Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: hogwartshoneyFrom: lilmisblackTitle:
A life in dreamsCharacters/Pairings:
Arousal by watching someone sleepOther Warnings/Content:
Masturbation, anal. And some voyeurism, I guess? Word Count:
Every night I would lie awake and watch him sleep. He always left the curtains around his bed open; I always left a gap in mine.Author's Notes:
Dear mystery recipient, I don’t know if this is what you had in mind when you made your wish, but I hope you enjoy it ;D-Hogwarts, 1978-
When I slept, my mind was plagued by nightmares. I found only fear and anger in my dreams. Every night they reminded me of what I was, that there was a beast inside me.
When he slept he looked happy. He would lie on his back, arms and legs spread as if trying to take as much space as was possible; his chest would rise and fall rhythmically, his lips would sometimes twitch into that confident smile of his, as if he hadn’t a worry in the world.
Every night I would lie awake and watch him sleep. He always left the curtains around his bed open; I always left a gap in mine. At first it was something akin to envy I felt. How could he sleep like that, so calm, so deeply, while I would wake from any sound in the room? How could he lie back, close his eyes, and be gone within minutes, while I lay awake for hours trying to clear my mind and keep the dreams at bay?
Then that envy became interest, the interest became awe, and the awe became…something else.
It was hard to pinpoint when things changed, I only became aware of it that morning in the Shrieking Shack after the full moon, the one time I woke up before they did. I was so tired I could barely open my eyes, every last muscle in my body burning, but when I turned my head to the side I saw him sleeping right next to me, and everything else was forgotten. He was lying down on his front next to me, half of his body sprawled over his mattress, the other half on the floor. The thin blanket lay crooked somewhere around his hips, barely covering him. How could someone look so confident, so free, even while asleep?
It wasn’t the first time I’d seen Sirius naked, of course, we had slept in the same room for years, had showered in the same bathrooms, had stripped before transforming every full moon for months and months. But somehow this was not the same. He looked different asleep, with his face unguarded, the swagger gone. He looked beautiful.
I closed my eyes and tried to push those thoughts away, I felt I shouldn’t be thinking of him that way, but a second later I was watching him again. I was always so weak. I watched the way his hair fell onto his eyes, the faint smile on his lips, the way the strong muscles of his back moved with every breath he took. I watched the dips on his lower back, the swell of his arse under the thin fabric that left little to the imagination, and I wanted to reach forward, I wanted to run my fingers over that golden skin, wanted to feel those muscles under my hands, feel those smiling lips against mine. I only had to move my arm, just a few inches, and I would touch him.
Instead, I moved my hand down my own body, under the blanket someone had covered me with, and bit my lip to stifle a groan when my fingers grazed my cock. How could I be so hard just from watching him?
I wrapped my hand around my cock and tugged, my eyes never wavering from him. When he sighed in his sleep I imagined it was me he was dreaming of, and tugged on my cock harder. I imagined what he would do if I went to him, what he would let me do if I woke him up. Would he let me kiss him? Would he let me touch him? Would he let me fuck him? My hips rose off the mattress as I fisted my cock faster. My gaze trailed down his body, taking in every inch of him. I wondered what he would look like under me, sprawled on the bed like this, but wide awake. I pictured the way his muscles would tense in pleasure under my fingers, imagined the way his arse would clench if I let him thrust into my mouth. Image after image it all came unbidden to my mind, yet none of them were better than what I could see in front of me.
I bit my lip as I came, trying not to make a sound. Perhaps I succeeded, perhaps I didn’t. I don’t think it would’ve made any difference. When my gaze travelled back up to Sirius’ face his eyes were wide open. -Godric’s Hollow, 1981-
When I slept, my mind was plagued by nightmares. Every night I dreamed of the war, the beast inside me, the blood it craved. I dreamed of the friends I’d lost, then dreamed I’d lost the friends I still had. I dreamed of the things I’d seen, the things I’d done. The things I’d been asked to do.
When he slept he looked content. He would lie on his side, hand under his pillow, fingers wrapped around his wand, and dream better dreams than I did. In his sleep he looked more relaxed than he would awake, and whatever peace he found in his dreams I envied it. Every once in a while his lips would still twitch into that smile I’d known before the war, his expression would soften, and he would be old Sirius again, confident and happy.
Whenever we shared a room I would lie awake and watch him sleep, and I made sure we shared a room as often as possible, but that wasn’t often at all. I hadn’t seen him in months, and months before that; there was always some mission, some battle, some task that couldn’t wait. It was selfish of me to resent that, the war was raging, people were dying, and we had to do what we had to do. But I missed those long nights of watching him sleep, of falling asleep lulled by his breathing.
We were staying at James’ while we made the last few arrangements to cast the Fidelius Charm Dumbledore insisted on. We had as many wards around the house as possible, but still we had to be careful with Voldemort’s followers after us all, so there was only so much magic allowed inside. Which meant the only place for us to sleep in was a room so tiny the twin beds they’d forced inside were cramped close enough to look more like one double.
It had taken Sirius the better part of an hour to fall asleep, and all that time I kept my eyes closed and my breathing even, and waited. I waited until he stopped turning on the bed, waited until his breathing became deep and rhythmic, and then waited some more.
It took my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the darkness in the room, and for the first time in my life I wished for the moon to shine brighter, fuller, for its light to force its way through that small window and let me see more of Sirius. Instead I had to content myself with half-discernible shapes and memories of what he had looked like before. I lay on my side, facing him, so close I could feel his breath on my face. So close I could hear every sigh and grumble as he dreamed. I wanted to touch him, wanted to feel his skin under my hands, his hair between my fingers, his lips around my cock. I wondered just how deep his sleep was, wondered if he would wake if I touched him. Back at Hogwarts he would sleep through anything, I wondered if that had changed. But instead of trying, instead of taking that risk, I slid my hand under my own clothes and imagined it was him doing it.
I wrapped my hand around my cock and my hips bucked, nearly making me roll forward into Sirius. I cursed myself for my lack of self-control and lay on my back, keeping my eyes on him as I pulled my cock out and began stroking it. I wouldn’t last long, I knew, not after all the wait, all the pent-up need, not with him this close, but I didn’t care. I watched the contours of his body in the darkness and painted the image of him in my mind, the locks of hair falling over his eyes, the lips twisted into that contented smile he always had when he slept. I tightened my fingers around the base of my cock, trying to stop myself from coming so soon, trying to make the most of this night. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and after a second I started moving my hand again. A moment later another hand wrapped around my cock.
There was no time for shock, I was already too far gone. I opened my eyes and turned to him, and even in the darkness I could see his eyes shining brightly as he watched me watch him. It was all I could do not to cry out as I bucked under his touch, pushing my cock through his fingers. He was awake, and he was touching me, he was groaning my name, and in a matter of seconds I was coming all over his hand, coming harder than I ever had before. He came a moment later, I hadn’t even noticed him moving against the mattress until he tensed and groaned his release, and when he rolled onto his back and smiled contentedly at the ceiling I watched him, awed and silent. My mind was blank, I had no idea what to say or do, so I watched him take a deep breath and close his eyes. A few minutes later he was asleep.-Grimmauld Place, 1995-
When I sleep, my mind is plagued by nightmares, not of what I am, but of what I’ve seen. Perhaps it is because of the new war brewing that memories of the old one return. I dream of death, of loss, of pain, of treason. I dream of the life I once had and lost, I dream of the things that could have been.
When he sleeps he has nightmares, too. Perhaps that’s why he rarely sleeps at all. He always slept like he lived, and now he’s only a shell of the man he once was. He does whatever he can to stay awake, and when he finally falls asleep he twists and turns, mutters and shivers, and any sound startles him awake.
We share a room now that the Order members are staying here, and every night I watch him sleep, like I did all those years ago. He sleeps on his side now, his knees held close to his chest, as if even now, even here, he’s trying to protect himself from the world. His dreams are always strained. Sometimes, as I lie awake and watch him, I can hear the faintest whimper, and I wonder what torment he’s dreaming of.
Now I go to him, because I can’t stand to watch him suffer any more, or perhaps just because I can’t stand to be this close to him and not touch him. I walk to his bed, careful not to make a sound, then I reach down and run my fingers softly down his arm. In an instant the expression on his face softens, and I wonder if he knows that it is me touching him, even in his sleep. I give him a few seconds, to see if my touch was enough to wake him, then I sit down beside him and run my hand through his hair. He sighs then, still asleep, and whispers something I can’t make out. I imagine it’s my name, and smile down at him. He turns on the bed until he’s lying on his back, and the ghost of a smile twists his lips. Finally I see in him more of the boy I used to know.
I love watching him like this, relaxed, alive… beautiful. I watch his chest rise and fall with every breath he takes, and when he moves again, stretching his arms over his head, the shirt of his pyjamas rides up, just enough to give me a glimpse of the taut body beneath. My fingers itch to touch him, so I do.
He shivers at the contact, and when he murmurs again I know it’s my name on his lips. He sighs and slides a little closer to where I sit, and somehow I know that if I stayed like this, sitting right next to him, touching his arm or running my fingers through his hair, he would sleep for hours, smiling, undisturbed by nightmares, just like he used to.
I also know that I can’t do it. I can’t watch him sleep and not want him, want him and not take him.
I move my hand slowly, sliding my fingers just under the hem of the shirt, and it’s not until he sighs again that I realise what I’m doing. It’s as if the conscious part of my brain has no say in it, not that any part of me is against it, but it’s instinct that drives me to touch Sirius, a longing that I can’t quite understand. It always has been.
I still for a few seconds and just watch him, wait for his breathing to even out again, and am surprised by the amount of self-control it requires. I’ve always been so weak around him. I inch his shirt up, carefully, wanting –no, needing- to see the ink I’ve only glimpsed before. My fingers trace the intricate patterns tattooed on his chest, trying to make sense of the lines, discover their meaning, but the light is too dim for that, so I content myself with touching.
My hand travels upwards, my thumb slides over his nipple, and he stirs, moans, then settles again. I love the way he reacts to my touch, love the way he smiles and relaxes, love the way he stretches, lying spread out on the bed like he did back when we were so young.
I move my other hand to his face, push a lock of hair out of his eyes, then run my thumb over his lips. They part ever so slightly at the first contact, and I feel the tip of his tongue dart out, just the ghost of a touch against my thumb. I can barely hold back a groan. I press a little harder, and his lips part easily, his mouth so warm and wet against my thumb. I wonder what it would feel like around my cock, and fear just the thought of it might have me coming in my pants, untouched. I close my eyes and take a shaky breath, trying to control myself as I move the hand away. It’s not easy.
I feel him move next to me and open my eyes again. His arm slides down his body until his hand rests on his stomach, his fingers less than an inch from mine. It’s only then that I realise he’s hard, too. I watch his hand move lower, watch his cock twitch under his clothes, hear him moan at the first contact. I stand up and take a step back, partly because I want to see all of him, partly because I’m not sure what I’ll do if I stay that close.
His hand rests on his cock, his fingers squeeze, and he moans. And somehow, through it all, he still sleeps.
His other hand moves under his clothes, slowly at first, but once his fingers wrap around his cock and pump it everything seems to go faster. I watch amazed as he fucks his hand, watch his brow furrow, his lips twitch, the muscles in his arm tense as he wanks.
One moment he’s bucking into his fingers and moaning, the next he’s frozen in place, wide awake. He seems startled for a second, and his hand falls to his side.
Before I can think it through I’m moving forward, kneeling next to him and wrapping my hand around his cock. He curses, snaps his hips up, and looks at me with wide eyes. I tighten my fingers in the next stroke, and he closes his eyes and moans my name, gives in to the feeling. A few strokes later his back arches, and then he’s coming all over my hand and his chest. I have never seen anything so beautiful.
But this time he doesn’t go back to sleep, like he had that night so many years ago. Now he smiles that smile of his, wraps his hand around my wrist and yanks me forward. Then he slides my hand down, between his legs, and asks me to fuck him.
It takes my brain a second to register what he’s said, and then there is no more reasoning, no more thinking of any kind. I kneel in front of him, Vanish his clothes and spread his legs, trail my hands up his inner thighs, feel him shiver, hear him moan. I’m in heaven.
I trace the tip of my finger over that tight ring of muscle, then push forward, ever so slowly. I’ve wanted this for so long, I want it to last for as long as I can.
“Fuck. Come on,” he groans, and I smile. “Not gonna break.”
“Patience is a virtue,” I say, then twist my wrist just right, and his hips buck when my finger rubs against his prostate.
“Don’t know if you noticed,” he growls out, “but my virtue’s long gone.” I look into his eyes then, and see that shimmer of mischief I thought was long lost. He slides his hand down his chest, runs his fingers over the splatters of come, then further down. I follow his every move as if mesmerised, and can do nothing but groan as I watch him thrust two of his fingers alongside mine. It’s a miracle I don’t come just then and there. Instead I pull my finger out and sit back on my heels, lost in the sight before me.
He groans my name as he slides a third finger inside himself, and his back arches in pleasure. His cock twitches and begins to harden, the most delicious sounds spill from his lips, and all I can do is sit still and watch him, dumbfounded.
Sirius was never a patient man, and the years have done nothing to change that. When his moans and pleas fail to pull a reaction from me he sits up, pulls me down to him and rolls us so that he ends up straddling my hips. Then his hand is on my cock, guiding me into his body.
He groans as he slides down, I can’t even manage that much. My world is reduced to the feeling of him around my cock, and nothing else seems to register. He’s tight, and hot, and the way he tightens his muscles even more with every slide up makes me lose my breath. It’s like he’s trying to pull my very soul out of me. I sink my nails into his thighs and thrust my hips up, needing more, fearing it might all be too much. He doesn’t seem to care.
He rides me harder and faster, strokes his cock with the same rhythm, and I do my best to hold back as the pleasure builds. I don’t want this to end. Ever. But when he leans down and kisses me I am lost.
So many years I wondered what it would be like to have him, to touch him, to kiss him, to fuck him, and the reality is so much better than my imagination. I close my eyes and let all those sensations overwhelm me, because it’s the only thing I can do.
He cries out when he comes, his body tenses above me, his muscles tighten around my cock in the most delicious way, and there is no holding back any more. I shake beneath him as I come, his name in my lips, until I am spent and exhausted and happier than I’ve been in a very long time.
He rolls off me and rests his head on my chest, and before long he drifts off to sleep. His expression is calm, unguarded, lips twisted into a little smile, and suddenly he’s the old Sirius again, the boy from Hogwarts that feared nothing, that held nothing back.
I run my hand through his hair and smile, and wonder if perhaps there is still hope for him, for me. For us. I wonder if the man sleeping next to me is not just a shell of Sirius, as I thought, if he’s just waiting for me to bring him back to life.
He burrows closer to me and sighs, and I pull him closer still. In that moment I know I will do anything for him, I want to make him forget all the bad things that happened, I want him to be happy, want him to dream good dreams again.
I know it will take time, but with a little luck we might still have all the time in the world.