses as close as he can, even though he’s hot and achy. Sirius settles his head into the niche between Remus’s neck and shoulder and is quiet. Remus feels heavy and exhausted. After nights like this, Sirius is always childlike, apologetic, and confused. Maybe ashamed. These are things Remus is familiar with.
He pulls the covers up over Sirius’s shoulder and tucks them in around his neck, feeling twitchy and suffocated by the heat. In Azkaban, Sirius has told him, he was always cold.