FIC: A Typical Darkness, Remus/Bill, NC17

PSA: YOU CANNOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE A LEGAL ADULT CITIZEN IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA AND WILL NOT BE VOTING TOMORROW FOR NO GOOD REASON ETA: (or did not already ;D). NO SMUT FOR YOU. GO STAND IN FUCKING LINE. SERIOUSLY.

And for the rest of you! :D See below.

Title: A Typical Darkness
Author: Imochan
Pairing: Bill/Remus
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Smuuuuut. Whee!
Summary: Sex and comfort in Siberia.
Notes: For the Fandom Ficlet Cookie Jar request by milenaa! Inspired by an old Queerditch drabble. Damn, I have gotta stop remixing.



There is frost on Bill's upper lip, crusted and sheer, sparking in the blue light of Remus's wand, clinging to the skin in a wet film, until it's heat-licked away by the way Bill sighs, his breath sifting through the air like smoke.

"Well?" Bill asks, fingers rubbing up and down his arms, a futile warming gesture.

"They'll come tomorrow," says Remus, eyes snapping back to the letter in his hands. "We've got to wait it out, I suppose."

"And I suppose they were awfully polite about it?" Bill winks, roguish, though he flexes his fingers visibly against the cold. "Even though they've not given us even a blanket."

"There's a blanket on the bed. And they're used to it," Remus shrugs, folds the letter, slips it away. "Fur coats and all."

"You don't have one." Bill raises an eyebrow.

"Not Siberian," says Remus, feeling dulled around the edges. The air is thin and cold and dark. The owl sweeps off, a spray of snow spiraling into the night outside. Remus closes the window with white-tipped fingers, slipping them into his pockets.

"What, you British were-chaps settle for tweed and flannel only, then?" Bill waves the back of his hand at Remus's threadbare clothing, and it's trembling, but Bill smiles, and his breath is melting the air between them slowly.

"I suppose us British were-chaps settle for what you might call compliance."

"Tame?" Bill raises a skeptical eyebrow, his eyes heavy, the sheen of licorice, golden-black, lashes hovering over an up-down sweeping look that makes Remus's belly give a quiet, embarrassed quiver, skin in gooseflesh along his arms and at the bare, cold skin of his neck.

"I suppose," says Remus, finally, fingering his wand, idly, frowning at the thin, blue-stained-white of his bony wrists.

Bill laughs, cut off by a breathy shiver when the hut is caught in a draft that slithers along the floor, up their trouser cuffs and into their chests, burying into their spines.

"All right?" asks Remus, propping up his wand on the small table, in an empty tin cup, where it paints Bill with blue, cold light where he sits in the corner, full of roguish-shape shadows.

"Yeah. Yeah. God," hisses Bill. "Merlin's bloody balls, it's cold."

"Compared to Egypt," Remus says, and his breath puffs white and cloudy when he exhales, sliding down the wall next to Bill.

"Compared to your icy, black heart," Bill grouses with a grin, and tugs his jacket tighter around his chest. "Where's that sympathy, hum?"

"Happily back in London," says Remus. "Drinking all my tea."

"S'bloody cold in London, too," says Bill, blowing on his fingertips, nose red and cheeks gone bright pink.

"Mmh," says Remus, who wishes he'd never brought up London at all. London never got cold, really. London stayed wet, and damp, and cyclical grey-white-grey-white dreaming sort of winds that stirred up the smell of garbage and blood in Remus's flat, and that Grim Old Place.

"Want to get warm, then?" asks Bill, and when Remus turns his head, Bill's cold fingers are drifting on the crease of Remus's hip, and Bill is grinning and his nose is dripping, and his breath is coming in short, little puffs of white air.

"Bill..." says Remus, thinking, Breathe, Lupin.

"What?" asks Bill, grin flickering, briefly, puffed-out candle of rejection before recovery. "What, you think that was only once, then?"

"I thought that was –"

"You thought that was bloody brilliant, you said!"

"I never," Remus can't help but smile, though it hurts his cheeks, like leather creaking. "You said that."

"You wanted to," grins Bill, and leans in, and his mouth is hovering over Remus's, Remus thinks if he slips his tongue out, he'd be able to taste the condensation quivering on Bill's lower lip, where the air is hot between their mouths and searing cold on his skin and fingers and toes.

"Presumptuous," whispers Remus, feeling the cold melt from his chin and mouth at Bill's breath.

"Does't bother you?" asks Bill, and his hand is kneading Remus through his trousers, just on the inside of a thigh – brilliant, calloused fingers - and the wand-light is too feeble to catch anything but his eyes, and the high curve of a cheekbone.

"No," says Remus, but he means nothing is worth it, anymore.

"So kiss me," says Bill, and it's more white mist, warm, melting, than words.

Their mouths brush, and because Bill is Bill, he teases a tongue over Remus's lower lip, draws it into his mouth and tugs with his teeth and mhh, Remus remembers this, from before – when the tongue was laced with whiskey and the inside of Bill's mouth was marzipan-sweet and wet and hot. And it still is, even here in the snow and freezing air, Remus shudders, deliciously, curling a hand up and into Bill's hair to cup his face and kiss him, teasing be damned, he wants his mouth.

Bill has a wicked tongue, with a tang like dried apricots and spiced, soft curry, wet and velvet and sun-licked, so when Bill pulls away the cold air rushes in, searing white, icy air. Remus buries his fingers in Bill's hair, as deep as he can, tangled and slippery with the cold and he cups the sandpaper edge of his jaw and pulls him close again, their teeth clicking, Bill's smug grin caught in the heat of their mouths.

Remus can almost feel smooth, like this, he realizes, though it's a strange thing to want to be. But the way Bill's mouth rubs against his own, and their tongues, and the wet, slick noises they make in the space where they need to breathe, the way that Bill shifts a palm, cupping the thin curve of Remus's thigh, and over, the way that Bill shifts, pressing Remus back against the way with the weight of his body and the teasing flick of a tongue that makes Remus arch, a little, just as Bill straddles the nestle of Remus's hip, thighs on either side, this can makes Remus feel un-battered, slick with new life and hopes and dreams and perfection, and Bill smiles, against his quiet-gasping mouth.

"Told you," whispers Bill, knees squeezing Remus's hips, calloused-tan finger tracing the curve of Remus's ear. "Told you you wanted it."

"Presumptuous," says Remus, again, but his eyes lock on the red-wet brightness of the curve of Bill's mouth, thinking I belong there. "What do I want?"

"To. Fuck. Me," Bill whispers, heated, each word a heady white puff of air against Remus's mouth. Bill's hips roll forward, his fingers locking around Remus's neck, twisting in the collar of Remus's coat, his eyes bright, hedonistic-dark, almost indigo in the wand-light, and Remus gasps for air.

"Or my mouth," Bill murmurs, deliberate, strong, undulations of his hips over Remus's groin. "On your prick…"

Remus is almost too cold, too hot, he can't tell, to be embarrassed by the sound he makes against Bill's mouth, with Bill curving his fingers over the back of Remus's neck, teeth closing on his bottom lip, tugging, breathing heat into the still frigidity around them, and Remus feels his skin burning with it, thinking, this was how it was, before – this was what I lost?

"Yeah?" Bill whispers, wicked, lips skirting to Remus's jaw, licking; his mouth finds the shivery silver-tissue line of a scar - how do they always know? thinks Remus, delirious with the searing rush – and Bill sucks at his skin, wet, open-mouthed, slick and breathless and oh - Bill's hand has undone his trousers, burrowing into thin fabric, seeking, palm sweaty and firm and warm, hot.

"Yes," Remus hisses, head heavy, knocking the wall behind him, his vision going blurry, shadow-edged as Bill laughs. "Yes, yes."

"Thought so," Bill murmurs, against Remus's ear, teeth grazing, and his fingers tease against the bulge. Remus can't exactly help himself when he squeezes his eyes shut, feels his breath rush from his lungs in a quiet, claustrophobic moan. And then Bill's fingers find his naked cock, sweaty, slick, and Remus feels a silver-edge quiver run up his spine, head tipped restless against the wall, so much so that Bill holds his face still with a broad, calloused palm, to kiss him.

There's a shift, in the kiss, in the way their mouths feel, now: slick and a little painful when teeth scrape and knock and the way that Bill's stubble feels against Remus's fingers when he clutches at his face, holding him still, greedy and hot, leeching heat in the frigid room. Bill slips backwards, along Remus's thighs, hands stroking, shifting, tugging Remus's trousers down, drawing his hardening erection out, and Remus crooks a knee, heel of his boot scraping along the floor, eclipsing his shivering hiss.

"Bill," he mumbles, vision blurred but clear enough to see the hazy, wicked grin on Bill's face, the dip of Bill's head as Bill bends, licking the concave of his stomach, under his navel, wide: slick and warm. There is a hiss, a puff of air from his lips, melting white and steamy against the cold room, and Remus's hips press up; oh, he thinks, dazedly, oh, that's, that's.

"Nice?" murmurs Bill, sinful, tongue dipping, swirling, and there's a slick flicker against the tip of Remus's cock; Remus curls his cold-white fingers into Bill's hair – fire, licking flames, tendrils snaking round his hands – and stifles a moan into a pale, bitten lip.

And Bill makes a sound like the cotton sun - nnh, and soft, and warm – and drags the wet width of his tongue up, under, over, around, rough fingers cupping, squeezing, rolling, palms dampened with his own saliva, and Remus is shaking, he thinks, yes, yes, yes, he thinks, yes. And Remus closes his eyes, slowly, as Bill slides his mouth down and over, tightly - the room slips out of focus, and Remus sees snow on the windowsill before he comes, and there are stars in the sky, and he's shaking, and crying out with something, because, oh, he whispers, the stars.

"Hmm-hm," Bill muffles laughter against his thigh – Remus can hear it hazily, feel it – and presses his mouth there, a kiss. "All right, Lupin?"

"Ah," says Remus, dizzily. "Ah- all right."

"Yeah," Bill grins, and kisses the inside curve of Remus's thigh, again, and then Remus's heaving, dipping belly, and then the disappearing point of skin under Remus's rucked-up shirt, and then Remus's fingers - turns his head, mouth on the pads, on the palm, on the inside of the wrist - and then Bill is level with Remus's mouth, and kisses that, instead. He catches at Remus's fingers, with his own, tangles them, draws them down, between their bodies and oh, thinks Remus, well, of course.

Bill pants into Remus's mouth when their joined fingers fumble the flies open. Bill makes a nudging, quivering sound against Remus's chin, head dropping, hair falling against their cheekbones, when their joined fingers curl around Bill's cock, heated, wet. Bill kisses him, again, tongues sloppy and slick over their ragged breathing, the air white and curling, steaming, between them. Their movements are guarded, sheltered; Bill guiding Remus's hand until he can't, anymore, and lets Remus take over, straddling, curving, arching spine pressing the damp knuckles of Remus's hand against his own stomach, as he strokes, strokes, thumbs, rubs, strokes, and finds his other hand curling in Bill's beautiful hair. It feels slippery, slightly cold, strange when his palm is cupping Bill's overheated, sandpaper cheek; strange in the way it makes his chest a little tight, when Bill surges up into his curving palm, body clenching, convulsing, coming, hot and sticky, as he kisses Remus's mouth.

There is a hoarse sob in the scant air between them, quivering. It melts from their lips, shivering, Remus feels it slither down his spine and pool in the very core of his body, wriggling there, making his lashes heavy and his mouth part against Bill's.

"Christ," mumbles Bill. "Christ, c'mere," and he's gathering Remus up, boneless; they are slumped against the wall, shuddering with something like a fever, and Remus squeezes his eyes shut. No more creaking walls, no more shuddering ceilings and snow leaking across the floor of the cold buildings like malevolent smoke, no more London no more London, no more shrieking in the night. In the darkness, he can only see the stars.

They stumble to the bed; there are covers – a little cold, a little threadbare – and Bill tugs them up over their shoulders, the blue light of their wands sputters like a candle, in their hands, cupping between their bodies, half-moons met at the ends, where their ankles cross and their mouths breathe into one another.

Remus is restless, still, body humming, and Bill sleeps easily, against him. Bill kissed him, he reminds himself, in the haze, and thinks: dear lord, dear god, look at him, burnished all over, like gold, and then bronze, and then fire spilling on the gray pillows and everything around him couldn’t help but be so, so dull. Dark smudges of lashes, laughter in his eyes when Remus went too quiet for fear of startling those strange, humid moments away, the way that mouth had felt pressed to the inside of his thigh, and oh, the memory of shoulders, freckles so perfect.

Remus turns Bill's own wrist over, skin translucent, stormy pale, wrinkled, and thinks, how, why, what, and has to remind himself, again. Bill kissed him. Bill kissed him.

And with every heartbeat he feels through Bill's wrist, the world seems so bright, warm, once, and then again.

---

Reviews welcomed! :D



I AM SO SCARED THAT I WILL SLEEP THROUGH VOTING TOMORROW. :////////////// That's the sort of thing I would do, you see. PARANOID ME GOING TO BED.