Posting today because I'm otherwise occupied tomorrow. Oh well, it is the 24th by now in Australia and New Zealand.

Title: Falling... falling...
Author: centaury_squill
Characters/Pairings: Sirius/Severus
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: phygephilia, with a bit of dirty talk and aggressive partners
Word Count: 1160
Summary/Description: You couldn't really call Sirius and Severus friends, but they do have an... arrangement.
Author's Notes: Set in the aftermath of DH. In this alternative version, both Sirius and Severus are still alive and in a sort of enemies-with-benefits relationship.

Falling... falling...
"That's what you miss the most?" Severus sounds incredulous. "Not your brother, not your best friend. Not half the Order of the Fucking Phoenix. Your bloody motorbike?"

Sirius scowls. "Thing, I said. Thing I miss most. And yes, it's my flying bike. Why couldn't Harry and Hagrid've taken better care of it?"

"Oh," Severus says, his voice heavily laced with sarcasm, "maybe because they didn't want the Dark Lord to capture it intact? Think how much more impressive he would have been, riding around on a teenager's wet dream."

Sirius moodily kicks at the kerb. "There was something about doing it in the air," he mutters, "on my bike."

Severus stares at him. "You're serious! You really used to –? On your bike?" An expression of reluctant curiosity comes over his face. "Who with?"

"Never you mind," Sirius says, annoyingly. He strokes his groin, smirks. "Happy days..."

They walk on in silence for a while. It's Friday, their traditional evening for a Muggle pub crawl. They've already visited the Plough, the Admiral Nelson, and the George and Dragon, and are now on their (somewhat unsteady) way to the Swan.

Finally, Severus breaks the silence. "It's really better? Doing it on your flying bike?"

"Oh yeah," Sirius says enthusiastically. "Nothing like it. Flying really turns me on, you know?"

They've arrived at the entrance to the little park which provides them with a shortcut on their way to the Swan, and, sometimes, a place to fuck in the shrubbery on their way back. As they walk between the flower beds and the miniature golf course, Severus asks, "Why not just use a broomstick?"

Sirius snorts. "Everybody does that," he says, scornfully. "My bike was special. Unique."

Severus says no more, but it's evident he's deep in thought. Sirius shoots a suspicious look at him. "Why?"

Severus' face is bland. "Oh, no reason."

*
They stagger out of the Ship at chucking-out time, and make their way back across the park. (The Muggles lock it at dusk, but two competent, if inebriated, wizards can pass through the gates as if they were made of smoke, instead of rather rusty iron.)

Sirius is expecting their usual shag in the rhododendrons before going their separate ways, but (not for the first time) Severus surprises him. He grabs Sirius in his arms, and before Sirius has time to realise what's going on, they're shooting up into the air – without benefit of broomstick, or anything else as far as Sirius can make out.

"Woah!" he slurs, "Wha's goin on?"

By now they're far above the Muggle town; below them in the sprawling conurbation streetlights are twinkling, interspersed here and there by open spaces, like the little park they've just left. The air is sharp and fresh, in contrast to the smell of stale beer and fags which still hangs about their clothes.

Their rapid flight over the town is turning Sirius on, though he isn't going to give Severus the satisfaction of telling him so. "Too quiet," he grumbles, "not a patch on my motorbike throbbing between my legs."

With a savage movement Severus flips him over in midair. "You'll just have to make do with me throbbing between your legs, instead," he growls, and bites down on Sirius' neck. Hard.

Sirius whines submissively. They usually fight over who tops, but there's no question who's got the upper hand tonight. He has a moment of thrilled panic as Severus lets go – is the bastard about to drop him? – then realises he's just adjusted his grip to make it easier to undress them. Any Muggles underneath are going to get a shock, as they're showered with trainers, socks, jeans, tattered boxers (his) and grubby Y-fronts (Severus'). Sirius gasps out a laugh, which turns to a yelp as Severus begins, none too gently, to prepare him.

"Careful!"

"Can't spare too much attention from the flying spell," Severus says unconvincingly, as he continues to jab his fingers into Sirius' arse, "You wouldn't want us to go into a nosedive, would you?"

"Oh great," mutters Sirius, "saving the nosedive for when you – OW! – fuck me?"

"Don't – worry –" Severus gasps, removing his fingers and striving to insert his cock, "that – doesn't – need – aaaaaah, so good – rational thought."

Sirius snorts. That he does believe. Then, for him too, rationality takes a back seat, as they buck and roll in midair, Severus buried in him balls-deep. It's all plunging and thrusting and gasping and swearing, and it feels so good, as it always does. Better, because he can feel the air stream past him, just like the old days on his flying motorbike. For a moment he's eighteen again, not a care in the world, Azkaban just a name to him.

"Yeeeeeeessss!" Severus howls.

Sirius is surprised: Severus never shouts so triumphantly when he comes. Never shouts at all, in fact. Maybe he's not the only one reliving his youth tonight. They spin around in circles as though Severus has indeed lost control of his flying spell. But before Sirius has time to do anything about it (not that there's anything he can do, really) they're off again, the cool night air rushing past their bodies. And now Severus has one hand firmly around Sirius' cock and is pulling steadily, rhythmically, as they fly through the air. Sirius feels his balls tighten, throws back his head and howls at the stars; his come pulses through Severus' fingers and falls to the ground, another unexpected shower for any Muggle below.

Slowly, reluctantly, Sirius comes back to his senses, realises that they're about to land; Severus is guiding them in a sort of controlled free fall towards an open area which seems to rush up to meet them. He realises something else as well.

"You wanker, Sev, we'll have to walk through Muggle streets stark bollock naked."

Severus sets him down with what Sirius considers to be a totally unnecessary thud.

"What are you complaining about, you're still wearing your T-shirt, aren't you? Anyway, there's our emergency clothing in the bushes."

Sirius looks around. They're back in the little park next to the Swan, and Severus is right, they have made a habit of leaving an emergency cache hidden in the shrubbery ever since the night of drunken hate-sex which left their clothes in shreds. He goes to investigate.

Some animal – an urban fox, maybe – has been there before him. The clothes are ripped, chewed and damp with piss, all except the black leather trousers and the dragon-hide boots.

"Mine, I think," says Severus, reaching over his shoulder and taking them from him.

Sirius glares at him. The boots might be Severus', but the trousers definitely aren't.

"I don't know what you're worrying about," Severus says smugly, shimmying into the trousers. "You're an Animagus. Turn into Snuffles."

He zips up the dragon-hide boots.

"I might even take you for a walk."

- fin -