Fic: Let us sport us while we may (R)
Title: Let us sport us while we may
Words: 1025
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I have no legal rights over these characters. This story is written for entertainment, rather than profit.
Summary: Um, a summer's evening, a shirtless Remus, and a lustful Sirius.
Author's Notes: Oh, my, I'm rusty on this pairing, but how I love them, even now.
Remus is standing on his bed, bare toes curled into crumpled sheets for balance. Sirius, sprawled across the pillows with a copy of the Prophet sliding apart on his lap, chews the end of his quill and watches Remus through his eyelashes. The sun is bright and low, a midsummer evening, gilding everything in the dorm until even Peter’s dirty socks and James’ ratty old practice broom seem precious and enchanted.
It’s warm, stifling still, though it’s late enough that the first years will have been hounded to bed by now. Sirius can still hear voices drifting up from the grounds, the rumble of boys’ voices, the laughter of girls.
“Imperturbo,” Remus murmurs, drawing his wand along the top of the bed curtains, weaving his spell into cloth and fold. He has cast off his robes and his shirt, and his trousers are slipping down his narrow hips. Sirius thinks he looks beautiful like this, with each scar catching the light, as if his bare chest is covered in old lace or cobwebs.
Remus turns a little, reaching out to the end of the bed. “Imperturbo.”
Like this, focussed entirely on his spells, there is no diffidence in Remus. Not a movement is wasted. He is all precision and controlled grace, so quietly confident it makes Sirius’ mouth dry. As discreetly as he can, he shifts the newspaper down, covering himself a little more. It slips further apart, Twelve dead in Abingdon tangling with Falcons Flatten Weakling Wasps.
“Imperturbo,” Remus says again, with a note of finality. He looks down at Sirius. “How’s the crossword?”
“Fascinating,” Sirius lies. “You don’t have to do this, y’know. I don’t care if Prongs and Wormtail hear us.”
“I know,” Remus says, the corner of his mouth twisting up wryly.
Sirius tries to hold back a pout. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I know,” Remus says again, stepping over him. “I’m not. Stop wriggling. You’ll tip me over.”
He’s got a foot wedged on each side of Sirius’ waist now, toes curling warmly against the curling edges of Sirius’ open shirt. If Sirius was to sit up now, he could press a kiss above Remus’ waistband, at that point where sweat gleams on his bare belly. Then he’ll be able to pull Remus down with him again, make him gawky and indignant.
But Remus will sulk if Sirius wrecks his careful layering of spells. A sulky Remus is an amusing thing, but harder to get naked than a smug or happy one. So he’ll practice restraint.
There are new spells being murmured above him now, long liquid vowels in that careful voice. He lets the sound of them settle on his skin like kisses, and rolls his hips despite himself.
Remus kicks him in the side, not missing a syllable.
Sirius sighs, and contents himself with studying Remus’ feet. They’re thin, bony feet, with long toes. Remus has hairy ankles, bones jutting out proudly. Sirius wants to kiss every strong point of them; wants to map out veins with his mouth, as if he can taste the bright, mixed blood below that pale skin.
Remus whispers another word and then falls quietly. Then, carefully, he kneels down, straddling Sirius’ waist. Sirius grins up at him helplessly.
“Let’s get rid of this,” says Remus, plucking the paper from his lap and chucking it onto the floor.
“I was reading that,” Sirius protests, trying and failing to be annoying.
“No, you weren’t,” Remus says, and plucks the chewed quill from his hand as well. It follows the paper, and then Remus gestures a little with his wand and the curtains fall closed around them.
For a moment it’s all darkness and stuffy heat. Then a dim web of light begins to glow across the velvet drapes and cool air is washing over him.
“Oh,” Sirius moans involuntarily, his back arching. He can’t hear anything from beyond the bed.
“Cooling charms,” says Remus. “And I imperturbed the curtains in both directions and added the lighting spell, and there’s an alarm in there as well, of course, in case someone tries to interrupt us or the school starts burning down-”
“Why?”
There’s just enough light for him to tell that Remus is flustered, though that might be because Sirius can reach him now and is making a determined effort to unbutton his trousers. “Well, it’s - it’s a fine and private place.”
“That’s from a poem.” Sirius thinks that’s proof of intellectual genius right there, seeing as he’s finally got his hands on some very distracting bits of Remus.
“Well, yes, but now I think about the context, it’s not really appropriate, unless Andrew Marvel knew about inferi - oh, fuck, Sirius. Do that again!”
There’s no better way to stop a nervous Remus from babbling than groping him with intent, so Sirius carries on happily, his skin prickling with delight at each gasp and bitten off moan. Then the point of all these charms sinks in and he pauses.
He’s never had a truly private place. Everywhere he’s lived has been either owned by his family or shared with several others. Even the Potters’ house, welcoming as they are, isn’t his. Everywhere he goes, he is watched, sometimes with admiration, sometimes with loathing. And Remus has somehow managed to steal him some privacy out of the middle of a semi-public space, without even needing to ask how much he desired it.
He drags Remus down to him, his hands skidding across sweat-slick skin. He can’t concentrate enough to get his shirt off, but Remus is with him, suddenly confident again, steadily stripping them both. Before long they’re naked, gasping spells as their limbs tangle and slide around each other until Remus is fucking him, gasping into Sirius’ hair.
This, Sirius thinks incoherently, rocking into every thrust, this is his. Wherever he goes, whatever the future brings, Remus will be there. This place, this fine and private meeting of flesh and feelings, can never be undone. Let Voldemort come, let the world be torn apart, let magic itself vanish into flames.
There is nothing which can stop him from loving as he wants. Nothing.
Words: 1025
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I have no legal rights over these characters. This story is written for entertainment, rather than profit.
Summary: Um, a summer's evening, a shirtless Remus, and a lustful Sirius.
Author's Notes: Oh, my, I'm rusty on this pairing, but how I love them, even now.
Remus is standing on his bed, bare toes curled into crumpled sheets for balance. Sirius, sprawled across the pillows with a copy of the Prophet sliding apart on his lap, chews the end of his quill and watches Remus through his eyelashes. The sun is bright and low, a midsummer evening, gilding everything in the dorm until even Peter’s dirty socks and James’ ratty old practice broom seem precious and enchanted.
It’s warm, stifling still, though it’s late enough that the first years will have been hounded to bed by now. Sirius can still hear voices drifting up from the grounds, the rumble of boys’ voices, the laughter of girls.
“Imperturbo,” Remus murmurs, drawing his wand along the top of the bed curtains, weaving his spell into cloth and fold. He has cast off his robes and his shirt, and his trousers are slipping down his narrow hips. Sirius thinks he looks beautiful like this, with each scar catching the light, as if his bare chest is covered in old lace or cobwebs.
Remus turns a little, reaching out to the end of the bed. “Imperturbo.”
Like this, focussed entirely on his spells, there is no diffidence in Remus. Not a movement is wasted. He is all precision and controlled grace, so quietly confident it makes Sirius’ mouth dry. As discreetly as he can, he shifts the newspaper down, covering himself a little more. It slips further apart, Twelve dead in Abingdon tangling with Falcons Flatten Weakling Wasps.
“Imperturbo,” Remus says again, with a note of finality. He looks down at Sirius. “How’s the crossword?”
“Fascinating,” Sirius lies. “You don’t have to do this, y’know. I don’t care if Prongs and Wormtail hear us.”
“I know,” Remus says, the corner of his mouth twisting up wryly.
Sirius tries to hold back a pout. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I know,” Remus says again, stepping over him. “I’m not. Stop wriggling. You’ll tip me over.”
He’s got a foot wedged on each side of Sirius’ waist now, toes curling warmly against the curling edges of Sirius’ open shirt. If Sirius was to sit up now, he could press a kiss above Remus’ waistband, at that point where sweat gleams on his bare belly. Then he’ll be able to pull Remus down with him again, make him gawky and indignant.
But Remus will sulk if Sirius wrecks his careful layering of spells. A sulky Remus is an amusing thing, but harder to get naked than a smug or happy one. So he’ll practice restraint.
There are new spells being murmured above him now, long liquid vowels in that careful voice. He lets the sound of them settle on his skin like kisses, and rolls his hips despite himself.
Remus kicks him in the side, not missing a syllable.
Sirius sighs, and contents himself with studying Remus’ feet. They’re thin, bony feet, with long toes. Remus has hairy ankles, bones jutting out proudly. Sirius wants to kiss every strong point of them; wants to map out veins with his mouth, as if he can taste the bright, mixed blood below that pale skin.
Remus whispers another word and then falls quietly. Then, carefully, he kneels down, straddling Sirius’ waist. Sirius grins up at him helplessly.
“Let’s get rid of this,” says Remus, plucking the paper from his lap and chucking it onto the floor.
“I was reading that,” Sirius protests, trying and failing to be annoying.
“No, you weren’t,” Remus says, and plucks the chewed quill from his hand as well. It follows the paper, and then Remus gestures a little with his wand and the curtains fall closed around them.
For a moment it’s all darkness and stuffy heat. Then a dim web of light begins to glow across the velvet drapes and cool air is washing over him.
“Oh,” Sirius moans involuntarily, his back arching. He can’t hear anything from beyond the bed.
“Cooling charms,” says Remus. “And I imperturbed the curtains in both directions and added the lighting spell, and there’s an alarm in there as well, of course, in case someone tries to interrupt us or the school starts burning down-”
“Why?”
There’s just enough light for him to tell that Remus is flustered, though that might be because Sirius can reach him now and is making a determined effort to unbutton his trousers. “Well, it’s - it’s a fine and private place.”
“That’s from a poem.” Sirius thinks that’s proof of intellectual genius right there, seeing as he’s finally got his hands on some very distracting bits of Remus.
“Well, yes, but now I think about the context, it’s not really appropriate, unless Andrew Marvel knew about inferi - oh, fuck, Sirius. Do that again!”
There’s no better way to stop a nervous Remus from babbling than groping him with intent, so Sirius carries on happily, his skin prickling with delight at each gasp and bitten off moan. Then the point of all these charms sinks in and he pauses.
He’s never had a truly private place. Everywhere he’s lived has been either owned by his family or shared with several others. Even the Potters’ house, welcoming as they are, isn’t his. Everywhere he goes, he is watched, sometimes with admiration, sometimes with loathing. And Remus has somehow managed to steal him some privacy out of the middle of a semi-public space, without even needing to ask how much he desired it.
He drags Remus down to him, his hands skidding across sweat-slick skin. He can’t concentrate enough to get his shirt off, but Remus is with him, suddenly confident again, steadily stripping them both. Before long they’re naked, gasping spells as their limbs tangle and slide around each other until Remus is fucking him, gasping into Sirius’ hair.
This, Sirius thinks incoherently, rocking into every thrust, this is his. Wherever he goes, whatever the future brings, Remus will be there. This place, this fine and private meeting of flesh and feelings, can never be undone. Let Voldemort come, let the world be torn apart, let magic itself vanish into flames.
There is nothing which can stop him from loving as he wants. Nothing.