TITLE: Possession
RATING: R
DISCLAIMER: Belongs to J.K. Rowling, etc.
BETA: The Incomparable Irana Darkling
NOTES: Written for silversunn, because I promised myself I would. Sorry it took so long to write something for the com. I'm actually horribly depressed, so I don't know how well this one turned out, but for some reason I felt the urge to do this piece.
SUMMARY: A slightly stream-of-consciousness fic where Harry and Remus try to purge the demons of their past.
Possession
Harry understands what Remus is doing. He sees it in the warm eyes that grow inexplicably warmer, until they are scorching him with their heated gaze. He breathes it in whenever Remus approaches him, casually taking a seat beside him, or stepping close until their body heat melts, mingles, coalesces and becomes one. He anticipates it, whenever he is touched; when Remus leans down to make a private joke, his nut-brown, greying hair gently brushing Harry's cheek, or the way Remus' hand softly squeezes Harry's shoulder. Harry tastes it in the tea that Remus prepares for them, or in the rich cocoa they sip together in the cool evenings. And although the words are never spoken, Harry hears them; they are in the hoarse laughter Remus grants no one but him, and in the odd little growl that comes whenever anyone else stands too near Harry.
Harry is not surprised when all of these experiences grow, shift, go through shimmering metamorphosis into something deep and humming and red.
Harry understands what Remus is doing. He sees it in the carefully arranged stubs of candles, their flames yellow and desperate and flicking back and forth with hunger. He breathes it in the stale air, now mixed with sweat and Remus' sweet musk. He anticipates it, whenever he is touched; when Remus leans down to press gentle kisses to his throat, or run careful teeth over a nipple, or when Remus' fingertips go skittering across his stomach, wrapping warm and tight around his length, or pressing up and inside, teasing that spot, readying Harry for an even more intense touch. Harry tastes it on Remus' eager tongue, which dances with his own, and on Remus' chest, where a drop of perspiration trickles, salty on the scarred skin. And although the words are never spoken, Harry hears them in the heavy breaths, coming raggedly from behind clenched teeth, and the husky murmurs against his ear.
Remus' teeth are blunt, and never pierce Harry's flesh. His fingernails are kept trim, and he never digs them into the youth's body. And even though Remus is far stronger than he looks, he never leaves behind a bruise or scratch. He is very careful with Harry.
But for all that, Harry understands what Remus is doing. The papers may print as many stories as they like about Harry and whomever his is rumoured to be seeing. The girls may swarm around him whenever he goes outside, obscuring him like a cloud of buzzing insects. And Harry knows that the scents of previous lovers still linger on his skin, although it has been a long time since he has been with anyone but Remus. Harry has no scars from Remus, nor any indication the man has ever touched him.
Nevertheless, Harry knows he is marked.
Remus understands what Harry is doing. He sees it in the coy glances from beneath dark lashes. He breathes it in whenever Harry comes near, to reach up and around him to put a cup away, or to curl up far too near him after dinner, so that their legs are close together, the fabric of their jeans just kissing. He anticipates it, whenever he is touched; when Harry gets up on his tiptoes to mutter a private thought to Remus, his hand on Remus' shoulder for balance, or when Harry stands beside him in a crowd, their hips and shoulders bumping, Harry's hand repeatedly grazing the back of his own. He tastes it in the small things Harry buys, the sticks of honey the boy puts into their tea, the small mints that wait in the back of the pantry, bought specially to be swirled around Remus' mouth and melt on his tongue. And although the words are never spoken, he hears it in the eager way Harry says his name, the hum of contentment the youth gives whenever he has Remus all to himself.
Remus is somewhat surprised when these experiences shiver, shatter, are struck by lightning and catch fire, turning into something entirely different. He had not expected Harry to stick around long enough for that to happen.
Remus understands what Harry is doing. He sees it in the artless splash of flower petals, strewn across the bed, bold and bright and full of hope. He breathes it in Harry's sweet panting, puffs of air that kiss his lips. He anticipates it, whenever he is touched, particularly when Harry tops; in the desperate grinding of the youth's hips, the way Harry's fingers clutch and slide over slick flesh, and end up tangling in Remus' damp hair. Remus tastes it when he licks Harry's hand, tongue tickling across Harry's palm and over the webbing between his fingers. And although the words are never spoken, Remus hears it in the wild cries as Harry takes, and the mewls and moans when Harry is taken.
Harry's hands are always clumsy, and fumble and claw their way over Remus' body. Sometimes he leaves love bites, or long red marks down Remus' back. Harry has little control when they couple, and Remus doubts the boy even realizes what he is trying to accomplish.
But for all that, Remus understands what Harry is doing. The past sometimes rises from the grave. An old friend stops by, or Remus comes across something that jogs a memory, washing him away in a flood of bittersweet nostalgia. And Remus knows that Sirius has left an indelible brand on his soul, still burned in deeply, however long the man himself has been gone. Harry has never given any indication that he is aware of what they were to one another, and would never seem possessive of Remus, to an outsider.
Nevertheless, Remus knows that he is marked.
And late at night, when the frantic need for contact, for reassurance, has been quenched, when they are sated and spent and snuggled close together, when sleepy fingers are stroking and petting, both of them can relax, smugly thinking the same thought:
Mine.