InsaneJournal

[FIC] Ravage: Sirius/Remus
Originally Posted Here on 5 August 2006

Title: Ravage
Recipient: theenginedriver
Author: atlantis_quill
Pairing: Sirius/Remus
Rating: nc-17
Warnings: sex and language and angst
Words: 4,378 (perhaps I got a bit carried away)
Summary: Remus and Sirius are going through a rough time. Sirius tries to fix it with sex.




Remus can’t remember the last time he was so exhausted. His body has never felt so heavy. His brain feels like someone left a radio on, playing static in some distant corner – buzzing, distracting, dreary monotone. It was full moon last night. He always feels so worn, like an old jumper, thread bear and unraveling, after the full moon. The wolf always runs him ragged and the transformations leave his body feeling like it’s been ripped to pieces and sown back together, not quite right – stitches tangling.

He usually gets a day of rest, after – a day to let himself remember what it feels like to be human, to recover from a night of mauling at his paws and joints and chest and wherever the blood-depraved wolf can reach. James and Sirius don’t have time anymore, not usually, to run with him, so he is left, locked up and alone to change and scream and bite himself to pieces.

He usually gets a day to rest.

Not this month. The morning after, waking up alone on a dirty floor, he barely had the energy to drag himself to the shower, and barely enough strength to make tea. An owl arrived. “Urgent.” And that was that. No pity.

Remus comes home; he can barely hold himself up. The flat is empty. He doesn’t have the energy to do anything but trek to the bedroom, pull off his boots and shrug his cloak to the floor. He collapses on the sheets.

* * *

The almost full moon hangs low in the darkness. It throws silver gradient in through the windows, outlining a sleeping shape, and a figure propped in the doorway.

Sirius didn’t turn the lights on when he came in. The flat is dark except for the fading silvery gloom.

He is leaning against the door, looking at the man sprawled across the bed.

Sirius feels lost, lost in his body, lost in his, no, their, flat. He feels lost in this war.

He found the note, left on the kitchen table, beside a half finished tea mug, when he came in. Last night was full moon. And this morning a note came for Remus. He felt a surge of anger rush through his blood, searing. He had crumpled the paper in his fist. And cursed himself for not being here this morning, cursed himself for running out yesterday, running out because he was so angry he didn’t know what else to do. He might have broken Remus’ face if he hadn’t run. But now, a mangled note in his hand, he cursed himself for not being there to stop Remus from leaving. He cursed the goddamn war and whoever had written the fucking note and not thought about the fucking moon.

He wants to just take Remus and run away. Run away from all of this. Why the hell do they even stay? Why the hell are they even fighting? And maybe he would, maybe he would if only he was sure that Remus would come.

He’s not.

He can’t tell. He doesn’t know anymore. Remus is always just silent, and he never says anything. Well no, he says things. But not things that mean anything. They talk, over tea in the mornings or supper in the evenings, if they are ever both there for dinner. And Sirius doesn’t know if they are always missing each other because of the war, or if it’s because Remus is avoiding him. When they talk, they talk of things like the muggle news and cursory references to what they have been doing. They talk about stupid things like the sale on pastries at the store that morning, and how they need milk, and the weather. The goddamn weather. Sirius has never talked about the weather in his life. And suddenly he finds himself talking about it to fucking Remus, because it’s the only thing he can force past his lips. Because it’s the only safe topic, it’s the only thing that Remus might respond to. Because he can’t fucking say anything that he’s really thinking. Because Remus will just shut down and not respond and Sirius just can’t try if that’s all that’s going to happen.

They don’t fight. Well, not usually. Not before last night. Remus is too repressed and hidden to ever show that much emotion and Sirius is too proud to be the one who can’t hold it in. And so he doesn’t say anything real. And they talk about the goddamn weather over tea, and are polite to each other, fucking polite.

He’s tried once or twice to touch Remus. He’d reached across the table once, god, weeks ago now, and traced his fingers against Remus’ hand. And Remus didn’t flinch away. But after a moment, after a careful moment – just long enough to not be a flinch, just long enough to seem natural, but was still painfully deliberate – he moved his hand, slipped it away, turned the page he was reading. And Sirius ground his teeth, and his pride stopped him from trying that again.

He watches Remus, breathing, leans against the door and is lost and doesn’t know how the hell to fix anything. He wonders for the millionth time if Remus is going to leave. He thinks that Remus probably would have left ages ago, if he had anywhere to go. That fact is probably the only thing keeping him here. Probably.

God he feels lonely; and so fucking frustrated with everything. He never knew how to fix things. He could never fix the quiet, the unspoken disappointments, and oppressive chocking properness of the velvet and silver and tradition of his childhood. He could never fix the silence then. He couldn’t fix the look on his father’s face. He couldn’t fix the way his mother said his name, as if disappointment was synonymous with Sirius. He had just sat straight-backed, elbows at his sides, cutting his food properly, not wrinkling his dress robes. He just let it get worse and worse and worse until the silence was too big, until it couldn’t fit in the dim corridors anymore, until he couldn’t do anything but run away and never speak to any of them again.

He doesn’t want to run away now. But that doesn’t mean he knows how to fix anything. That doesn’t mean he knows how to fix all the silence ringing and hollow between and underneath and entwining with the polite words.

He misses Remus. He misses touching him.

He misses the sex.

They use to shag madly, all the time in the early days. Repressing anything was so fucking impossible then. Any moment they had alone in their flat turned into touching and grouping and frantic kissing. They couldn’t keep their hands to themselves, or their cocks in their trousers.

Sirius had insisted they christen every room. All 2, or 3 if you counted the kitchen, which Sirius did, or 4 if you counted the bathroom, which Sirius did, or well 5 if you counted the couch as separating the “living room” from the “dinning room,” which Sirius did. Remus never complained, he didn’t mind all the “christening,” though he did remind Sirius every once in a while that you can only really christen a room once. And Sirius would reply as he kissed or grouped or fucked Remus into oblivion that he would write the dictionary people, these mysterious dictionary people who are somehow on such good terms with Remus that he knew all their secrets, he would write them and inform them that they had to change their definitions.

But somehow at some point, it had all changed. His fingers still itch to touch, his body still aches for some contact, some reassurance. He longs to just be held, for fuck sake. But now Remus with his cold eyes and his silence intimidates Sirius.

He misses Remus. But he’s too scarred of the chill between them, too scarred of Remus moving away, of saying no. His pride can’t take it.

Some nights he just gets up and leaves the bed and comes to sleep on the couch under a blanket, and jacks off quietly, imagining it’s Remus’ hand and not his own stroking.

They fought yesterday. It was probably their first proper fight. It was the first time that there had been door slamming. It had started over something stupid. Something that had just made Sirius snap, finally – snap and start screaming. And Remus had just fucking stood there, not raising his voice, calculated responses, controlled and maddening. And Sirius couldn’t fucking take it and had run. Run away, slamming the door on his way out. Fuming and thinking he’d never come back.

But he did.

He is standing and staring at the outline on the bed, gently rising and falling. He watches the shape – familiar and for once not defensive, not braced against him; for once not holding itself at a distance. When Remus is sleeping he’s not avoiding Sirius’ eyes or being polite and so obviously, purposely controlled. Sirius doesn’t understand it, doesn’t understand Remus. But right now as he listens to Remus’ shallow breathing he’s not so scarred, at least for once, for bloody once, he’s at the advantage.

He can’t run from this. He tried. It didn’t make him feel any better. He didn’t know where to go. He doesn’t know how to fix it. He has to do something.

* * *

Remus is woken up, he doesn’t know how much later. His brain is bleary, and uncomprehending. Something is pressing against his body – warm and heavy and he feels lips, full and soft, just below his jaw.

Sirius presses warm, sloppy kisses into Remus’ neck, swirling his tongue upward to just below Remus’ ear. Remus can feel his breathing, hear it, snuffling softly. He can feel Sirius’ hands playing with the bottom of his shirt, tangling in the fabric; one hand gently creeping up, slipping past the folds of cotton, and resting gently, carefully against skin.

His brain is buzzing, nagging at the edges. He doesn’t know what to think, he feels at a complete disconnect. He can’t quite remember what was going on in the world before yesterday night. But he thinks that he remembers something about a fight, something about yelling, and Sirius banging the door and screaming that he can’t put up with Remus’ stubbornness and silent treatment, or something to that effect. He can’t quite remember. It feels like a hundred thousand years ago. It feels like it was different people.

Sirius’ tongue is following the line of Remus’ jaw. Gentle hands are teasing further up his chest – warm and firm and steady. “I can make it better.” Sirius whispers against Remus’ collar bone. “I can make it all better.”

Remus doesn’t know what Sirius intends to fix. Doesn’t know whether it’s about fixing his aching body, or fixing their straining relationship, or if it’s an apology for missing the full moon, or for the fighting that he blearily remembers having. He can’t remember whose fault any of that is. It’s probably not Sirius’, or well not only his. But Remus hasn’t been letting on lately that he understands that fact. He has been letting himself feel sorry, and be silent – letting Sirius feel unsure and guilty. And somehow it makes Remus a little happy, in a cruel way, to frustrate him. Sometimes it feels like the only leverage he has.

Sirius has pulled up his shirt, revealing Remus’ stomach. His full, wet lips are playing against Remus’ skin, his tongue is drawing little circles, little spirals, between kisses. Sirius’ hands are holding Remus’ hips, gently, keeping him in place, as if stopping him from rolling away, just in case Remus was thinking of it.

“’m so tired. I won’t be any fun.” Remus mumbles into the dark. But he doesn’t really want Sirius to stop. His cock is already twitching. The warm pinpricks of lust are sweeping across his body, leaving his skin flushed and sensitive and tingling. He feels insisting warmth pooling in his groin.

He doesn’t remember the last time they had sex. He doesn’t remember the last time, Sirius just initiated like this. They’ve not had the time. Lack of time wasn’t really the problem.

Sirius’ hands are undoing the buttons on his trousers, wet tongue tickling against the line of underwear, chin barely, almost, not quite, touching where Remus most needs.

Sirius is pulling off trousers, tugging, slowly, lifting Remus’ thin hips, pulling smoothly, rolling Remus’ socks down and throwing them all into a pile behind him. His hands creep back up Remus’ thighs - pressing, warm, slow and steady; his teeth leading the way, gently nipping at skin, between kisses. “I’ll just ravage you,” he says, raspy and low as he reaches Remus’ hipbone. And Remus, despite how tired he feels, is painfully hard, and the word “ravage” makes his throbbing cock twitch with need. Oh God Yes Please, his brain thinks. He is hoping so very much that Sirius’ mouth travels just a bit to the right and he wishes desperately that his underpants had joined his trousers and socks. And he wants this so very badly. He wants Sirius. God he needs it.

But Sirius clearly has other ideas, clearly is going to drag this out. Because his mouth is traveling back up, along Remus’ side, kissing fresh scars. One hand lingers on Remus’ thigh, pressing there, just a bit too low, just a bit too far to the left, but oh god, it’s such good torture.

Sirius’ tongue glides against a nipple, just as his other hand grazes, barely touching, Remus’ cock. And Remus moans, softly, almost growling, and his hips ignore the aching in his muscles or maybe they’ve forgotten it, and he jerks upward, desperate for more contact, frantic for more pressure – needing.

“You don’t have to do anything.” Sirius’ mouth is hot against his ear - teeth skimming lightly against skin. “I’ll do everything.” Wet kiss against neck. “You just have to lie here.” Teeth biting down; sucking skin; fingers twining in Remus’ underpants, pulling one side down just slightly.

God, Remus had forgotten how much of a tease Sirius Black could be.

Remus moans, trying to get his impatience and desperateness into the sound.

He can feel Sirius smile, coy and mocking against his skin, “what?” asks Sirius, teasing, low-pitched, rumbling. His right hand is pressing harder against Remus’ thigh, as his left one is still resting madly right above Remus’ hip, just inches away from where it really is wanted.

“Please” groans Remus. He doesn’t usually beg. Or well, he hasn’t in a long time. Sirius use to love to make him beg for it; use to make him admit, in detail, much to his embarrassment, exactly what he wanted Sirius to do. Sirius use to love to make him blush and squirm, use to love hearing Remus admit to filth.

Remus doesn’t remember the last time they played this game.

“Please what?” Sirius’ voice is gruff and god, so sultry as his mouth drifts lower again, nipping at Remus’ skin, tracing patterns with his tongue, his hands are caressing Remus’ thighs.

“Just please.” Remus whispers, he is so aroused he has almost forgotten how tired he is. He just needs, oh god he needs, Sirius to stop playing. He needs Sirius’ hands or mouth or anything, anything to just give him a little bit of pressure and friction. Sirius has stopped again in his decent, his mouth coming to rest right above Remus’ bellybutton, and Remus wants to kill him for the torture. He is panting, breathless, half moaning his words: “Sirius.” “Please.” “Just, please.” He can feel that infuriating smile against his skin.

“Yes?” Sirius asks. And his hands are inching Remus’ underpants down a little more – inching them down, far too slowly.

“Please Sirius” Remus exhales, feeling the blush creeping into his cheeks, feeling himself fluster at the words “I need your mouth, I need…” Still that smile against his stomach, still those hands ever so slowly pulling down his underwear, still ignoring his aching erection.

“Ravage me,” Remus moans. “I’m yours…” he half-whispers the old words into the air.

And his underpants are somehow dragged off his frame before he realizes it and Sirius’ mouth is on him and Remus almost cries with relief at the tongue swirling circles, wet patterns at the head of his cock. Sirius has one hand massaging Remus’ thigh, the other is cupping his balls, gently tugging. And Remus’ erection swells even more, and Sirius, the master of dragging these things out, eases up ever so slightly, so that Remus comes down just a little, panting, and desperate, but oh in such a good way. “Sirius…” he whimpers.

Sirius loves how his name sounds on Remus’ lips when he is so pleadingly, he loves the lust tracing the syllables, the lack of inhibition in the way Remus drags out the last vowel. Remus is so rarely uninhibited, so rarely open and vulnerable. Sirius loves this – having Remus practically begging, and forgetting to be self-conscious about it, forgetting he’s always suppose to be composed and controlled. Sirius loves making Remus come undone.

Remus is moaning incoherently now, his hips jerking up, and Sirius’ hands come down on them, holding them into the bed, and he beings to suck in earnest, pulling Remus deep, and humming gently around the full, heavy cock.

The vacuum pressure, the wet heat, the rhythm, the gentle vibrations of Sirius’ mouth around him, send Remus over the edge, gasping, and convulsing and trembling. His orgasm hits him hard, and the anticipation and torture was worth it, because his head is swimming as he continues to come wave after wave of pleasure and relief and heat and release rushing through his frame.

Sirius keeps gently lapping at Remus’ prick, and bracing Remus’ hips, as Remus beings to come down, and relax again into the mattress.

Sirius watches Remus’ open mouth, chest rising and falling, ragged breathing. And he pulls himself up, slowly, alongside Remus and puts an arm across the other man’s chest drawing their bodies together a little. He kisses the back of Remus’ neck. “I love you,” he whispers into Remus’ hair. They had never been much for outpouring words like “love,” but lately, they’ve just stopped saying them altogether. Pause, and then a bit timidly, a bit faltering, because Sirius isn’t good at apologies, and never was, something in his blood just protests to apologies on principle. But the fact that it’s late and dark and Remus’ breath is still coming in hitches lends him nerve. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here last night” he whispers.

Remus is tired and still not quite recovered from the orgasm that just raked through his body. God he’d forgotten how good sex with Sirius was. But he notices, registers the hesitant tone, the uncertainty in Sirius’ voice, and hears the word “sorry,” maybe because it feels so atypical and out of place. He licks his lips, to try to regain his voice. He is still breathing unevenly. His muscles all feel like liquid.

He turns, slowly, on the mattress and buries his head in Sirius’ chest. He isn’t use to being vulnerable; closing off and shutting up are so much more familiar and safer and easier somehow – self-righteous resentment more natural. His brain is still fuzzy and he is tired and Sirius is so warm around him, and it’s been so long since he’s felt those arms, and somehow he drops his months of cold silent anger and just lets the words out, lets them past his lips and breaths them into the air to mingle with the musky scent of Sirius. “I miss you when you’re not there” he mutters against Sirius’ skin. “It’s worse, its so much worse.” He admits softly. And Sirius tightens his grip around Remus’ shoulders and brings him closer against his own body, and kisses Remus’ hair. “I’m so sorry.” He mumbles back. “I wanted to…I really did…but.” He doesn’t really know what to say and trails off, desperately.

“I know.” Remus says, reassuringly, kissing Sirius’ collar bone. “I know…it’s not your fault.”

“Oh god Remus.” Sirius breaths out, it’s almost a sob of relief, it’s like a dam breaking, and the uncertainties are pummeled over and forgotten, and Sirius cant remember the last time he felt so relieved and so fucking grateful. “I want to be there so badly, I was so angry that I couldn’t. I’m sorry. I’m always so sorry when I can’t be there. I miss you so much, all the time and especially when its full moon, and this stupid damn war keeps messing everything up, and I hate it so much and I love you and I hate being away and I hate god damn everything, and I’m always so scarred that you just hate me for it all and I couldn’t bear that…” Remus puts a finger on Sirius’ lips. “Shhh” He coos gently. “It’s ok. It’s ok.” He repeats and nestles closer into Sirius’ arms.

Remus can feel Sirius sigh around him, feels him relax and exhale, and Remus settles into the arms enveloping him, and breaths in the familiar smell of Sirius’ skin – musky and thick. He feels safe for the first time, in a long time; and he thinks how much he missed this and how lonely it’s been, how impossibly lonely it’s been living with Sirius for the past months. Lonelier because it shouldn’t have been – but he was forcing himself to feel it.
And maybe he would have drifted off to sleep, sated and thoroughly ravaged, but then he realizes that Sirius’ very hard cock is pressing against his stomach.

Remus grins. “Someone still needs some attention I see…” he says teasingly as he looks up at Sirius. There is a flash of lust in Sirius’ eyes. “You’re really tired.” Sirius says trying to keep the hope out of his voice. Remus grins a little. “I though all I had to do was lay here?” Remus licks his lips, half teasing. “I thought all I had to do was let you ravage me?” He drags out the world “ravage,” letting his voice drop to an almost growl.

Sirius’ responding grin is almost feral, his mouth instantly coming down on Remus’ – hot and demanding. Tongue pushing past Remus’ teeth, biting hungrily on Remus’ lips. He is trying to restrain himself from pouncing, he knows Remus is in no shape to be pounced on.

And Remus is kissing back, hard and wanting. Just being ravaged somehow only made him want this more. He wants Sirius to fuck him, and he might have blushed at the thought, but he is too distracted by Sirius’ mouth. God he missed this.

Then Sirius is pulling Remus’ shirt off, as gently as he can manage in his impatience, and somehow he manages to get out of his own clothes and is muttering that spell in Remus’ ear as he kisses shoulders and neck and chest, and his fingers begin to stretch Remus – first one, then two, pushing in, twisting and filling.

Remus is groaning, wanting more, wanting Sirius inside him, his own cock is starting to thicken and harden again. He is so very hot as he lets Sirius have his way with him. He smiles at that though, “letting” might not be the right word. Remus knows he wants this so badly that if Sirius even thought of stopping, he would beg like a shameless slut for Sirius to fuck him. But he doesn’t have to, because Sirius is too aroused and desperate to think to tease anymore.

Sirius’ erection is throbbing, and god Remus is moaning in that almost pleading way of his, at Sirius’ mercy, willing. The words “I’m yours” are still hanging in Sirius’ brain. Sirius’ pushes himself up on the bed, and pulls Remus’ legs up, cock finding the cleft of Remus’ ass, and unable to restrain himself anymore, pushes, in; one swift motion; buries himself deep into the tight heat. Remus cries out. It’s been so long, and it happened so fast, but the soreness is mixed with pleasure and Sirius just hit that place inside him.

Sirius is panting hard and beginning to start a rhythm. Remus is so tight around him, and Sirius is starting to shake a little from the pleasure of it. Remus keeps his eyes, heavy lidded, on the man ridding him. Sirius always looks so beautiful when he’s fucking, dark hair falling across his face, slightly parted mouth, full red lips panting, thrown back head revealing curving neck and sharp jaw line. And his whole body is thrusting, and his shoulders are glistening, his breath hitching. Remus loves watching Sirius, loves seeing his chest heaving.

Sirius opens those piercing gray eyes of his and stares at Remus, and Remus feels himself swelling from being watched, the intimacy of the eye contact is almost too much and he can’t help his hand drifting up to his own cock. But Sirius growls, possessive, bats the hand away and slides his own fingers around Remus’ straining prick. “You.” “Just.” “Lay.” “There.” Sirius grunts, between thrusts. “You’re mine. Remember. To ravage.” God those words make Remus harder still, and he closes his eyes, and concentrates on the feel of Sirius deep inside him, filling; and on the hand pumping his cock and the ever more instant sound of Sirius’ breathing.

And then Remus feels Sirius spasm and hears him grunt low as he starts to come. The fist tightens around Remus, and Sirius is whimpering his name, and the sound pushes Remus over, spilling sticky heat onto Sirius’ fingers and his own stomach.

* * *

It is still not too late for one night, for a few words, for a couple of thrusts and mumbled apologies to fix the holes, to mend the tears, to set things right again.

The world, the war, reality wont always be so easily fixed.

For now the world turns a blind eye. For now it lets two men, two boys, drift to sleep, naked bodies’ slick with beading sweat, tangled with each other on messy sheets.