OF WOLF AND MAN (NC-17) BY IAMSHADOW - Prologue: Watching, Waiting, Touching
Title: Of Wolf and Man - Prologue: Watching, Waiting, Touching
Chapter: Prologue of something long.
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Remus/Sirius (Sirius/random multitude of Hogwarts females alluded to)
Word Count This Chapter: 3,727
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angst. Boysex. WIP.
Summary: Remus watches Sirius who watches Remus.
A/N: This is the first part of a large Work in Progress. Please don't let the fact that it's incomplete put you off. I am a comment and concrit whore, and your feedback will be the thing that spurs me on to finish this beast.
Though this part is Marauder era, the majority of this fic will parallel PoA (though there will be flashbacks). That means I am INSANE enough to have started a project that must believably dovetail neatly with canon. (Don't ring the asylum, please.) Because I must to make it plausible, when necessary I will in future be using dialogue from the book worked in. When I do, it will be disclaimered and credited to the book in question and JKR in this Author's Note section.
Beta by kath_ballantyne and prydonia.
Chapter List HERE
I used to watch him. It became something of a habit, an addiction. I was never like Peter was when he watched James - fawning, adoring, subservient. I was covert. I'd read my book, idly turning a page now and then, and glance over the edge. If he caught me at it, I'd return his gaze calmly, with a sarcastic twist of my lips and a quirk of an eyebrow, even if my heart did thump a little louder and something hot pooled deep in my abdomen.
There was something so intoxicating about the way he moved, the way his presence filled a space. At rest, he was like a great cat; languid, arrogant, beautifully nonchalant. Seemingly unaware of his own magnetism. He was never completely still. Even if his tapping feet or long, tapering fingers were quiet, his eyes never stopped. They flicked everywhere, taking in every detail of his surroundings. There was always that sense of charged energy about him, like a coiled spring, that would send him shooting from his chair with some wild scheme or heist that we simply must try.
In motion, he had a natural, aristocratic poise. No one seeing him walk could be in doubt of his heritage, his breeding, even if he did despise his clan. Perhaps even this rebellion made him more inclined to show it. It was a form of defiance. Just because he was a cuckoo in the family nest didn't mean he wasn't going to flaunt what his Pureblood birth and wealth had graced him with. In full stride in the corridors, people stepped aside automatically for him, without even questioning their deference. He had a rooster's strut, made all the more impressive by his charming smile. He was so casually elegant. Even on that night in the Shrieking Shack when we uncovered Peter after all those years of lies. He was filthy and skeletal, dressed in rags and wild in the eyes. And yet despite all this, there was one shining moment when he flicked his matted hair back in an unconscious mannerism so familiar, that he could have been sixteen again, dressed in silk and satin.
He flirted with everybody, and I have to think he had to be aware of at least some of it. I observed once, with something like awe, as he turned that charm on McGonagall. We had been hauled into that office of hers yet again, after another of our 'just a lark' adventures went south. She was revving up to maximum anger and indignation mode when he leaned forward just a little, murmured something I didn't catch which I assume was some sort of apology, and let the smile slowly blossom on his face. The severe lines around her eyes and mouth softened, and a few minutes later we were all trooping out with nothing more than a detention and a stern reprimand, when I was certain we were looking at an order of suspension. Our rap sheet was rather substantial, after all. He didn't always win us a reprieve, but I think he was probably the reason we didn't all get expelled before we even sat our OWLs. Even after that nasty business with Snape.
His talent for manipulation was superb, and his sense for mayhem inspired. Though he would have attacked them had anyone suggested it, it was obvious that his skills confirmed his Slytherin ancestry. I think I willingly blinded myself to the cruelty in some of his pranks in the early years of our friendship. The things he did, that in retrospect were clearly bullying. The pleasure he took in other people's pain at times. The frequent justification that it was just a 'joke', and a 'laugh', even though it was distinctly unfunny for those at the brunt of it. James reined him in occasionally, but other times he was just as bad. And I was a follower, not a leader.
James was particularly blind when it came to Snape. He resented Lily's friendship with him, and I couldn't say that I blamed James for that. Snape was universally disliked by everyone else except some members of his own house. He was abrasive, cruel and underhanded. And he seemed to know just how much his friendship with Lily got under James's skin, and took the opportunity to rub it in when he could. Sirius, on the other hand, needed no more reason than the fact that Snape represented for him everything he loathed about his family and Slytherins in general. That James hated him too, and that Snape gave as good as he got only sweetened the animosity for Sirius. James and Sirius egged each other on, and each new revenge was plotted with relish. Things eventually came to a very unpleasant crescendo.
Of course, I didn't know about it at the time. I was primal, hairy and probably chewing one of my own limbs in frustration at being contained when every instinct was telling me to run, hunt, feed. That moon had been a bad one. I emerged not long before dawn; exhausted, aching and battered. I had evidently been throwing my own body at the walls in an effort to break free. Not the first time, nor the last. I slipped into the dormitory to find a wakeful and tense atmosphere. James was pale as milk, and Peter showed signs of recent tears. Sirius was nowhere to be seen.
My stomach lurched with a cold, sick feeling. My first thoughts were of illness, injury, some calamity... then James began to speak. Something began a slow burn inside of me, which quickly became incandescent. A short while later I came back to myself and James was holding me firmly, speaking to me softly, the cadence of his voice rising and falling. His lip was bleeding, and his glasses bent and misshapen. From the sharp throb in my fist I knew, disconnectedly, that I had been the one to hit him, probably more than once, if the swelling blush on one cheekbone was any indication. Fresh blood in my own mouth made me wonder if he'd hit me back, until I realised that I was biting my cheek, grinding it between my teeth. I was sobbing; gasping great gulps of air in hiccupping spasms. Completely wrung out from the Change, from the betrayal, I lay in James's arms and moaned. I mourned.
When he returned after his suspension, I wouldn't speak to him or look at him for weeks. He pleaded, he cajoled, he joked, he got angry, he tried to placate me. I could tell that he was genuine, but at the same time that he had no comprehension of what he had done. I was silent. He fumed about me "punishing him". Peter jumped at loud noises. James tried to be friends with both of us, and was failing, his eyes becoming shadowed. James had also been quieter since the incident, his usual happy-go-lucky attitude subdued.
In the end, there was no big scene, no great reconciliation. He sat down opposite me one day in the library and said nothing, just watched me with his dark, liquid eyes. Just waited. I let him wait.
"I don't forgive you for what you did," I said at length, quietly, turning another page. He looked down at his hands, interlacing them more tightly. I continued unmercifully, "I could have killed him. Or infected him. You have no idea what that feels like to me. You can't possibly. So don't say you do, and don't tell me it was just a joke. I would have thought that seeing what I go through for years, you might have worked out that it's not something I'd inflict on my worst enemy, let alone a little toe rag like Snape." I paused and swallowed, lowering my book. "It may not have been personal to you, but it was personal to me, and I had no choice in it." He looked up, and I let him see the depths of the pain in my eyes. He fidgeted, deeply uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. It was a real apology, of course, but I steeled myself.
"I know. But I still won't forgive you. If you can deal with that, then we can be friends. If you can't, I don't need you." Something inside me screamed at my own words; and shrivelled and died in the long silence that stretched out between us.
"Okay," he said eventually, so quietly I could hardly hear him. I nodded once, and picked up my book.
It took a long time for the ease to come back into our friendship, and even then, something had changed. I kept catching him watching me; in class, in the dorm, in the Common Room while I was studying in front of the fire. It was like he was memorising me, all the details, as carefully as he mapped his surroundings. It was unnerving, and slightly exhilarating. To look up at an odd moment and to catch his deep, intense gaze studying me, savouring my form, would bring a rush of blood to my head at times that made my ears ring. I tried not to dwell on it. After all, he was a terrible flirt and just about every girl in the school except the brilliantly stubborn and vivacious Lily Evans was head over heels for him. I think the only reason Sirius didn't pursue Lily out of sheer frustration at not winning her automatically, was out of respect for the torch James had carried for her since the First Year.
As always, he dated; casually, habitually. And somehow seemed to stay on good terms with his "exes". At least, good enough terms for them to giggle when he smiled at them across the table in the Great Hall. He was a bad boy, a clown, a rebel. He was handsome and, completely unintentionally, an incredibly sexual being. He seemed to ooze it from his very skin. He got the furthest with a girl much sooner than any of the rest of us did. "Getting with" Sirius Black seemed to be on the to-do list of every girl at school old enough to wear a bra. And of course, being the seventies, not all the girls were even wearing bras to begin with - a trend started by some of the Muggleborn girls with a casual interest in feminism. They seemed to fall over themselves to neck with him behind the Quidditch sheds, remove their blouse in a deserted classroom, give him a hurried hand job in a broom cupboard, or rendezvous with him late at night in the Common Room for things he related back to us in explicit detail in the early hours of the morning. These stories always made me twitchy and incredibly horny. Though I wasn't alone in this, if the muffled noises around me were any indication, when the four of us decided it was time for "sleep".
It seemed terribly infantile to develop a crush on him. I found myself wakeful at nights. I watched his form, silhouetted against the window, his face young and angelic in sleep. An exquisite, unbearable pulse beat within me then that I could only satisfy in silent, frantic self-pleasure. I drew the line, though. I made a firm commitment with myself that the day I giggled coyly at him when he looked at me was the day I would take a swan dive off the Astronomy Tower.
I kept my feelings and thoughts tightly under wraps, as much as I could. It was harder the closer it was to the full moon. Sitting in a classroom, even Potions with its distracting fug of fumes and vapours, I could hear his breathing and the steady throbbing of his heart nearby. When he came into the dorm after one of his "assignations", or in the dark when all the others were asleep and he was touching himself, I could smell the heady musk of sex radiating from him like a wave of heat. And if he forgot to cast a privacy charm, I could hear every shuddering breath, every gasp, every whimper, as though he was lying right next to me, close enough to touch.
I started having icy showers. Even then, sometimes the shock of the water couldn't relieve the ache. Freezing cold showers, twice a day. Early in the morning, and late at night, after most people had gone to bed and I could lock the door and jerk off desperately in private, even as the water raised goose bumps on my skin. I had to be going mad.
Then one night, not long before my next confinement, I opened the bathroom door, towel and toothbrush in hand, to realise that it wasn't empty. Someone was in the showers already, water running and steam misting the air. The cubicle door was open, and I could see the naked figure standing under the flow, one hand braced against the wall, the other slowly stroking himself. The door behind me swung shut again with an audible click.
The moment seemed to be passing in slow motion, like a horrible accident. The click of the door. Sirius slowly turning, still holding himself, to see me, standing there, holding my towel and toothbrush, with a blatantly obvious erection, watching him masturbating. I was aware that my mouth had dropped open. I tried to tell my brain to shut it, but the connection between thought and action seemed to be broken. My eyes met his, the black depths unreadable, and I flushed with heat; embarrassment and arousal forming a potent cocktail. I couldn't seem to break his gaze; it held me, as though I were in a Body Bind. He seemed to be studying me again, and the moment dragged out. Then slowly, almost lazily, he stroked the length of himself, from root to tip, twice, his eyes never leaving mine.
My knees became watery and I heard myself moan. My pulse was so loud in my ears I couldn't think, and the smell of sex from him was so strong I could taste it on my tongue with every breath. His eyes darkened, and I waited for him to shout at me and tell me to get out. It didn't happen. Instead, he swiftly picked up his wand and pointed it at the door, quietly incanting a locking charm and a privacy charm, dropping it back onto his pile of clothes when he was done. Then he beckoned to me, murmuring, "Come here."
It seemed to take an age for my clumsy feet to move, but they did. I was suddenly standing right there, in front of him, watching as he took my towel and toothbrush and threw them to one side.
"You've been watching me." It wasn't a question.
I swallowed, my mouth drier than parchment. "Yes," I agreed, since there was obviously no way of denying it, given the current situation below my belt. The insanity of the scene must have made me somehow bold, because I heard myself adding, "You've been watching me, too."
A small smile quirked his lips and he inclined his head just a fraction in agreement. He seemed calm, but I could hear his heart thudding as fast as my own, smell the fear mixed with the arousal in his scent. Somehow that was headier than the fact that he was there, naked, in front of me with his own erect cock inches from my own. And so I kissed him.
The first contact was gentle, but it quickly turned into a kind of devouring, his lips mashed against my own, hungrily kissing me back. I felt him hastily fumbling with my clothes, as I twined my fingers in his wet hair, stroking the nape of his neck. We wrestled awkwardly with my shirt, determinedly trying not to break the kiss, as though it was the oxygen we needed to breathe. When it was off, and his fingers trailed over my chest brushing my nipples, I lost control altogether, pushing him almost violently against the cubicle wall, getting soaked to the skin as I stepped under the flow of water. Our bodies pressed against each other below the waist, and I could hear him groan in my ear as I let out my own cry. The intensity of the contact was unbearable, like balancing on a knife edge. I couldn't stop myself from grinding against him again, to hear the gasp of breath, the whispered oath.
Closing my mouth over his, I let one hand trail down slowly; from his shoulders, to his chest, to his stomach. He was toned from his infrequent Quidditch practice. He hadn't played a game in months, thanks to his misbehaviour and frequent detentions, but he stayed in shape by getting up in the air with James whenever he could. I watched that body every day, as he dressed in the morning, and undressed at night. It was lean and taut, and he easily pinned James with his lighter build down when they tussled, though James tended to win sometimes out of pure cunning. Sirius was ticklish, after all; a terrible Achilles' heel when battling an unscrupulous opponent. My frame was lighter still, but I had the added strength my lycanthropy gave me. Right now, I probably could have wrestled both of them at once and won.
My hand slid down over his hip, resting there for a few moments, before snaking around to cup his arse. I delighted in the sudden intake of breath, the renewed vigour in his kiss. The confused look in his eyes when I pulled back. The way they rolled up and his eyelids fluttered when my wandering hand closed firmly around him, giving a tiny squeeze. When I began to move it, gently, slowly up and down, at the same lazy pace he'd practiced on himself earlier, he actually whimpered. His hot mouth closed on mine again, and then he was fumbling with my pants. The sodden fabric was stubborn, and I had to help him to free myself from them. Finally, I was just as naked as he.
My eyes met his, and they burned me. Feeling reckless, I took a step back, held his gaze, reached down and grasped myself, giving my cock a casual stroke. It was his turn to push me back against a wall, and he was holding me, I was holding him, and we were urgently thrusting into each other's fists. The swell carried me up and away far too soon. I could hear my gasps and moans increasing in intensity and pitch, in chorus with his own. He was leaning forward, resting his chin on my shoulder, his lips moving in prayers or curses; I couldn't tell which. Occasionally he kissed the soft skin of my neck, and when he came; his body crushed me hard against the wall, bringing me to a climax with a shout. We stood like that for a few moments, maybe whole minutes; panting, trembling. Our hands lazily stroking, wandering up and down each other's bodies. Then he pulled me forward into the spray, kissing me deeply and languidly as the water washed away the evidence of our brief encounter.
He left without a word, just another intense look, and one of his slow-blossoming smiles that left me almost as hard as I had been before we started. Somehow, jerking off didn't quite cut it after that.
To all outward appearances, nothing had changed. He was still the ladies' man, troublemaker, Quidditch player and James Potter's partner in crime. I was still their swotty friend, Prefect, secret werewolf. But under the surface, everything was different. I kept up my habit of late night-time showers. Occasionally, he would be there, waiting, when I arrived. Sometimes, he would come in later.
The daredevil came out in him when I admitted after a while I'd been watching him masturbate in the dorms for months. After that, he made somewhat of a performance of it. Sheets flung back, he'd take off his pyjamas and caress himself all over, flexing, arching his body, biting his lip and gasping. I got my own back on the little tease, the night I climbed into his bed, ducked under the blankets and licked his balls for half an hour, all the while forcing him to remain silent lest he wake our unconscious audience of two.
I think James knew something was up. Occasionally I'd catch him watching Sirius or myself with an odd expression, which vanished as soon as he saw me looking at him. Peter never guessed, of that I was sure. He was always oblivious to anything and everyone around except James.
Sirius still "dated", regaling the dorm with his encounters. Occasionally, a story would sound very familiar. In the middle of his tale of a wanton Ravenclaw going down on him by the edge of the lake in daylight, only yards away from a cluster of other students, I caught his eye and saw the silent laugh in the twinkle there. Though it could have been a real girl (he had by no means restricted his activities on that front) the knowing smile that lurked at the corners of his mouth when he glanced in my direction confirmed my suspicions. That night he gave me a stunning blowjob in the Common Room that made me leave fingertip bruises scattered across his shoulders like petals. It was so late that the house elves had been and gone and the fire burned so low it was just a cluster of orange, glowing embers.
After, we just stayed there for a while, in silence. He stretched out, full length across the couch, with his head in my lap looking up into my face as I played with his thick, wavy hair. I stroked the features of his face; cheeks, eyebrows, nose. As my fingertips brushed his lips so softly - the same fingertips that had bruised his skin cruelly half an hour before - he kissed them. "You love me," he whispered. Like his statement in the bathroom, this wasn't a question.
"Yes," I breathed, my hand cupping his cheek. His eyes met mine, bewildered, wondering.
He didn't say he loved me back. I didn't expect him to.
)O( 1. Existence ->
Chapter: Prologue of something long.
Author: iamshadow
Ship: Remus/Sirius (Sirius/random multitude of Hogwarts females alluded to)
Word Count This Chapter: 3,727
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angst. Boysex. WIP.
Summary: Remus watches Sirius who watches Remus.
A/N: This is the first part of a large Work in Progress. Please don't let the fact that it's incomplete put you off. I am a comment and concrit whore, and your feedback will be the thing that spurs me on to finish this beast.
Though this part is Marauder era, the majority of this fic will parallel PoA (though there will be flashbacks). That means I am INSANE enough to have started a project that must believably dovetail neatly with canon. (Don't ring the asylum, please.) Because I must to make it plausible, when necessary I will in future be using dialogue from the book worked in. When I do, it will be disclaimered and credited to the book in question and JKR in this Author's Note section.
Beta by kath_ballantyne and prydonia.
Chapter List HERE
I used to watch him. It became something of a habit, an addiction. I was never like Peter was when he watched James - fawning, adoring, subservient. I was covert. I'd read my book, idly turning a page now and then, and glance over the edge. If he caught me at it, I'd return his gaze calmly, with a sarcastic twist of my lips and a quirk of an eyebrow, even if my heart did thump a little louder and something hot pooled deep in my abdomen.
There was something so intoxicating about the way he moved, the way his presence filled a space. At rest, he was like a great cat; languid, arrogant, beautifully nonchalant. Seemingly unaware of his own magnetism. He was never completely still. Even if his tapping feet or long, tapering fingers were quiet, his eyes never stopped. They flicked everywhere, taking in every detail of his surroundings. There was always that sense of charged energy about him, like a coiled spring, that would send him shooting from his chair with some wild scheme or heist that we simply must try.
In motion, he had a natural, aristocratic poise. No one seeing him walk could be in doubt of his heritage, his breeding, even if he did despise his clan. Perhaps even this rebellion made him more inclined to show it. It was a form of defiance. Just because he was a cuckoo in the family nest didn't mean he wasn't going to flaunt what his Pureblood birth and wealth had graced him with. In full stride in the corridors, people stepped aside automatically for him, without even questioning their deference. He had a rooster's strut, made all the more impressive by his charming smile. He was so casually elegant. Even on that night in the Shrieking Shack when we uncovered Peter after all those years of lies. He was filthy and skeletal, dressed in rags and wild in the eyes. And yet despite all this, there was one shining moment when he flicked his matted hair back in an unconscious mannerism so familiar, that he could have been sixteen again, dressed in silk and satin.
He flirted with everybody, and I have to think he had to be aware of at least some of it. I observed once, with something like awe, as he turned that charm on McGonagall. We had been hauled into that office of hers yet again, after another of our 'just a lark' adventures went south. She was revving up to maximum anger and indignation mode when he leaned forward just a little, murmured something I didn't catch which I assume was some sort of apology, and let the smile slowly blossom on his face. The severe lines around her eyes and mouth softened, and a few minutes later we were all trooping out with nothing more than a detention and a stern reprimand, when I was certain we were looking at an order of suspension. Our rap sheet was rather substantial, after all. He didn't always win us a reprieve, but I think he was probably the reason we didn't all get expelled before we even sat our OWLs. Even after that nasty business with Snape.
His talent for manipulation was superb, and his sense for mayhem inspired. Though he would have attacked them had anyone suggested it, it was obvious that his skills confirmed his Slytherin ancestry. I think I willingly blinded myself to the cruelty in some of his pranks in the early years of our friendship. The things he did, that in retrospect were clearly bullying. The pleasure he took in other people's pain at times. The frequent justification that it was just a 'joke', and a 'laugh', even though it was distinctly unfunny for those at the brunt of it. James reined him in occasionally, but other times he was just as bad. And I was a follower, not a leader.
James was particularly blind when it came to Snape. He resented Lily's friendship with him, and I couldn't say that I blamed James for that. Snape was universally disliked by everyone else except some members of his own house. He was abrasive, cruel and underhanded. And he seemed to know just how much his friendship with Lily got under James's skin, and took the opportunity to rub it in when he could. Sirius, on the other hand, needed no more reason than the fact that Snape represented for him everything he loathed about his family and Slytherins in general. That James hated him too, and that Snape gave as good as he got only sweetened the animosity for Sirius. James and Sirius egged each other on, and each new revenge was plotted with relish. Things eventually came to a very unpleasant crescendo.
Of course, I didn't know about it at the time. I was primal, hairy and probably chewing one of my own limbs in frustration at being contained when every instinct was telling me to run, hunt, feed. That moon had been a bad one. I emerged not long before dawn; exhausted, aching and battered. I had evidently been throwing my own body at the walls in an effort to break free. Not the first time, nor the last. I slipped into the dormitory to find a wakeful and tense atmosphere. James was pale as milk, and Peter showed signs of recent tears. Sirius was nowhere to be seen.
My stomach lurched with a cold, sick feeling. My first thoughts were of illness, injury, some calamity... then James began to speak. Something began a slow burn inside of me, which quickly became incandescent. A short while later I came back to myself and James was holding me firmly, speaking to me softly, the cadence of his voice rising and falling. His lip was bleeding, and his glasses bent and misshapen. From the sharp throb in my fist I knew, disconnectedly, that I had been the one to hit him, probably more than once, if the swelling blush on one cheekbone was any indication. Fresh blood in my own mouth made me wonder if he'd hit me back, until I realised that I was biting my cheek, grinding it between my teeth. I was sobbing; gasping great gulps of air in hiccupping spasms. Completely wrung out from the Change, from the betrayal, I lay in James's arms and moaned. I mourned.
When he returned after his suspension, I wouldn't speak to him or look at him for weeks. He pleaded, he cajoled, he joked, he got angry, he tried to placate me. I could tell that he was genuine, but at the same time that he had no comprehension of what he had done. I was silent. He fumed about me "punishing him". Peter jumped at loud noises. James tried to be friends with both of us, and was failing, his eyes becoming shadowed. James had also been quieter since the incident, his usual happy-go-lucky attitude subdued.
In the end, there was no big scene, no great reconciliation. He sat down opposite me one day in the library and said nothing, just watched me with his dark, liquid eyes. Just waited. I let him wait.
"I don't forgive you for what you did," I said at length, quietly, turning another page. He looked down at his hands, interlacing them more tightly. I continued unmercifully, "I could have killed him. Or infected him. You have no idea what that feels like to me. You can't possibly. So don't say you do, and don't tell me it was just a joke. I would have thought that seeing what I go through for years, you might have worked out that it's not something I'd inflict on my worst enemy, let alone a little toe rag like Snape." I paused and swallowed, lowering my book. "It may not have been personal to you, but it was personal to me, and I had no choice in it." He looked up, and I let him see the depths of the pain in my eyes. He fidgeted, deeply uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. It was a real apology, of course, but I steeled myself.
"I know. But I still won't forgive you. If you can deal with that, then we can be friends. If you can't, I don't need you." Something inside me screamed at my own words; and shrivelled and died in the long silence that stretched out between us.
"Okay," he said eventually, so quietly I could hardly hear him. I nodded once, and picked up my book.
It took a long time for the ease to come back into our friendship, and even then, something had changed. I kept catching him watching me; in class, in the dorm, in the Common Room while I was studying in front of the fire. It was like he was memorising me, all the details, as carefully as he mapped his surroundings. It was unnerving, and slightly exhilarating. To look up at an odd moment and to catch his deep, intense gaze studying me, savouring my form, would bring a rush of blood to my head at times that made my ears ring. I tried not to dwell on it. After all, he was a terrible flirt and just about every girl in the school except the brilliantly stubborn and vivacious Lily Evans was head over heels for him. I think the only reason Sirius didn't pursue Lily out of sheer frustration at not winning her automatically, was out of respect for the torch James had carried for her since the First Year.
As always, he dated; casually, habitually. And somehow seemed to stay on good terms with his "exes". At least, good enough terms for them to giggle when he smiled at them across the table in the Great Hall. He was a bad boy, a clown, a rebel. He was handsome and, completely unintentionally, an incredibly sexual being. He seemed to ooze it from his very skin. He got the furthest with a girl much sooner than any of the rest of us did. "Getting with" Sirius Black seemed to be on the to-do list of every girl at school old enough to wear a bra. And of course, being the seventies, not all the girls were even wearing bras to begin with - a trend started by some of the Muggleborn girls with a casual interest in feminism. They seemed to fall over themselves to neck with him behind the Quidditch sheds, remove their blouse in a deserted classroom, give him a hurried hand job in a broom cupboard, or rendezvous with him late at night in the Common Room for things he related back to us in explicit detail in the early hours of the morning. These stories always made me twitchy and incredibly horny. Though I wasn't alone in this, if the muffled noises around me were any indication, when the four of us decided it was time for "sleep".
It seemed terribly infantile to develop a crush on him. I found myself wakeful at nights. I watched his form, silhouetted against the window, his face young and angelic in sleep. An exquisite, unbearable pulse beat within me then that I could only satisfy in silent, frantic self-pleasure. I drew the line, though. I made a firm commitment with myself that the day I giggled coyly at him when he looked at me was the day I would take a swan dive off the Astronomy Tower.
I kept my feelings and thoughts tightly under wraps, as much as I could. It was harder the closer it was to the full moon. Sitting in a classroom, even Potions with its distracting fug of fumes and vapours, I could hear his breathing and the steady throbbing of his heart nearby. When he came into the dorm after one of his "assignations", or in the dark when all the others were asleep and he was touching himself, I could smell the heady musk of sex radiating from him like a wave of heat. And if he forgot to cast a privacy charm, I could hear every shuddering breath, every gasp, every whimper, as though he was lying right next to me, close enough to touch.
I started having icy showers. Even then, sometimes the shock of the water couldn't relieve the ache. Freezing cold showers, twice a day. Early in the morning, and late at night, after most people had gone to bed and I could lock the door and jerk off desperately in private, even as the water raised goose bumps on my skin. I had to be going mad.
Then one night, not long before my next confinement, I opened the bathroom door, towel and toothbrush in hand, to realise that it wasn't empty. Someone was in the showers already, water running and steam misting the air. The cubicle door was open, and I could see the naked figure standing under the flow, one hand braced against the wall, the other slowly stroking himself. The door behind me swung shut again with an audible click.
The moment seemed to be passing in slow motion, like a horrible accident. The click of the door. Sirius slowly turning, still holding himself, to see me, standing there, holding my towel and toothbrush, with a blatantly obvious erection, watching him masturbating. I was aware that my mouth had dropped open. I tried to tell my brain to shut it, but the connection between thought and action seemed to be broken. My eyes met his, the black depths unreadable, and I flushed with heat; embarrassment and arousal forming a potent cocktail. I couldn't seem to break his gaze; it held me, as though I were in a Body Bind. He seemed to be studying me again, and the moment dragged out. Then slowly, almost lazily, he stroked the length of himself, from root to tip, twice, his eyes never leaving mine.
My knees became watery and I heard myself moan. My pulse was so loud in my ears I couldn't think, and the smell of sex from him was so strong I could taste it on my tongue with every breath. His eyes darkened, and I waited for him to shout at me and tell me to get out. It didn't happen. Instead, he swiftly picked up his wand and pointed it at the door, quietly incanting a locking charm and a privacy charm, dropping it back onto his pile of clothes when he was done. Then he beckoned to me, murmuring, "Come here."
It seemed to take an age for my clumsy feet to move, but they did. I was suddenly standing right there, in front of him, watching as he took my towel and toothbrush and threw them to one side.
"You've been watching me." It wasn't a question.
I swallowed, my mouth drier than parchment. "Yes," I agreed, since there was obviously no way of denying it, given the current situation below my belt. The insanity of the scene must have made me somehow bold, because I heard myself adding, "You've been watching me, too."
A small smile quirked his lips and he inclined his head just a fraction in agreement. He seemed calm, but I could hear his heart thudding as fast as my own, smell the fear mixed with the arousal in his scent. Somehow that was headier than the fact that he was there, naked, in front of me with his own erect cock inches from my own. And so I kissed him.
The first contact was gentle, but it quickly turned into a kind of devouring, his lips mashed against my own, hungrily kissing me back. I felt him hastily fumbling with my clothes, as I twined my fingers in his wet hair, stroking the nape of his neck. We wrestled awkwardly with my shirt, determinedly trying not to break the kiss, as though it was the oxygen we needed to breathe. When it was off, and his fingers trailed over my chest brushing my nipples, I lost control altogether, pushing him almost violently against the cubicle wall, getting soaked to the skin as I stepped under the flow of water. Our bodies pressed against each other below the waist, and I could hear him groan in my ear as I let out my own cry. The intensity of the contact was unbearable, like balancing on a knife edge. I couldn't stop myself from grinding against him again, to hear the gasp of breath, the whispered oath.
Closing my mouth over his, I let one hand trail down slowly; from his shoulders, to his chest, to his stomach. He was toned from his infrequent Quidditch practice. He hadn't played a game in months, thanks to his misbehaviour and frequent detentions, but he stayed in shape by getting up in the air with James whenever he could. I watched that body every day, as he dressed in the morning, and undressed at night. It was lean and taut, and he easily pinned James with his lighter build down when they tussled, though James tended to win sometimes out of pure cunning. Sirius was ticklish, after all; a terrible Achilles' heel when battling an unscrupulous opponent. My frame was lighter still, but I had the added strength my lycanthropy gave me. Right now, I probably could have wrestled both of them at once and won.
My hand slid down over his hip, resting there for a few moments, before snaking around to cup his arse. I delighted in the sudden intake of breath, the renewed vigour in his kiss. The confused look in his eyes when I pulled back. The way they rolled up and his eyelids fluttered when my wandering hand closed firmly around him, giving a tiny squeeze. When I began to move it, gently, slowly up and down, at the same lazy pace he'd practiced on himself earlier, he actually whimpered. His hot mouth closed on mine again, and then he was fumbling with my pants. The sodden fabric was stubborn, and I had to help him to free myself from them. Finally, I was just as naked as he.
My eyes met his, and they burned me. Feeling reckless, I took a step back, held his gaze, reached down and grasped myself, giving my cock a casual stroke. It was his turn to push me back against a wall, and he was holding me, I was holding him, and we were urgently thrusting into each other's fists. The swell carried me up and away far too soon. I could hear my gasps and moans increasing in intensity and pitch, in chorus with his own. He was leaning forward, resting his chin on my shoulder, his lips moving in prayers or curses; I couldn't tell which. Occasionally he kissed the soft skin of my neck, and when he came; his body crushed me hard against the wall, bringing me to a climax with a shout. We stood like that for a few moments, maybe whole minutes; panting, trembling. Our hands lazily stroking, wandering up and down each other's bodies. Then he pulled me forward into the spray, kissing me deeply and languidly as the water washed away the evidence of our brief encounter.
He left without a word, just another intense look, and one of his slow-blossoming smiles that left me almost as hard as I had been before we started. Somehow, jerking off didn't quite cut it after that.
To all outward appearances, nothing had changed. He was still the ladies' man, troublemaker, Quidditch player and James Potter's partner in crime. I was still their swotty friend, Prefect, secret werewolf. But under the surface, everything was different. I kept up my habit of late night-time showers. Occasionally, he would be there, waiting, when I arrived. Sometimes, he would come in later.
The daredevil came out in him when I admitted after a while I'd been watching him masturbate in the dorms for months. After that, he made somewhat of a performance of it. Sheets flung back, he'd take off his pyjamas and caress himself all over, flexing, arching his body, biting his lip and gasping. I got my own back on the little tease, the night I climbed into his bed, ducked under the blankets and licked his balls for half an hour, all the while forcing him to remain silent lest he wake our unconscious audience of two.
I think James knew something was up. Occasionally I'd catch him watching Sirius or myself with an odd expression, which vanished as soon as he saw me looking at him. Peter never guessed, of that I was sure. He was always oblivious to anything and everyone around except James.
Sirius still "dated", regaling the dorm with his encounters. Occasionally, a story would sound very familiar. In the middle of his tale of a wanton Ravenclaw going down on him by the edge of the lake in daylight, only yards away from a cluster of other students, I caught his eye and saw the silent laugh in the twinkle there. Though it could have been a real girl (he had by no means restricted his activities on that front) the knowing smile that lurked at the corners of his mouth when he glanced in my direction confirmed my suspicions. That night he gave me a stunning blowjob in the Common Room that made me leave fingertip bruises scattered across his shoulders like petals. It was so late that the house elves had been and gone and the fire burned so low it was just a cluster of orange, glowing embers.
After, we just stayed there for a while, in silence. He stretched out, full length across the couch, with his head in my lap looking up into my face as I played with his thick, wavy hair. I stroked the features of his face; cheeks, eyebrows, nose. As my fingertips brushed his lips so softly - the same fingertips that had bruised his skin cruelly half an hour before - he kissed them. "You love me," he whispered. Like his statement in the bathroom, this wasn't a question.
"Yes," I breathed, my hand cupping his cheek. His eyes met mine, bewildered, wondering.
He didn't say he loved me back. I didn't expect him to.
)O( 1. Existence ->