Of The

Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters and universe are property of JKR, Scholastic & other assorted publishers, and the WB.
Notes: Summary is a Winston Churchill quote. This is being written for the BlanketForts challenge at the LiveJournal Community of the same name. While some parts are not R or NC-17, overall the story is rated NC-17. The story will be updated regularly throughout the month, as this is a daily challenge lasting the month of January. The story begins at the end and will end at the beginning. Along the way, we'll be jumping back and forth in time. There are 31 parts in this story. The Roman Numerals at the beginning of each section give you an indication of 'when' in the course of Remus's and Sirius's history together these things happen.


viii.

"Blind!" gasps Sirius, screwing his eyes shut against the offending glaringly white-bright sunlight suddenly streaming invading bursting through a gap in the curtains of his four-poster. "Fucking blind! For the love of-- Moony!"

"Sorry about that," says Remus, but Sirius doesn't think he sounds sorry at all, the prick.

A rustling of fabric and an "It's fine now, Sirius" aren't enough to make him open his eyes. He's irked as Remus has woken him from a peaceful slumber, during which he'd been having the most excellent dream about being in the middle of a Remus Lupin-Catriona McCormack sandwich whilst Merlin and Grindelwald took notes on his sexual prowess. The likelihood, of course, of this dream ever becoming reality - as Merlin and likely wouldn't have got on well, McCormack is a bird and he hasn't an interest in such creatures, and he wouldn't ever share Remus with anyone - is nil. Not that he's actually had Remus. Not yet. They've snogged some and groped bits over clothing, but there hasn't been time for anything else. Or privacy. Post-New Years was brilliant and short-lived; James, Peter, and the rest of the lot returned from holiday before-- Well, it wasn't as though he had been wanting to sit Remus down to have a sodding talk about 'oh dear, whatever are we now' like they were a pair of pansies in a fucking pink pot. He'd just sort of wanted to... Christ, he just wanted to get some sort of confirmation from Remus that they weren't just faffing about and wasting time. It never happened, though, and they haven't had time alone since school resumed.

The mattress dips beneath him, shaking as another body settles atop it. Sirius still doesn't open his eyes. He shifts, pressing shoulder blades down hard, spine arching up up up till he can hearfeel the cracking of his vertebrae as they snap into place, sending a sharp hot pleasurepain up down out.

"There are better ways than that to alleviate the pressure in your spine," says Remus quietly.

Sirius snorts. "Fucking right there are," he says, opening his eyes, propping himself up on his shoulders to leer at Remus. As expected, colour blooms in his cheeks and he won't look Sirius in the eye.

"Peter has detention with Professor Slughorn and James is in the library," Remus volunteers, and Sirius gets the distinct impression that Remus is staring at a spot on his shoulder.

Good old Pete. Blew up a cauldron in the first day of class after holiday, earning his sorry arse Saturday detention for a bleeding month. As for James... "You forgot to add the part about him trying to get a look-see up Evans's skirt while he's pretending to revise...in the library."

"Yes, well," says Remus mildly, his face becoming more flushed. "There is that."

"Yes," Sirius agrees. "There is that." Then: "Fuck me! It's colder than a witch's tit in here!"

And it is. Shit, how'd he manage to sleep in this icebox? He twists around, groping for his wand, but he can't find the damned thing; it must have rolled off the bed onto the floor while he'd been sleeping. "Remus, Warming Charm, for fuck's sakes!"

"You don't want me to do that."

"Yes I fucking do! My bollocks are going to shrivel up, freeze to fucking death, then fall off, and I rather don't fancy becoming a eunuch!"

"The window is open because James spilt a phial of cologne he'd brewed. We got the stain out of the rug with a few Cleaning Charms, but the smell won't go away; the room needs to be aired out."

Fucking James and his goddamned never-ending quest to impress Lily Evans. When is he ever going to learn that she isn't sodding interested?

"I'm gonna kill him," he mutters, reaching up to finish closing the four-poster curtains all the way. "Gonna take my shrivelled, frozen bollocks and make him bloody choke on them."

"Perhaps you might like some tea first," Remus suggests, conjuring a cup, steaming sweet orchid smells inviting comforting calming.

Inhaling the aroma, the irritation that had begun to boil over quickly cools, soothed. Yes, before he does anything, be it kill James or drag his arse out of bed or become Minister for Magic, not necessarily in that order, Sirius would quite like to have some tea.

Ruddy Remus. Knows him too fucking well for his own good.

"Thanks," he murmurs, fingers fitting curling owning the cup and he drinks, hot liquid a lifeline and an anchor and a freedom all in one. It quells the chill in his bones and sets his mind at ease. He shares a comfortable silence with Remus, whom simply sits at the far end of the four-poster watching him.

"You're welcome." Remus's voice is soft and slow and his mouth is terribly, terribly kissable right now. Slightly chapped, so dry there's a split in the middle of the lower lip, a crumb of toast on one corner, and Sirius is incapable of containing himself. When Sirius wants - wants and will-haves and mines - he will not hesitate; he strikes, takes, claims, and this is precisely what he does now.

The last of the tea and the dredges slosh up the side of the cup as he slams it down on the bedside chair, but he pays the mess no mind because what's on his mind is Pete Prongsy gone just Remus alone us oh us-- and

Mouths collide, teeth click and clack, and there is a sigh - sign of contentment or invocation - oh God holy perfection yes - that is traded between lips and curled over tongues. He tastes Remus, buttery toast and yellow and practical, with white-pale pads of fingers skirting along soft inclines of each other's cheeks, nails scraping marking tagging and they aren't faffing about or wasting time anymore.

Sirius pulls back, gasping for air, sucking in a lungful and Remus's teeth, strong and white, nip at his lower lip - mother-- oh-- nngghhhh-- - and then sink down. They sink down and Sirius smells it. He smells the metal-sharp scent of blood, his, can picture what he looks like all milky-white with deep crimson rivulet of life lust being trickling down his chin and fuck if he wouldn't love it if--

Remus laughs, a gentle, bemused, 'dear me' sort of laugh and Sirius moans, head falling back. Head falls back, trickle trickle drip of wet warmth down the chin and then it's gone, replaced with something even warmer and wetter and broader and more sure. Sirius picks his head up in time to see Remus licking his lips. "Fuck," he breathes, eyes rounding, pyjama bottoms uncomfortable, and world quickly beginning to spin out of control. "Moony," he swallows, fingers hooking in the waistband of Remus's trousers, pulling dragging yanking fabric, trousers and pants both, down. Palm slides up over thigh, moving back to grab Remus's bum, then they're twisting and rolling until Sirius is on top and Remus is staring up at him with that ever-so-fucking-patient look of his, though his eyes are lazy and his breathing is laboured, and Sirius thinks he could die right here and now and have died the most spectacular fucking death ever.

"You," Remus whispers, arching up against and into him as though he just can't sodding help himself, as though he'll die without the contact, and Sirius is dizzy and surely dying now.

"I just-- just-- fuck," he tries, fingers feathering up and down along the crease between hip and leg. "Moony, I'm gonna--"

"So do it," Remus rasps, and Sirius falls apart.

Sirius falls apart and falls down and opens up, tongue dragging over salty-hot skin, heart hammering in time with the oh oh ohs spilling forth from Remus's mouth like prayers and he worships. He worships and he pays homage with every swipe of tongue over the head of Remus's cock, with every pulse of the underside's vein thrumming against his working tongue, with every swirl and increase-decrease-increase of suction, with every fibre of his being.

The taste in his mouth isn't as tart as the Blood or heavy like the Body but it's one and the same and better, Remus and completion and us. As the taste fills the welcoming cavern of his mouth with each jerkthrustshudder of Remus beneath him, Sirius says a prayer for the dying.

For himself.