HP fic "Eight Parts of a Whole" (NC17)
Title: Eight Parts of a Whole Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns the characters, lucky girl. I just do sneaky nefarious things to them in the dead of night. Summary: James likes to rationalize. Sirius likes to seethe. Remus likes … Remus likes everybody, apparently, though not all at once. Rating: NC-17.
A/N: Many trillions of kisses for my beta, pre_raphaelite1, and also to irish_lily for her invaluable input. Written by request for adrenya, who wanted Remus/James segueing into Remus/Sirius, with some jealous!Sirius and a happy ending. I hope this is what you wanted, sweetie. Also for brak4werewolves, who loves jealous!Sirius like I love feedback. Which is, y’know, quite a bit. 2162 words, for anyone who’s counting.
Eight Parts of a Whole
I’m bloody knackered. All I want to do is roll over and go to sleep, just close my eyes and drift away… The bedcurtains are drawn tight, my pillow nicely fluffed. The bedclothes are soft as down against my skin. Good house elves here at Hogwarts, always taking care of that kind of thing. I should be asleep.
They’re too loud; that’s the problem. They aren’t remotely bothered that someone might be woken up. Well, not Peter perhaps – he’d sleep through the Apocalypse – but suppose I were woken up? It’s really very disrespectful of them.
Of course, I’d have to be asleep first.
They’re so bloody noisy that they may as well be in this bed with me instead of across the room crowded into his. We should all be crammed leg to thigh to cock to arse, snug up against each other in this bed of mine, all elbows and knees and not quite enough covers to go around.
I could Silence the curtains, of course, but then they’d know. They’d know and they’d wonder. They’d wonder how long I’d lain here staring into the darkness, listening to the rhythmic squeak of bedsprings, my prick so hard it hurts. They’d wonder if I liked it, being their audience. Why should I Silence my bed? I’m doing nothing; nothing doing here. They should be the Silencers, be the Silenced.
I’m so tired.
Those fucking bedsprings squeak like a battalion of house elves is jumping on it.
Oh, Merlin. That groan, his voice so thick like the darkest chocolate melting bittersmooth. So tired. So hard. So… So I turn on my side like I do every time, thrusting roughly into my own spit-wet hand. The bedclothes get pushed down past my waist while I time my thrusts to the now frantic pace of the bedsprings.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
When my come spurts out, I have to press my mouth roughly into my sweat-damp pillow to muffle my yell, not that they’d notice with the racket they’re making.
Eventually the bedsprings are quiet.
I’m so utterly knackered now, but I can’t fall asleep ‘til James is back in his own bed.
He strokes my cock with those long tapered fingers that are often stained with ink. Sometimes it feels as though he’s tracing words along it, and I have to try very hard not to look for them.
It’s kind of funny, you know, because everybody knows we’re not what each other wants. It’s not exactly a secret that I’ve got my eye on Evans – I mean, come on, open your eyes and look at her! And Remus… Well, it’s not my place to say what – or who – Remus wants, but it’s not much of a secret either.
Except to him. Now that’s what you’d call ironic.
The first time was completely by accident. We’d smuggled some firewhisky into the dorm, and when I woke up in the wee hours of the morning, I was desperately thirsty and didn’t know where I was. Turned out I was in Remus’s bed, but he didn’t seem to mind – or particularly notice -- which was good as I was hardly in any shape to move. He brought me some water and I drank it off, and when I was done we lay nestled like spoons in a drawer, still half-drunk.
It was nothing, just boys messing about; everybody wanks. Those who say they don’t are probably liars. I remember I was rambling on about Evans. We’d all been to Hogsmeade earlier, and she’d worn this Muggle skirt that was little more than a wide pink belt, long smooth legs going on forever while her copper hair glittered in the bright autumn sunlight. She looked brilliant. And before I knew it, I had one hand in my pants, stroking, stroking and Remus watching, bemused. Then his hand was over mine, rubbing, pulling, his prick hard against my bare hip. My pants were somewhere around my ankles and when his mouth closed over mine Lily’s beautiful face flashed in my mind as my spunk spilled out over Remus’s hand.
A moment later he came, sticky and warm against my hip, choking out a name that wasn’t mine, but I didn’t mind. I figured that made us about even.
We’re always together. Marauders stick together and not just because of that time way back in Second Year Charms when James and I accidentally spelled ourselves together. But together together? James is like my brother. A real brother, or what I always imagined one might be like, not like that wanker Regulus I got stuck with.
I feel I ought to say something, but then they’d know. They’d know.
I hate this. I hate this.
I want to scream it at them; they don’t belong together, not like that. James should be with Evans, whether she knows it yet or not. He shouldn’t be messing about with Re— with someone else.
I think I feel left out. I know I’m being left out, and that’s just not on.
It’s like being made of glass, this feeling, this fragility. I keep waiting to break into thousands of pieces, lying here, alone.
I want to insinuate myself between them, to slip between their bodies slick with sweat. I want to feel both pairs of hands upon me, tangled in my hair and tracing along my arching spine. I want to writhe under the sweet assault of their tongues, not knowing whose is whose. I want to close my mouth around their cocks, the bright tang of precome slick against my lips.
I want deft fingers inside me, stretching me, opening me. I want to close my eyes and not know who enters me first.
I don’t care; I don’t care. I don’t care as long as Remus is there when I open my eyes again.
James takes off his glasses and in the dim light I squint so all I really see is black hair spilling across my pillow and a slender, lightly muscled body stretched out alongside mine. We’re all so bloody skinny, all except Peter who everyone says is chubby, but he’s only chubby in comparison to us. But who else is he ever with? Marauders stick together.
Sometimes I think about the Ravenclaw I dated, if you can call it that – two furtive, clandestine gropings while huddled in a corner of the Astronomy Tower. Her hair was a riotous mess of loose black curls, and when I plunged my hands into it, I thought of Quidditch-roughened hands and racing through the Forest on all fours. After the second time she suggested rather unkindly that I not bother with her again if I wasn’t even going to get her name right.
And then one night I woke up next to a black-haired boy and we were both half-drunk, and we pretended everything was fine because we were both thinking of someone else anyway. The next time we were both sober, but everything was still okay because we still pretended.
And the next time, and the next, and the one after that.
The trouble was, it was the wrong black-haired boy.
But when I’m buried deep inside him, my hair slapping against my forehead in lank sweaty strings with each thrust, it’s easy enough to tell myself what I want to hear. Beneath me, James gasps out another’s name, and to my ears it sounds like my own, spoken by another voice. It’s enough to send me catapulting over the edge as I collapse bonelessly against James’ back, mouthing Sirius’ name into James’ shoulder.
When he goes back to his own bed, I’m left staring into the darkness, alone, and my breathing is too loud in my ears.
Sirius isn’t sleeping. He thinks no one notices, but there are dark hollows under his eyes, and his clothes hang awkwardly on his spare frame. He rarely lets his guard down anymore, and his eyes, when he thinks no one is watching, are empty and lost. I watch Sirius sideways, furtively, the way the Remus watches him; he is taut with tension, his nails bitten to the quick. Sirius seems to gather himself like a scream waiting to be exhaled.
He knows, I’m sure, that Remus has been fucking me. I wonder if he knows that I’m just a willing substitute. I wonder if he will ever know.
Remus watches Sirius constantly, relentlessly, yet covertly. I don’t think Sirius knows what – or rather who – Remus really wants. I don’t think he knows that at all. And no matter how pretty Remus might be, he isn’t what I ultimately want either.
I wonder what it will do to Remus when I tell him that I don’t want to come between them, that I don’t want to be in the middle anymore. There just isn’t room in the bed for all of us.
He seems like one of the castle ghosts, wan and wraithlike as he passes through the halls. I want to touch his shoulder, I want to shake some colour and life back into him, but I don’t dare. For if I did dare, I shouldn’t ever want to let go again. I watch him at meals, pushing food listlessly around on his plate, and I can’t help but think that I brought this upon him. I made him into this shadow, I drew that haunted look upon his face.
I did this to Sirius. I did this.
James is right. There isn’t room in one bed for all three of us. But maybe… Maybe there can be room for two.
When he comes to me I know it’s a dream. I must be dreaming, because never in reality would I feel his lips upon my skin, ghosting over my collarbone, whispering wordless exhalations into the hollow of my throat. Only in dreams would I be able to wind my fingers into his tawny hair while his tongue licks a path across my chest. Only in dreams would I have such license granted to touch him wherever I wish, all over. Only in dreams would he lie naked with me, here, in my bed, his cock hard in my hand.
It’s just the two of us entangled here among the sheets, and I’m nearly delirious with it. I can’t stop touching him, my hands skating over his flesh, skimming over top of him. I want to touch him everywhere at once.
This is a dream from which I never want to wake.
He comes prepared, little vial of oil tucked neatly into his palm. It smells vaguely of almonds. He slicks his fingers with it, sliding them carefully into me, and it feels like nothing on earth. He curls his fingers just a little, so gentle yet so firm, my spine arching right off the bed as my mouth opens in an involuntary cry.
Too much? he asks, withdrawing his fingers slightly. His brow is slightly furrowed with concern, which seems to be a rather odd detail for a dream.
Not enough, I tell him breathlessly, and his grin is almost feral.
He slides into me effortlessly, filling me, angling just the right way to make me twitch and tremble beneath him. I realize with a start that I am not dreaming this.
I am not dreaming this.
When he touches me, his hands are surprisingly delicate, as if he were tasting me with his fingertips. They slide, barely touching skin, over my chest, my belly, my thighs. His hand hesitates for the barest moment as it ghosts past my waist, resting for only a fraction of time on the sharp plane of my hipbone before continuing lower.
I’m already hard for him; I’ve been watching and waiting and wanting for too long to be anything else.
He’s like velvet inside, so smooth and hot, so tight. Fucking him is like a kind of immolation; every inch of our skin seems afire, the sheen of sweat shining brilliant as flame. His skin tastes of salt and wonder.
When it’s over and we’re locked together in each other’s arms, perspiration drying on our skin, he looks up at me and says, I’m not dreaming this.
I certainly hope not, I say.
He buries his face in my throat, muffling his words. I hated him being with you, he says in a voice tinged with threads of defiance and shame. I love you; it was torture when you let him come to you, torture.
I kiss him then for the first time, my mouth over his. It’s so natural, this kiss, that I wonder what I’d been fearing. There aren’t words enough for this feeling; love is only a shadow of what I feel for him.
It was always you, you daft bugger, I whisper into the tight shell of his ear. My breath ruffles the fine, sweat-damp strands of his hair. It was always you.