My Puppy is the Centrefold
The following ficlet is the fault of Madilayn, who issued the challenge, and the person who first asked how Sirius would react if Remus posed nude for a magazine (during the Azkaban years, we assume). I don't remember who you are, but this is your fault, too!
Title: My Puppy is the Centrefold
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sirius finds out Remus once posed for a magazine. (*ahem* This ficlet was going to go in an entirely different direction, originally. Then Remus went all liberated! on me, so now I think he is a closet exhibitionist. Which must be a contradiction of terms. O_o)
“Padfoot, stop looking at me like that.”
“I’m not even.”
“You are. I can /feel/ your eyes boring into the back of my head.”
“No, you can’t. Anyway, I wasn’t.”
“Sirius, I /know/ when I’m being glared at from behind.”
“Got rather used to it, did you? Taught you to strut, did they?”
“I meant as a professor. Stop being a jealous prat and /go to sleep./”
Silence, then. Grateful, Remus pulled the duvet more tightly about this shoulders and closed his eyes again.
But even after twelve years apart, he knew the difference between Sirius’ mollified silences and his stony ones. Grunting as he rolled over (he /was/ tired and he had work to do in the morning) he found Sirius curled up with his back to him, his thin shoulders hunched. Where the black hair fell away from his neck, Remus was able to see the little bumps of his spine, prominent under the pale skin. The image hooked him in the gut, brought on a rush of remorse, and before he had time to think about it, he was curling over Sirius, murmuring apologies and nonsense endearments.
“Stop it,” Sirius muttered, attempting without success to shrug him off. “M’not mad at /you/, you great pillock. I’m mad at myself.”
Remus raised himself just enough so he could look at down into Sirius’ face. “Why?”
“You shouldn’t have had to do that,” the rough voice informed him. “I should have left you with more. I wasn’t thinking.”
“About what?” Tenderly, Remus pushed the tangled hair back from his lover’s face. “About how I’d eat should anything happen to you? You never thought anything was going to happen to you. You were invincible in your own mind, and anyway, you didn’t trust me then. It’s all right. I know why you didn’t, so you can stop worrying about it. And anyway--I don’t think I’d have touched your money, then. Not a Knut of it.”
“Don’t start in about pride--”
“Why not?” Remus demanded wryly. “Because I wouldn’t touch your money, but I was willing to pose starkers for some bloody Muggle magazine?”
“Well…yes.”
“Padfoot. I look /good/ in those pictures. Idiot,” he laughed, when the other man started, “it was /about/ pride, don’t you see? I wouldn’t take your money, I wouldn’t take anyone’s. The posing--it was stupid. But at twenty-four…I guess I saw it as an act of rebellion. For a couple of years, after James and Lily…died, and you--for a couple of years after that I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror without shuddering. I saw a wasteland looking back at me. Every time. I hated myself. All I could think of was what I’d lost. Then--I don’t know exactly when things began to change. I suppose I just came to my senses. Or lost them. Or something. But I realised, lovely Padfoot, that I was still…myself, I guess. I was still the bloke who’d charmed the pants--quite literally--off Sirius Black. And even though I was trying my hardest to hate you at the time…I still managed to take some pride in that particular accomplishment. That’s what the pictures were about. And the money,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “it didn’t hurt. It let me buy a new set of robes and train ticket to Moldova, where there was a /real/ job waiting for me.”
Sirius continued to study him warily. “I still don’t like the idea of other blokes--of anyone--/looking/ at you like that. Leering at you. I don’t know. Having a wank with…” He shuddered, and again, despite his words, Remus felt a stab of remorse. “It’s not /right/,” Sirius muttered, looking away from him finally. “It’s not what I would’ve wanted for you. I can’t explain it, Moony. It’s not just jealousy. I’m not that stupid. I should’ve been there, telling you how beautiful you are. It should’ve been me.”
“Tell me now,” Remus murmured, touching his cheek.
“Moony…”
“Because I really need to hear it, now. Especially since you unearthed those bloody pictures. I need to hear from /you/, that I’m still…”
The word was lost to Sirius’ kiss, which caught him unawares and took him--completely. He kissed Sirius back, framing his dear, dear face between his hands, climbing on top of him and straddling his narrow thighs. Sirius’ hands were on his waist at once, drawing him down.
In the fumbling and playful pummelling that ensued, Remus found the magazine under Sirius’ pillow. He didn’t have to say a thing; he just lifted his eyebrows, and Sirius grinned ruefully down at him.
“They /are/ nice pictures…”
“So, when you talked about having a wank…”
“Oh, shut up, you bloody poofter. I was speaking theoretically. I have the real thing. And the real thing…” His hot blue gaze raked Remus’ bare body, from greying hair to delicately lined face, downward. “…is ravishing,” he finished honestly.
12/30/03
Title: My Puppy is the Centrefold
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sirius finds out Remus once posed for a magazine. (*ahem* This ficlet was going to go in an entirely different direction, originally. Then Remus went all liberated! on me, so now I think he is a closet exhibitionist. Which must be a contradiction of terms. O_o)
“Padfoot, stop looking at me like that.”
“I’m not even.”
“You are. I can /feel/ your eyes boring into the back of my head.”
“No, you can’t. Anyway, I wasn’t.”
“Sirius, I /know/ when I’m being glared at from behind.”
“Got rather used to it, did you? Taught you to strut, did they?”
“I meant as a professor. Stop being a jealous prat and /go to sleep./”
Silence, then. Grateful, Remus pulled the duvet more tightly about this shoulders and closed his eyes again.
But even after twelve years apart, he knew the difference between Sirius’ mollified silences and his stony ones. Grunting as he rolled over (he /was/ tired and he had work to do in the morning) he found Sirius curled up with his back to him, his thin shoulders hunched. Where the black hair fell away from his neck, Remus was able to see the little bumps of his spine, prominent under the pale skin. The image hooked him in the gut, brought on a rush of remorse, and before he had time to think about it, he was curling over Sirius, murmuring apologies and nonsense endearments.
“Stop it,” Sirius muttered, attempting without success to shrug him off. “M’not mad at /you/, you great pillock. I’m mad at myself.”
Remus raised himself just enough so he could look at down into Sirius’ face. “Why?”
“You shouldn’t have had to do that,” the rough voice informed him. “I should have left you with more. I wasn’t thinking.”
“About what?” Tenderly, Remus pushed the tangled hair back from his lover’s face. “About how I’d eat should anything happen to you? You never thought anything was going to happen to you. You were invincible in your own mind, and anyway, you didn’t trust me then. It’s all right. I know why you didn’t, so you can stop worrying about it. And anyway--I don’t think I’d have touched your money, then. Not a Knut of it.”
“Don’t start in about pride--”
“Why not?” Remus demanded wryly. “Because I wouldn’t touch your money, but I was willing to pose starkers for some bloody Muggle magazine?”
“Well…yes.”
“Padfoot. I look /good/ in those pictures. Idiot,” he laughed, when the other man started, “it was /about/ pride, don’t you see? I wouldn’t take your money, I wouldn’t take anyone’s. The posing--it was stupid. But at twenty-four…I guess I saw it as an act of rebellion. For a couple of years, after James and Lily…died, and you--for a couple of years after that I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror without shuddering. I saw a wasteland looking back at me. Every time. I hated myself. All I could think of was what I’d lost. Then--I don’t know exactly when things began to change. I suppose I just came to my senses. Or lost them. Or something. But I realised, lovely Padfoot, that I was still…myself, I guess. I was still the bloke who’d charmed the pants--quite literally--off Sirius Black. And even though I was trying my hardest to hate you at the time…I still managed to take some pride in that particular accomplishment. That’s what the pictures were about. And the money,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “it didn’t hurt. It let me buy a new set of robes and train ticket to Moldova, where there was a /real/ job waiting for me.”
Sirius continued to study him warily. “I still don’t like the idea of other blokes--of anyone--/looking/ at you like that. Leering at you. I don’t know. Having a wank with…” He shuddered, and again, despite his words, Remus felt a stab of remorse. “It’s not /right/,” Sirius muttered, looking away from him finally. “It’s not what I would’ve wanted for you. I can’t explain it, Moony. It’s not just jealousy. I’m not that stupid. I should’ve been there, telling you how beautiful you are. It should’ve been me.”
“Tell me now,” Remus murmured, touching his cheek.
“Moony…”
“Because I really need to hear it, now. Especially since you unearthed those bloody pictures. I need to hear from /you/, that I’m still…”
The word was lost to Sirius’ kiss, which caught him unawares and took him--completely. He kissed Sirius back, framing his dear, dear face between his hands, climbing on top of him and straddling his narrow thighs. Sirius’ hands were on his waist at once, drawing him down.
In the fumbling and playful pummelling that ensued, Remus found the magazine under Sirius’ pillow. He didn’t have to say a thing; he just lifted his eyebrows, and Sirius grinned ruefully down at him.
“They /are/ nice pictures…”
“So, when you talked about having a wank…”
“Oh, shut up, you bloody poofter. I was speaking theoretically. I have the real thing. And the real thing…” His hot blue gaze raked Remus’ bare body, from greying hair to delicately lined face, downward. “…is ravishing,” he finished honestly.
12/30/03