Sirius Black leaned against the oak door of the Black family manor, the weight of ten years since the war pressing on his shoulders like the leather jacket he still wore. At thirty-three, he worked odd Ministry consults on dark artifacts, a far cry from the reckless boy who once pranked at Hogwarts. The halls echoed with memories of his youth, but now they held the quiet of a man who had survived Azkaban and battles alike. Remus Lupin, two years older and marked by silver in his hair and a permanent limp from full moons, had taken a quiet desk job in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Their history ran deep, from shared dorm beds to stolen kisses after battles, but tonight the air between them crackled with something sharper as Remus stepped through the floo, brushing soot from his worn coat.
"You think you can just Apparate in here and take charge, Moony?" Sirius drawled, his grey eyes narrowing as Remus stepped closer. The taller man moved with deliberate calm, the kind earned from years dodging prejudice and pain. Remus reached out, fingers tracing the scar along Sirius's jaw, a relic from a Death Eater encounter during the final days of the conflict. "Been too long since we had the manor to ourselves," Remus replied, his voice low and steady, carrying the rasp of countless transformations. Sirius felt the familiar pull, the way Remus's presence always grounded him after long weeks of Ministry reports and late-night patrols through Diagon Alley.
Remus pushed Sirius back against the wall, lips crashing down in a kiss that tasted of firewhisky and old longing. Control flickered already as Sirius growled, spinning them so Remus hit the paneling instead, hands pinning wrists above his head. The scent of aged wood and faint traces of wolfsbane potion from Remus's pocket filled the air. "I don't think, Padfoot. I know," Remus muttered against his mouth, teeth grazing Sirius's lower lip. Sirius nipped back, pressing closer until their bodies aligned, the hard press of Remus's arousal evident through layers of fabric. They had danced this dance before, after the war's end, when two survivors sought solace in each other's arms amid the rebuilding of wizarding Britain.
The manor was empty, wards humming to keep the world out. Sirius nipped at Remus's throat, sucking a mark just below the collar, tasting salt and skin. Remus bucked his hips, the hard line of his cock pressing through trousers against Sirius's thigh, and the flip happened fast. In one fluid twist Remus reversed them, knee sliding between Sirius's legs to press upward with deliberate pressure. "Begging is for pups," Remus muttered, fingers working open Sirius's belt with practiced efficiency. He dropped to his knees but only for a moment, yanking fabric down before rising again to stroke Sirius firmly. The touch was possessive, thumb circling the head, drawing a hiss from Sirius as sensation sparked through him.
They stumbled toward the study, clothes shedding in a trail of robes and boots that scattered across the floor. Sirius shoved Remus onto the leather couch, straddling him, grinding down as their cocks brushed with friction that made them both groan. The leather creaked under their weight, cool against heated skin. "My turn," Sirius panted, wrapping a hand around both lengths, stroking in tandem while Remus's hands gripped Sirius's hips hard enough to bruise, guiding the rhythm until the werewolf surged up, flipping Sirius onto his back. Remus pinned him, mouth descending to bite at a nipple, then lower, tongue dragging along the shaft before swallowing him deep. The wet heat enveloped Sirius, tongue working in slow circles that drew curses from his lips.
Sirius arched, fingers tangling in Remus's hair, but the control slipped again when Remus pulled off with a wet pop and flipped their positions once more. Sirius found himself on all fours, Remus behind him, wand flicking to summon oil that slicked cool fingers circling his entrance. "You always think you're in charge until I remind you," Remus said, voice steady even as his own breathing hitched. One finger pushed in, then two, scissoring and stretching with careful patience born from years of knowing each other's limits. Sirius rocked back, cursing, the burn mixing with pleasure as oil dripped down his thigh. The power game continued as Sirius reached back, grabbing Remus's wrist to still him, then twisting to take the lead by pushing Remus down and straddling again.
He sank down slowly, the stretch burning sweet, taking Remus to the hilt as both men gasped at the tight fit. They moved together, thrusts building, sweat-slick skin slapping in rhythm while Remus's hands roamed, one wrapping around Sirius's cock to pump in time with each downward roll. The flips kept coming: Sirius riding hard, muscles flexing as he set a punishing pace, then Remus rolling them so he could pound deeper, face buried in Sirius's neck murmuring half-formed endearments laced with commands. "Harder, Padfoot. Show me what that war made you." Then Sirius flipped back, riding with renewed force, the sound of their joining echoing off the study walls. Remus's free hand traced the scars on Sirius's back, each touch a reminder of shared survival.
The pace intensified, breaths mingling with moans as control shifted once more, Remus pinning Sirius's wrists and driving in with deep, measured thrusts that hit just right. Sirius met each one, body arching, the scent of sweat and arousal thick between them. Remus's mouth found his again in a messy kiss, tongues sliding as they chased release. The werewolf's grip tightened, control flipping back when Sirius used his leverage to reverse, taking over the rhythm until Remus spilled first with a groan, heat flooding inside. Sirius followed seconds later, spilling over Remus's stomach, body shaking from the intensity.
They collapsed in a tangle, breathing ragged, the afterglow wrapping them like the manor's heavy curtains. Remus traced lazy circles on Sirius's back, fingers lingering on old marks. "Next time the moon's full, we do this at my flat."
Sirius chuckled, already planning the reversal. The night stretched ahead, full of promises neither would keep for long.