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Sirius’s speech is flawless. The perfect blend of funny and heartfelt, the perfect blend of Muggle-friendly language and wizards-only jokes. There’s a round of applause, even a standing ovation from a few of Lily’s hungry-eyed bridesmaids, and then Sirius hands the microphone off to James’s father—who, Remus can tell immediately, has never used Muggle technology in his life. Feedback whines through the room. Everyone winces.

“Someone should’ve warned him,” Remus whispers, as Sirius smugly reclaims his seat at the table. “Or given him a lesson. Or something.”

“He’s fine,” says Sirius, and then grimaces as Mr. Potter pops the P in his own last name just a little too loudly.

Across the table, one of the bridesmaids surreptitiously covers her ears.

“I should help him,” Remus says.

Sirius shakes his head. “You’d just embarrass him. He’s fine.”

The P thing happens again. Remus’s shoulders go rigid.

“Calm down,” says Sirius.

Remus tries. He tries so hard.

“…and just imagine this, if you will: little James, only twelve years old, getting off the Hogwarts Express and saying”—here, James’s father pitches his voice higher, like a small child’s—“‘Mummy, Daddy, I’ve met the most perfect girl, and I think she hates me, but that’s just for now because one day we’re going to get married’ and, oh, oh no, goodness, I’m sorry, I wasn’t supposed to say ‘Hogwarts’ and—ah, I’ve done it again! Damn, I do hope those charms are working properly and, should I not have said that either?”

“He hopes the whats are working properly?” whispers Beatrice, the Muggle bridesmaid sitting on Remus’s other side. “Because I thought I heard him say ‘cash registers.’”

“No idea,” Remus manages. But at least the language charms are, apparently, working. A small part of him wonders what Beatrice heard instead of “Hogwarts Express.”

“I heard ‘cash registers’ too!” says the woman on Beatrice’s other side.

“Wonder what’s wrong with him,” Beatrice replies, and her friend whispers something in return, and James’s father is still fumbling toward a recovery from his mishap, and James looks absolutely frozen while Lily’s cheeks are growing ever more red, and Sirius is snorting with barely-held-in-laughter, and Remus is so rattled, so bone-shatteringly tense, that his fingers feel like they’re going to break off and scurry away, and—

Something brushes the inside of Remus’s knee.

He sucks in a breath, catching a yelp in his throat before it can escape, and there’s an entire split second where, even though his body is still coiled as tight as… as a tightly-coiled thing… his brain forgets that it’s right in the middle of an anxiety spiral.

Was it a moth? A stray thread, or a tag he’s forgotten to tuck away? The kilt he’s wearing is a rental, after all; he doesn’t know its quirks yet. His hand sneaks under the tablecloth, seeking. He finds nothing but the bare skin of his own knee.

He glances over at Sirius, but he’s not even paying attention.

Maybe Remus imagined it.

Breathing deeply, in and then out, he refocuses his attention on James’s father, who is finally—finally!—beginning to wrap up his speech. But as soon as he does, it happens again. That feather-brush of touch. Halfway up his thigh, this time. And even though he bites his lip in time, a small noise of surprise manages to escape.

This time, Sirius glances over—and as soon as Remus sees his face, he knows.

To any casual acquaintance, the concern in the furrow of Sirius’s brows, in the downward turn of his lips, might read as completely sincere. But Remus, who is neither casual nor an acquaintance, blows out a sigh and says, sotto voce, “Right. I forgot you finally got the hang of wandless magic.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Sirius, and when the touch comes back for a third time, it isn’t a feather-brush at all. It has the weight of a finger or two behind it, and it drags itself slowly up Remus’s thigh, toward—

Remus clenches his legs shut. “Sirius.”

“What?” Sirius says innocently. “Something wrong?”

That’s when Remus realizes, a split second too late, that while closing his legs would work perfectly well as a deterrent for a physical human finger, this is not that at all. The touch lingers, moving, seeking—and when the room bursts into applause, there’s a single heady moment in which Remus imagines it’s for Sirius. Accolades for managing to find his destination so quickly and efficiently, without even looking.

Remus feels himself stir, and sends a quick thank-you back in time to whoever was responsible for the existence of sporrans. Then he fixes a firm glare on the man beside him:

“Why would you think this is approp—”

“You were about to burst in half, listening to that speech,” Sirius explains under his breath. “You needed a distraction.”


“Tell me to stop, and I will.” Sirius pauses, a grin spreading over his face as Remus, jaw clenched, says nothing. “Honestly. Just say the word ‘stop.’”

Remus pauses, both his breath and his heartbeat roaring in his ears. He is starting to get hard, and he could make Sirius stop. This feels so deliciously, illicitly good, and he’s actually kind of angry that Sirius would do this now of all times, and he should make Sirius stop.

He says, “Everyone will be able to tell.”

“Not unless you let them,” Sirius counters, and nods at the front of the room, where James’s dad is handing the microphone off to Lily’s mum. Everyone is watching them. Even Peter, on Sirius’s other side; even the bridesmaids sitting beside Remus.

Remus glares. “I’m not… we’ve done… enough times that…” His head is spinning; words are slightly more difficult to come by than they were a moment ago, and that’s another thing he probably should be angry about. He really probably should. He makes himself focus and tries again: “You know I’m not exactly, ah, quiet when I, ah…”

“Mmhmm,” Sirius hums. “Then consider it a challenge.”

Remus claws at his thighs, which only adds to the molten pool of sensation spreading through the lower half of his body. He turns his hands into fists instead. He doesn’t want a challenge. Maybe if they were alone somewhere, but not here, he doesn’t want… he doesn’t… he wants…

Oh, he wants.

“Hello,” says Lily’s mum, Lily’s pleasant and boring Muggle mum, up on the stage, and in that one word Remus can hear every family struggle that Lily’s cried to them about over the past months—no, the past years. Her jealous sister refusing to come to the wedding, their parents getting caught in the middle, it’s all there in her mother’s voice. Happiness about one daughter, sadness about the other, and Remus is sure, very suddenly and absolutely sure, that he cannot sit through an entire five minutes of anyone sounding like that.

He wants, he wants, he wants—and what he wants is not this.

He grabs Sirius by the elbow and hauls him up; his chair makes an inelegant shriek as it scoots back. Peter whirls around, a question in his eyes.

“He’s had too much to drink,” Remus explains in a fierce whisper. “As usual. Have to see him to the loo before he embarrasses himself.”

A faint furrow of suspicion lingers between Peter’s brows, but he shrugs and turns back toward the stage, where Lily’s mum has, barely ten words in, already begun to cry. Sirius, grinning, allows Remus to drag him past the bridesmaids and out into the hall.

The first thing Remus notices, as soon as the door clicks shut behind them and Lily’s mum’s voice becomes nothing more than a faint murmur on the edge of his awareness, is that he is hard. Quite hard. Maybe it’s just more apparent now that he’s standing up, or maybe moving about has worsened his condition, but either way, the result is impossible to ignore.

The second thing Remus notices, also impossible to ignore, is that Sirius has somehow maintained his concentration the entire time they were dashing out the door. That enchanted touch is still lingering there, lightly stroking him.

“You need to knock it off for a second, okay?” Remus says, quite loudly, whereupon there’s an answering yelp from just a few feet away, which leads him to notice the third thing:

They’re not alone. A young woman, not one of the bridesmaids, is looking at them round-eyed. Her neck is covered in bright pink lipstick marks, and beside her is another woman, noticeably older, all curly hair and heavily shadowed eyes and—there it is—bright pink lipstick.

“Er,” says the older woman.

“Hullo!” says Sirius, who has not, for the record, knocked it off.

“Loo’s that way?” says the younger woman, pointing. “In case you were, ah, looking? For it?”

Sirius, eyes glinting, begins: “Actually—”

“We were looking,” Remus says, and grabs Sirius’s elbow again. “Thank you ever so kindly.”

“She could tell,” Sirius says giddily, once they’re around the corner, out of earshot. “She just knew that if she lifted up that kilt of yours, she’d find—”

“Is that what you wanted?” Remus says, rounding on him, equal parts exasperated and exhilarated. His heart is beating out of his chest; he wants to murder Sirius; he wants to snog Sirius senseless; he desperately, desperately wants to come. “You want everyone here to know what you’re doing to me? You want everyone to know you couldn’t sit through even the first of the speeches before you started attacking me under the table?”

“It was the second speech, thank you very much,” Sirius says smugly. “The first speech was pure brilliance. You said so yourself.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Remus is surprised to hear his voice come out low and gravelly. Almost like a growl. But it feels right. The rumble in his chest, the shift it brings in the air between them, feels right.

Sirius raises his eyebrows. Pauses. He clearly recognizes the shift, too. His eyes grow dark, his smile treacherous, and he says, “You’re right. I didn’t.”

Remus takes a step toward him, crowding him. “Then answer me now. Did you want everyone to know?”

“I—I’m not sure.” This is a part of Sirius that very few get to see. The part that sometimes falters and missteps when his bluff gets called. But here it is, and that wandless spell is still working itself over Remus’s flesh, and the marriage of the two ignites a hunger deep in Remus’s gut.

“You’re not sure,” he says, low and steady.

“I’m…” Sirius lifts his chin. “Yes. I wanted everyone to know.”

It could be truth, it could be a lie, it could be that Sirius honestly wasn’t sure. But that doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is how he chose to answer.

And Remus, to his surprise, finds that it’s exactly the answer he wanted Sirius to give.

“Thought so,” he says. “Now: Stop.”

Sirius, true to his word, puts an immediate stop to the spell, though he looks awfully confused about it. And Remus takes a second to breathe. And to let Sirius stew—but mostly to breathe. This has been going on for such a long time. He’s kept his composure for such a long time.

“Thanks,” he says after a moment, once he feels a bit more in control. “Now start again.”

The furrows of confusion deepen between Sirius’s brows, but he raises a hand, ready to cast again, and that’s the moment Remus says, “No.”

“No?” Sirius asks.

He’s not sure why no. Maybe something about how he felt back in the reception room, having illicit magic done to him while surrounded by Muggles. Maybe something about how smug Sirius looked, getting away with it. Or maybe… maybe it’s just that Sirius’s spell only created the illusion of touch. And the real thing, Remus knows, is so much better.

“No magic this time,” Remus says. “Only your mouth.”

“I—” Sirius looks genuinely shocked, which sends a thrill singing up Remus’s spine. “Really? Here? Really?”

Remus’s heart is absolutely pounding. He’s never indulged any of Sirius’s plentiful exhibitionist fantasies before. But he’s never been five drinks in and most of the way to hard under a goddamn kilt at his best friend’s wedding before, either.

And maybe that’s why he doesn’t even hesitate before he asks, “Why are you still standing up, Black?”

Sirius sinks instantly to his knees, so caught up in being flabbergasted that he doesn’t seem to notice Remus muttering a quick incantation under his breath. Which is probably for the best. Let him think they could be caught any second.

Sirius looks up, his dark eyes positively glowing as he says, “Wonder who’ll find us first.” He reaches out, palms landing on Remus’s calves, working their way the backs of his legs, curving around his thighs. “Wonder who’ll get the extreme pleasure of witnessing as I suck on your big, fat—Ah!” he says suddenly, as if surprised to find Remus’s cock there, unencumbered by pants or zippers or any of the usual things.

The sudden touch, real human hands on sensitive flesh, sends a jolt through Remus’s belly, and it’s all he can do to keep from crying out. He tenses his legs. He will not collapse to the floor. He will not.

“Kilts!” Sirius is saying, as he works one hand up Remus’s shaft, kneads gently at his balls with the other. “Bloody fucking marvelous, these things, I mean the access—”

“When I said to use your mouth,” Remus interrupts, each syllable ever so precise, “I did not mean for talking.”

There is a pause, during which Sirius looks even more astonished than a moment ago. Has Remus fucked it up? Is he not supposed to be so demanding?

Sirius licks his lips. Says, “Well, then.”

And gets to work.

Back at the end of his sixth year at school, Remus discovered that being kissed by Sirius Black was one of the most exhilarating, intoxicating things that could ever happen to a person. In the beginning of his seventh year, he moreover discovered that having his cock sucked by Sirius Black was, though he hadn’t thought it possible, an even more singular experience. Remus, who spent most of his school years maintaining careful control over himself, each word measured lest he accidentally let slip his most dangerous secret, learned to let go in Sirius’s bed. He let go a little more every time they were together, and nights turned into months turned into years and now it’s almost Pavlovian, the way his body relaxes and his mind goes soft as soon as the clothes start coming off.


Logically, he knows they won’t get caught; the charm he cast shields them from being either seen or heard. But there’s still something about being in this hallway, the sheer visual of being out in the open. Despite the wine in his system, despite his pounding heart and his wild tongue—giving Sirius orders! was that good? did he do a good thing just now?—and despite the fact that Sirius’s mouth is wet and eager and talented and it feels so good, honestly, so good…

Tonight, Remus can’t quite let go.

When he comes, it’s with his hands braced on the wall behind him; with his teeth clenched tight around the sound that wants to escape, just in case the charm is somehow faulty; with his knees locked up tight; with his cock lodged deep in Sirius’s throat. He can feel Sirius swallowing around him, and it feels so good, blissfully good—but it’s also been a long, long time since he last had the presence of mind to think phrases like “blissfully good” to himself during sex.

In short: It’s good. It’s not the greatest he’s ever had or anything. But it’s… it’s fine. It’s good.

Sirius, though… Sirius lets the front of Remus’s kilt drop down again, and tips his face up, letting Remus see him. He’s panting and glassy-eyed and he’s got a little spot of liquid at the corner of his mouth, and he’s still clutching Remus’s thighs, and he finally gathers himself enough to say, “That was. That was so. Hot. Fuck.”

Remus is tempted to ask why Sirius found it so hot, being out in the open like this, but stops himself just in time. Whatever’s happening here, it’s working for Sirius. Really, really working. And Remus doesn’t want to dampen his experience with analysis. That can wait till later.

For now, he just smiles and says, “Yeah.”

Sirius licks his lips, which are pinker than usual. “Can I…”

“Can you what?” Remus asks.

Sirius lets go of one of Remus’s thighs, and clutches at the hem of his own kilt. That’s when Remus realizes that Sirius hasn’t touched himself once, this whole time. Usually there’s a visual to remind him, but—well. Sporrans again. They hide everything.

“Can I finish myself off?” Sirius asks, even though the question is obvious by now. There’s an edge of a whine in his voice, not unlike Padfoot begging to have his ears scratched, and Remus suddenly understands. That’s what got Sirius going: not where they are. Or, at least, not only where they are. It’s the orders.

Well. All right.

He reaches forward and ruffles Sirius’s unruly hair with one hand. “I think you’ve earned that much.”

But Sirius doesn’t reach for himself just yet. Still flushed, still breathing heavily, he asks, “Then I, ah, have your permission?”

Permission! Remus feels his face heat up; who is he to tell Sirius what he can and can’t do with his own body?

Sirius looks so eager, though. And he’s waiting so patiently.

“Yes. You have my permission.” And while the words feel utterly ridiculous in his mouth, the way Sirius groans and snakes his hand under his kilt is rewarding enough that it completely undoes all the ridiculousness. Remus actually finds himself compelled to keep going: “You have to let me see, though. No hiding under that thing, or else you won’t be allowed to finish at all.”

Sirius wastes no time in complying; he uses his free hand to hold the fabric up, giving Remus a clear view as he spits in his palm, takes hold of himself, and starts stroking.

Here’s another thing that Remus thinks should feel ridiculous: standing over his partner in an empty hallway, watching as he brings himself closer and closer to climax, listening as he makes those noises, not making any move to help or encourage or, really, do anything but watch.

It doesn’t, though. It doesn’t feel ridiculous. Remus could lose himself forever in watching his partner like this. It’s so… it’s just so—

“—and I think maybe he was flirting?” The voice reaches Remus’s ears slowly. Far more slowly than he can process. “I don’t know! I couldn’t tell!” It’s a woman’s voice, unfamiliar, and it’s getting closer, fast. “Could you tell? You were listening, right?”

A different voice: “Maybe? Only it’s a wedding, and everyone’s flirting with everyone, so I’m not sure, which doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try…”

The voices get louder and more distinct, and Remus watches as Sirius realizes—as Sirius looks up at him with this expression of utter panic—as two poufy-haired women in poufy-sleeved dresses round the corner—as Sirius lets loose a guttural cry and comes all over his hand, and the floor, and Remus’s shoes.

Wild-eyed as Remus has ever seen him, Sirius whips his head around, probably expecting to find twin expressions of horror on the women’s faces.

Nothing happens, though. They walk, and they talk, and when one of them slows down, it’s not because she seems to see them, it’s because…

She gives the air a little sniff, her eyes darting around.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Remus thought of sight, when he cast the charm, and sound. He didn’t think to mask the smell.


He murmurs a quiet supplementary charm. Braces himself for a finite incantatem or similar. He doesn’t think they’re witches, these two, but doesn’t know them, and so he isn’t a hundred percent sure.

“What’s wrong?” asks the second woman, the one who’s not sniffing.

“I just thought I…” The first woman shakes her head. “Must’ve imagined it. Nobody would do that, anyway.”

“Do what?” her friend asks.

The first woman shakes her head again, more vehemently this time. “Never mind. Anyway, I was saying you absolutely should give it a go, because…”

They pass through the hall, inches away from stepping on the edge of Sirius’s kilt. And they keep going, eventually disappearing through a door that, Remus presumes, leads to the ladies’.

Remus can barely get a breath of relief out before Sirius is hauling himself to his feet, shoving at one of his shoulders. “You—!”

A grin tries to tug at Remus’s mouth, but he keeps it in check somehow. “Me.”

“You made me invisible.” Sirius’s voice is caught between sounding betrayed and sounding awed. “You sneaky little arsehole.”

“Technically,” Remus says, “I made us both invisible.”

“Remus goddamn Lupin, I cannot believe you let me think—”

“Technically,” Remus says, still managing to keep a straight face, “I cast a charm that shielded us from the eyes and ears of other people, which isn’t technically invisi—”

But he can’t finish, because Sirius is kissing him, sloppily and messily and thoroughly. And then he can’t seem to finish being kissed, because suddenly he’s laughing too hard for anything resembling kissing to actually happen.

“I was wondering why you even agreed to any of this,” Sirius says, putting just enough distance between them that he can cast a quick cleaning charm. “Devious bastard.”

“Mmhmm,” Remus concedes.

“And you are surprisingly good at giving orders.”

“Surprisingly?” Remus says. “Should I be insulted?”

“You should absolutely fucking bloody well not be,” Sirius says, and shoves at him again, and Remus lets himself be shoved, and he’s starting to say something about how juvenile Sirius sounds when he tries to swear like a Muggle, except then Sirius is kissing him again, and this time it’s less of an attack and more… soft. Nice. Fingers creep into his hair after a second or two, and he lets his hands find their way around Sirius’s back.

Their constant exploration of Sirius’s various kinks is all well and good, not to mention very informative, but Remus is pretty sure he will always like them best just like this.

Of course, that could be because of how rare these quiet moments are—because every time they find themselves having one, Sirius immediately has to go and ruin it.

Case in point: “We should get back.”

Which, Remus must concede, is true.

“Finite incantatem,” he says.

“Alas,” says Sirius.

Threading his fingers through Sirius’s, Remus begins to lead them again. This time with much less urgency. This time toward where they’re actually supposed to be.

“I knew these kilts were going to come in handy,” Sirius says, adjusting his sporran. Which does not need adjusting. “Easy access. I do so love easy access.”

Remus cuts him a sideways smile. “I seem to recall you complaining quite a lot when we first got word James wanted us to wear them. You were very annoyed.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Only because neither of them’s Scottish! It’s… it’s culturally insensitive, is what it is.”

“Insensitive,” Remus repeats, as they reach the door to the reception hall. “To Scottish people?”

“Yes,” says Sirius firmly.

“That’s why you were annoyed?” Remus says, arching a brow. “Not because you were worried about having to wear it”—he lowers his voice ominously—“in the traditional manner?”

“I wasn’t worried,” Sirius says. “I just wanted to know what I was getting into.”

“You were terrified,” Remus says.

“I was not.” Sirius lowers his voice as he opens the door. They’re still doing speeches inside. Still.

“You were,” Remus whispers as they move inside. “Just admit it.”

“Never,” Sirius whispers back.

“Admit it!”

Sirius rounds on him, just inside the door. “Why don’t you order me to?” he says, eyes glinting.

Remus can’t stop himself from grinning.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, and starts back toward their seats.