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Remus stood in the middle of the aisle surrounded by bags of granulated sugar, edible glitter, and various fruits that had no business being this expensive, clutching a crumpled list like it was a lifeline. The book—The Ornithologist’s Guide to Presentation—had promised “a celebration of avian wonder through the alchemy of spirits,” which Remus had taken to mean deep dives into the migratory patterns of the Peruvian cock-of-the-rock or perhaps the iridescent throat feathers of the resplendent quetzal… Instead, it was 200 pages of cocktails shaped like magical birds. Or rather, cocktails that looked vaguely like birds if you squinted, used seventeen different garnishes each. He was still going to make it work. Obviously.
“Moony, love, you’re holding that bag of red sanding sugar like it personally offended you…” Sirius drawled from two steps away, looking at the display of cocktail umbrellas with the lazy grace of someone who had never once worried about running out of grenadine.
“It’s sparkle sugar. Rimming sugar if you will.” Remus corrected automatically. “For the Phoenix Rising. The recipe says the rim needs to catch the light like the reborn flames at their rebirth...”
Sirius plucked the tin from his hands, turned it over, and read the label with exaggerated fascination. “Edible. Non-toxic. Perfect for rims of all kinds.” He waggled his eyebrows so dramatically that an elderly woman pushing a trolley full of cat food actually paused to stare. “All kinds of rims, eh?”
Remus felt heat crawl up his neck. “It’s for the glasses, Pads…”
“Mmm. Sure, sure.” Sirius stepped far too close for a grocery store on a Thursday afternoon—and lowered his voice to that particular register that always made Remus’s knees feel unreliable.
“You know, I’ve got a much better use for sugar that sparkly. One that doesn’t involve glassware at all.”
“Sirius…”
“What? I’m just saying. You, me, this tin of sugar… a bottle of overproof rum, and a very thorough demonstration of—” he licked his lower lip very deliberately “—proper rimming techniques.”
Remus swallowed loudly, the fluorescent lights suddenly felt far too bright, and the faint muzak version of some old Celestina Warbeck song was doing nothing to help his composure. “We are in public. In the baking aisle. Next to the desiccated coconut.”
“Exactly. Very neutral territory as no one expects debauchery near the dessicated coconut.” Sirius’s fingers brushed Remus’s wrist as he handed the sugar back, lingering just long enough to feel like a promise. “Though if you keep blushing like that, people might start to suspect us of something, babe...”
Remus exhaled through his nose and tried to refocus on the list. “We need grenadine for the phoenix layer, edible gold luster dust for the feather shimmers, 151 rum for the float-and-flame effect, cinnamon sticks for garnish that look like burnt tail feathers, and… apparently, fresh cranberries because the book insists the phoenix rebirth must include something called ‘tart renewal’?”
Sirius snorted. “Tart renewal. That’s me after three pints or five at the pub, that is.”
“You’re not taking this seriously...”
“Nope— but you’re adorable when you’re trying to pretend you’re not half-hard in the middle of a Tesco’s.” Sirius leaned in again, breath warm against Remus’s ear. “Tell you what. We get all this nonsense, go back to the flat, you give your little bird lecture while I make the drinks… and every time you say ‘phoenix’ I get to taste how sparkly that sugar really is, spread somewhere else. Deal?”
Remus stared at the rows of sugar, pulse loud in his ears. The Costa Rica trip felt further away than ever—James would probably hex him on sight if he tried to drag everyone into the jungle for tinamous and motmots—but right now, with Sirius looking at him like that, the idea of cocktails and inappropriate innuendo suddenly seemed like the superior plan all together.
“…We still need more overproof rum…” he muttered, already turning the trolley toward the spirits section.
Sirius grinned, wicked and bright. “That’s the spirit, Moony. Lead the way. I’ll push the cart. And later—” his voice dropped again “—I’ll push into something else.”
Remus closed his eyes for one long second, prayed no one he knew was shopping today, and walked in front. The phoenix cocktails were going to be spectacular.
-
The flat was finally quiet. James had left first, loudly declaring the Phoenix Rising “the single most extra thing Remus has ever inflicted on us, and I once watched Lily try to brew in a cauldron the size of a soup bowl.” Peter followed, pink-cheeked and giggling, insisting he was going to recreate the “Hummingbird Nectar” at home even though he’d already spilled half of his on the rug. Lily hugged Remus goodbye with genuine warmth, whispered “the Costa Rica pitch is still rubbish, but the cocktails were divine,” and steered a tipsy James out the door before he could start something else.
The door clicked shut. Remus leaned against it for a moment, head fuzzy from too many flaming phoenixes and at least two illicit sips of the overproof rum Sirius had kept sneaking into his own glass when Remus wasn’t looking. The living room smelled like cinnamon, burnt sugar, and spilled grenadine. Empty glasses glittered on every surface like fallen stars, feather garnishes wilting sadly in the aftermath.
Sirius was sprawled on the sofa, long legs kicked over the armrest, one arm flung across his eyes. He looked like temptation in a half-unbuttoned shirt and rumpled hair, the firelight catching on the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbones. Remus meant to say something sensible. Something about cleaning up. Or hydrating. Or how they really should owl James an apology for the state of his Auror robes tomorrow.
Instead he said, very quietly, “You were well behaved… Mostly.”
Sirius lifted his arm just enough to peer at him with one grey eye. “High praise, Moony. I’m touched.”
“You didn’t even make a single rimming joke in front of James...”
“I was saving my best material.” Sirius sat up slowly, predatory grace even when tipsy, and reached into the pocket of the coat he’d tossed over the back of the sofa earlier. Out came a small, round tin—pink, shimmering, the same edible sanding sugar Remus had tried (and failed) to pretend wasn’t making his pulse jump in the grocery store.
He popped the lid with his thumb. The faint scent of vanilla and something faintly floral drifted up.
Remus’s mouth went dry. Sirius didn’t say anything at first. Just dipped two fingers into the tin, brought them to his lips, and very deliberately licked the sugar off in one slow swipe. His tongue caught the light; so did the tiny crystals clinging to the corner of his mouth.
“Still tastes like phoenix rebirth,” he murmured. “Or maybe just like you when you’re trying not to beg.”
Remus exhaled shakily. “Sirius.”
“Mm?”
“You’re drunk.”
“So are you.” Sirius stood, crossing the room in three lazy strides until he was close enough that Remus could feel the heat rolling off him. “And we both know you get filthy when you’re drunk and no one’s watching.”
He pressed one sugar-dusted fingertip to Remus’s lower lip, tracing the seam until Remus parted for him without thinking. The taste was sweet, granular, ridiculous—and unbearably intimate when Sirius followed it with his tongue a second later, licking into Remus’s mouth like he was chasing every last speck.
Remus made a low, helpless sound against Sirius’s lips. Sirius pulled back just far enough to speak, voice wrecked. “Bedroom. Now. I’ve got plans for the rest of this tin, and none of them involve actual glassware.”
Remus swallowed. His hands were already fisted in Sirius’s shirt. “Lead the way,” he rasped.
Sirius grinned—bright and triumphant—and tugged him toward the hall, the little pink tin still clutched in his free hand like a promise. Somewhere behind them, a forgotten cinnamon stick rolled off the coffee table and landed in a puddle of spilled shimmer-dust. Neither of them looked back.
The bedroom door shut with a soft click that felt louder than it should.
Sirius didn’t bother with lights. Moonlight spilled through the half-open curtains, silvering the edges of everything—Remus’s flushed cheeks, the rumpled duvet, the little pink tin still cradled in Sirius’s palm like contraband.
“Shirt off for me darling…” Sirius said, voice low and wrecked from too much rum and too much wanting. Remus obeyed, fingers clumsy on buttons until the fabric slid to the floor. Sirius stepped in, crowding him back until the backs of Remus’s knees hit the mattress. His hands firm on Remus’s hips, until Remus sat, then lay back, propped on elbows, watching. Sirius knelt between his thighs. Popped the tin open again. The faint vanilla and strawberry scent bloomed between them. He started with the lips, one fingertip dipped, coated thick with the pink shimmer,.he traced Remus’s bottom lip first, slowly, watching the way Remus’s mouth parted like on instinct. Then he leaned in and licked it off in one filthy drag of tongue, sucking the lower lip between his teeth just hard enough for it to sting. Remus made a small, broken sound at the treatment.
“Good boy…” Sirius murmured against his mouth. “Stay still for me…”
Next came the nipples, as Sirius dragged both index fingers through the sugar, then circled one tight peak, then the other. The grains caught on the sensitive skin, glittering in the light from moonlight like tiny stars. Remus arched, his chest lifting into his touch. Sirius bent and closed his mouth over the first one, tongue swirling to collect every speck, sucking hard enough that Remus’s hips jerked off the bed.
“Sirius—”
“Shh.” He switched to the other, teeth grazing just this side of too much, sugar dissolving under wet heat until Remus was trembling, nipples shiny and swollen and tasting faintly of vanilla and salt. Down the stomach next. Sirius mapped a lazy trail with his fingers—sternum, ribs, the soft dip below the navel—leaving a glittering line of pink. Then he followed it with his mouth. Open kisses, tongue flat and broad, lapping the sugar away. Remus’s breath came in shallow pants; his fingers twisted in the sheets.
When Sirius reached the waistband of Remus’s trousers, he didn’t even bother to ask. Just flicked the button open, tugged the zip down, and pulled everything down in one impatient yank. Remus’s cock was already hard and flushed dark, a bead of precome glistening at the tip.
Sirius paused, then looked up and met Remus’s eyes. Then he scooped a generous pinch of sugar and dusted it along the length—base to tip—like he was decorating. The pink crystals clung immediately, catching the low light, making Remus’ cock look almost confectionary.
“Fuck–” Remus whispered, voice cracking.
Sirius grinned, feral. “Oh baby…not yet.” He leaned in and licked a slow stripe from root to head, collecting the sugar, salt and Remus soul in one long drag. Remus’s hips bucked up; Sirius pinned them with both hands, then he took the head into his mouth—sucking gently at first, tongue swirling to chase every grain—before sliding down further, as he hollowed his cheeks, letting the sugar melt against the heat of his tongue until Remus was shaking, thighs tensing, curses falling soft and ragged from dusty pink lips. When he finally pulled off—his own lips glossy, chin wet—he didn’t give Remus time to catch his breath at all.
“Turn over.”
Remus did, clumsy, the side of his face pressed to the pillow as Sirius nudged his thighs wider, pushed them up so Remus’s hips tilted, arse presented. Then came the sugar again—more generous this time, a glittering dusting right over the cleft, concentrated where Sirius wanted his mouth most. Then he spread Remus open with both thumbs. And licked, first a swipe, then teasing circles around the rim, tasting sugar and skin and the faint musk that was pure Remus. Then deeper—pointed tongue pressing inside, swirling, coaxing Remus open while the sugar dissolved into slick sweetness. Remus moaned into the pillow, loud and wrecked, hips rocking back onto Sirius’s face without shame. Sirius ate him out like dessert. Greedy. One hand wrapped around Remus’s cock, stroking in time with the filthy rhythm of his tongue—until Remus was babbling and pleading, thighs trembling so hard Sirius had to brace him back, when Remus finally came—back arching, cry muffled into the sheets—Sirius didn’t stop. Just gentled the licks, lapped up the last of the sweetness while Remus shuddered through the aftershocks. Sirius pulled back at last, lips swollen and glistening, chin slick with spit and the last traces of melted sugar. He stayed kneeling between Remus’s spread thighs for a long moment, just looking.
“Still think,” Sirius murmured “that sugar belongs on only cocktail glasses?”
Remus laughed, voice hoarse. “No,” he rasped. “Definitely not.”
Remus lay there wrecked—face buried half in the pillow, back arched in a long, trembling curve, arse still lifted slightly from the way Sirius had held him open. And everywhere Sirius had touched him with that ridiculous pink sugar, the colour now lingered. Faint, shimmering streaks of it dusted his lips like some obscene lipstick, dappled his nipples in soft rosy halos, trailed down his stomach in fading glittery paths that caught the moonlight and turned them into something almost ceremonial. Lower still, the sugar had smeared and melted against the flushed skin of his cock, leaving delicate pink streaks along the shaft, the head glossy and dark against the pinkish residue.
Sirius exhaled roughly through his nose. “Fuck, Moons... Look at you...”
Remus made a small, embarrassed noise into the pillow—half protest, half plea—but didn’t move. Couldn’t, probably. His thighs were shaking, muscles loose and overworked from an hour of Sirius’s tongue working him open, slow and thorough and merciless. He was dripping, slick and pliant, body soft in a way that only came after being eaten out until he forgot how to form full sentences. Sirius reached down, wrapped a hand around himself—hard as fucking bricks, and gave one slow stroke just to take the edge off. Then he leaned over Remus, palms braced on either side of his head.
“Turn over properly for me, hmm…” he murmured. “Want to see your face.”
Remus obeyed sluggishly, rolling back onto his back, and his legs fell open without resistance, knees bent, feet planted on the mattress. The pink streaks on his skin stood out even more starkly now—cheeks flushed, mouth bitten red, chest rising and falling in shallow pants. The sugar residue glittered faintly across his nipples, his stomach, the crease of his hips. Sirius dragged his gaze down the length of him, slow, greedy.
“So pretty,” he said again, almost reverent. One hand came up to trace a fingertip along the faint pink line still clinging to Remus’s lower lip. “So fucking pretty like this. All marked up with stupid cocktail sugar…” Sirius murmured before he stopped to watch him longer.
“Fucking gorgeous.” Sirius’s voice dropped lower. “Even better, you’re dripping for me.” He shifted forward, notched himself at Remus’s entrance without pushing in yet, letting him feel every inch of his cock waiting. Remus’s breath hitched; his hands found Sirius’s shoulders, nails digging in. Sirius leaned down and kissed him—slower this time, deep, tasting the last of the vanilla-sugar on Remus’s tongue. When he pulled back, their foreheads pressed together.
“Gonna take my time…” he whispered. “Been dreaming about this all night. You, all soft and open and covered in pink. Not rushing a fucking thing.”
Remus whimpered. “Please—”
Sirius smiled against his mouth. “Patience, love.”
He pushed in—barely an inch. Then paused. Let Remus feel the stretch, the heat, the way his body yielded so easily after all that prep. Remus’s head tipped back, throat working on a low moan. Another inch. Slow. Sirius watched every flicker across Remus’s face—the way his brows knit, lips parted, eyes fluttering half-shut. Watched the pink shimmer on his chest rise and fall faster. Halfway in now. Sirius stopped again, hips rocking in tiny, teasing thrusts that made Remus’s thighs tremble.
“Look at me…” Sirius said softly.
Remus’s eyes opened—hazy and dark, his pupils blown wide. Sirius held his gaze as he sank the rest of the way in, in one long inexorable slide until he was buried to the hilt. Remus gasped and his legs wrapped around Sirius’s waist.
Sirius didn't thrust just yet, just stayed deep, grinding slow and filthy, letting Remus feel everything, letting the pressure build slowly. One hand slid up to cup Remus’s jaw, thumb brushing over the faint pink stain still clinging to the corner of his mouth.
“Beautiful,” Sirius breathed. “Every fucking inch of you.” He started to move then, long and languid rolls of his hips, deep. Each thrust pulled a soft, broken sound from Remus’s throat and each withdrawal made him clench, body greedy, trying to keep Sirius inside. Sirius kept watching it all. The way the pink streaks on Remus’s skin shifted with every breath he drew, the way his cock—still flushed and streaked—bobbed against his stomach, leaking steadily now and feeling the way Remus’ fingers clutched at his back, leaving crescent marks and trails.
Time blurred. Minutes, maybe longer. Sirius kept the rhythm steady, unhurried—building it slow, letting the heat coil tighter and tighter without letting either of them tip over. Remus was babbling—half-words, pleas, Sirius’s name over and over like some chant. Sirius leaned down, kissed the pink-dusted hollow of Remus’s throat. Then lower, tongue flicking over one sugar-streaked nipple just to feel Remus arch and cry out.
“Close?” Sirius murmured against his skin.
Remus nodded frantically. “Please—Sirius—need—”
“I’ve got you.” He shifted the angle and the next thrust hit deep, perfect. Remus keened, back bowing off the bed. Sirius didn’t speed up. Just kept that same devastating roll, grinding right against the spot that made Remus’s eyes flutter shut. When Remus finally came, it was quiet at first—a long, shuddering exhale—then louder, broken open, whole body locking tight around Sirius as he spilled between them, hot and messy across the pink-streaked skin of his stomach.
Sirius followed maybe three thrusts later—couldn’t hold back anymore, not with Remus clenching like that, not with the sight of him so thoroughly well seen to. He slammed deep and groaned low into Remus’s neck, and came with a full-body shudder. They stayed like that, sweaty and sticky, both breathing hard. Sirius pressed lazy kisses to Remus’s jaw, his temple, the corner of his mouth where the sugar still shimmered.
Eventually he pulled out and collapsed half on top of Remus, one arm slung possessively across his chest.
Remus huffed a tired laugh. “We’re covered in sugar. And… other things.”
Sirius grinned against his shoulder. “Best cocktail garnish I’ve ever tasted.”
Remus swatted him weakly. “You fucker...”
“Yeah.” Sirius kissed the pink-streaked skin over his heart. “But you love me.”
Remus’s fingers carded through Sirius’s hair—gentle, fond. “I do,” he murmured. “Even when you turn my body into a bloody dessert.”
Sirius laughed softly. Then reached for the tin on the nightstand anyway.
“Still more left,” he said, voice already turning wicked again. “Think we can make it sparkle somewhere new?”
Remus groaned, but didn’t say no. The moonlight caught the faint pink residue still clinging to both of them, turning it all to soft, glittering promise.
-
Remus woke to sunlight stabbing through the gap in the curtains like an accusation. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat—too much rum, too much Sirius, too much everything—and every muscle felt like it had been politely asked to stay and then rudely evicted anyway. He groaned, rolled over, found the bed empty except for the lingering scent of vanilla and sex, and decided the bathroom was non-negotiable unless he wanted to piss himself.
.
He wobbled there on legs that still remembered being held apart for far too long. The tiles were cold under his bare feet as he flicked on the light without looking, then immediately regretted it when the mirror threw his reflection back at him in merciless detail.
He froze. The pink residue was everywhere. Not faded to nothing in the night like sensible, temporary food colouring should. No, it had settled in, stubborn and shimmering, like it had decided to become a permanent resident.
Faint rosy streaks still traced the outline of his lips—swollen, bitten, looking like he’d been thoroughly kissed by someone with a very thorough agenda. His nipples were the worst offenders: tender to the point of aching, visibly swollen, ringed with delicate pink halos where Sirius had sucked and licked and teased until the sugar had melted into his skin and stained it. They stood out against the paler skin of his chest like obscene little badges of last night’s excesses.
Lower down, the trail Sirius had painted down his stomach had faded unevenly—some places just a soft blush, others still glittering faintly where sweat and come had mixed with the sugar and dried in place. But it was the sight of his cock that made Remus’s breath catch in a mortified, half-aroused hitch.
It looked… glossy. Still flushed dark from use, yes, but the shaft bore faint, streaky pink marks along the length—where Sirius had dusted him, licked him clean, then dusted him again just to watch him squirm as he ‘cleaned him off’. The head was slick-shiny even now, the skin there carrying the faintest rosy sheen, like it had been polished. Bite marks dotted the crease of his hip, the inside of one thigh; hickeys bloomed in dark purple clusters along his collarbone, the side of his neck, the soft skin just below his ear. One particularly vicious one sat right over his pulse point, already purpling into something that would be impossible to hide under even the highest of his shirt collars. He looked debauched, thoroughly, shamelessly debauched.
Remus lifted a hand, brushed a fingertip over one swollen nipple, and hissed at the sharp, sweet sting of it. The touch sent a lazy aftershock straight to his groin. His cock gave a pathetic twitch, as if remembering exactly whose mouth had put that gloss there.
“Morning, gorgeous.” Sirius’s voice from the doorway—rough with sleep, smug as sin. He was leaning against the frame in nothing but low-slung pyjama bottoms, hair a disaster, eyes bright and predatory as they raked over Remus from head to toe. Remus met his gaze in the mirror. Didn’t bother covering up. What would be the point?
“You left evidence…” he said, voice still hoarse. He gestured vaguely at his own body. “All of it. I look like I’ve been decorated for a bloody Valentine’s special.”
Sirius pushed off the doorframe and padded closer, barefoot and predatory. He stopped just behind Remus, chest to back, and slid both arms around his waist. Chin hooked over Remus’s shoulder so they were both looking at the mirror now—Sirius’s grey eyes dark with satisfaction, Remus’s cheeks flushing under the sudden scrutiny.
“Very pretty evidence in that case…” Sirius murmured, lips brushing the shell of Remus’s ear. One hand drifted up, thumb circling a pink-ringed nipple with deliberate gentleness. Remus sucked in a breath, body arching despite himself.
“Look at you. All marked and sparkly by my handiwork… I’m truly an artist.” Sirius’s other hand slid lower, palm cupping Remus’s cock—gentle, appreciative, thumb tracing one of the faint pink streaks. “And you’re my masterpiece. Still glossy here. Still so sensitive.” He gave the lightest squeeze; Remus’s knees nearly buckled. “Bet if I licked you right now you’d taste like vanilla and come...”
“Sirius.” It came out half warning, half plea.
Sirius grinned against his neck, teeth grazing the fresh hickey there. “Shower first? Or should I add another layer before we wash it all off?”
Remus closed his eyes for a second as he exhaled shakily. The mirror showed him everything: the bite marks, the hickeys, the stubborn pink shimmer that refused to fade, the way his body leaned back into Sirius without his own conscious thought.
He opened his eyes again. Met Sirius’s gaze in the glass.
“Shower,” he said firmly. Then, quieter: “But try to behave.”
Sirius laughed, low and delighted and turned Remus around by the hips. Kissed him hard, tasting like coffee he must have already made and the faint ghost of last night’s sugar.
“Deal,” he said against Remus’s mouth. “Now get in there before I decide not to be, hmm?”
Remus let himself be herded toward the shower stall, the pink streaks on his skin catching the bathroom light one last time before steam started to rise. They’d wash it off eventually. Most of it, anyway. Some things, Remus suspected, were going to linger for days.
The shower started innocently actually, Remus is almost surprised that Sirius managed, as the steam curled thick around them as Sirius guided Remus under the spray first, warm water sluicing down over shoulders and chest, turning the lingering sugar residue into faint, swirling pink rivulets that spiralled toward the drain. Sirius had already fetched the shampoo—Remus’s preferred one, with no scent—and worked it into a lather between his palms before sliding his fingers into Remus’s damp hair.
“Head back for me love…” Sirius murmured, voice soft in the enclosed space. Remus complied, eyes closing as Sirius’s fingertips massaged slow circles against his scalp. The touch was careful, almost reverent; Sirius took his time rinsing, tilting Remus’s head this way and that under the stream until every last bubble was gone.
Then came the soap as Sirius lathered his hands again, started at Remus’s shoulders, worked down his arms in long, firm strokes. When he reached Remus’s chest, he slowed. His thumbs brushed over one swollen nipple—barely a graze—and Remus sucked in a sharp, involuntary breath.
Sirius paused as he looked up slowly.
Remus’s eyes were half-lidded, lips parted, water beading on his lashes. Another pass, lighter this time, and Remus made a small, helpless sound—half whimper, half sigh—that went straight to Sirius’s cock.
“Still so sensitive,” Sirius said, low and appreciative. His thumbs circled again, more deliberate now, watching the way the tender peaks tightened further under the touch. Remus’s head tipped back against the tile; his hands came up to brace against Sirius’s shoulders, fingers digging in.
“Sirius—”
“Shh. Just washing you, love…” But the words were already a lie. Sirius’s properness was fraying at the edges, dissolving under the heat and the sounds Remus was making. He leaned in, kissed the hollow of Remus’s throat while one hand slid lower, soaping the faint pink streaks still clinging to Remus’s stomach. The other stayed at his chest, rolling a nipple between thumb and forefinger—gentle, then firmer, testing if he would be told off or no.
Remus jolted. A soft, broken moan slipped out.
Sirius groaned against his skin. “Fuck, Moony. Listen to you—” He abandoned any pretence of propriety then and leaned down and took one abused nipple into his mouth with warm suction, tongue flat and slow, coaxing the swollen bud while water rained down over both of them. Remus’s hips jerked forward; his cock, already half-hard from the mirror earlier and now fully interested as it brushed against Sirius’.
Sirius hummed his approval around the nipple, before he switched to the other one. Same slow attention—licks and suction, then the scrape of teeth—until Remus was trembling, his thighs shaking and making those wrecked little noises that Sirius would happily die listening to.
“Turn around,” Sirius rasped when he finally pulled off, lips shiny and red. Remus did, palms flat against the tile his forehead resting there too. Sirius stood, pressed himself along Remus’s back, cock hard and insistent against the cleft of his arse, as one arm wrapped around Remus’s waist to hold him steady; the other hand drifted down, fingers slick with water, circling Remus’s entrance.
“You’re still so open from last night…” Sirius murmured against his ear, pressing one finger in—easy. Remus keened, pushing back onto it. “Still so fucking soft for me, does it hurt at all?” A second finger joined the first as its scissored gently. Remus’s breath hitched but he shock his head, then moaned on the inward stroke; his cock leaked steadily against his thigh.
Sirius kissed the back of his neck, the fresh hickey there. “Want me inside you again?”
Remus nodded frantically. “Please. Yes–”
Sirius didn’t make him wait as he withdrew his fingers, lined himself up, and pushed in—slowly, because Remus was still tender everywhere and Sirius wanted to feel every inch of him yield properly. Remus moaned low as Sirius bottomed out, hips flush against Remus’s arse.
They stayed like that for a heartbeat—Sirius buried deep, Remus clenching around him, water pounding down over their joined bodies. Sirius started to move, long thrusts. Deep ones as his hips rolled, grinding in on every stroke so Remus felt him. One hand stayed wrapped around Remus’s waist; the other found his chest again, fingers finding those swollen, sensitive nipples and pinching—lightly at first, then harder when Remus begged with a choked “more—”
Remus came first, without a hand on his cock, just from the relentless pressure inside and the sharp, sweet sting at his chest. He cried out, body locking tight, spilling hot against the tile. Sirius followed seconds later—couldn’t hold back with Remus coming apart like that, his ass squeezing down on him—thrusting deep once and spilling with a rough groan into Remus’s neck. They stayed locked together until Sirius pulled out slowly, turned Remus around, kissed him under the spray—slow, lazy.
“Still so pretty…” Sirius murmured against his mouth, thumb brushing over one reddened nipple. “Even without the pink.”
Remus laughed—breathless and exhausted as Sirius turned off the water. Grabbed a towel. Wrapped it around Remus first—because Remus was swaying slightly—and then dried himself haphazardly. Breakfast was still waiting under stasis charms in the kitchen. It could wait a little longer.
Right now, Sirius just wanted to get Remus back into bed, preferably horizontal, preferably still damp and flushed and making those noises for him again.
They had all morning and half a tin of sugar left somewhere in the flat.
Sirius is good at certain priorities afterall.