Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: lilmisblack
From: florahart

Title: Pulse
Characters/Pairings: Sirius/Charlie, Remus/Kingsley
Rating: NC17
Kinks/Themes Included: oral sex, casual sex, public sex, club sex, first time
Other Warnings/Content: implied past Sirius/Remus
Word Count: 2800
Summary/Description: Sirius finds himself outside a club; it turns out several other Order members are inside.
Author's Notes: Set vaguely somewhere in the GoF-to-OotP era. Charlie and Bill are both in Britain, but hey, Harry doesn't know everything.



It's been too long--too bloody long in the dark followed by a rushing depressing trip to too many months mewed up in the moldy shack between furtive hurried sojourns through the withered dusty roots into the castle and too-careful hunting expeditions in a forest his nose no longer recognizes--and Sirius doesn't know the song or the band or even the club, but the thrumbeat is as familiar as his own pulse and he stops still, arrested by it as surely as if an unfriendly dog-catcher had come up behind him, wand drawn, capture on his lips. It's a Muggle place, and the lights throb inside; he imagines they must be sultry red, bright clear pomegranate and deep bruised berry against the dark mood in the street. The smell of the dancing bodies, sweating and erotic, overlays the constant scent of the place, the hints of floor-polish and cheap liquor, of electrical couplings overheating, of the metal-and-glass fixtures, and he imagines the darkened dance floor, the press of a hundred thighs and bellies writhing.

He's outside only to run and get some air, to preserve the shreds of his sanity, and he doesn't mean to flout anyone's authority (this time; it's not been his general habit to obey unquestioning for what must be decades by now) but he's on no particular path or timeline, and the pull of this place is too much for anyone to expect he might resist. It is, isn't it? Still, he forces himself to consider, however briefly, that he could move along, returning home to his dingy bedroom in his dreadful gloomy house.

He really doesn't want to, even in the simple unclouded dog part of his mind, where the weight of approval or disappointment is weightier and more absolute. He focuses on the way his human body feels the adrenaline rush of misbehavior and then on the heavy sense of responsibility he feels toward Harry, trying to make the call.

In the end, it's the decision of an instant; he trots into the alley, ears high and eager, and comes out three minutes later in his own skin, a transfigured newspaper serving well enough as a thin hooded shirt into which he can pull back his overly-recognizable face. His trousers are equally ephemeral, tattered by design but also because they're born of a plastic mesh bag, bright yellow and torn as well as originally made with hundreds of little squares of air.

Yeah, he looks like what he is: a man on the run, maybe sleeping on a grate somewhere, but the music has him light-headed and he feels the thrill of no responsibility as he slips in the front door unnoticed and unleashed.

Pomegranate and berry, yes, the lights pulse with the rhythm of the song and it feels like smoke, like if he tries to hold anything he'll catch nothing and find himself bereft, so he keeps his back to the wall and moves along the edge of the crowd watching everything and nothing, picking up discarded drinks careless of what could be in them because honestly, what could be the harm in a place like this? Some of them are hardly anything, a wisp of weak rum masked in syrup and carbonation, but it's all right; the cumulative effect is that as he looks back toward the door, the far wall just behind him now, he's already dancing. His hips and shoulders are moving with the beat, his hood falling back a bit, and he feels drunk not from the sad little drops he's ingested but from the mood in the room. No one here is careful, and everyone here is free.

And then he hears something, and it sends a shiver up his spine, presses him back against that far wall careful and still, one hand coming up past his face to tug the cloth forward again. It's not, he tells himself, that Kingsley's distinctive voice has him straining at his leash again, although a part of him recognizes that in his human form the surest way to get him to reject authority is to present it. No, it's that he hears the deep voice laugh, hears other voices he knows, and damn it, damn it, how is it he's come to the one club that evidently every Order member but himself knows, and why is it that he's excluded.

He sidles closer, just behind the wide-needled plant he doesn't need Padfoot's nose to recognize is plastic, and he can see through the gaps that Kingsley and Remus are leaning close, that Remus is getting the kind of kinship he's always needed of Sirius, and the side of him that somehow learned enough patience to get through, that part is busy telling him of course he is, of course there was no choice but to get along. But the rest of him, that part is surging jealousy, and when Kingsley and Remus stand together and move toward the dance floor, his eyes follow along hungry and angry even though his feet have the sense to stay still.

His earlier drunk feeling transmutes, folding into itself as he watches the pair of them moving far more closely than any two men who aren't fucking; a part of him feels ill even as he's also aware that he's watching because they look hot, because he wants that too, because he's missed dancing and fucking and sweat. He should get out of here.

The door is too far away, of course, to just go; he would believe they'd never notice, as absorbed as they seem to be in one another (why did he not know about them? The Order meets in his sodding house, and are they hiding this from him? Are they sparing his feelings on purpose, or have they just moved on so completely it's not even occurred to them? Fuck), but he isn't sure he can move past them without stopping to offer a word of advice on the matter of ways to make Remus come hardest. Self-control was never one of his more well-rounded characteristics, and now he's out of practice and he knows it.

"Needed the air, is it?"

Sirius knows very well that he's not supposed to be out of the house, and he knows everyone else knows it, so his impulse is to whirl away from Charlie Weasley, who's managed to sneak up without him noticing a fucking thing, and flee, but somehow he just... won't. He wets his dry lips with his tongue and shakes his head. "Hardly any air in this place, now."

"Ah, but outside." Charlie leans a little closer and jerks his head toward Kingsley and Remus on the floor. "I won't tell on you, you know."

"How long have they been fucking?" Sirius shakes his head and tries to be the adult he isn't despite what the calendar has to say on his age. "No, don't answer that."

"Not long," Charlie says. He glances back to where Bill is more than a little absorbed in conversation with a blonde Sirius thinks looks vaguely like the photographs in the newspaper of the Veela girl from the tournament, the Beauxbatons girl. "Recent enough everyone else feels like the eighth bloke on the Quidditch team. Bill's decided to entertain himself elsewhere, I see."

"And you?"

"I saw you skulk in here, figured you had your reasons. Saw my chance to come ask after 'em when they went to... I reckon the vernacular is 'dance,' although I'd be bloody surprised if that was all that was going on." Sirius resists the urge to growl, but Charlie's stance shifts anyway. "Annnd that's why you were asking, then. Sorry."

Sirius shrugs. "It's none of my concern," he says, working for casual, though obviously he's sucking at it. He takes a breath and tries again. "And anyway, I was gone a long while. It's not that I expected anyone to wait about. It's just interesting, not... I don't know what it's not."

"It was a long time," Charlie agrees. "Come on. As long as you're here, you might as well get a real drink."

Authority-resistant or otherwise, Sirius finds himself following along without comment, as though he recognizes he's supposed to. He remembers Charlie's line of work is in controlling large dangerous beasts; perhaps he has more of a knack than just with dragons. "I suppose you think you can soothe me with a drink and get me home without any trouble."

"Nah. Might relax you a little, but you'd have gone home without any trouble anyway. Wanting to get some air and getting into some sort of fracas over a long-ended affair, those aren't the same, are they?"

"Long-ended, yes, and I said it wasn't my affair," Sirius says. "But yes, I would have. I was going to."

Charlie nods and hands over a glass with a couple cubes of ice floating in a palely opaque liquid. "Clearly you didn't expect us all, so you didn't follow us here; I wonder: what brought you in?"

Sirius shrugs again. "The sounds. The smell. The flashing lights." He barks a single syllable of a laugh. "I suppose I'm still mostly eighteen, you know, dancing 'til dawn, drinking whatever's before me, looking for a grope against the back wall of the club. I didn't come in here on purpose for any of that, but that's what the associations all were, and bugger all if I didn't feel for two minutes like I could have everything again."

Charlie turns and looks back at the table Bill's still flirting at, then out at the dance floor. "Well, dancing until dawn's probably right out, since I seriously doubt Kingsley won't kick your arse from here to Thursday if he sees you. But now, drinking what's before you and going for a grope against the back wall, I imagine that could be arranged."

"I think the drinking already is." Sirius knocks back what remains in his glass and hands it back, expecting another, but Charlie merely sets it down nearby and steps closer, moving them perhaps back between a couple of plants enough they're partially hidden.

"And the groping?"

"What, are you offering?" Near-absence of self-control is one thing; assuming is another, Sirius thinks. It's hardly bright enough in here to get a great sense of anyone's actual expression between flashes of light, and it's loud, disorganized sounds that make music and laugher and chatter. And Charlie could be joking.

"Are you accepting?"

Not joking, then; Charlie's hands are at his waist, a light touch that isn't compelling anything and could be pushed aside. And Sirius is certain that if it were pushed aside, it wouldn't do any harm. It's an offer between friends.

Friends. Having them again sometimes surprises him.

Charlie steps away, but it's still not that he was joking; it's merely that Sirius is slow to think it through, and he grabs for the thick wrists that are leaving him. "No, I wasn't... sorry." Sirius grins, and a sense of his old self comes easy to him this time as he smiles a smile he used a hundred years or so ago to get Rosamund to join him under the Quidditch stands. "Sorry, just thinking."

"No thinking," Charlie scolds, letting himself be pulled back in. He's broad and warm, nothing like Sirius is accustomed to, or rather, nothing even like anything he once was accustomed to; these days even his own form is weirdly unfamiliar, but it's decidedly scrawny and underfed in any case and before that it was the gawkier shape of the late teenage years. He thinks sometimes that he won't ever grow into anything.

But it doesn't matter, does it?

He pulls Charlie closer and lets his thoughts roll back, to the smells of warm bodies close together, to the sounds of the pulsing beat and the flash of red and white lights to the same rhythm. It's easy to be turned on. Well, maybe not easy, exactly, but not a hardship. His thighs feel that beat and his fingers itch to touch and touch; arousal hits him hard and he's scrabbling at Charlie's slippery shirt as Charlie chuckles low, almost inaudible in here, and returns the favor.

Charlie's a very tactile man; this isn't entirely news but still, it's clear quickly that his hands are and will be everywhere as he unbuckles and unfastens the clothes Sirius formed earlier--not that it's probably even necessary to open a fucking thing; the yellow trousers are decidedly as flimsy as their originating material ever was, and there's going to be transfiguring to be done after Charlie's finished with him in any case.

Fuck, maybe there's going to have to be transfiguring of his brain, which is threatening to dribble out his ears as Charlie's tongue goes to work on him. It has been a really, really bloody long time. He tries to urge Charlie up, hoping to make some sort of poor attempt at taking him apart in return, but Charlie's having none of it, and after a moment of effort, Sirius sags back against the wall. The back of the trousers splits and melts away and he groans as his overheated bare skin hits the cold smooth of the wall. The ribbons that remain, dirty and reverting to form as the transfigured one breaks, slide down his thighs. He looks down and thinks his eyes might be crossing as Charlie's lips slide over the head of his cock. He can't even stand to see; the sight alone is overwhelming and so is the sensation, and together he's light-headed Maybe he's drunker than he understood. Maybe the drinks--he read something, didn't he? About drugs in drinks in Muggle clubs? But no, it's nothing of that; it's all the tongue pressing under his head, the loose fist pumping slowly, the fingers cupping his balls like they're precious glass. He wants to speak, but for one thing Charlie would never hear him and for another, he doesn't have the first clue what to say, so he grips Charlie's hair as best he can and looks out again onto the floor.

It's a surprise to see Remus there; he's all but forgotten. He's out there, still dancing, grinding, and Sirius thinks for a moment his eyes are directed this way, that Remus sees him backed up against this wall with his cock in Charlie Weasley's mouth, and his fingers tighten reflexively around Charlie's skull. Charlie pulls away and looks up, then stands. His hands go to either side of Sirius's head as he leans in, kissing him as roughly as his hands were gentle a moment ago, and before Sirius can even work out how to kiss back like that it stops as one of those big hands comes between them and the firm hot flesh of Charlie's cock is pressed up against his and crushed tight in Charlie's grip. Sirius can't help but thrust up, grunting, and he hears Charlie breathing, panting against his ear, muttering something filthy as he jerks them, as Sirius just tries to keep up. He's eighteen in some ways, but fuck, in this he must be an old man.

Charlie comes first, semen splashing against Sirius's stomach and dripping down, and Sirius groans again. His eyes have closed at some point, and he opens them as Charlie drops down to his knees once more, thumbs digging into Sirius's thighs as he goes back to work with that marvelous tongue.

On the dance floor, a sudden move catches Sirius's eye, and he knows--he doesn't look, but he knows--that Remus does see him now, that he's watching him come, that he won't give him away, that it's fine.

And as Charlie repairs the truly and exceptionally destroyed trousers and gives him a grinning wink, it is. It's fine. He's fine.

He mutters back a few words--any time, do drop by, no need to call ahead (because he's more than a little deranged and he knows it, but he's not a fool and he's not about to turn down the occasional cheerful tumble)--and moves back around the edge of the crowd, limbs warm and relaxed now, grin easy and real.

He transforms as soon as he's around the corner in the alley once again, and then he stands, listening to the sounds and remembering the taste of liquor in half a dozen cold glasses and of his own cock on Charlie's hot tongue. He can't stay. Getting out for a run in the air means choosing a time he's at the house alone, and now, clear-headed, he knows he needs to get back.

The club fades away behind him as he moves back onto the street, his feet unconsciously still holding the beat.