Fic: Satisfied
Satisfied (HP; S/R; 1553 words; NC-17 for wanking.)
Remus has forgotten that he gave Sirius the password for the prefect’s bathroom in fifth year in a stunning show of inability to resist his friend’s whining until Sirius walks in when he is in the bath. This is a good deal more embarrassing than it might have been given that Remus is in the middle of a wank.
It’s Sirius’s fault to begin with; Remus comes from a family in which it was driven home early that boys who touch themselves go both blind and to hell. He tries not to do it often and blushes fiercely whenever his friends joke about their natural urges or how long somebody has spent in the shower. He does his very, very best not to notice the unnatural quiet in the dorm at night that means that the others have put silencing charms on their beds, and he refuses to put one on his own. Remus is not, to put it bluntly, a wanker.
But there’s Sirius. Sirius walks around the room nude all the time, making a show of his manly unselfconsciousness. Remus is almost used to it, is certainly used to the way his stomach jumps when he wakes up in the morning to spot Sirius blithely riffling through his wardrobe without a stitch on, has learned to count to two hundred and fifty and think of his Aunt Mildred before getting out of bed himself in order to give the inevitable erection that springs up at the sight of Sirius’s bare arse flexing as he bends over to put on his socks a chance to settle. His determination not to give in to a body whose instincts and desires and changes he can’t control any more than the moon forces him to doesn’t often crack.
But it does sometimes. Today, two factors are working against him. Tomorrow is the full moon, and the hunger of the wolf inside him is trying to break out, to manifest itself in the only translatable facet of the human psyche. His hormones are raging and violent. And Gryffindor Quidditch practice has just ended. Sirius, sweaty and laughing with James as they enter the bedroom, his hair matted and his shirt clinging to his body, looks as much like a force of nature as a physically blessed teenager. He keeps chattering to James as he peels the t-shirt from his body, and Remus thinks it might be safe to stare at that golden torso while its owner’s head is encased in cotton. But when Sirius emerges from the shirt, his eyes are, inexplicably, fixed on Remus’s face. Remus’s throat goes immediately dry. He can’t tell which is worse- the fantasy desire to screw his friend into the wall, or the very real urge to wrap his arms around the other’s boy’s neck and kiss the bemused smirk right off of his lips. He drops his eyes back to his textbook, feeling a blush burn his pallid cheeks. When he has reached seven hundred and Aunt Mildred is blowing birthday candles out in his mind’s eye and his body is still aching, Remus knows that he’s going to give in to his body. Now.
He wrinkles his nose at the other two, who are now sprawled on their beds in their underthings talking Quidditch strategy. “You two smell so bad that I’m going to have a bath in sympathy,” he says as lightly as possible, standing up. James snickers and says something about the smell of true manhood, but Sirius is watching him with such a peculiar look that Remus doesn’t really hear him and can’t think of a clever response. The look makes his stomach flutter and the ache in his cock stronger. It almost frightens him. He flees to the Prefect’s Bathroom.
Baths aren’t masculine at all, he knows, but the water is so warm and his muscles are cramping so in anticipation of the coming wolf that he doesn’t care. Maybe he can get some true physical benefit out of this once the embarrassing little irritation is taken care of. The water washes over his skin and laps at his heated, swollen cock and a soft noise escapes him. He runs his hands down his torso and begins rubbing, quickly, hoping to get it over with, sinking down so that the splashing of the water plays over his lips and soaks the tips of his hair.
And then Sirius Black walks in.
It must take a moment for Remus to notice him, because by the time he does the boy has shed his robe and is watching Remus with raised eyebrows and quirked lips. Remus makes a noise that is somewhere between shock and utter mortification, and then makes another because he has to still his hand and he is really quite close. Sirius’s smirk grows. He still isn’t wearing a shirt, must have walked through the halls with his robe buttoned, or maybe not because it’s not like Sirius minds it when people see his body. Remus can’t think of a word to say.
Sirius strides over to the edge of the huge tub and stares down at Remus. “Er, can I help you?” Remus manages to gasp out, and then makes another choked noise because Sirius has actually stepped down into the pool and come to stand over Remus, straddling him, and then he’s nudging Remus’s legs apart so that he can kneel down in between them and all Remus can think, wildly, is, But your trousers, and then he can’t think at all because Sirius is taking up where he left off.
Sirius’s hand moves a good deal slower than Remus’s did, squeezing almost languidly up and down, his thumb running over the head every few strokes. Remus is gasping and thrusting upward, trying to make Sirius go faster, but he won’t. His undulation sloshes water into his open mouth and it’s all he can do to keep his nose above, because pleasure is rolling through his body and he can barely think about breathing. It’s nothing like this when he does it himself; he feels like he’s melting into the water, into the intoxicating slow friction of his best friend’s hand. He feels like he can’t take it.
“More,” he gasps out, somehow, and Sirius’s grin is almost feral as he increases his tempo. Remus feels his impending orgasm like a missile rushing to his groin; he can’t hold back the shout when he comes.
He hears the splash as Sirius steps out of the tub, hears the drying spell that Sirius mutters at his trousers, but by the time he’s stopped shaking and has the willpower to look up, Sirius is nowhere to be seen.
“Fuck,” he says, struggling to his feet. He stumbles on the wet floor in his haste, his legs weak, and pulls on his own trousers without bothering with underroos. His jumper gives him a bit more trouble, sticking against his wet skin, and by the time he gets into the hallway Sirius has gone. “Hell and damnation,” he mutters, jogging along the corridor. When he rounds the second corner he slams into Sirius’s back.
“Oof,” he says, and then, as Sirius turns, “What the bloody…what was that, Sirius?” He takes a step back from the taller boy, who has a grin playing over his lips.
“A handjob, Remus,” Sirius replies dryly. “I know you’re pure and all, but I thought you’d recognize that, at least.”
Remus can feel his face going red, shame and anger heating it in equal amounts. “Don’t laugh at me,” he exclaims almost involuntarily before he can stop the words from popping out. They sound so pathetic. Remus want, abruptly and very badly, to cry. “Just…I don’t…”
“Breathe,” Sirius advises, raising an eyebrow, but his tone is gentle. It’s almost worse, almost makes the tears more insistent.
“Sirius.”
“What?”
“Why?”
“Well,” Sirius says, amused, “I’ve been tormenting you for months, haven’t I? Thought I’d better make up for it.”
“You…I…you!” Remus splutters helplessly.
“Breathe,” Sirius suggests again. “Calm down, all right? I just wanted to…you know. We never have to mention it again if it was that awful for you.”
“Sirius!”
“What?”
“You can’t just do something like that and walk away!” He is crying now, or almost, a tear spilling down to cool his heated skin. He feels like such a child, and so very desperate.
“Moony,” Sirius breathes, some peculiar emotion flashing over his face. He steps up to Remus and wraps him in a hug before the smaller boy can pull away. “I don’t plan to, all right?”
The feel of Sirius’s mouth on his is almost more shocking than was the feel of Sirius’s hand on his cock. Sirius’s full lips are soft as a girl’s, his kiss as hard and insistent as everything else about him. Remus can’t help but return it. He doesn’t want to be able to help it.
“Satisfied, Lupin?” Sirius pulls back so that he’s speaking against Remus’s lip. Remus shivers.
“Well, yes,” he stutters. “Does that mean we’re…”
“Yes. I mean. If you want to.” For the first time, Sirius seems nervous, unsure. It is that more than anything that banishes Remus’s lingering need to cry. Sirius Black is nervous over him.
The answer he gives is very definetly an affirmative.
Remus has forgotten that he gave Sirius the password for the prefect’s bathroom in fifth year in a stunning show of inability to resist his friend’s whining until Sirius walks in when he is in the bath. This is a good deal more embarrassing than it might have been given that Remus is in the middle of a wank.
It’s Sirius’s fault to begin with; Remus comes from a family in which it was driven home early that boys who touch themselves go both blind and to hell. He tries not to do it often and blushes fiercely whenever his friends joke about their natural urges or how long somebody has spent in the shower. He does his very, very best not to notice the unnatural quiet in the dorm at night that means that the others have put silencing charms on their beds, and he refuses to put one on his own. Remus is not, to put it bluntly, a wanker.
But there’s Sirius. Sirius walks around the room nude all the time, making a show of his manly unselfconsciousness. Remus is almost used to it, is certainly used to the way his stomach jumps when he wakes up in the morning to spot Sirius blithely riffling through his wardrobe without a stitch on, has learned to count to two hundred and fifty and think of his Aunt Mildred before getting out of bed himself in order to give the inevitable erection that springs up at the sight of Sirius’s bare arse flexing as he bends over to put on his socks a chance to settle. His determination not to give in to a body whose instincts and desires and changes he can’t control any more than the moon forces him to doesn’t often crack.
But it does sometimes. Today, two factors are working against him. Tomorrow is the full moon, and the hunger of the wolf inside him is trying to break out, to manifest itself in the only translatable facet of the human psyche. His hormones are raging and violent. And Gryffindor Quidditch practice has just ended. Sirius, sweaty and laughing with James as they enter the bedroom, his hair matted and his shirt clinging to his body, looks as much like a force of nature as a physically blessed teenager. He keeps chattering to James as he peels the t-shirt from his body, and Remus thinks it might be safe to stare at that golden torso while its owner’s head is encased in cotton. But when Sirius emerges from the shirt, his eyes are, inexplicably, fixed on Remus’s face. Remus’s throat goes immediately dry. He can’t tell which is worse- the fantasy desire to screw his friend into the wall, or the very real urge to wrap his arms around the other’s boy’s neck and kiss the bemused smirk right off of his lips. He drops his eyes back to his textbook, feeling a blush burn his pallid cheeks. When he has reached seven hundred and Aunt Mildred is blowing birthday candles out in his mind’s eye and his body is still aching, Remus knows that he’s going to give in to his body. Now.
He wrinkles his nose at the other two, who are now sprawled on their beds in their underthings talking Quidditch strategy. “You two smell so bad that I’m going to have a bath in sympathy,” he says as lightly as possible, standing up. James snickers and says something about the smell of true manhood, but Sirius is watching him with such a peculiar look that Remus doesn’t really hear him and can’t think of a clever response. The look makes his stomach flutter and the ache in his cock stronger. It almost frightens him. He flees to the Prefect’s Bathroom.
Baths aren’t masculine at all, he knows, but the water is so warm and his muscles are cramping so in anticipation of the coming wolf that he doesn’t care. Maybe he can get some true physical benefit out of this once the embarrassing little irritation is taken care of. The water washes over his skin and laps at his heated, swollen cock and a soft noise escapes him. He runs his hands down his torso and begins rubbing, quickly, hoping to get it over with, sinking down so that the splashing of the water plays over his lips and soaks the tips of his hair.
And then Sirius Black walks in.
It must take a moment for Remus to notice him, because by the time he does the boy has shed his robe and is watching Remus with raised eyebrows and quirked lips. Remus makes a noise that is somewhere between shock and utter mortification, and then makes another because he has to still his hand and he is really quite close. Sirius’s smirk grows. He still isn’t wearing a shirt, must have walked through the halls with his robe buttoned, or maybe not because it’s not like Sirius minds it when people see his body. Remus can’t think of a word to say.
Sirius strides over to the edge of the huge tub and stares down at Remus. “Er, can I help you?” Remus manages to gasp out, and then makes another choked noise because Sirius has actually stepped down into the pool and come to stand over Remus, straddling him, and then he’s nudging Remus’s legs apart so that he can kneel down in between them and all Remus can think, wildly, is, But your trousers, and then he can’t think at all because Sirius is taking up where he left off.
Sirius’s hand moves a good deal slower than Remus’s did, squeezing almost languidly up and down, his thumb running over the head every few strokes. Remus is gasping and thrusting upward, trying to make Sirius go faster, but he won’t. His undulation sloshes water into his open mouth and it’s all he can do to keep his nose above, because pleasure is rolling through his body and he can barely think about breathing. It’s nothing like this when he does it himself; he feels like he’s melting into the water, into the intoxicating slow friction of his best friend’s hand. He feels like he can’t take it.
“More,” he gasps out, somehow, and Sirius’s grin is almost feral as he increases his tempo. Remus feels his impending orgasm like a missile rushing to his groin; he can’t hold back the shout when he comes.
He hears the splash as Sirius steps out of the tub, hears the drying spell that Sirius mutters at his trousers, but by the time he’s stopped shaking and has the willpower to look up, Sirius is nowhere to be seen.
“Fuck,” he says, struggling to his feet. He stumbles on the wet floor in his haste, his legs weak, and pulls on his own trousers without bothering with underroos. His jumper gives him a bit more trouble, sticking against his wet skin, and by the time he gets into the hallway Sirius has gone. “Hell and damnation,” he mutters, jogging along the corridor. When he rounds the second corner he slams into Sirius’s back.
“Oof,” he says, and then, as Sirius turns, “What the bloody…what was that, Sirius?” He takes a step back from the taller boy, who has a grin playing over his lips.
“A handjob, Remus,” Sirius replies dryly. “I know you’re pure and all, but I thought you’d recognize that, at least.”
Remus can feel his face going red, shame and anger heating it in equal amounts. “Don’t laugh at me,” he exclaims almost involuntarily before he can stop the words from popping out. They sound so pathetic. Remus want, abruptly and very badly, to cry. “Just…I don’t…”
“Breathe,” Sirius advises, raising an eyebrow, but his tone is gentle. It’s almost worse, almost makes the tears more insistent.
“Sirius.”
“What?”
“Why?”
“Well,” Sirius says, amused, “I’ve been tormenting you for months, haven’t I? Thought I’d better make up for it.”
“You…I…you!” Remus splutters helplessly.
“Breathe,” Sirius suggests again. “Calm down, all right? I just wanted to…you know. We never have to mention it again if it was that awful for you.”
“Sirius!”
“What?”
“You can’t just do something like that and walk away!” He is crying now, or almost, a tear spilling down to cool his heated skin. He feels like such a child, and so very desperate.
“Moony,” Sirius breathes, some peculiar emotion flashing over his face. He steps up to Remus and wraps him in a hug before the smaller boy can pull away. “I don’t plan to, all right?”
The feel of Sirius’s mouth on his is almost more shocking than was the feel of Sirius’s hand on his cock. Sirius’s full lips are soft as a girl’s, his kiss as hard and insistent as everything else about him. Remus can’t help but return it. He doesn’t want to be able to help it.
“Satisfied, Lupin?” Sirius pulls back so that he’s speaking against Remus’s lip. Remus shivers.
“Well, yes,” he stutters. “Does that mean we’re…”
“Yes. I mean. If you want to.” For the first time, Sirius seems nervous, unsure. It is that more than anything that banishes Remus’s lingering need to cry. Sirius Black is nervous over him.
The answer he gives is very definetly an affirmative.