bright ambassadors
Sirius/Remus!
MWPP era!
Written in sleepy, amorous haze!
Amazingly lengthy 622 words!
(PWP, basically)
Not quite NC17, though.
OH YEAH. For/inspired by llorelei.
bright ambassadors
It's starting again.
This time, he thinks, he will memorize it. This is how it feels when the covers are flung back to his knees, when the mist seeps in. This is how much harder the body above his feels with it's cloaked in cold air. His bones seem carved of ice but Remus doesn't shudder when Sirius's arms encircle him; he thinks about the February branches outside and their own sheen of ice and how they're melting too and that's all it is. Sirius's arms are twining around him and they're blooming breathing stretching together, and above all melting, the ice is leaving them. And Sirius's voice (c'mon, just...) is warm breeze, his tongue-
-but his tongue is flitting against the curve of his ear. His lips are wet, teeth sharp, nipping at his lobe in indelicate smacks that make his cock ache rubbing against his pajama bottoms. Remus forgets about pretending this is beautiful: he wraps his legs around Sirius's waist, parts them again half a second later so he can tug off coarse red-grey-striped fabric, and then spreads farther.
He's going to beg now.
Sirius will say yeah, Moony, m'gonna do it. His voice is still sleepy and thick in the early morning way. His fingers stab and twist and Remus clenches around him, moves his hips in quick little circles until he's fucking himself and groaning hoarsely, always unpracticed. Sirius doesn't stop him. His free hand is holding, only holding Remus's hip and leaving a shadow like a bruise. (Only like a bruise because he's never hurt him; he tugs at his ear, his collarbone, his nipples with his teeth and leaves pink tokens on his neck, but that is all.)
They don't pretend they have time.
(Remus stretches. His spine is an arch the moment before.)
And then Sirius is in him and driving him down into the mattress, more and more like being buried at each thrust. The springs are squeaking to a time of their own, faster than the second hand on the clock and what time was it again? He meant to remember but he's forgotten. He's going to forget again, about that and the burning in his lungs and the cotton in his throat and how he can only cry for it harder and harder and (how good it was). Please. Their hips strain in an almost-perfect rhythm, god-! Sirius fucks him so hard he can barely breathe.
This is how it feels.
They keep tumbling.
After Sirius pulls out, he rolls to his side and tugs open the plum-red curtains. The drifting frost mingles with their sweat. They are naked and side-by-side on Remus's bed at dawn in February in the dorm and they do not, decidedly do not, care. When the chill settles back in their bones, Sirius sits up, runs the back of his hand up and down Remus's arm for a moment, tracing blue paths up to his elbow, down to his wrist. Then he goes without a look (after he kisses him, sometimes). They won't say anything.
(If he doesn't start remembering soon the moments are going to drift away and drip away like February ice and he'll forget what it felt like when Sirius was coming inside of him. How it felt when it was just the tip of a tongue against the tip of his tongue and the pulp of their lips fused together. He will lose it, someday, but to forget-to forget it!)
When he thinks it won't happen again, then: in a fog of morning light, perhaps March, there comes the copper-screech of the rings along his canopy. There will be a curtain sliding back, and wake up, Moony.
All over again.
MWPP era!
Written in sleepy, amorous haze!
Amazingly lengthy 622 words!
(PWP, basically)
Not quite NC17, though.
OH YEAH. For/inspired by llorelei.
bright ambassadors
It's starting again.
This time, he thinks, he will memorize it. This is how it feels when the covers are flung back to his knees, when the mist seeps in. This is how much harder the body above his feels with it's cloaked in cold air. His bones seem carved of ice but Remus doesn't shudder when Sirius's arms encircle him; he thinks about the February branches outside and their own sheen of ice and how they're melting too and that's all it is. Sirius's arms are twining around him and they're blooming breathing stretching together, and above all melting, the ice is leaving them. And Sirius's voice (c'mon, just...) is warm breeze, his tongue-
-but his tongue is flitting against the curve of his ear. His lips are wet, teeth sharp, nipping at his lobe in indelicate smacks that make his cock ache rubbing against his pajama bottoms. Remus forgets about pretending this is beautiful: he wraps his legs around Sirius's waist, parts them again half a second later so he can tug off coarse red-grey-striped fabric, and then spreads farther.
He's going to beg now.
Sirius will say yeah, Moony, m'gonna do it. His voice is still sleepy and thick in the early morning way. His fingers stab and twist and Remus clenches around him, moves his hips in quick little circles until he's fucking himself and groaning hoarsely, always unpracticed. Sirius doesn't stop him. His free hand is holding, only holding Remus's hip and leaving a shadow like a bruise. (Only like a bruise because he's never hurt him; he tugs at his ear, his collarbone, his nipples with his teeth and leaves pink tokens on his neck, but that is all.)
They don't pretend they have time.
(Remus stretches. His spine is an arch the moment before.)
And then Sirius is in him and driving him down into the mattress, more and more like being buried at each thrust. The springs are squeaking to a time of their own, faster than the second hand on the clock and what time was it again? He meant to remember but he's forgotten. He's going to forget again, about that and the burning in his lungs and the cotton in his throat and how he can only cry for it harder and harder and (how good it was). Please. Their hips strain in an almost-perfect rhythm, god-! Sirius fucks him so hard he can barely breathe.
This is how it feels.
They keep tumbling.
After Sirius pulls out, he rolls to his side and tugs open the plum-red curtains. The drifting frost mingles with their sweat. They are naked and side-by-side on Remus's bed at dawn in February in the dorm and they do not, decidedly do not, care. When the chill settles back in their bones, Sirius sits up, runs the back of his hand up and down Remus's arm for a moment, tracing blue paths up to his elbow, down to his wrist. Then he goes without a look (after he kisses him, sometimes). They won't say anything.
(If he doesn't start remembering soon the moments are going to drift away and drip away like February ice and he'll forget what it felt like when Sirius was coming inside of him. How it felt when it was just the tip of a tongue against the tip of his tongue and the pulp of their lips fused together. He will lose it, someday, but to forget-to forget it!)
When he thinks it won't happen again, then: in a fog of morning light, perhaps March, there comes the copper-screech of the rings along his canopy. There will be a curtain sliding back, and wake up, Moony.
All over again.