Fic: No Present for Padfoot for JenCala
Dec. 3rd, 2017 10:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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small_giftsTitle:No Present for Padfoot
Author/Artist:abradystrix
Recipient:jencala
Rating:M
Contents or warnings (highlight to view):
*Smut*
Word count:1850
Summary: Sirius isn't celebrating Christmas this year, on principle of course. But that's not to say there won't be mistletoe...
Notes: Thank you to the wonderful B-H for beta-ing and apologies to the lovely Jen for some, er, mild angst that snuck in there!
It’s quite amusing, winding Prongs up, thinks Sirius.
‘Run that past me again, won’t you Padfoot?’ James asks, eyes narrowed behind his glasses.
‘Why certainly, Prongs. This year, I shall be cancelling Christmas and instead, celebrating the Feast of Saint Lucia of Syraceuse,’ responds Sirius.
‘And you are doing this why?’
‘Hasn’t Evans been keeping you up to date with women’s liberation, Prongs? How very backwards of you. You may live in the dark ages, but I… I see myself as more of a Renaissance man, and my refusal to engage in the materialistic, sycophantic fest and the marginalisation of the female…’
‘She gouged her eyes out,’ says Peter helpfully, a mouthful of cake crumbling onto the book in front of him.
‘She what?’ asks James, whirling around to eyeball him.
‘Says here…’ he mumbles, swallowing hurriedly, fumbling, squinting at the page, ‘…she gouged her own eyes out to discourage a persistent suitor. Muggles don’t recognise the use of a simple use of disillusionment and glamour charm and remain bewildered as to how, upon her death, her eyes were miraculously restored.’
Peter ponders this for a moment, absently popping another lump of cake in his mouth. James looks from Peter to Sirius in utter confusion. Sirius smirks and stubs out his cigarette on the windowsill of the dormitory window in which he is sitting, silhouetted against the snowscape outside. He pushes the window down and crosses to his bed.
‘Where’s Moony?’ James asks, finally, ‘and what on earth does he make of this? It’s five days before bloody CHRISTMAS Padfoot!’
‘He is, as you well know, on Prefect rounds and to be honest, I don’t really know or care what he thinks,’ replied Sirius.
‘Are you still not talking?’ asks Peter, with interest.
‘It would seem not,’ replies Sirius, scowling.
‘And this not celebrating Christmas… this wouldn’t have anything to do with Remus’ fondness for the holiday, would it?’ asks James.
‘No!’ snaps Sirius. ‘I simply wish to recognise the plight of…’
‘Bollocks. You’re in a mood, because Moony still won’t talk to you, and to be honest mate, I don’t blame him. I’m sure you and St Looseleaf of Circleoo, or whatever, will have a lovely time together but in the meantime, give the pretentiousness a miss won’t you? Get your fucking act together and stop being a wanker.’ And with that, a frustrated James Potter draws his bed curtains shut with a grunt. Sirius, chastised, looks over to Peter who offers a conciliatory shrug.
‘He’ll be fine… Do you still get presents?’ he asks Sirius, after a beat.
‘Do I… what? Did you not hear what I said about the materialistic…’
‘Oh. Yeah.’ Peter looks downcast and lies back on his pillow, not bothering to clear the crumbs or book from his bed.
Sirius feels quite alone, all of a sudden and after a period of tossing and turning, decides to head down to the dying embers of the common room fire to see if the Hogwarts elves won’t bring him a hot chocolate.
***
Sirius doesn’t expect to see him there, but there he is. Sitting in front of the fire, curled up in an armchair, eyes heavy with sleep, is Remus Lupin. In that moment, Sirius forgets himself entirely because there’s a beating of his heart deep in his stomach that he can’t push away, and a feeling of such intense pull towards this boy, this young man, this wolf, that he can’t breathe.
Fuck it, this never gets easier. He hopes it never will.
He licks his lips nervously and moves over to the chair opposite him, and for a while just watches him, the shadows highlighting the nooks and crannies of the face he swears is inscribed in his mind, in his very bones, like something preserved in amber.
Peter and James know they’re not talking, but they don’t know why, not really. They think it’s the prank, still. They think that the shadow of the Whomping Willow is what has driven a wedge between them: they don’t know that that was resolved months ago, in a heated, fervent exchange in the quiet of the dormitory, after dark, curtains closed and silence liberally charmed around the room.
They don’t know it’s because he’s fucking stupid and incapable of being loved.
They don’t know that it’s because he managed to ruin what should have been a perfect moment with his stupid fucking mouth and his stupid fucking sass.
They had been sitting by the lake, watching the water, leaning against one another as they had taken to doing of late. That unspoken closeness that was growing between them, that hesitant sense of movement towards - what, exactly? Sirius had been lost in thought when it happened.
‘Sirius… I love you,’ Remus had said, suddenly, eyes searching, mouth open, heart beating.
‘I…ah…’ he had responded after a clanging silence, ‘…that’s great! Thanks mate…’
And with that Remus had retreated, wounded, stung, a crestfallen expression writ large upon his face.
It wasn’t like it was his fault, thinks Sirius in frustration - nobody had ever really said it to him before. He had tried once, years ago with his mother, and had been met with such derision and indifference that he had boxed that part of himself up and buried it deep inside. He knows how he feels about his friends, how he cares for them (so very deeply) and what he would do for them (anything) but Moony - Moony is different. Moony is wanting, Moony is being, Moony is his person, his wolf, his Remus and when he starts trying to think about what that means and how to say it, he panics, he loses his train of thought and feels so small and vulnerable and big and vast at the same time that he thinks it’s probably better not to say anything at all.
But looking at him now in the firelight, he realises what a fool he’s been. Because of course he loves him. He always has and always will. He’s just incapable of doing or saying the right thing because he’s Sirius and he’s more preoccupied with saving face and inventing new, weird holidays to realise that sometimes it’s better to just be honest, and vulnerable, no matter how scary it is.
Before he knows it, he has snuck over to the chair and finds himself crouched over Remus’ lap, where he places himself and wakes him by prodding his chest with a long finger. Remus stirs and mumbles, groggy.
‘Go away. I’m avoiding you.’
‘No you’re not,’ retorts Sirius, indicating the lack of space between them.
‘I was trying to,’ says Remus, squirming feebly.
‘Don’t,’ says Sirius, suddenly panicked. ‘Don’t go.’
‘Why on earth should I stay?’ asks Remus, not meeting his eyes.
‘Because I’m an utter prick and I miss you,’ he says, catching Remus wrists in his hands, holding them lightly, ‘and I fucked up. I really, really fucked up.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with saying how you feel,’ whispers Remus, his gaze fixed over Sirius’ head, and his shoulders slumped.
‘But I didn’t,’ he replies urgently, grabbing Remus’ face and imploring him to believe him, staring into those eyes that he loves so much, flecked with amber and dark as chocolate. They are swimming with hurt now and Sirius can barely breathe for the need to fix this, right here and now, and to lay his claim once again to the other part of him, the one that sits warm below him, waxing and waning with the moon.
‘Of course I fucking love you Moony. I’ve loved you since I saw you on the Hogwarts Express in your raggedy cloak and your ridiculous trunk with your beautiful hair and your bitten nails. I’ve loved you since we started chasing the moon together, and I wasn’t able to say it because I’m a massive fucking idiot who doesn’t believe that someone as wonderful as you could love someone like him. And that’s why I was shit and hurt you and I’m sorry. And now I’ve made up a stupid new holiday to avoid Christmas because I’m so convinced you won’t ever talk to me again and I didn’t know that St Lucy gouged her eyes out, I thought she was another one, and now I look a right prick and I probably won’t get any pres…’
He is interrupted by a sudden kiss and a soft growl, and as Remus gently bites down on his lower lip, he forgets all about Christmas, and his pretensions and his stupid, stupid heart and loses himself in this kiss.
When Remus finally pulls away, he whispers, ‘Say it again.’
‘I love you,’ he responds, instantaneously, with conviction and passion and clarity such as he’s never felt before. ‘I love you Remus.’
‘That’s all I need,’ says Remus, his eyes swimming, sparkling and his hands on top of Sirius’, still clasped to his cheeks. They kiss again and this - this is everything. Why they haven’t been doing this for years is beyond Sirius, beyond reason. As they pull back, Remus smirks briefly.
‘What?’ asks Sirius, confused.
‘You’re a cliche, Padfoot,’ says Remus, looking upwards. Following his gaze, Sirius catches sight of a sprig of mistletoe, high above their heads. Kicking himself inwardly, he groans and hides his face in Remus’ neck, listening to him chuckle.
‘I didn’t get you anything Moony,’ he mumbles, ‘because I was too scared.’
‘I didn’t get you anything, Padfoot,’ Remus replies, the rumble of his voice against Sirius’ chest reverberating and warming him to the core, ‘because you’d been a shit.’
Sirius laughs, despite himself, and it sounds like a wonderful bark. Pulling back, he looks down at Remus, whose eyes are burning bright with something entirely new. Something wicked takes hold of Sirius, stirs within him, kindling a sense of ownership and lust that he didn’t realise he was capable of. He drops from Remus’ lap to the floor, kneeling between his knees and playing with the loose tie of Remus’ dressing gown. Pulling it open, he allows his hands to grip his hips through the criminally thin pyjama fabric, fingertips running lightly over the material. He looks up at Remus, as though to ask permission, and is struck by the look on his face, utterly knowing, utterly trusting, completely open. Without thinking, Sirius drags the waistband of those trousers down and instinctively bends his head towards the part of Moony he has dreamt most vividly of over these years.
His cock is beautiful, swollen and perfect and Sirius bends to kiss it. He feels Remus gasp, and cry out, and the deliciousness of this sensation of power is almost too much for him. One hand grasping the base and the other rested on his thigh, Sirius looks up at Remus as he takes him completely in his mouth. Remus’ face is flushed, his mouth wide and his big hand tangled in Sirius’ hair.
It is not, perhaps, the most traditional mistletoe kiss, thinks Sirius as he loses himself in the most wonderful of moments.
But then again, he’s not celebrating Christmas this year...
Author/Artist:
abradystrixRecipient:
jencalaRating:M
Contents or warnings (highlight to view):
*Smut*
Word count:1850
Summary: Sirius isn't celebrating Christmas this year, on principle of course. But that's not to say there won't be mistletoe...
Notes: Thank you to the wonderful B-H for beta-ing and apologies to the lovely Jen for some, er, mild angst that snuck in there!
It’s quite amusing, winding Prongs up, thinks Sirius.
‘Run that past me again, won’t you Padfoot?’ James asks, eyes narrowed behind his glasses.
‘Why certainly, Prongs. This year, I shall be cancelling Christmas and instead, celebrating the Feast of Saint Lucia of Syraceuse,’ responds Sirius.
‘And you are doing this why?’
‘Hasn’t Evans been keeping you up to date with women’s liberation, Prongs? How very backwards of you. You may live in the dark ages, but I… I see myself as more of a Renaissance man, and my refusal to engage in the materialistic, sycophantic fest and the marginalisation of the female…’
‘She gouged her eyes out,’ says Peter helpfully, a mouthful of cake crumbling onto the book in front of him.
‘She what?’ asks James, whirling around to eyeball him.
‘Says here…’ he mumbles, swallowing hurriedly, fumbling, squinting at the page, ‘…she gouged her own eyes out to discourage a persistent suitor. Muggles don’t recognise the use of a simple use of disillusionment and glamour charm and remain bewildered as to how, upon her death, her eyes were miraculously restored.’
Peter ponders this for a moment, absently popping another lump of cake in his mouth. James looks from Peter to Sirius in utter confusion. Sirius smirks and stubs out his cigarette on the windowsill of the dormitory window in which he is sitting, silhouetted against the snowscape outside. He pushes the window down and crosses to his bed.
‘Where’s Moony?’ James asks, finally, ‘and what on earth does he make of this? It’s five days before bloody CHRISTMAS Padfoot!’
‘He is, as you well know, on Prefect rounds and to be honest, I don’t really know or care what he thinks,’ replied Sirius.
‘Are you still not talking?’ asks Peter, with interest.
‘It would seem not,’ replies Sirius, scowling.
‘And this not celebrating Christmas… this wouldn’t have anything to do with Remus’ fondness for the holiday, would it?’ asks James.
‘No!’ snaps Sirius. ‘I simply wish to recognise the plight of…’
‘Bollocks. You’re in a mood, because Moony still won’t talk to you, and to be honest mate, I don’t blame him. I’m sure you and St Looseleaf of Circleoo, or whatever, will have a lovely time together but in the meantime, give the pretentiousness a miss won’t you? Get your fucking act together and stop being a wanker.’ And with that, a frustrated James Potter draws his bed curtains shut with a grunt. Sirius, chastised, looks over to Peter who offers a conciliatory shrug.
‘He’ll be fine… Do you still get presents?’ he asks Sirius, after a beat.
‘Do I… what? Did you not hear what I said about the materialistic…’
‘Oh. Yeah.’ Peter looks downcast and lies back on his pillow, not bothering to clear the crumbs or book from his bed.
Sirius feels quite alone, all of a sudden and after a period of tossing and turning, decides to head down to the dying embers of the common room fire to see if the Hogwarts elves won’t bring him a hot chocolate.
***
Sirius doesn’t expect to see him there, but there he is. Sitting in front of the fire, curled up in an armchair, eyes heavy with sleep, is Remus Lupin. In that moment, Sirius forgets himself entirely because there’s a beating of his heart deep in his stomach that he can’t push away, and a feeling of such intense pull towards this boy, this young man, this wolf, that he can’t breathe.
Fuck it, this never gets easier. He hopes it never will.
He licks his lips nervously and moves over to the chair opposite him, and for a while just watches him, the shadows highlighting the nooks and crannies of the face he swears is inscribed in his mind, in his very bones, like something preserved in amber.
Peter and James know they’re not talking, but they don’t know why, not really. They think it’s the prank, still. They think that the shadow of the Whomping Willow is what has driven a wedge between them: they don’t know that that was resolved months ago, in a heated, fervent exchange in the quiet of the dormitory, after dark, curtains closed and silence liberally charmed around the room.
They don’t know it’s because he’s fucking stupid and incapable of being loved.
They don’t know that it’s because he managed to ruin what should have been a perfect moment with his stupid fucking mouth and his stupid fucking sass.
They had been sitting by the lake, watching the water, leaning against one another as they had taken to doing of late. That unspoken closeness that was growing between them, that hesitant sense of movement towards - what, exactly? Sirius had been lost in thought when it happened.
‘Sirius… I love you,’ Remus had said, suddenly, eyes searching, mouth open, heart beating.
‘I…ah…’ he had responded after a clanging silence, ‘…that’s great! Thanks mate…’
And with that Remus had retreated, wounded, stung, a crestfallen expression writ large upon his face.
It wasn’t like it was his fault, thinks Sirius in frustration - nobody had ever really said it to him before. He had tried once, years ago with his mother, and had been met with such derision and indifference that he had boxed that part of himself up and buried it deep inside. He knows how he feels about his friends, how he cares for them (so very deeply) and what he would do for them (anything) but Moony - Moony is different. Moony is wanting, Moony is being, Moony is his person, his wolf, his Remus and when he starts trying to think about what that means and how to say it, he panics, he loses his train of thought and feels so small and vulnerable and big and vast at the same time that he thinks it’s probably better not to say anything at all.
But looking at him now in the firelight, he realises what a fool he’s been. Because of course he loves him. He always has and always will. He’s just incapable of doing or saying the right thing because he’s Sirius and he’s more preoccupied with saving face and inventing new, weird holidays to realise that sometimes it’s better to just be honest, and vulnerable, no matter how scary it is.
Before he knows it, he has snuck over to the chair and finds himself crouched over Remus’ lap, where he places himself and wakes him by prodding his chest with a long finger. Remus stirs and mumbles, groggy.
‘Go away. I’m avoiding you.’
‘No you’re not,’ retorts Sirius, indicating the lack of space between them.
‘I was trying to,’ says Remus, squirming feebly.
‘Don’t,’ says Sirius, suddenly panicked. ‘Don’t go.’
‘Why on earth should I stay?’ asks Remus, not meeting his eyes.
‘Because I’m an utter prick and I miss you,’ he says, catching Remus wrists in his hands, holding them lightly, ‘and I fucked up. I really, really fucked up.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with saying how you feel,’ whispers Remus, his gaze fixed over Sirius’ head, and his shoulders slumped.
‘But I didn’t,’ he replies urgently, grabbing Remus’ face and imploring him to believe him, staring into those eyes that he loves so much, flecked with amber and dark as chocolate. They are swimming with hurt now and Sirius can barely breathe for the need to fix this, right here and now, and to lay his claim once again to the other part of him, the one that sits warm below him, waxing and waning with the moon.
‘Of course I fucking love you Moony. I’ve loved you since I saw you on the Hogwarts Express in your raggedy cloak and your ridiculous trunk with your beautiful hair and your bitten nails. I’ve loved you since we started chasing the moon together, and I wasn’t able to say it because I’m a massive fucking idiot who doesn’t believe that someone as wonderful as you could love someone like him. And that’s why I was shit and hurt you and I’m sorry. And now I’ve made up a stupid new holiday to avoid Christmas because I’m so convinced you won’t ever talk to me again and I didn’t know that St Lucy gouged her eyes out, I thought she was another one, and now I look a right prick and I probably won’t get any pres…’
He is interrupted by a sudden kiss and a soft growl, and as Remus gently bites down on his lower lip, he forgets all about Christmas, and his pretensions and his stupid, stupid heart and loses himself in this kiss.
When Remus finally pulls away, he whispers, ‘Say it again.’
‘I love you,’ he responds, instantaneously, with conviction and passion and clarity such as he’s never felt before. ‘I love you Remus.’
‘That’s all I need,’ says Remus, his eyes swimming, sparkling and his hands on top of Sirius’, still clasped to his cheeks. They kiss again and this - this is everything. Why they haven’t been doing this for years is beyond Sirius, beyond reason. As they pull back, Remus smirks briefly.
‘What?’ asks Sirius, confused.
‘You’re a cliche, Padfoot,’ says Remus, looking upwards. Following his gaze, Sirius catches sight of a sprig of mistletoe, high above their heads. Kicking himself inwardly, he groans and hides his face in Remus’ neck, listening to him chuckle.
‘I didn’t get you anything Moony,’ he mumbles, ‘because I was too scared.’
‘I didn’t get you anything, Padfoot,’ Remus replies, the rumble of his voice against Sirius’ chest reverberating and warming him to the core, ‘because you’d been a shit.’
Sirius laughs, despite himself, and it sounds like a wonderful bark. Pulling back, he looks down at Remus, whose eyes are burning bright with something entirely new. Something wicked takes hold of Sirius, stirs within him, kindling a sense of ownership and lust that he didn’t realise he was capable of. He drops from Remus’ lap to the floor, kneeling between his knees and playing with the loose tie of Remus’ dressing gown. Pulling it open, he allows his hands to grip his hips through the criminally thin pyjama fabric, fingertips running lightly over the material. He looks up at Remus, as though to ask permission, and is struck by the look on his face, utterly knowing, utterly trusting, completely open. Without thinking, Sirius drags the waistband of those trousers down and instinctively bends his head towards the part of Moony he has dreamt most vividly of over these years.
His cock is beautiful, swollen and perfect and Sirius bends to kiss it. He feels Remus gasp, and cry out, and the deliciousness of this sensation of power is almost too much for him. One hand grasping the base and the other rested on his thigh, Sirius looks up at Remus as he takes him completely in his mouth. Remus’ face is flushed, his mouth wide and his big hand tangled in Sirius’ hair.
It is not, perhaps, the most traditional mistletoe kiss, thinks Sirius as he loses himself in the most wonderful of moments.
But then again, he’s not celebrating Christmas this year...
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Date: 2017-12-17 07:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-18 06:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-17 07:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-18 06:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-23 02:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-17 09:27 pm (UTC)And it was also very sweet, Sirius' nervousness and hesitation were darling. Especially this bit: Sirius doesn’t expect to see him there, but there he is. Sitting in front of the fire, curled up in an armchair, eyes heavy with sleep, is Remus Lupin. In that moment, Sirius forgets himself entirely because there’s a beating of his heart deep in his stomach that he can’t push away, and a feeling of such intense pull towards this boy, this young man, this wolf, that he can’t breathe.
no subject
Date: 2017-12-18 06:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-17 10:58 pm (UTC)Also, "criminally thin pyjama fabric" is criminally tasty. Perfect ending!
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Date: 2017-12-18 06:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-18 09:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-18 06:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-18 04:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-18 07:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-18 07:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-20 03:10 pm (UTC)What a cute story! Stubborn Sirius cracked me up, especially since none of the other Marauders fell for it.
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Date: 2017-12-23 06:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-25 06:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-03 05:41 pm (UTC)