Even now, he can still hear the amazement in his own voice, not daring to believe it’s really all right. But Sirius’s yes is so guttural and urgent, so certain, that the hissed syllable drags another wave of endorphins through Remus, even before his fingers actually tighten on Sirius’s reddened nipples, squeezing and twisting until Sirius moans again in pain.
That moan goes straight up Remus’s spine. And on the heels of that, the experience of his own fingers, pinching and twisting, sends a flood of pleasure through his whole body. From his bollocks to the top of his head, an overwhelming burst of sensation that is maybe even better than orgasm. Remus isn’t even hard right now, and yet he’s as turned on as he’s ever been, dizzy and drunk and in love with the high of this. In love with Sirius. And in love with the hurting. With being allowed to do it. With being begged to do it, in fact.
“More, Moony,” Sirius slurs drunkenly, though neither of them has had anything stronger than pumpkin juice.
Remus screws his fingers into those sensitive nubs of flesh, his eyes darting between Sirius’s ecstatic face and his weeping cock.
“I’m hurting you,” Remus says softly. Reverent and grateful.
“Yessss,” Sirius answers, and Remus hears his own reverence echoed in Sirius’s reply.
This call and response between them is part of it, part of the ritual that takes them deeper in.
“I love hurting you,” Remus whispers. His voice so gentle, his fingers so hard.
And again Sirius moans his assent, and in that moment Remus understands everything about devotion, about communion, about prayer.
Prompt: sadism/masochism
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Warnings/enticements: nipple play, pain play
“Harder?” Remus asks.
Even now, he can still hear the amazement in his own voice, not daring to believe it’s really all right. But Sirius’s yes is so guttural and urgent, so certain, that the hissed syllable drags another wave of endorphins through Remus, even before his fingers actually tighten on Sirius’s reddened nipples, squeezing and twisting until Sirius moans again in pain.
That moan goes straight up Remus’s spine. And on the heels of that, the experience of his own fingers, pinching and twisting, sends a flood of pleasure through his whole body. From his bollocks to the top of his head, an overwhelming burst of sensation that is maybe even better than orgasm. Remus isn’t even hard right now, and yet he’s as turned on as he’s ever been, dizzy and drunk and in love with the high of this. In love with Sirius. And in love with the hurting. With being allowed to do it. With being begged to do it, in fact.
“More, Moony,” Sirius slurs drunkenly, though neither of them has had anything stronger than pumpkin juice.
Remus screws his fingers into those sensitive nubs of flesh, his eyes darting between Sirius’s ecstatic face and his weeping cock.
“I’m hurting you,” Remus says softly. Reverent and grateful.
“Yessss,” Sirius answers, and Remus hears his own reverence echoed in Sirius’s reply.
This call and response between them is part of it, part of the ritual that takes them deeper in.
“I love hurting you,” Remus whispers. His voice so gentle, his fingers so hard.
And again Sirius moans his assent, and in that moment Remus understands everything about devotion, about communion, about prayer.