Fic: Untitled, Remus/Sirius, NC17
Er, fic! It's been a while.
Title: Untitled
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: NC17-y
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Word count: 4,700-ish
Summary: Sirius isn't coping well with Remus' new-found independence.
Notes: For wildestranger, who asked for Remus seducing Sirius. I did try to include many of her kinks, but didn't manage all of them, because I'm not some sort of pervert. Many thanks to liadlaith and, ahem, wildestranger for reading this through, and much love to minnow_53 for the good hard beta-ing this sorely needed. I have shamelessly obeyed almost every beta point, heh. Still don't have a title, though. Soon to be crossposted.
It's not raining, but give it five minutes and it will be. Sirius, slouching casually against the wall of a respectable gentleman's outfitters, ignores the heavy sky. There's a soggy roll-up dangling from his lip, more for the look than any smoothness of taste, and a greasy parcel of bundled newspaper clutched to his chest.
A prim young lady on her way past aims a disapproving glare at his scruffy leather jacket, but Sirius knows now that these people aren't seeing through his Muggle disguise. Often, he's realised, they secretly rather like the look of him, and he lets his fringe slip forward and huffs out a plume of smoke as he winks at her. She turns away hastily, her heavily pinned and styled hair bobbing sharply, but she does blush.
Spitting the stub of his fag to the pavement as he goes and with a smile, Sirius spins smoothly around and marches towards the antiques shop next door.
The bell over the door tinkles in its gentle, patronising manner, and Sirius is immediately irritated, narrowing his eyes and clutching the package tighter in his arms. He hasn't been in here for a while, well, not since Remus got sick of being pestered at work and rather cockily sent Sirius to ask Mr West if he could have a 'Long Stand', which to Sirius had sounded like some faffy Muggle contraption - some gadget that would help Remus as he delicately polished antique silver, so it had taken him rather too long waiting out back in the broom cupboard to work out the joke.
In no hurry today, Sirius stalks across the shop floor, liking the way his shoes click authoritatively on the wooden boards. He trails his fingers along the spines of the ageing books on the nearest shelf as he goes past, then lifts his hand away and idly rubs the dust against his thumb.
"…And of course there're the ones in the window, though those are, naturally, inferior to the ones I keep in the back-" West sweeps in, pausing in his dramatic sales patter only briefly to nod at Sirius, that usual half-mild half-arch smile on his face as he flicks his thick blond hair out of his eyes. For a second, Sirius' stomach plummets further, but West tilts his head towards the room usually referred to as 'The Office' - a box-room generally used for doing the accounts - and Sirius hurries past, leaving West to guide his pompous-looking clients to one of his more recently acquired and very generously overpriced items.
"Moon-ay!" Sirius yells well in advance, hopefully loud enough to irritate West and his customers, though Remus still hasn’t looked up from his paperwork even when Sirius has kicked the door heavily shut behind himself.
"Nng-uhm," Remus mumbles through the two spare pens that for some reason he's holding in his mouth like a dog with two sticks. He continues writing and doesn't look up, his too-long hair almost completely covering his eyes. Sirius notices the ink stains streaked and blotted all over Remus' shirt and tie and estimates that he's been at the bookkeeping all morning.
"Lupin, I brought you lunch," Sirius points out flatly.
The pens are spat out onto the desk. "I've got my own lunch." Sirius rests the fish-and-chip parcel on the desk, sitting down and waiting until Remus' nostrils flare a little and his eyes finally swivel up. "You greased on my work," Remus says, but he's clearly pleased.
Sirius slings his legs up onto the side of the desk. "Very important, I take it," he says with a nod to the door, flicking the wrapping open and tearing at a piece of fish with a wooden fork, "those two out there?"
"Uhm," Remus says, half-groaning with pleasure, then gasping as he picks at the hot chips and they burn his fingers and mouth. "You charmed these warm?"
Sirius smothers a grin. "So he's keeping you hidden in the back?"
Remus shrugs, too interested in his food, and Sirius reluctantly concedes that Lily must have been right; however well Remus is doing with his job, however many new clients he pulls in with his specialist knowledge of certain types of antique, he's still not feeding himself properly. Sirius frowns and tries to remember how long Remus has had actual visible cheekbones for, and watches uneasily the eager way Remus pulls off chunks of white cod and crispy batter, swallowing quickly then carefully licking salt and vinegar and grease from the tips of his fingers.
Remus looks up, but his eyes flicker guiltily away again as he resumes his licking.
Remus has changed since he got this job, and it worries Sirius, though he can't get anyone else to worry with him. He hopes it isn't Mr West that Remus is attempting to emulate with his new-found confidence, the perky sway to his walk and sudden ease at starting arguments, though fair enough he's happier in himself now he's finally got steady respectable employment. There's something dodgy, a hint of sleaze and sliminess, about the man West, Sirius thinks. Surely West'd prefer a vacuous young shop-girl to Remus. Sirius almost wants to warn his friend to watch out, and the only reason he doesn't is that he knows he'd get laughed at.
No-one else thinks West is suspicious. Lily says he's a lovely, intelligent and polite man, and Peter and James both agree that he's pretty all right for an old guy, though he's unlikely even to be thirty-five yet. And it's truly wonderful that the man is sympathetic about Remus having to visits to his poor bed-ridden mother for a few days each month.
"So you coming for a drink tonight then?" Sirius asks eventually, still feeling uneasy somehow as Remus greedily gobbles up chips with a naughty glint in his eyes.
"Yeah, fine," Remus mumbles with a full mouth, "why not?"
"Great." Sirius is still edgy and jangly, fidgeting in his seat. "You finish that off, yeah?" He stands up and pushes the chip paper nearer Remus.
Remus shrugs, looking up at him, puzzled. "'Kay."
Some sort of warning is needed, and Sirius rests a hand to the desk, leaning in and lowering his voice. "He doesn't make you - you know, cook the books or anything, does he?"
Laughing, Remus tilts back in his chair, sucking rather disturbingly on a chip. "Is this job really that too good to be true?"
"I didn't mean to-" Sirius begins stiffly, standing up straight again and making to leave.
Remus points a chip at him. "It really is no bed of roses," he insists. "The old ladies glare at my haircut like they're desperate for a pair of scissors. That Colonel Smith - the one who collects medals - regularly shouts at me for no reason, like I'm a disobedient pet dog of his or something. And Mrs Abbotsfield - who's nearing seventy, by the way - pinches my arse when there's nobody about, and the accounts are boring as hell." Remus sighs, before finally eating the chip he's been gesturing with. "You don't have to keep coming in and checking up on me."
"Just brought you lunch," Sirius claims huffily, trying to lean back against the door and almost missing it.
"Yeah," Remus says, sloppily licking his fingers clean again. "See you in the pub."
Sirius tears his eyes from Remus' messy eating habits. "Yeah. Seven-thirty?"
"Well I won't be late," Remus says, smiling.
#
Three pints and James is whispering in Lily's ear, and she isn't trying hard enough to stop him, so Sirius is stuck listening to Remus and Peter talk about sex. As far as Sirius is aware, Remus has never even had sex, unless he's having wild clandestine affairs with rich, titled antiques smugglers, and by the sounds of it Peter hasn't quite managed yet either. And god knows why Peter still even has a girlfriend when the only positive side of his disastrous sexual exploits is that they have Remus in fits of laughter.
And there's a girl watching them. No, she's definitely watching Sirius, but he can’t be bothered. Somehow he's even more terminally bored with life now he's finished school.
"…And what about you, Moony?" Peter is soon saying. "Meet many women at work?"
"That Mrs Abbotsfield is a bit of all right, eh?" Sirius butts in, not quite finding the right tone of voice.
Remus turns from his pint in surprise, but takes up the joke, and begins to describe to Peter a ridiculously embellished account of Mrs Abbotsfield's outrageous sexual overtures towards him; they way she stands too close and covertly gropes him, and several hilarious pet names she allegedly calls him by.
Remus licks his lip as he reaches a particularly juicy part - seventy year-old Mrs Abbotsfield pressing him against the filing cabinet in the office, her blood-red fingernails seductively slicing into his upper arms - and Sirius is suddenly achingly tired of it all. Copying Remus' action, he licks his own lips in the direction of the brown-eyed girl two tables over, then stands to join her.
#
"Get a bloody job!" Remus yells at him when he wanders into West Antiques (est. 1924, antiques bought and sold) later in the week.
"Hello to you too," Sirius grumbles, eyeing Remus' suit jacket suspiciously. "He's flounced off to some auction, I take it, and left you to run everything."
Remus tugs Sirius closer and lowers his voice, probably so as not to put off the expensive-looking young couple who are bickering over an ugly varnished coffee-table at the far end of the shop. "Auctions are part of the job, seeing that we need something to sell, yes? And I'm perfectly capable." He shoves Sirius away again, hand brushing down over Sirius' shirt-front.
"Mmm," Sirius says sceptically, as Remus nervously straightens his cuffs.
"Is this for sale?" the irritatingly posh young lady calls out as she points into the corner, while the man continues to scrutinise the table. Sirius wonders why two people so blatantly rich are being so picky. In his family one of the main things to be proud of was that you didn't have to worry about money.
"No, that's my bike," Remus says tiredly, probably because there's currently a flashy sports car parked outside. Sirius sniggers because he's seen Remus setting off for work on the bicycle-thing, and he actually has little horseshoe-shaped clips that stop his trousers getting caught in the wheels.
"Wondered why you were all dressed up," Sirius says.
"I'm not," Remus hisses, "I'm just smart." It isn't Sirius' idea of smart.
"Well at least the jacket hides how bloody bony you're getting."
"I've always been this bony!" Remus protests. It's possibly true. For some reason, Sirius slips his hand under just to check, pinching at Remus' side, feeling stretched skin and a bit of sharp hipbone through a thin shirt, which causes Remus to squeal.
The customers look up, the young man frowning at them. The girl's eyes linger, so Sirius winks and she blushes as she turns back to the mildly-damaged part of the table-leg that her boyfriend is pointing out.
Remus drags Sirius out of the shop by the hair, fist getting an easy grip of where it's too long and straggly at the back, but somehow it feels worth it.
#
The following Monday morning, Sirius finds himself ambling down Blackett Street yet again, cobblestones lumpy through his heavy boots. Monday mornings are dull, and Sirius reckons Remus'll be glad of the distraction of his company. It's only Saturdays when the shop is busy, crammed with antiques hunters and old dears pottering about and shoving their pointy elbows into Sirius' sides.
It's like Sirius has some sort of internal alarm system, because today he knows, feels, that he hasn't seen Remus for nearly three days, and it's too long. He jabs the shop door open hurriedly and deadens the bell with his hand as soon as he can reach it. Yeah, talk about quiet; there's no-one on the shop floor at all, staff or customers, so he strides confidently through towards the office-room.
"Oh, I'll go," Sirius hears Remus say, voice thick with a wide yawn and stretch that Sirius can almost picture, and the door opens, shoving them suddenly face to face.
"Oh," Remus repeats, one hand still on the doorknob and the other reaching up and pressed to the collar of his shirt. "Sirius." He's all flushed and flustered, and Sirius wonders if he's in trouble over something. Remus steps neatly around Sirius, calling behind him "I'll take my lunch now, yes?"
Sirius doesn't hear West's response, and Remus doesn't wait for it, pulling Sirius through the shop with fingers clinging too tight to his elbow.
"It's ten-past eleven," Sirius points out, bewilderedly watching the cold morning sunshine on Remus' tangled hair.
"Is it?" Remus stops abruptly, and Sirius has to catch him by the shoulders to stop them both crashing to the pavement.
"Yes. Remus - what?"
"You can buy me coffee."
"What's going on?"
Remus turns suddenly, pulling Sirius into the grubby caff five doors down from West's Antiques. With heavy limbs, Remus slumps into a chair in front of the nearest chipped formica table, eyes on his fingernails.
Sirius is wildly confused. "Two coffees," he calls over to the counter because he has nothing better to say as he takes his own seat. "White, no sugar. And do you have doughnuts?"
The woman in the apron glares. "No. Got sticky buns."
"Two of those then," Sirius snaps. When he turns back, Remus is hiding his face with one hand, shoulders shaking, making snuffling half-crying noises. "Are you laughing?" Sirius asks him, astonished.
Remus snorts then sighs, chest heaving with his heavy breaths, still trembling. "Sorry, I'm sorry. Just-" He sighs and slides the hand down, fingers stretching at the skin of his cheek before propping his chin up with the heel of his palm. "No-one ever comes in on Monday mornings."
Sirius remembers Remus' fingers poised on his shirt-buttons. "That's why I did. Thought you wouldn't mind."
"Sirius," Remus says, carefully, like he's explaining something grown-up to a child, and that's when it really hits Sirius. Remus spreads his hands in a helpless sort of gesture, then buries his face in them again. The waitress plonks two mugs of white coffee in front of them, along with a plate containing two iced buns.
"Don't worry," Sirius says, though his tone isn't comforting, "I get it. Not the books he makes you fiddle with, eh?"
Remus lifts his palms away, crossing his fingers together until his knuckles go white. "He doesn't make me do anything."
Sirius leans in, a bite of frustrated anger spurring his words on. "He's twice your age, nearly. He's some pervy old… bastard who knows how badly you need a job. It's-"
"It isn't-"
"I mean, what were you even doing-" Sirius closes his eyes, and then opens them quickly because on the inside of his eyelids there's an image of Remus, spread back on the desk with his shirt half undone, all flushed like he still is now. "It's disgusting. I don't want to know."
"Well thank you." Remus scoops some still-tacky icing from his bun and sucks it off his finger. It may be unconscious, but it's probably Remus' way of telling Sirius exactly what it is he doesn't want to know, and now he's picturing Remus on his knees.
"Stop it," Sirius tells him, panicking.
Remus glances at his finger, as if unsure whether Sirius is referring to West or the icing, before making his decision. "No, I- I really don't want to. Drink your coffee."
#
Sirius avoids Remus as long as possible by avoiding West's Antiques for the rest of the week. But Friday nights in the pub are a ritual that cannot be stopped, come hell or high water, and, as usual, they're slumped in a dark booth in the back corner of the Dog and Handgun by 8pm.
Maybe Remus has been a little quieter tonight, but that may just be because Peter's girlfriend is with them for once. Sirius can't even be bothered to tease her, dark-eyed mousy thing that she is.
"So how's the job?" James asks Remus as the bell rings for last orders, and Sirius is nearly sick, even though he knew it was coming eventually.
"Good, actually," Remus responds, with utter calm, and then he launches into a story about West and West's brother and some auction house, which Sirius tunes out.
Not wanting to think about West right now, Sirius scans the room. There's no girl in particular that catches his eye, and he's feeling too fidgety and irritable for flirting anyway, what with Remus' eager voice grating on his nerves.
"So've you met West's brother then?" Sirius asks Remus sharply. Everyone stares at him, puzzled, possibly because they've long changed the subject when Sirius wasn't paying attention.
Remus' eyes flare with anger. "Yes," he replies shortly. Sirius raises an eyebrow. "Outside," Remus adds, standing and taking Sirius' arm and dragging him up from his chair.
"For fuck's sake," Sirius mutters bitterly as he's led struggling out of the bar and through the door like he's a naughty child. "Fond of sleazy back lanes, are you?" he asks, the cold hitting him and bringing with it the realisation of how drunk he's got himself. Remus is silent while he pulls Sirius around the back of the building, though his fingers are biting agonisingly into Sirius' inner elbow.
All Sirius' molecules jolt suddenly and he realises he's been side-alonged with Remus.
"What the fuck d'you do that for?" he yells, the fast change of scenery disorientating, especially when he's had a few drinks, and now he's standing in Remus' sparse living room.
"Because," Remus says, teeth gritted, "I didn't want to have this conversation in public."
"Ashamed?" Sirius asks flippantly, "that you whore yourself out to keep your job?"
Remus turns, stalking towards the kitchenette, and taking up a half-drunk bottle of red wine. There's a hollow popping noise as Remus thumbs the cork off and pours a healthy amount into the two used glasses waiting on the sideboard. Two glasses, Sirius thinks painfully. Remus hands over one of them, spilling a red-purple trail on his own wrist and ducking his head briefly to lick it off.
"I'm not ashamed," he says when his head bobs up again, "why should I be? It's nothing to do with the job."
"Right. So you weren't sucking him in the back room?"
Licking wine from his lips rather too pointedly, Remus settles into the sofa, tugging Sirius down with him, which niggles at Sirius, that Remus is always leading him places. "Sirius, look. Tim is-"
"Tim?"
Remus' tone firms up. "He's gorgeous. I assure you, I'd be very happy, job or not."
Sirius gapes. "But he's a - a bloke."
Remus' face creases into laughter, slightly hysterical, both nervous and drunk. "Yes. Yes, and I bloody like it."
Letting his attention focus on this turns Sirius' stomach again, in a sickly, tense way. It is disgusting, surely; sandy-haired, smarmy West persuading Remus into-things. "I think," Sirius says, very close to Remus' face, "that it's utterly repulsive."
Remus just smiles, smugly, like he knows how little Sirius means it. The arm he has propped on the back of the sofa curls so his hand can shuffle lazily through Sirius' hair, lifting the strands and letting them fall.
"Revolting," Sirius reiterates.
Remus' smile is more weary, like he's tired or drunk, both probably, and doesn't want to fall out about this now. "Sirius," he whispers, gruff and even closer, their lips nearly touching, "come on." His thumb swipes over and over Sirius' temple, fingers now wound deeply into the longer parts of his hair. "I know, I do, that it sounds all-All dirty, and that, yes. But oh, when you're doing it-"
His lower lip is catching at the corner of Sirius' mouth with each word by this point, sticking because it's damp with wine. Remus' other hand clenches suddenly into Sirius' side, nails sharp through his shirt.
"Let me show you, I promise-"
Sirius never knows what he's being promised, because Remus has twisted, forcing their mouths together, the hand in Sirius' hair close to ripping out a handful. Sirius can't move, but Remus is trying, grinding their lips hard together and breathing shakily into his mouth. Remus is kissing him, and he's letting it happen.
"Show you," Remus repeats, the words part of the kiss.
The fingers at Sirius' hip are tightening and scrabbling now, and then Remus lets go of his hair, placing the hand on the sofa seat, and using that to press more firmly into Sirius and lower them flat.
"Remus," Sirius mumbles, because Remus is on top of him, thin body pushing down, but Remus uses it as an excuse to slip his tongue in, wet and alcoholic.
Drunkenness is not nearly enough of an explanation, but Remus kisses so eagerly, sometimes pulling back slightly so his long fringe tickles in front of Sirius' eyes, catching in his eyelashes. "Come on," Remus says, voice rough as he turns to Sirius' neck and starts to kiss, deeply, like he wants someone to eat.
It's Remus' groan that breaks him, and the way Remus is smelling him even as he sucks. "Moony," he says in a sigh, finding his palms have curled into the narrow small of Remus' back.
The hand that was holding Sirius' hip has moved in now, starting at his navel and slowly popping the buttons of his shirt. When the last one goes, Remus' lips slip to his collarbone and work their way down his chest in soft kisses.
"I'll show you," Remus says for the third time, hot damp words on Sirius' belly, and then he's nuzzling under the waistband of Sirius' underwear and licking the tip of his cock. Not that he'd admit it, but no-one's ever given Sirius a blow-job before, and it's so unbelievably warm, Remus' thin lips and the pillow-softness of his tongue as he curves his neck around to suck Sirius right down.
Mainly it's that Remus moves like he loves it, like he can't do this enough. Not too fast or too slow, just eager and perfect and hungry. If Remus did this at his job interview, Sirius thinks, then no wonder he gets over-paid. The tension is incredible too; the pleasure focused down in the one place as Sirius struggles on the brink of needing to thrust, hips desperate to move. "Remus," he gasps, nearly there in a few brief sucks.
"Mm," Remus says in vague reply, pulling off and licking back up Sirius' belly and the centre of his chest.
Sirius moans. "Don't, don't stop."
"Shh," Remus tells him, still in charge. "It's more than that, you know," he whispers, eyes hazy, resettling on top of Sirius, "much more."
Sirius closes his eyes as they kiss again, small, violent kisses, a bit jerky and tightly frustrated. There's not enough pressure and his cock is practically throbbing now, trapped between his belly and Remus' white cotton shirt. He can feel one of Remus' hands moving between them and tilts his hips up, trying to press into it.
"Patience," Remus says in a low hiss. Sirius can feel more buttons being opened, and he wants this now, and is ready when Remus' prick jabs bluntly against his bare belly. "Uhm," Remus whimpers in a quiet hitch of breath, his eyes squinching shut so beautifully.
Sirius thrusts hard and Remus groans again, lifting himself up and holding Sirius down by the shoulders. And then it's flawless; Remus' hips finding a good rhythm as they rub together, hard sticky cocks and soft skin. "Oh god," Sirius says, muffled by whatever part of Remus' face he's kissing in that moment. He doesn't even have time to wonder if he should hold back, because he can't, one more careful rock of Remus' body, one twist and it's flooding out of him in sharp, concentrated pulses.
Remus is watching above him, eyes heavy and lips parted as he moans over and over with each movement of his hips, until his breath hitches again and his eyes close, more wet warmth spreading over Sirius' skin. "Oh," Remus manages after ten seconds or so, teeth in Sirius' neck.
Sirius wriggles uncomfortably, because it's bad enough that he's just come all over himself, and he's actually got his arms around Remus.
"Told you," Remus mumbles sleepily.
#
"It's nearly summer, you know," West says casually, eyes running along book-spines as he talks. "So you could stop scaring my customers away with that leather jacket of yours."
There's a sickening hollow weight in Sirius' belly, as he's reminded that Remus does more for this man than just keeping his shop and accounts. "Got a problem with it?"
West whirls round in offended surprise. "I was just teasing." He frowns. "Remus is in the storeroom if you want to go back."
Sirius stomps through, longing to kick a chair-leg or put his foot through a painting or something as he goes. "Bloody creepy bastard," he tells Remus, before the storeroom door is even shut. "Hey!" he yelps as Remus grabs him suddenly around the waist and holds him. "Could you just keep your hands off me for one minute?" Sirius asks, not realising how it sounds until he's already said it.
"You were about to swing for a box of crockery," Remus explains, "which is worth god knows how much. I have to unwrap it all and sort it and dust it very carefully, so now isn't a good time to be bothering me," he finishes, all in one exasperated breath.
"Fine. West was having a go again."
Remus sighs and kneels next to the crate he's unpacking, beginning to unfold newspaper from around a delicate china cup. "He doesn't "have go's" at you, Sirius; he likes you."
"Doesn't."
"He does," Remus says impatiently, "he thinks you're very-"
"He doesn't fancy me?" Sirius exclaims in horror. "If he thinks I'm going to be another of his rent boys." He shuts up at the look on Remus' face.
Remus rests the cup on a shelf with a soft plinking noise, and reaches for another wrapped piece of china. "I was going to say sweet," he continues after a tired pause.
"Sweet?" Sirius brushes his hands over the soft leather covering his sides.
"Yes, he, er, thinks that you follow me around. Not that I agree."
Sirius sits on the stone floor. Now he can just imagine it, Remus and his employer lying in bed after, sharing a cigarette and discussing him. "Wait: he thinks I'm some sort of, you know."
"I told him," Remus says abruptly, "what we did."
"You… What?"
"On Friday," Remus says quietly, shyly.
Sirius is shocked. "You told him."
"You know about him and me. Well, you do. And, I think," Remus continues, blushing, "that he's been trying to get us together. That's why he lets you hang about making the place look untidy."
"Together?" Sirius gasps, somewhat panicked.
"Well, I-" Remus gives up on the talking and instead leans awkwardly forward onto one hand and kisses Sirius, tongue sliding over his bottom lip. "I'm not proposing or anything," he says, sitting back on his haunches.
"Right," Sirius says, carefully taking the patterned saucer Remus is holding out of his hand and placing it on the floor. He kisses Remus this time, and it's a little easier, though Remus quickly takes charge; hands flying up, cupping his jaw and holding him in place.
"There is something I have to tell you though," Remus bursts out, still clutching Sirius' face. "About here, the back room."
Sirius pales and tries to pull back. He doesn't want to know what Remus used to do with West. "Remus."
"It's mostly stolen," Remus confesses, blushing again. "We don't steal it or anything, but we sell stuff on."
Sirius snorts with shocked laughter, clapping a hand to his mouth.
"What?" Remus asks, "I thought-"
"I don't care," Sirius finds himself saying, and it becomes true as he says it. He doesn't care at all, so long as West keeps his hands off Remus. "Stop talking," he adds, and leans close again.
Title: Untitled
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Rating: NC17-y
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Word count: 4,700-ish
Summary: Sirius isn't coping well with Remus' new-found independence.
Notes: For wildestranger, who asked for Remus seducing Sirius. I did try to include many of her kinks, but didn't manage all of them, because I'm not some sort of pervert. Many thanks to liadlaith and, ahem, wildestranger for reading this through, and much love to minnow_53 for the good hard beta-ing this sorely needed. I have shamelessly obeyed almost every beta point, heh. Still don't have a title, though. Soon to be crossposted.
It's not raining, but give it five minutes and it will be. Sirius, slouching casually against the wall of a respectable gentleman's outfitters, ignores the heavy sky. There's a soggy roll-up dangling from his lip, more for the look than any smoothness of taste, and a greasy parcel of bundled newspaper clutched to his chest.
A prim young lady on her way past aims a disapproving glare at his scruffy leather jacket, but Sirius knows now that these people aren't seeing through his Muggle disguise. Often, he's realised, they secretly rather like the look of him, and he lets his fringe slip forward and huffs out a plume of smoke as he winks at her. She turns away hastily, her heavily pinned and styled hair bobbing sharply, but she does blush.
Spitting the stub of his fag to the pavement as he goes and with a smile, Sirius spins smoothly around and marches towards the antiques shop next door.
The bell over the door tinkles in its gentle, patronising manner, and Sirius is immediately irritated, narrowing his eyes and clutching the package tighter in his arms. He hasn't been in here for a while, well, not since Remus got sick of being pestered at work and rather cockily sent Sirius to ask Mr West if he could have a 'Long Stand', which to Sirius had sounded like some faffy Muggle contraption - some gadget that would help Remus as he delicately polished antique silver, so it had taken him rather too long waiting out back in the broom cupboard to work out the joke.
In no hurry today, Sirius stalks across the shop floor, liking the way his shoes click authoritatively on the wooden boards. He trails his fingers along the spines of the ageing books on the nearest shelf as he goes past, then lifts his hand away and idly rubs the dust against his thumb.
"…And of course there're the ones in the window, though those are, naturally, inferior to the ones I keep in the back-" West sweeps in, pausing in his dramatic sales patter only briefly to nod at Sirius, that usual half-mild half-arch smile on his face as he flicks his thick blond hair out of his eyes. For a second, Sirius' stomach plummets further, but West tilts his head towards the room usually referred to as 'The Office' - a box-room generally used for doing the accounts - and Sirius hurries past, leaving West to guide his pompous-looking clients to one of his more recently acquired and very generously overpriced items.
"Moon-ay!" Sirius yells well in advance, hopefully loud enough to irritate West and his customers, though Remus still hasn’t looked up from his paperwork even when Sirius has kicked the door heavily shut behind himself.
"Nng-uhm," Remus mumbles through the two spare pens that for some reason he's holding in his mouth like a dog with two sticks. He continues writing and doesn't look up, his too-long hair almost completely covering his eyes. Sirius notices the ink stains streaked and blotted all over Remus' shirt and tie and estimates that he's been at the bookkeeping all morning.
"Lupin, I brought you lunch," Sirius points out flatly.
The pens are spat out onto the desk. "I've got my own lunch." Sirius rests the fish-and-chip parcel on the desk, sitting down and waiting until Remus' nostrils flare a little and his eyes finally swivel up. "You greased on my work," Remus says, but he's clearly pleased.
Sirius slings his legs up onto the side of the desk. "Very important, I take it," he says with a nod to the door, flicking the wrapping open and tearing at a piece of fish with a wooden fork, "those two out there?"
"Uhm," Remus says, half-groaning with pleasure, then gasping as he picks at the hot chips and they burn his fingers and mouth. "You charmed these warm?"
Sirius smothers a grin. "So he's keeping you hidden in the back?"
Remus shrugs, too interested in his food, and Sirius reluctantly concedes that Lily must have been right; however well Remus is doing with his job, however many new clients he pulls in with his specialist knowledge of certain types of antique, he's still not feeding himself properly. Sirius frowns and tries to remember how long Remus has had actual visible cheekbones for, and watches uneasily the eager way Remus pulls off chunks of white cod and crispy batter, swallowing quickly then carefully licking salt and vinegar and grease from the tips of his fingers.
Remus looks up, but his eyes flicker guiltily away again as he resumes his licking.
Remus has changed since he got this job, and it worries Sirius, though he can't get anyone else to worry with him. He hopes it isn't Mr West that Remus is attempting to emulate with his new-found confidence, the perky sway to his walk and sudden ease at starting arguments, though fair enough he's happier in himself now he's finally got steady respectable employment. There's something dodgy, a hint of sleaze and sliminess, about the man West, Sirius thinks. Surely West'd prefer a vacuous young shop-girl to Remus. Sirius almost wants to warn his friend to watch out, and the only reason he doesn't is that he knows he'd get laughed at.
No-one else thinks West is suspicious. Lily says he's a lovely, intelligent and polite man, and Peter and James both agree that he's pretty all right for an old guy, though he's unlikely even to be thirty-five yet. And it's truly wonderful that the man is sympathetic about Remus having to visits to his poor bed-ridden mother for a few days each month.
"So you coming for a drink tonight then?" Sirius asks eventually, still feeling uneasy somehow as Remus greedily gobbles up chips with a naughty glint in his eyes.
"Yeah, fine," Remus mumbles with a full mouth, "why not?"
"Great." Sirius is still edgy and jangly, fidgeting in his seat. "You finish that off, yeah?" He stands up and pushes the chip paper nearer Remus.
Remus shrugs, looking up at him, puzzled. "'Kay."
Some sort of warning is needed, and Sirius rests a hand to the desk, leaning in and lowering his voice. "He doesn't make you - you know, cook the books or anything, does he?"
Laughing, Remus tilts back in his chair, sucking rather disturbingly on a chip. "Is this job really that too good to be true?"
"I didn't mean to-" Sirius begins stiffly, standing up straight again and making to leave.
Remus points a chip at him. "It really is no bed of roses," he insists. "The old ladies glare at my haircut like they're desperate for a pair of scissors. That Colonel Smith - the one who collects medals - regularly shouts at me for no reason, like I'm a disobedient pet dog of his or something. And Mrs Abbotsfield - who's nearing seventy, by the way - pinches my arse when there's nobody about, and the accounts are boring as hell." Remus sighs, before finally eating the chip he's been gesturing with. "You don't have to keep coming in and checking up on me."
"Just brought you lunch," Sirius claims huffily, trying to lean back against the door and almost missing it.
"Yeah," Remus says, sloppily licking his fingers clean again. "See you in the pub."
Sirius tears his eyes from Remus' messy eating habits. "Yeah. Seven-thirty?"
"Well I won't be late," Remus says, smiling.
#
Three pints and James is whispering in Lily's ear, and she isn't trying hard enough to stop him, so Sirius is stuck listening to Remus and Peter talk about sex. As far as Sirius is aware, Remus has never even had sex, unless he's having wild clandestine affairs with rich, titled antiques smugglers, and by the sounds of it Peter hasn't quite managed yet either. And god knows why Peter still even has a girlfriend when the only positive side of his disastrous sexual exploits is that they have Remus in fits of laughter.
And there's a girl watching them. No, she's definitely watching Sirius, but he can’t be bothered. Somehow he's even more terminally bored with life now he's finished school.
"…And what about you, Moony?" Peter is soon saying. "Meet many women at work?"
"That Mrs Abbotsfield is a bit of all right, eh?" Sirius butts in, not quite finding the right tone of voice.
Remus turns from his pint in surprise, but takes up the joke, and begins to describe to Peter a ridiculously embellished account of Mrs Abbotsfield's outrageous sexual overtures towards him; they way she stands too close and covertly gropes him, and several hilarious pet names she allegedly calls him by.
Remus licks his lip as he reaches a particularly juicy part - seventy year-old Mrs Abbotsfield pressing him against the filing cabinet in the office, her blood-red fingernails seductively slicing into his upper arms - and Sirius is suddenly achingly tired of it all. Copying Remus' action, he licks his own lips in the direction of the brown-eyed girl two tables over, then stands to join her.
#
"Get a bloody job!" Remus yells at him when he wanders into West Antiques (est. 1924, antiques bought and sold) later in the week.
"Hello to you too," Sirius grumbles, eyeing Remus' suit jacket suspiciously. "He's flounced off to some auction, I take it, and left you to run everything."
Remus tugs Sirius closer and lowers his voice, probably so as not to put off the expensive-looking young couple who are bickering over an ugly varnished coffee-table at the far end of the shop. "Auctions are part of the job, seeing that we need something to sell, yes? And I'm perfectly capable." He shoves Sirius away again, hand brushing down over Sirius' shirt-front.
"Mmm," Sirius says sceptically, as Remus nervously straightens his cuffs.
"Is this for sale?" the irritatingly posh young lady calls out as she points into the corner, while the man continues to scrutinise the table. Sirius wonders why two people so blatantly rich are being so picky. In his family one of the main things to be proud of was that you didn't have to worry about money.
"No, that's my bike," Remus says tiredly, probably because there's currently a flashy sports car parked outside. Sirius sniggers because he's seen Remus setting off for work on the bicycle-thing, and he actually has little horseshoe-shaped clips that stop his trousers getting caught in the wheels.
"Wondered why you were all dressed up," Sirius says.
"I'm not," Remus hisses, "I'm just smart." It isn't Sirius' idea of smart.
"Well at least the jacket hides how bloody bony you're getting."
"I've always been this bony!" Remus protests. It's possibly true. For some reason, Sirius slips his hand under just to check, pinching at Remus' side, feeling stretched skin and a bit of sharp hipbone through a thin shirt, which causes Remus to squeal.
The customers look up, the young man frowning at them. The girl's eyes linger, so Sirius winks and she blushes as she turns back to the mildly-damaged part of the table-leg that her boyfriend is pointing out.
Remus drags Sirius out of the shop by the hair, fist getting an easy grip of where it's too long and straggly at the back, but somehow it feels worth it.
#
The following Monday morning, Sirius finds himself ambling down Blackett Street yet again, cobblestones lumpy through his heavy boots. Monday mornings are dull, and Sirius reckons Remus'll be glad of the distraction of his company. It's only Saturdays when the shop is busy, crammed with antiques hunters and old dears pottering about and shoving their pointy elbows into Sirius' sides.
It's like Sirius has some sort of internal alarm system, because today he knows, feels, that he hasn't seen Remus for nearly three days, and it's too long. He jabs the shop door open hurriedly and deadens the bell with his hand as soon as he can reach it. Yeah, talk about quiet; there's no-one on the shop floor at all, staff or customers, so he strides confidently through towards the office-room.
"Oh, I'll go," Sirius hears Remus say, voice thick with a wide yawn and stretch that Sirius can almost picture, and the door opens, shoving them suddenly face to face.
"Oh," Remus repeats, one hand still on the doorknob and the other reaching up and pressed to the collar of his shirt. "Sirius." He's all flushed and flustered, and Sirius wonders if he's in trouble over something. Remus steps neatly around Sirius, calling behind him "I'll take my lunch now, yes?"
Sirius doesn't hear West's response, and Remus doesn't wait for it, pulling Sirius through the shop with fingers clinging too tight to his elbow.
"It's ten-past eleven," Sirius points out, bewilderedly watching the cold morning sunshine on Remus' tangled hair.
"Is it?" Remus stops abruptly, and Sirius has to catch him by the shoulders to stop them both crashing to the pavement.
"Yes. Remus - what?"
"You can buy me coffee."
"What's going on?"
Remus turns suddenly, pulling Sirius into the grubby caff five doors down from West's Antiques. With heavy limbs, Remus slumps into a chair in front of the nearest chipped formica table, eyes on his fingernails.
Sirius is wildly confused. "Two coffees," he calls over to the counter because he has nothing better to say as he takes his own seat. "White, no sugar. And do you have doughnuts?"
The woman in the apron glares. "No. Got sticky buns."
"Two of those then," Sirius snaps. When he turns back, Remus is hiding his face with one hand, shoulders shaking, making snuffling half-crying noises. "Are you laughing?" Sirius asks him, astonished.
Remus snorts then sighs, chest heaving with his heavy breaths, still trembling. "Sorry, I'm sorry. Just-" He sighs and slides the hand down, fingers stretching at the skin of his cheek before propping his chin up with the heel of his palm. "No-one ever comes in on Monday mornings."
Sirius remembers Remus' fingers poised on his shirt-buttons. "That's why I did. Thought you wouldn't mind."
"Sirius," Remus says, carefully, like he's explaining something grown-up to a child, and that's when it really hits Sirius. Remus spreads his hands in a helpless sort of gesture, then buries his face in them again. The waitress plonks two mugs of white coffee in front of them, along with a plate containing two iced buns.
"Don't worry," Sirius says, though his tone isn't comforting, "I get it. Not the books he makes you fiddle with, eh?"
Remus lifts his palms away, crossing his fingers together until his knuckles go white. "He doesn't make me do anything."
Sirius leans in, a bite of frustrated anger spurring his words on. "He's twice your age, nearly. He's some pervy old… bastard who knows how badly you need a job. It's-"
"It isn't-"
"I mean, what were you even doing-" Sirius closes his eyes, and then opens them quickly because on the inside of his eyelids there's an image of Remus, spread back on the desk with his shirt half undone, all flushed like he still is now. "It's disgusting. I don't want to know."
"Well thank you." Remus scoops some still-tacky icing from his bun and sucks it off his finger. It may be unconscious, but it's probably Remus' way of telling Sirius exactly what it is he doesn't want to know, and now he's picturing Remus on his knees.
"Stop it," Sirius tells him, panicking.
Remus glances at his finger, as if unsure whether Sirius is referring to West or the icing, before making his decision. "No, I- I really don't want to. Drink your coffee."
#
Sirius avoids Remus as long as possible by avoiding West's Antiques for the rest of the week. But Friday nights in the pub are a ritual that cannot be stopped, come hell or high water, and, as usual, they're slumped in a dark booth in the back corner of the Dog and Handgun by 8pm.
Maybe Remus has been a little quieter tonight, but that may just be because Peter's girlfriend is with them for once. Sirius can't even be bothered to tease her, dark-eyed mousy thing that she is.
"So how's the job?" James asks Remus as the bell rings for last orders, and Sirius is nearly sick, even though he knew it was coming eventually.
"Good, actually," Remus responds, with utter calm, and then he launches into a story about West and West's brother and some auction house, which Sirius tunes out.
Not wanting to think about West right now, Sirius scans the room. There's no girl in particular that catches his eye, and he's feeling too fidgety and irritable for flirting anyway, what with Remus' eager voice grating on his nerves.
"So've you met West's brother then?" Sirius asks Remus sharply. Everyone stares at him, puzzled, possibly because they've long changed the subject when Sirius wasn't paying attention.
Remus' eyes flare with anger. "Yes," he replies shortly. Sirius raises an eyebrow. "Outside," Remus adds, standing and taking Sirius' arm and dragging him up from his chair.
"For fuck's sake," Sirius mutters bitterly as he's led struggling out of the bar and through the door like he's a naughty child. "Fond of sleazy back lanes, are you?" he asks, the cold hitting him and bringing with it the realisation of how drunk he's got himself. Remus is silent while he pulls Sirius around the back of the building, though his fingers are biting agonisingly into Sirius' inner elbow.
All Sirius' molecules jolt suddenly and he realises he's been side-alonged with Remus.
"What the fuck d'you do that for?" he yells, the fast change of scenery disorientating, especially when he's had a few drinks, and now he's standing in Remus' sparse living room.
"Because," Remus says, teeth gritted, "I didn't want to have this conversation in public."
"Ashamed?" Sirius asks flippantly, "that you whore yourself out to keep your job?"
Remus turns, stalking towards the kitchenette, and taking up a half-drunk bottle of red wine. There's a hollow popping noise as Remus thumbs the cork off and pours a healthy amount into the two used glasses waiting on the sideboard. Two glasses, Sirius thinks painfully. Remus hands over one of them, spilling a red-purple trail on his own wrist and ducking his head briefly to lick it off.
"I'm not ashamed," he says when his head bobs up again, "why should I be? It's nothing to do with the job."
"Right. So you weren't sucking him in the back room?"
Licking wine from his lips rather too pointedly, Remus settles into the sofa, tugging Sirius down with him, which niggles at Sirius, that Remus is always leading him places. "Sirius, look. Tim is-"
"Tim?"
Remus' tone firms up. "He's gorgeous. I assure you, I'd be very happy, job or not."
Sirius gapes. "But he's a - a bloke."
Remus' face creases into laughter, slightly hysterical, both nervous and drunk. "Yes. Yes, and I bloody like it."
Letting his attention focus on this turns Sirius' stomach again, in a sickly, tense way. It is disgusting, surely; sandy-haired, smarmy West persuading Remus into-things. "I think," Sirius says, very close to Remus' face, "that it's utterly repulsive."
Remus just smiles, smugly, like he knows how little Sirius means it. The arm he has propped on the back of the sofa curls so his hand can shuffle lazily through Sirius' hair, lifting the strands and letting them fall.
"Revolting," Sirius reiterates.
Remus' smile is more weary, like he's tired or drunk, both probably, and doesn't want to fall out about this now. "Sirius," he whispers, gruff and even closer, their lips nearly touching, "come on." His thumb swipes over and over Sirius' temple, fingers now wound deeply into the longer parts of his hair. "I know, I do, that it sounds all-All dirty, and that, yes. But oh, when you're doing it-"
His lower lip is catching at the corner of Sirius' mouth with each word by this point, sticking because it's damp with wine. Remus' other hand clenches suddenly into Sirius' side, nails sharp through his shirt.
"Let me show you, I promise-"
Sirius never knows what he's being promised, because Remus has twisted, forcing their mouths together, the hand in Sirius' hair close to ripping out a handful. Sirius can't move, but Remus is trying, grinding their lips hard together and breathing shakily into his mouth. Remus is kissing him, and he's letting it happen.
"Show you," Remus repeats, the words part of the kiss.
The fingers at Sirius' hip are tightening and scrabbling now, and then Remus lets go of his hair, placing the hand on the sofa seat, and using that to press more firmly into Sirius and lower them flat.
"Remus," Sirius mumbles, because Remus is on top of him, thin body pushing down, but Remus uses it as an excuse to slip his tongue in, wet and alcoholic.
Drunkenness is not nearly enough of an explanation, but Remus kisses so eagerly, sometimes pulling back slightly so his long fringe tickles in front of Sirius' eyes, catching in his eyelashes. "Come on," Remus says, voice rough as he turns to Sirius' neck and starts to kiss, deeply, like he wants someone to eat.
It's Remus' groan that breaks him, and the way Remus is smelling him even as he sucks. "Moony," he says in a sigh, finding his palms have curled into the narrow small of Remus' back.
The hand that was holding Sirius' hip has moved in now, starting at his navel and slowly popping the buttons of his shirt. When the last one goes, Remus' lips slip to his collarbone and work their way down his chest in soft kisses.
"I'll show you," Remus says for the third time, hot damp words on Sirius' belly, and then he's nuzzling under the waistband of Sirius' underwear and licking the tip of his cock. Not that he'd admit it, but no-one's ever given Sirius a blow-job before, and it's so unbelievably warm, Remus' thin lips and the pillow-softness of his tongue as he curves his neck around to suck Sirius right down.
Mainly it's that Remus moves like he loves it, like he can't do this enough. Not too fast or too slow, just eager and perfect and hungry. If Remus did this at his job interview, Sirius thinks, then no wonder he gets over-paid. The tension is incredible too; the pleasure focused down in the one place as Sirius struggles on the brink of needing to thrust, hips desperate to move. "Remus," he gasps, nearly there in a few brief sucks.
"Mm," Remus says in vague reply, pulling off and licking back up Sirius' belly and the centre of his chest.
Sirius moans. "Don't, don't stop."
"Shh," Remus tells him, still in charge. "It's more than that, you know," he whispers, eyes hazy, resettling on top of Sirius, "much more."
Sirius closes his eyes as they kiss again, small, violent kisses, a bit jerky and tightly frustrated. There's not enough pressure and his cock is practically throbbing now, trapped between his belly and Remus' white cotton shirt. He can feel one of Remus' hands moving between them and tilts his hips up, trying to press into it.
"Patience," Remus says in a low hiss. Sirius can feel more buttons being opened, and he wants this now, and is ready when Remus' prick jabs bluntly against his bare belly. "Uhm," Remus whimpers in a quiet hitch of breath, his eyes squinching shut so beautifully.
Sirius thrusts hard and Remus groans again, lifting himself up and holding Sirius down by the shoulders. And then it's flawless; Remus' hips finding a good rhythm as they rub together, hard sticky cocks and soft skin. "Oh god," Sirius says, muffled by whatever part of Remus' face he's kissing in that moment. He doesn't even have time to wonder if he should hold back, because he can't, one more careful rock of Remus' body, one twist and it's flooding out of him in sharp, concentrated pulses.
Remus is watching above him, eyes heavy and lips parted as he moans over and over with each movement of his hips, until his breath hitches again and his eyes close, more wet warmth spreading over Sirius' skin. "Oh," Remus manages after ten seconds or so, teeth in Sirius' neck.
Sirius wriggles uncomfortably, because it's bad enough that he's just come all over himself, and he's actually got his arms around Remus.
"Told you," Remus mumbles sleepily.
#
"It's nearly summer, you know," West says casually, eyes running along book-spines as he talks. "So you could stop scaring my customers away with that leather jacket of yours."
There's a sickening hollow weight in Sirius' belly, as he's reminded that Remus does more for this man than just keeping his shop and accounts. "Got a problem with it?"
West whirls round in offended surprise. "I was just teasing." He frowns. "Remus is in the storeroom if you want to go back."
Sirius stomps through, longing to kick a chair-leg or put his foot through a painting or something as he goes. "Bloody creepy bastard," he tells Remus, before the storeroom door is even shut. "Hey!" he yelps as Remus grabs him suddenly around the waist and holds him. "Could you just keep your hands off me for one minute?" Sirius asks, not realising how it sounds until he's already said it.
"You were about to swing for a box of crockery," Remus explains, "which is worth god knows how much. I have to unwrap it all and sort it and dust it very carefully, so now isn't a good time to be bothering me," he finishes, all in one exasperated breath.
"Fine. West was having a go again."
Remus sighs and kneels next to the crate he's unpacking, beginning to unfold newspaper from around a delicate china cup. "He doesn't "have go's" at you, Sirius; he likes you."
"Doesn't."
"He does," Remus says impatiently, "he thinks you're very-"
"He doesn't fancy me?" Sirius exclaims in horror. "If he thinks I'm going to be another of his rent boys." He shuts up at the look on Remus' face.
Remus rests the cup on a shelf with a soft plinking noise, and reaches for another wrapped piece of china. "I was going to say sweet," he continues after a tired pause.
"Sweet?" Sirius brushes his hands over the soft leather covering his sides.
"Yes, he, er, thinks that you follow me around. Not that I agree."
Sirius sits on the stone floor. Now he can just imagine it, Remus and his employer lying in bed after, sharing a cigarette and discussing him. "Wait: he thinks I'm some sort of, you know."
"I told him," Remus says abruptly, "what we did."
"You… What?"
"On Friday," Remus says quietly, shyly.
Sirius is shocked. "You told him."
"You know about him and me. Well, you do. And, I think," Remus continues, blushing, "that he's been trying to get us together. That's why he lets you hang about making the place look untidy."
"Together?" Sirius gasps, somewhat panicked.
"Well, I-" Remus gives up on the talking and instead leans awkwardly forward onto one hand and kisses Sirius, tongue sliding over his bottom lip. "I'm not proposing or anything," he says, sitting back on his haunches.
"Right," Sirius says, carefully taking the patterned saucer Remus is holding out of his hand and placing it on the floor. He kisses Remus this time, and it's a little easier, though Remus quickly takes charge; hands flying up, cupping his jaw and holding him in place.
"There is something I have to tell you though," Remus bursts out, still clutching Sirius' face. "About here, the back room."
Sirius pales and tries to pull back. He doesn't want to know what Remus used to do with West. "Remus."
"It's mostly stolen," Remus confesses, blushing again. "We don't steal it or anything, but we sell stuff on."
Sirius snorts with shocked laughter, clapping a hand to his mouth.
"What?" Remus asks, "I thought-"
"I don't care," Sirius finds himself saying, and it becomes true as he says it. He doesn't care at all, so long as West keeps his hands off Remus. "Stop talking," he adds, and leans close again.