The Game And How To Play It
It's an old game, but one Sirius has never tired of, and now that he has the chance to play it again, he takes every opportunity. It is his main distraction during the long, boring confinement Dumbledore has imposed upon him.
He dozes by the fire as Padfoot, warm and cozy and utterly harmless-looking, lulling Remus into a false sense of security that he can read his book or newspaper in peace.
How Remus believes he can loll about half-dressed and not have Sirius pouncing on him at every available occasion is something Sirius has never understood. He used to think Remus did it on purpose, that Remus was playing a game of his own, but Remus's genuine surprise and occasional irritation at having his reading interrupted have convinced Sirius that he is, in fact, just going about his business. Sirius finds this endless reservoir of ingenuousness incredibly charming. Not to mention arousing.
Remus has never understood his own attraction, but his lazy, artless grace, the sense of leashed power and absolute control, has always exerted a strong pull on Sirius. Sometimes Sirius thinks they're misnamed -- Remus is the star, the essential force of his person capturing Sirius as his willing satellite.
This morning, it is an old Muggle novel Remus holds in one hand, something about people in Spain, going to bullfights and drinking a lot. Sirius knows he read and enjoyed it when they were younger, but the details are lost to him now.
He rises and stretches, always more satisfactory with four legs than with two, and slinks under the table as Padfoot before changing back into his human form, careless of the dust and crumbs he'll have to shake out of his robe later. Remus is wearing the thin cotton trousers he sleeps in, and no shirt. Remus gives off heat like a furnace and often wanders about half-naked when no one else is around. Sirius takes this as an open invitation to mischief of the private sort.
He wraps his fingers around one of Remus's ankles, rubbing slow circles on the bare skin. Remus starts, then settles. He will attempt to go about his business without acknowledging the effects of Sirius's hands and lips and tongue for as long as possible. Remus is control personified, and Sirius chaos and disorder come to shake him out of it.
Just the thought of Remus's eyes flashing hot with desire, long fingers digging into his shoulders or threading through his hair as he comes, is enough to make Sirius hard at any given moment. The sight of Remus's head thrown back, legs spread wantonly, cock hard and slick and waiting for Sirius's mouth--
Sirius takes a moment to collect himself. Won't do to get ahead of things. He snickers at the bad pun, and runs his hands up Remus's calves beneath the cotton, the sudden tension and stillness in the muscles capturing his attention more than any wild gyrations would at this point.
He strokes behind one knee, knowing exactly what will make Remus jump and squirm before he gets hold of himself again.
The pajamas are a nuisance, a barrier between his mouth and Remus's skin. A simple spell would dispose of them, send them to the bedroom without any effort whatsoever, but Sirius wants to work for this, wants to pull at the material and watch as, inch by tantalizing inch, Remus's flesh is exposed to his hungry eyes.
Remus slides down in the chair, tacitly granting permission for Sirius to strip him. Sirius can feel the blood pulsing in his veins, hear his ragged breathing, even as he turns another page of his book. It is always more fun when Remus is reading something old and familiar -- that means he can concentrate fully on what Sirius is doing to him, rather than becoming irritable later when he has to reread. He imagines Remus hears the familiar words as a hum in the background, beneath the thrum of passion and the rush of fire along his skin.
Remus, silently complicit, lifts his hips as Sirius tugs at the thin cotton, gasps as the elastic brushes over his cock, already hard and glistening with precome.
Sirius swallows and licks his lips, hands sliding the pants down Remus's legs, then sliding up again, feeling skin and hair prickle against the pads of his fingers, sight and sensation arcing right to his own cock, which twitches in anticipation.
He brushes his thumbs over the sensitive flesh where thigh joins pelvis, and Remus's hips jerk slightly before stilling.
The silence of the house both muffles and magnifies every harsh gasp they make. Sirius rubs the soft skin on the inside of Remus's thighs, feathers kisses first on one side, then the other. A quick upward glance tell him that Remus has finally laid the book down and is now gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles are white.
Sirius skates a hand down Remus's belly, then finally wraps it around his cock, stroking lightly, teasing. Remus grunts in response, the first chink in his armor of control. Sirius bends and finally places a kiss on the head, sliding his tongue along the slit, and Remus growls.
Sirius loves the growls and howls and groans he draws from Remus's throat, loves the salt tang of Remus on his tongue, bitter transmuted to sweet by association -- Remus tastes of warmth and light, love and home, wild nights under the moon and her gown of stars. He remembered this even in Azkaban; it tortured him then, believing it lost to him forever, that even if he escaped, he'd never deserve it again. He knows he's unworthy, but he gets down on his knees every day and prays. This is his church, his worship; Remus the holy altar on which he'd sacrifice everything; their communion, the only commandment he adheres to.
Luckily, Remus is merciful, and requires nothing from him that he doesn't wish to give. Sirius takes him in his mouth, hard and hot, slick against his eager tongue. He licks and sucks, feeling the beat of life in the long vein on the underside, along which he runs his tongue. Remus trembles above him, hands moving from the table to grasp Sirius's scalp, hold him still and urge him on.
Sirius slides up and down, teasing the head, fingers drifting to cup Remus's balls and then slide behind them. He uses his teeth, gently, and Remus growls again, louder, with words this time.
"Fuck." One explosive syllable torn from Remus's throat and Sirius knows he's almost there, almost at the breaking point.
Sirius works the muscles in his throat, takes Remus in as deep as he can. Remus comes hard, spilling himself in staccato thrusts, hands tightening in Sirius's hair, howling Sirius's name.
Sirius's own cock is as hard as it's ever been, and aching for release, but he can't concentrate on that right now, too busy lapping at Remus, swallowing him and still wanting more. Sirius rests his head on Remus's thigh, wishing they could stay this way forever, despite the ache in his knees from the cold stone floor.
Remus slides from the chair to the floor, elegant even in satiation. He pulls Sirius up a kiss, greedily sucking on Sirius's tongue the way Sirius just sucked on his cock.
He presses Sirius over and back so he can lie atop him, legs tangling. Sirius inhales sharply when Remus rubs against his erection, and Remus smiles wickedly.
Slowly, Remus lowers his head and nibbles at Sirius's neck, biting just hard enough to send another shock to Sirius's groin.
Sirius arches up against him, unsure he's going to last through this sweet torture, as Remus pushes open his robe and licks down his chest.
"Remus," he manages, pushing on Remus's shoulders. Remus laughs against his belly, sending shivers through him. But Remus gets the message, stops teasing and takes Sirius's cock in his mouth.
Sirius's hips buck and his eyes fall closed as wet warmth engulfs him. The soft brush of brown and gray hair against his thighs, Remus's tongue dragging along his length, the susurrus sound of their breathing, rhythmic and contrapuntal, a symphony he never tires of hearing -- all of this contributes to the belief that he is where he belongs, that this is his true purpose in life.
He forces his eyes open as the pleasure builds to a climax. His hands scrabble at the hard floor, seeking purchase as he slides in and out of Remus's clever mouth, finally landing in Remus's hair. The sight of those lips, soft and thin and slightly chapped, wrapped around his cock sends Sirius over the edge. The world flies apart and he with it.
Remus drags himself back up Sirius's body; Sirius feels every inch of skin sliding against skin, and it sends another thrill through him.
'With my body, I thee worship.' Sirius never says the words, though he thinks them often enough. Instead, he says, "We could go to America. Hawaii, or California. Nobody knows us there."
"How about Spain?"
Sirius smiles, slides an arm under Remus's shoulders and pulls him close, dropping a kiss on his hair. "To drink grappa and watch the bullfights?"
"You remember."
"Some things."
"Yes. The sun bright and hot on the red-tiled roofs, fishing early in the morning--"
"Up all night at the cafés. That's the life for us, Remus. We need to get out of this rainy, stifling country." Sirius can hear the desperation creeping into his voice, but he can't stop it. Only Harry keeps him here; only Remus keeps him sane.
Lying there on the cold stone floor, Sirius wonders how much more he can take, how much longer he can play this larger game, with himself, with Remus and with the Order.
Remus sighs. "Isn't it pretty to think so?"