A/N: And so begins the tragic spiral into abusing Remus. The poor thing is just so susceptible to it.
Warnings: Slash (( thank you, Captain Obvious )) and of course it's not fluff, mwuahah! (( Well, Remus likes to be abused. Honest. ))
Because when Sirius slips into his bed every night, Remus can almost pretend that Sirius wants him. Almost.
Almost
Tonight will be the same as all of those before. The same pattern, the same routine, the same practice. Perhaps at first it will hold the promise of being different and I will almost be caught in the lies I spin (all lies, we both know that, don't we?) lying in the dark of the dormitory with the new moon a black hole in the ink sky through the window. And then I will hear the creak of a mattress, the rustle of curtains, the padding of feet across cold stone floor and the almost lies will dissolve to a pool of nothingness and I will be left with the cold bones of truth and my mind already half-clouded. (How you break me, do you know?)
You will pull back my bed hangings as if it's the most normal thing in the world and without a word of invitation you will climb under the sheets and within seconds will be on top of me. You'll kiss me and with your tongue sliding sleekly into my mouth I'll almost let myself forget. (Do you know, do you know how you can almost fool me?) But then I'll try to twist my fingers in you dark hair or try to push my hands beneath your shirt and you'll growl, a quiet threatening noise in the back of your throat, and you'll pin my insistent wandering hands above my head.
It is unspoken yet established between us (says who, says who?) that you are the one to set the pace, you are the one in control. It is ridiculous and we both know it; I should tell you no, I should tell you that I deserve better. (We won't question if I want better, we already know the answer, don't we?) But I'll do anything just to feel the weight of you pressing me down into the mattress, just to have you groaning into my mouth, just to have you touch me. We both know that, too.
Besides, with your lips mouthing a wet trail across my jaw I can almost pretend you're doing this for me. And when your hands tug my shirt over my head and trail down my stomach I can almost believe you want to touch me. Then you're hand will slide into my pyjama bottoms and I'll almost be fooled into thinking that you're panting and are hard against my hip because of me. (Me, me, him, me.)
My pants will be inched over my hips, down my thighs and I'll kick them from my feet, a tangle of soft fabric slipping from the foot of the bed. And the strange thing is, I won't feel uncomfortable lying naked beneath you, I won't feel a sliver of embarrassment. (The boy who was shy and modest, where did he go, what did we do to him?) Because I learnt long ago that you're not really looking at me, are you?
And sometimes I'll wonder: when you tangle your fingers in my dark blonde hair do you really see black (unruly, black, Black, do you think of the two of you similar together one?); or when you run your hands over my scarred, thin body do you really feel smooth, lightly-muscled flesh (is it easy to feel what you imagine, is it easy to replace my body with his?); or when you accidentally catch my dark brown eyes do you really see hazel (the scarce times, is that what you see?)?
The words will chase themselves around my head, make me dizzy, eat away at the inside (can you see them buzzing behind my eyes, do you see my eyes, do you see his?) until I'm gripped with the need to scream, just to make any noise that may block out the constant hum of thoughts. Sometimes I'll sink my teeth into my bottom lip and try to bite back my voice; sometimes I'll cry out and then I'll pretend not to notice the way you involuntarily flinch at my groans. (It's not involuntary is it?)
Then when you're kneeling between my willingly spread legs (so willing, and don't you know it), you'll pull your own shirt off and then begin to push your pyjamas down over your hips. And oh, how I'll wish I could undress you, how my fingers will itch to tug your clothes, how my palms will burn to feel your warm skin. Every time, I'll ache for you and yearn for you but every time, every bloody time, I'll know that you don't belong to me, you're not mine. (Am I yours, I could never be anyone else's, do you know?)
My back will arch and I'll try to rub against you; I'll covet the hot slide of our cocks or the searing press of your mouth or the frantic fumbling of your fingers. Yet I'll already know what comes next and I'll hardly feel the sting of disappointment (sting like the sharp jerk of hips against flesh, into flesh; sting like the back of a hand across a cheek; sting like the gash of knowledge in the cave of a chest) as you push my hips back down against the bed and then roughly twist me onto my stomach.
I'll be uncomfortable, splayed and prostrate, but it's easier when I can press my face to the pillow and pretend I don't have to see the glassy look in your eyes that confirms your mind is actually two beds over. (Glassy, vacant, always thinking, aren't you?) I'll be on my knees with minimal encouragement and though I'd rather feel your hand curling around my waist I will convince myself that it's just as good braced on my back, fingers spread across the ridges of my spine. The specifics don't matter – as long as you're touching me.
And then everything will be driven from my mind – whirring thoughts, desperate cravings, half-formed persuasions – as you press one spit-slicked finger between my thighs and push it inside me. I'll whimper and eagerly push back against your hand as you slide your finger in and out and then you'll add a second and as you stretch me I'll try to stop myself from moaning loudly. I'll hate myself for the sounds that escape my throat and I'll vainly try to stop my hips from rocking backwards. I'll hate myself for showing you my weakness and proving that I need this badly (but then, I'm not the only one who needs this, am I?). I'll hate myself for being so eager and wanton.
I'll hate myself for wondering if you think the word Whore, too. (Is that the word that creeps into your mind, drawn-out and rasping, as I stumble over the brink of begging?)
No matter how many times this happens – how many times you creep into my bed when everyone else is asleep; how many times you press your body against mine in a choking heat; how many times you push inside me with a low hiss – when you pull your fingers away and rub your hips against my arse my mind will blur around the edges and I'll forget that breathing is supposed to come naturally. Because I still won't be able to believe this is really happening, that you chose me (we both know that's not true, don't we?) and I'll almost be able to kid myself that you're actually thinking of me this time.
And then with a snap – sharp, quick, harsh, snap – you'll be inside me. (But then, you were already under my skin, didn't you know?) Hot and tight and burning and you'll begin to move: pulling out, sliding in, pulling out. I'll thrust my hips back as you jerk forward and I will remember nothing but how to suck in lungfuls of air through an open mouth and hoarse throat. I'll hear the noises you make – low, breathless, desperate – and almost think that you want me as much as I want you (me, want me, it's him you want, isn't it?).
When your chest presses against my back, sweat-soaked skin to sweat-soaked skin, I won't remember the reason you're here. I will be numb to the knowledge that you're doing this because you're alone now. I will block out the fact that I can pinpoint the exact time this all started. (The night she had said yes, wasn't it? The night you realised he now belonged to someone else, the night you were met with a shake of the head and a soft no, I can't when you tired to crawl into his bed, the night you suddenly decided to acknowledge the wistful longing in my eyes.) I'll be momentarily unable to recall that it won't be my name you groan through gritted teeth when you spiral into orgasm.
And when the tension coiling in the pit of my stomach becomes almost too much I will curl my fingers around my cock (because it will never be your hand, always mine, isn't it?) and keeping time with the rhythm of your hips, I'll stroke – once, twice – and then I'll be spilling over my fingers, choking over your name as my whole body trembles and my heart crashes arbitrarily against my ribcage.
Your hands will grab frantically at my hips and you'll slam into me once more and then you'll be coming, hard and wet, pushing deeper inside me. And when you gasp a name I'll pretend not to hear. When you hiss it under your breath, strangled and twisted, I'll pretend I don't know what you're saying.
You'll pause for a moment (only ever a moment, you don't want to have to pick up the pieces afterwards, do you?) and then pull out of me, and without saying anything, not even a muttered Scourigfy, you'll drag your pants back over you hips and grab your shirt. And then you'll be gone. Abrupt and hasty and silent.
Alone, I will make believe that I misheard you, that your lips had curled around my name and not his, that you didn't say anything at all (sibilant and hissing, reiterating in the dark long after you've left, a reminder that I will never have you). I will almost pretend you did it for me. I will almost believe you wanted to touch me. I will almost be fooled into thinking it wasn't about him (sibilant and hissing, James James James). Almost.
Peractio