A/N: SiriusxJames. My first attempt at this pairing, so play nice, as it's a bit of an experiment.
Rated T for sex; it's fairly tame.
Drabble-y, as usual. Oh well.
It seemed a curse that the first time had to be so damn uncomfortable.
They took up little space as they pressed together: a solid wall against a slick, tan back, and then a chest to a chest. Sweaty palms to tangled brown tresses, shaking fingertips to freezing, suddenly-exposed stomachs. Sirius worked the buttons of the white cotton shirt, finding that it was difficult to maneuver even something so simple while being pinned to the bricks behind him. When that didn't work, he pulled skywards, yanking the wrinkled folds up and over his head, momentarily obscuring James' wide, devilish grin.
And there was something in the way that James closed his hand around one of his wrists, the way his tug towards the bed was more of a command than a question, that made the hairs on Sirius's arms prickle, that turned his cheeks a faded coral, that filled him with an astonishing meekness, a deep and lovely embarrassment no one and nothing else could provide. He learned that he had forgotten how to breathe as James pushed him backwards onto the mattress, and the instant he opened his mouth to gasp for air, he found a pair of rough, wet lips sliding against his own.
James' tongue ran along his lower lip, then against his own tongue, and the surprise made Sirius jump and bite slightly at the corner of James's mouth. James made a noise in the back of his throat and set to work pulling at the lower lip again- It was in no way perfect, not even close. It was wet, it was messy, it was a fight for power, who could trump the other, who could be harder, fiercer. But there came a point of giving-up, a moment when, without fail and without regret, Sirius decided to let him win this.
He knew that James was giving it his all; that the calloused palms sliding along his ribs were the product of lust, of a screaming want to have and to keep. This was the type of control James could only crave before now. Incidentally, in Sirius's own hands and wrists (a moment later pinned tightly behind his head) there was another kind of lust, the counter-screaming to be had, to be kept. And more importantly, wanted. To belong to someone, something. To be the plaything and property of an otherwise empty Thursday midnight. To be used, and not just used, but used with purpose. He didn't mind James pushing him down against the pillows, not when it was to silence the remains of Sirius' breathy, unfelt protestations with a deep, salty kiss to the lips. Because he knew he himself was a necessary object, something that held a place of honor in the grand scheme of things, however quiet, however small. A catalyst for sublime domination, for wonderful power. He brought out a side of James that nothing, no one else could. And for that, he loved it; he loved every minute of it.
The deeper James kissed, the longer his touch lingered in one singular location, the more he found himself unable to move, to think, to speak. The more he had switched over to autopilot, letting his lover (if that's what James was, anyway) move with a striking, alarming security that Sirius had only so much as glimpsed in the past.
This is how it should be.
The thought pulled at the edges of his consciousness, then a moment later was smothered by the pressure of James, pushing him back down once more, leaving a trail of agonizing kisses along the inside of one thigh.
And for once, the why wasn't important; not in the slightest.
Hours later, the couple was still tightly pressed together, tangled in and on the sheets. James had his face in Sirius' lap and was drifting in and out of sleep, the silence punctured by periodic snoring.
As such, it was perfectly logical, Sirius told himself, blinking sleep out of his own eyes, to be wary, to be uncomfortable as he reached out to card his fingers through James' hair, gently. The mass of messy black hair was settled against his thigh, and the sun was rising outside the window. Strangely enough, he realized, it was more uncomfortable than initiating the act of sex itself. Because this wasn't sex, it was intimacy; and it was less instinct and less impulse and more feeling, which was ridiculous, because feeling, he told himself, wasn't what sex was about. Well, not that kind of feeling, anyway. But the longer he sat there, the more natural it became- the more this, this strange, foreign comfort, became about instinct, too.
The simplicity of it all had him awestruck. They were who and how they were, and that was that: One of James' hands was awkwardly clinging to the front of Sirius' inside-out and unbuttoned shirt, Sirius was settling one of his own hands at the base of James's neck, thumb moving in quiet circles. It was easy, easier than it should have been, to trace a jawline, a distant scar; to admire, without taking, such a spectacle; a state so natural and so pure. To have this kind of art, this breed of honesty, he mused, should have been unholy.
They remained in silence for hours, comfortable. And just as he finally began to drift away, Sirius heard James speak.
He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, eager. "Mmm-hmm?"
James let out a wide yawn and rolled over, pressing his nose into Sirius's knee and leaving a trail of drool behind him, which Sirius surveyed affectionately and did not bother to wipe away. Instead, he wrapped his arms around James' torso, and brought him close, resting him against his own chest. Simply holding; breathing; taking in.
This is how it should be.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"'Said 'ovvve ya, Pads." He yawned again, and cleared his throat. "I lov…"
The rest was drowned in a loud, crackling snore.
"Love you, too, Jamie," Sirius murmured against the crown of his head; placing a silent smiling kiss there before letting his own eyes droop shut as well.
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