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small_giftsTitle: We’ll try and make it ours
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
oftirnanog
Recipient:cmajalis
Rating: PG-13
Contents or warnings (highlight to view): *angsty fluff, Sirius cooking and being soppy*
Word count: 1533
Summary: Remus has a bad day, Sirius does what he can to make it better
Notes: This takes place in a magical AU in which everything is the same except for that whole war thing…so you know, no one dies. (Quoted material belongs to Jonathan Swift.)
Sirius is making stew when Remus gets home. He’s just sprinkling in more cumin when he hears the door slam shut followed by some muffled cursing. He grins and takes a taste of stew. There is a great deal of banging and a thump of the coat rack falling over before he hears feet shuffling into the kitchen.
“Rough day?” he asks, not quite able to keep the hint of amusement out of his voice. Remus is always so calm and collected that it never fails to entertain when he’s disgruntled and irritated.
Remus doesn’t respond, doesn’t even offer a quiet ‘hmm’ to acknowledge that Sirius has spoken, so Sirius turns from the bubbling pot to look at him. The teasing words fall away when he sees the furrow creasing Remus’ brow and catches a glimpse of the letter he’s holding. It looks official—ministry seal and parchment.
“What’s that?” Sirius asks, stepping towards Remus and snatching the letter from him before he has a chance to tuck it away.
“It’s just registry stuff,” Remus responds—he sounds exhausted.
“Werewolf registry stuff,” Sirius states, glancing up and searching Remus’ face.
The look he’s wearing isn’t the impassive mask he usually adopts in situations like this, but it’s not one Sirius can decipher either. Mostly he looks tired, and there’s a hard line to his mouth, the combination of which is making him look very young. Sirius kind of wants to kiss it off his face, but he’s not entirely sure that’s the right thing here.
It takes him about a nanosecond to decide he doesn’t care before he’s stepping forward and pressing his lips against Remus’, working to soften the hard line that’s settled there.
Remus presses into him almost immediately, a soft sound humming at the back of his throat—almost like a growl, but more desperate. Sirius grabs Remus by the hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin above jutting bone, and turns them so he can push him back against the counter. He rocks his hips forward, earning himself a gasp and a mild scrape of fingernails against his scalp where Remus’ fingers have tangled in his hair.
Sirius’ fingers scrabble at the buttons on Remus’ shirt to get at more skin. Remus responds by untangling his hands from Sirius’ hair and working at his belt. Sirius’ hips jerk forward of their own accord and he presses messy kisses to Remus’ jaw and neck. He knows they should really talk about it—the letter that is now lying forgotten on the floor—but Remus smells good, like Earl Grey tea and a hint of chocolate, and he can tell that Remus needs this right now.
So he moves his mouth up to Remus’ ear and then to his lips where he kisses him, full and little filthy, with too much tongue.
“Bedroom,” Remus gasps when he pulls away, hands in Sirius’ boxers kneading his arse. He presses his lips to the shell of Sirius’ ear to whisper, “There’s lube in the bedroom.”
Sirius’ whole body shudders forward in an attempt to press closer. He wants to absorb Remus into himself, or be absorbed by him, whichever would allow him to keep Remus always—this desperate, needy Remus with his pupils blown wide and a glint of mischief in his grin. Sirius growls and steps back, pulling Remus with him so they can move to the bedroom. Remus chuckles and nips at his bottom lip and Sirius is pretty sure that one day this is going to kill him because there’s only so much his heart can handle and he’s so hard that everything other than Remus is a hazy blur.
They have graceless, frantic sex, clinging to each other like drowning men, as though they can prevent each other from going under. They come down from it in a mess of tangled sheets twisting around their legs.
Sirius presses his face into Remus’ shoulder inhaling sweat and sex and something like contentment. He brushes his lips gently against the damp skin, dips the tip of his tongue out to taste salt and freckles.
He doesn’t want to spoil this, doesn’t want to pull them out of this quiet, languid moment, but before he can stop himself he’s asking, “So what did it say?”
Remus sighs, breath ruffling through Sirius’ hair. His voice is muffled when he answers, “They’re sending out a letter to my employer to inform them of my ‘condition.’ Something about responsibility to public safety.”
“What?” Sirius asks, indignant. He pulls back to look Remus in the eyes. He’s greeted with a small smile and something in Sirius’ chest clenches painfully when he sees the resignation there.
Sirius lays back down, readjusting himself in Remus’ arms, and runs his fingers absently through the smattering of hair under his navel. “Will they fire you?” he asks quietly.
Part of him hopes Remus doesn’t hear the question, but he has to ask it. It took Remus so long to find this job and the thought of him losing it makes Sirius want to rail against the whole world. He wants to march right into the ministry and curse every subsequent generation of the people who’ve done this.
Sirius can feel Remus shrug. “Hopefully not,” Remus says. The unspoken probably hangs in the air and Sirius grips Remus’ hip too hard, pulling himself further into the warmth that Remus always radiates.
“You want some stew?” Sirius asks after a stretch of silence, commending himself on choosing to make something that pretty much cooks itself.
Remus murmurs a yes and they make their way to the kitchen in each other’s clothes. The vegetables are overcooked, but it still tastes good, and when they fall back to bed everything feels a little bit better than it did.
The morning breaks bright and clear through their bedroom window, red light behind his eyes pulling Sirius out of sleep. Remus is still breathing steadily, eyes flickering slightly with a dream, soft snores escaping occasionally. Sirius watches him for a moment, ignoring the voice in his head—the one that sounds remarkably like James—telling him this is a ridiculously sappy thing to be doing. He just smiles to himself and gently pushes the hair back from Remus’ forehead.
Eventually he pulls himself out of bed to put the kettle on. He grabs two mugs from the cupboard and drops a tea bag in each. While he’s waiting for the water to boil he watches the early morning shadows dance on the floor. It’s then that he remembers the letter, still lying against the linoleum, slightly crumpled in one corner, looking every bit as official and damning as it had the day before.
Sirius bends to pick it up, gives it a quick scan to be sure there’s nothing in it that Remus might have to fill out or return, and promptly chucks it in the bin.
When Sirius returns to the bedroom with the tea, Remus is sitting up reading a book, his new reading glasses perched on his nose, and Sirius stops in the doorway just to stare at him. He resigns himself to a morning of unreasonable sentimentality and watches him for a minute. He looks calmer today, more like himself, the soft furrow in his brow caused by his concentration on the book rather than real worry. Sirius wishes there were a way to bottle this, trap it in something so they could take it out whenever they needed it.
Instead he walks into the room, and Remus shuts the book, marking the spot with his thumb between the pages, then smiles when he sees the mugs of tea.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Good morning,” Sirius replies, and crawls under the covers once he’s deposited the mugs on the bedside table. He kisses Remus, grinning into the morning breath, and then positions himself so that he’s tucked into the crook of Remus’ chest and shoulder.
“What’s this then?” Sirius asks, snatching the book away from Remus and earning himself an exasperated sigh. Sirius grins at this and presses himself further into Remus’ warm presence.
“Gulliver’s Travels,” Remus responds, and Sirius doesn’t have to look to know he’s smiling.
“Ah, muggle literature. One more thing for my mother to be appalled at,” he says cheerfully, and feels more than hears Remus chuckle. “Where were you?” he asks, lifting the book so Remus can see.
“‘The natural love of life-’” he says, pointing at the appropriate line of text.
“Right then. ‘The natural love of life,’” he begins, “‘gave me some inward motions of joy; and I was ready to entertain a hope, that this adventure might some way or other help to deliver me from the desolate place and condition I was in.’”
Sirius lets himself get lost in the words, in the small caresses that Remus is running up his arm, in the ease of a lazy morning. And maybe it really is as simple as all that—letting themselves have these moments. If they can do that, and hang on to each other, then maybe the ministry letters and lost jobs won’t matter. Maybe they can let their love be enough.
Author/Artist:
oftirnanogRecipient:
cmajalisRating: PG-13
Contents or warnings (highlight to view): *angsty fluff, Sirius cooking and being soppy*
Word count: 1533
Summary: Remus has a bad day, Sirius does what he can to make it better
Notes: This takes place in a magical AU in which everything is the same except for that whole war thing…so you know, no one dies. (Quoted material belongs to Jonathan Swift.)
Sirius is making stew when Remus gets home. He’s just sprinkling in more cumin when he hears the door slam shut followed by some muffled cursing. He grins and takes a taste of stew. There is a great deal of banging and a thump of the coat rack falling over before he hears feet shuffling into the kitchen.
“Rough day?” he asks, not quite able to keep the hint of amusement out of his voice. Remus is always so calm and collected that it never fails to entertain when he’s disgruntled and irritated.
Remus doesn’t respond, doesn’t even offer a quiet ‘hmm’ to acknowledge that Sirius has spoken, so Sirius turns from the bubbling pot to look at him. The teasing words fall away when he sees the furrow creasing Remus’ brow and catches a glimpse of the letter he’s holding. It looks official—ministry seal and parchment.
“What’s that?” Sirius asks, stepping towards Remus and snatching the letter from him before he has a chance to tuck it away.
“It’s just registry stuff,” Remus responds—he sounds exhausted.
“Werewolf registry stuff,” Sirius states, glancing up and searching Remus’ face.
The look he’s wearing isn’t the impassive mask he usually adopts in situations like this, but it’s not one Sirius can decipher either. Mostly he looks tired, and there’s a hard line to his mouth, the combination of which is making him look very young. Sirius kind of wants to kiss it off his face, but he’s not entirely sure that’s the right thing here.
It takes him about a nanosecond to decide he doesn’t care before he’s stepping forward and pressing his lips against Remus’, working to soften the hard line that’s settled there.
Remus presses into him almost immediately, a soft sound humming at the back of his throat—almost like a growl, but more desperate. Sirius grabs Remus by the hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin above jutting bone, and turns them so he can push him back against the counter. He rocks his hips forward, earning himself a gasp and a mild scrape of fingernails against his scalp where Remus’ fingers have tangled in his hair.
Sirius’ fingers scrabble at the buttons on Remus’ shirt to get at more skin. Remus responds by untangling his hands from Sirius’ hair and working at his belt. Sirius’ hips jerk forward of their own accord and he presses messy kisses to Remus’ jaw and neck. He knows they should really talk about it—the letter that is now lying forgotten on the floor—but Remus smells good, like Earl Grey tea and a hint of chocolate, and he can tell that Remus needs this right now.
So he moves his mouth up to Remus’ ear and then to his lips where he kisses him, full and little filthy, with too much tongue.
“Bedroom,” Remus gasps when he pulls away, hands in Sirius’ boxers kneading his arse. He presses his lips to the shell of Sirius’ ear to whisper, “There’s lube in the bedroom.”
Sirius’ whole body shudders forward in an attempt to press closer. He wants to absorb Remus into himself, or be absorbed by him, whichever would allow him to keep Remus always—this desperate, needy Remus with his pupils blown wide and a glint of mischief in his grin. Sirius growls and steps back, pulling Remus with him so they can move to the bedroom. Remus chuckles and nips at his bottom lip and Sirius is pretty sure that one day this is going to kill him because there’s only so much his heart can handle and he’s so hard that everything other than Remus is a hazy blur.
They have graceless, frantic sex, clinging to each other like drowning men, as though they can prevent each other from going under. They come down from it in a mess of tangled sheets twisting around their legs.
Sirius presses his face into Remus’ shoulder inhaling sweat and sex and something like contentment. He brushes his lips gently against the damp skin, dips the tip of his tongue out to taste salt and freckles.
He doesn’t want to spoil this, doesn’t want to pull them out of this quiet, languid moment, but before he can stop himself he’s asking, “So what did it say?”
Remus sighs, breath ruffling through Sirius’ hair. His voice is muffled when he answers, “They’re sending out a letter to my employer to inform them of my ‘condition.’ Something about responsibility to public safety.”
“What?” Sirius asks, indignant. He pulls back to look Remus in the eyes. He’s greeted with a small smile and something in Sirius’ chest clenches painfully when he sees the resignation there.
Sirius lays back down, readjusting himself in Remus’ arms, and runs his fingers absently through the smattering of hair under his navel. “Will they fire you?” he asks quietly.
Part of him hopes Remus doesn’t hear the question, but he has to ask it. It took Remus so long to find this job and the thought of him losing it makes Sirius want to rail against the whole world. He wants to march right into the ministry and curse every subsequent generation of the people who’ve done this.
Sirius can feel Remus shrug. “Hopefully not,” Remus says. The unspoken probably hangs in the air and Sirius grips Remus’ hip too hard, pulling himself further into the warmth that Remus always radiates.
“You want some stew?” Sirius asks after a stretch of silence, commending himself on choosing to make something that pretty much cooks itself.
Remus murmurs a yes and they make their way to the kitchen in each other’s clothes. The vegetables are overcooked, but it still tastes good, and when they fall back to bed everything feels a little bit better than it did.
The morning breaks bright and clear through their bedroom window, red light behind his eyes pulling Sirius out of sleep. Remus is still breathing steadily, eyes flickering slightly with a dream, soft snores escaping occasionally. Sirius watches him for a moment, ignoring the voice in his head—the one that sounds remarkably like James—telling him this is a ridiculously sappy thing to be doing. He just smiles to himself and gently pushes the hair back from Remus’ forehead.
Eventually he pulls himself out of bed to put the kettle on. He grabs two mugs from the cupboard and drops a tea bag in each. While he’s waiting for the water to boil he watches the early morning shadows dance on the floor. It’s then that he remembers the letter, still lying against the linoleum, slightly crumpled in one corner, looking every bit as official and damning as it had the day before.
Sirius bends to pick it up, gives it a quick scan to be sure there’s nothing in it that Remus might have to fill out or return, and promptly chucks it in the bin.
When Sirius returns to the bedroom with the tea, Remus is sitting up reading a book, his new reading glasses perched on his nose, and Sirius stops in the doorway just to stare at him. He resigns himself to a morning of unreasonable sentimentality and watches him for a minute. He looks calmer today, more like himself, the soft furrow in his brow caused by his concentration on the book rather than real worry. Sirius wishes there were a way to bottle this, trap it in something so they could take it out whenever they needed it.
Instead he walks into the room, and Remus shuts the book, marking the spot with his thumb between the pages, then smiles when he sees the mugs of tea.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Good morning,” Sirius replies, and crawls under the covers once he’s deposited the mugs on the bedside table. He kisses Remus, grinning into the morning breath, and then positions himself so that he’s tucked into the crook of Remus’ chest and shoulder.
“What’s this then?” Sirius asks, snatching the book away from Remus and earning himself an exasperated sigh. Sirius grins at this and presses himself further into Remus’ warm presence.
“Gulliver’s Travels,” Remus responds, and Sirius doesn’t have to look to know he’s smiling.
“Ah, muggle literature. One more thing for my mother to be appalled at,” he says cheerfully, and feels more than hears Remus chuckle. “Where were you?” he asks, lifting the book so Remus can see.
“‘The natural love of life-’” he says, pointing at the appropriate line of text.
“Right then. ‘The natural love of life,’” he begins, “‘gave me some inward motions of joy; and I was ready to entertain a hope, that this adventure might some way or other help to deliver me from the desolate place and condition I was in.’”
Sirius lets himself get lost in the words, in the small caresses that Remus is running up his arm, in the ease of a lazy morning. And maybe it really is as simple as all that—letting themselves have these moments. If they can do that, and hang on to each other, then maybe the ministry letters and lost jobs won’t matter. Maybe they can let their love be enough.
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Date: 2011-12-21 07:27 am (UTC)