Rating:
R
House:
Astronomy Tower
Ships:
Remus Lupin/Severus Snape
Characters:
Remus Lupin Severus Snape
Genres:
Slash
Era:
Multiple Eras
Spoilers:
Order of the Phoenix
Stats:
Published: 03/27/2005
Updated: 03/27/2005
Words: 2,125
Chapters: 1
Hits: 1,971

All True

Cruisedirector

Story Summary:
Each "yes" gets a little easier.

Posted:
03/27/2005
Hits:
1,971
Author's Note:
Sequel to

For the first time in you don't remember how long, you wake up warm. It's always cool in the dungeons at Hogwarts, and the rooms haven't been heated properly when you've stayed before at the decaying 12 Grimmauld Place. You have grown accustomed to the cold, just as you have grown accustomed to the faint itching in your arm where the Dark Mark, activated once more, waits to burn again. Yet this very early morning you find yourself comfortable, pressed against another body that has curved itself against yours.

You think Lupin is still asleep, though you had thought that the night before as well, when he stared at you with such wonder and confusion after you uttered what was either a daft double entendre or a transparent declaration of your true wishes. Even now you're not certain whether some part of your mind didn't know how the words would sound, offering them like a test to see what Lupin would say and how you would respond. If inviting him to bed was a test, apparently you both passed, because your mortifying reaction of the night before has given way to ease, contentment at finding him still here and surprising pleasure at his body's unconscious response to you when you shift, throwing a protective arm over you and pulling you closer.

You're fully awake, perhaps even a little too awake, and you can feel that parts of Lupin are as well, even if his arm rests heavily around you and his breath feels slow and even against your neck. You nudge backward into him, expecting him to wake up more fully and roll away, but he doesn't; he straightens his legs a bit and you're certain for a moment that he is prodding himself into you deliberately to make sure his hardness hadn't escaped your notice. But his arms remain relaxed, and even though his breathing hitches a bit, it falls back quickly into the same slow rhythm. Very few people have ever held you like this - not when you were a child, not the few sporadic lovers you've had since you joined the faculty of Hogwarts - and your enjoyment of the sensation is stronger than your unease.

You almost ask Lupin whether he is awake, but if making him acknowledge it may also cause him to pull away, you decide that it isn't worth the inquiry. So you hold still, feeling him surge into you with each breath, his hand against your side just a couple of inches from your cock, which stiffens and strains to rub against his fingers despite your efforts to relax. Eventually you bend a bit more at the waist, his arm slides downward across your hip, and you brush against each other for a moment. Then a longer moment, with his breath stuttering and sighing on the back of your neck, before you feel his lips brush your skin. His fingers close around you almost reflexively, as if he were moving through a dark room and had found something solid to hold. You couldn't help moaning, pressing into his palm, tilting your head to give his lips better access beneath your hair.

Deliberately and firmly, Lupin's hand moves over your pants as he presses himself behind you and begins to rock, not quite thrusting. You try to remember being cradled like this before, during sex or simply out of comfort, and cannot recall a single instance; it moves you, and you very nearly whisper his name, but you fear that if you admit to being awake then he might stop pretending to be asleep and end it lest you should make some pathetic attempt to deny your response. It seems likely that the angle is not ideal for him, and after a minute you hear him whimper faintly - a tiny sound of frustration. You roll over, flush against him, face against his throat, and when he carefully settles his arms around, you put yours around him as well.

You want to blame Lupin's skilled hands for how quickly you are overwhelmed. You want to blame Lupin's skilled hands because otherwise you must blame your own feelings - your urgency, your want. You wish that Lupin would be rougher, giving you an excuse for the desperate noises escaping your throat. You particularly wish that Lupin would be rougher because his hands have not even left your shoulders, your hips, your backside. He is barely touching you, yet you are moments away from surrender.

You bite down on your own lip to stop yourself from speaking, but Lupin pushes your mouth open, licks away the pain and swallows your shudder as you move together, shameless and curious, beyond thought or apology. To your surprise you make him cry out and spasm against you first; it doesn't take much, since there's already a damp spot on his pants when you stroke him, and he quivers and bucks silently to maintain the illusion that you are both asleep. But you can feel the wetness spilling over the top of the loose band of his pants onto your skin, and you groan and follow him a minute later.

For a few minutes you remain in his arms, content simply to lie there, and then for a few minutes you feel extremely awkward because obviously you can't continue to pretend to be asleep if you're going to clean up. Eventually Lupin hums softly, reaches for his wand and murmurs charms that leave you less sticky but also less warm. The feeling intensifies when he rises and walks toward the bathroom, leaving you alone atop the covers. When he returns, his skin is cold all over - you can feel it before you touch him - and as he slides close to you, you reach down so that you can pull a blanket over both of you. Soon you have fallen back asleep together without exchanging a word to acknowledge that you were ever awake together.

When your eyes crack open in the morning, squinting against the candles enchanted to brighten the room at dawn, Lupin is already partway across the room, fetching tea from your kettle. He smiles when he sees you sitting up and pours for you without needing to be asked. You're not sure precisely what you want to ask him; your imagination will only go so far before your heart starts pounding. It is perhaps proper etiquette to kiss him good morning when he brings your cup, but you can't think about kissing him in the light, with his eyes on yours, without knocking the world off its axis.

Lupin's fingers brush over yours when he hands you the tea and your eyes meet. Then he grins at you, and you're glad the bed is flat and steady beneath you. Perhaps you are hungry; you ate very little supper the evening before. As if he has been using Legilimency, Lupin asks whether you're ready for breakfast yet, and when you glance at his hands and their long, elegant fingers, you imagine him feeding you, with that same combination of paternalistic affection and erotic generosity with which he touched you in bed. You wish you could reach out and take his hand as easily as he keeps clasping his fingers around yours. Then you wish that you could pull him back to bed and have him for breakfast, starting with his fingers, one by one. In your entire life you can't remember ever having had a thought like that.

You're being studied, not unpleasantly, but with that same wariness from the night before when you didn't understand why Lupin might have qualms about sleeping in your rooms. Your face feels hot and you don't know where to put your arms, whether it's safer to cross them or to fold your hands in your lap where they can't cause trouble. "Last night..." he begins. You want to cut him off, but you don't know what you want to tell him, not even when he grins suddenly and says, "I got a little confused."

"Perhaps we both did," you nod, because that is honest, if unrevealing. You're not accustomed to being off-balance like this and cannot prevent some displeasure. It seems like a great deal to take in at once, and although it is difficult not to respond to the warmth in his smile, it is also difficult not to cringe in embarrassment and wish that he would leave you alone to sort things out. "I had not considered..."

But that's a lie and now you know it. You had apparently considered him very closely; you just hadn't confessed to yourself what it might mean. If you lie to him, he'll see right through you, and then he might mock you. When you fail to continue, he speaks again. "You surprised me. It was...a nice surprise." Steam from the tea rises to heat your face, and you are grateful, because color is flooding your cheeks.

Obviously he thinks he needs to walk you through this conversation, but there is only kindness on his face and in the hand he rests on your shoulder, rubbing a pattern you can't identify into your skin. The gesture makes the teacup shake in your hand until hot liquid spills over the brim and drips onto your bed. Lupin's lips part in apology, but before he can speak, you remove his fingers from your shoulder and pull him down to sit beside you. He obeys your gesture and after a moment leans to take the cup from you, setting it on the table by the bed.

"What now?" His grin is an open invitation, though his eyes narrow for a moment as he assesses your intentions, but then he gives you that pure, delighted smile that shows all his teeth, and it's a good thing you're sitting down because it tightens your chest and changes your breathing the way it did before. Now you can see clearly that the feeling you wished to evade was not fear, though you are afraid of what might happen if he slips too deeply beneath your defenses, where you have hoarded away secrets darker than those of a werewolf. What the two of you are doing should be unthinkable. That you want to do it anyway makes you wonder how many other deceptions you have tried to keep from coming to light.

In a moment one of you is going to kiss the other, but you have no idea who will get there first because time has stopped operating in its normal minute-to-minute rhythm and hangs suspended, as if the two of you have a Time-Turner's chain wrapped around your bodies while the rest of the world proceeds at its normal pace. Lupin's eyes are wide open, though darkening faintly as your shadow falls over them, like portals to a place you have never imagined that you would visit.

You can't be certain, but you think that you're the one who finally moves across the distance that separates you, tilting your head to keep your nose from colliding with his, pursing your lips because you're not confused this time about what you want and you know how to tell him without any risk of miscommunication. Even though your eyes have fallen shut, you can see that he wants it, too. His lips are warm and firm against yours and then damp and soft around them, bittersweet with tea. After a few moments you pull back just enough to look at him, to establish a clear end to that kiss, so that you'll be able to summon it in memory as a singular, isolated moment. Because you know you're going to kiss him again, and you have no idea when that might stop; it's too far ahead in the unimaginable future, an hourglass flipping and the seconds ticking like your heartbeat.

"We could go back to sleep," says Lupin without a trace of taunting in his voice.

"It's still early," you agree. He lifts his wand and the candles all go out at once. His breath grows ragged in the dark as you hear the sounds of clothing being shed, fabric brushing and settling. When you lie down, wearing far less than you wore to bed the night before, you must concentrate on keeping your own breath steady.

"Asleep yet?" Lupin mumbles after a minute.

"Are you?"

"Mmhmm." You can feel him rolling to face you, then you can feel his smile against your throat, and he is still smiling when he lifts his head to find your mouth. "If you don't mind, I'd like breakfast in bed," he murmurs, and you return it in a puff of unexpected laughter:

"All right."