Archive of Our Own

The late afternoon light slanted through the tall windows of the campus café, turning the dust motes into lazy gold specs. Remus Lupin sat in his usual corner booth, a battered copy of The Remains of the Day open in front of him, red pen idle between scarred fingers. At forty-two, he had stopped grading papers in his office; the worn leather chair and the smell of old paper were better company than loud fluorescent lights and only his own company.

He didn’t notice the stare at first. When he finally looked up, the kid standing three tables away was watching him like he’d been struck. Tall, black hair falling into grey eyes, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, expensive watch glinting on his wrist. Definitely not one of Remus’s students. Remus would have remembered that face; if not, he would that height.

The stranger crossed the floor in three long strides and dropped into the seat across from Remus without asking, just continuing to stare. 

“Hi,” he said, voice low and smooth, a little rough at the edges like he’d been smoking or laughing too hard. “I’m Sirius. And you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Remus blinked, then laughed, short and disbelieving. “Right—And you’re drunk, high, or both. Possibly even blind.”

Sirius’s mouth curved, slow and wicked. “None of the above.” His gaze dragged over the silver scars that cut across Remus’s left cheek and down his throat.

Remus set his pen down. “I’m forty-two. I teach Victorian literature to hungover seniors… I own three pairs of trousers that aren’t corduroy and a mortgage that’s at least 2 decades older than you… You’re… what, barely legal? Whatever game this is—”

“Not a game.” Sirius leaned forward, elbows on the table, close enough that Remus caught the clean scent of cedar.

“I want to take care of you, baby. Bills, books, rent, whatever makes that tired look leave your eyes. In return, I get you, whenever I can have you… However I can have you.”

Remus stared. The kid slid a matte black card across the table. Just a name and a number. No title. 

“I want you…” He said, voice low and decisive. “I want to spoil you, and I want your time. Your attention.” The man continued, as he rose, and Remus had to tilt his head back to watch him. “Think about it, please?”

Remus drove home in a fog, the city lights streaking past while that single word—baby—kept echoing like a bad punchline. Forty-two years old. Scarred across the cheek and jaw from a life that had never been kind. Soft middle pressing against the seatbelt after too many years of desk work and cheaper meals. And some twenty-year-old who looked like money and sharp edges wanted to spoil him? It had to be a joke. Had to be because life never gave him good things without a clause…

He let himself into the small apartment, dropped his keys on the table, and stared at the old laptop like it might bite. Plugged it in. Hit the power button. The fan spun up with a loud, rattling whine—like a helicopter starting its rotors—then settled into a constant, grating roar that made the whole machine vibrate against the wood. The screen flickered once, twice, before the desktop finally loaded, the casing already throwing off heat onto his wrist.

Remus sat, elbows on the table, and typed sugar baby into the search bar with two fingers slowly.

The laptop groaned louder, the fan screaming as the page loaded. Images hit first: glossy twenty-somethings—smooth skin, perfect teeth, bodies that looked airbrushed—draped over the arms of silver-haired men on yachts, in penthouses, at exclusive clubs. Headlines about allowances, luxury trips, “mutually beneficial arrangements.” One theme. Young, tight-bodied women draped over wealthy executives in penthouse photo shoots. Sugar daddies spoiling their pretty little things with designer bags, luxury trips, monthly allowances that could cover Remus’s mortgage twice over by the numbers he sees them used on here. The babies were always very young—early twenties, flawless skin, perky tits, the kind of bodies that hadn’t met gravity yet. The daddies were often older, some by a very disconcerting amount. Commanding. In control. Paying for youth and beauty and no doubt their eager obedience. Remus scrolled, jaw tight. That was the script. Old man with money buys a hot young thing to fuck and show off. The younger one gets spoiled rotten in exchange for looking good on his arm and spreading their legs whenever he snaps his fingers. Simple transaction, a clean fantasy. Remus’s stomach twisted. He rubbed a hand over his face, the faded scars catching rough under his palm. He imagined himself in those photos and nearly laughed out loud. Forty-two. Scars carving silver roads across his face and throat, down his body from the crash that had nearly killed him at nineteen. This body was soft at the edges now, hips that ached when the weather turned, cock that still worked fine but didn’t rise as fast or as often as it used to. No perky anything really... Just a very tired literature professor who spent more time grading papers than even thinking about getting laid. He told himself he should forget the whole thing; this kid was obviously just yanking his leg. But the card burned in his wallet. 

I want to take care of you. All of you. 

The idea of some twenty-year-old wanting to spoil him felt absurd.

Still, he found himself typing again: older sugar baby.

The fan kicked up another notch, heat bleeding through the casing as the machine tried its best to work. Fewer results this time. A few women in their thirties or forties paired with younger men, a scattering of men in their forties with older women. Some forum threads about “age-gap dynamics” and their love for “experienced companions.” The photos still showed bodies that looked well cared for—toned, styled, and most of all, confident. Nothing like the reflection staring back at him from the screen.

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tight, and typed one more time, slower: older sugar baby younger sugar daddy queer/gay.

The search took longer. The laptop’s fan screamed like it was dying. Remus’s pulse thudded in his ears while the page finally loaded. Forums. Reddit threads. Personal stories that weren’t glossy at all. Men in their forties describing arrangements with men in their early twenties—tech guys, trust-fund kids, entrepreneurs—who wanted someone with actual life under their skin. Someone who read books and argued about them. Someone who didn’t flinch at scars or soft middles or silver hair. Posts about younger partners who got off on spoiling, on being called daddy behind closed doors, on watching an older man come undone because they could afford to make it happen. One thread from a 47-year-old talking about his 22-year-old sugar daddy who paid the mortgage and fucked him like he was something worth keeping. Another with blurred photos and captions that mentioned stretch marks, real bodies, the way an older cock still got thick and desperate when touched right.

Remus read for nearly an hour, cock thickening in his sweatpants as his fantasies sharpened. A silver-fox academic bent over a glass desk while his twenty-something tech heir fucked him slow and deep, whispering how good he looked taking it. An older artist on his knees in a penthouse, lips stretched around a thick young cock while his bills disappeared and his studio got renovated. Scars and soft stomachs and tired eyes didn’t seem to matter in these threads. What mattered was the surrender. The older body usually yielding. The younger one taking control and paying for the privilege of it. His hand had slipped inside his pants without permission, stroking himself lazy and slow while he read a particularly filthy account of a forty-five-year-old bottom getting railed by his twenty-two-year-old sugar daddy until he was sobbing and coming untouched. Remus came with a choked groan, spilling over his fist, thighs trembling. He wiped himself clean, his heart hammering, and stared at the cursor before he bookmarked a couple of the better sites, closed the laptop, and lay in the dark with his pulse still racing.

Remus decided it must be fake as the days passed; he told himself the whole thing was a rich boy’s prank. A dare. A joke that would fizzle the second he actually called. He took it out; Sirius Orion Black, embossed in Silver on the black card. Expensive looking.  Nothing else but that name and a number. No title, no company logo. Remus had shoved it into his wallet like it burned and spent the next three weeks pretending it didn’t exist.

On the twenty-second night, he caved anyway as he sat on the edge of his bed in the dark, old phone in his scarred hand—screen cracked in a spiderweb from the time he’d dropped it on concrete—and dialed the number before he could talk himself out of it. Sirius picked up on the first ring.

“Baby?” The voice was warm, bright, happy in a way that made something twist low in Remus’s gut. “You called. Fuck, I was starting to think you’d thrown the card away.”

Remus swallowed, thumb pressing into the knot of scar tissue on his jaw. “Names Remus… And yeah, I almost did. Look…  If this is some kind of joke, just say it now. I don’t have the energy for it.”

A soft laugh on the other end, relieved. “It’s not a joke… Tell me what I can do to prove it, baby.”

Remus’s pulse hammered. “Prove it…?” He whispered as his scarred hand tightened around the phone until the plastic creaked.

Sirius’s voice came through soft, almost shy. “Baby?”

“Um… A dinner maybe… to— to talk?”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday. You free for dinner? Or tell me when you work—I’ll work around it. I want to see you again. Properly this time.”

Remus’s throat clicked, but he gave the hours anyway, his address, voice flat with disbelief, and Sirius sounded genuinely pleased when he said he’d pick him up at seven.

The next evening, Remus stood in front of his closet for far too long, fingers brushing over the same few decent things he owned. He ended up in dark corduroy trousers that had seen better days, a button-up shirt the color of a deep whiskey, and a soft grey cardigan that actually matched for once. He pushed his glasses up his nose, checked the mirror, and felt every inch of his forty-two years—soft middle pressing against the shirt, scars pulling tight under the collar, silver hair catching the overhead light. 

Underdressed didn’t begin to cover it.

The sleek black car that pulled up outside was… well, expensive-looking, low to the curb like it belonged on a different street entirely. Sirius unfolded from the driver’s seat in one fluid motion—tall, dark hair falling just right, tailored coat open over a simple black shirt that looked like it cost more than Remus’s monthly pay. He looked like a fucking model who’d wandered into the wrong neighborhood.

Remus’s cock gave an interested little jerk against the front of his corduroys before he could stop it, a low pulse of heat he hadn’t felt in years. Sirius’s grey eyes lit up the second they landed on him. He crossed the sidewalk in two long strides, smile wide and easy, and reached out to brush a thumb along the edge of Remus’s cardigan like he couldn’t help touching.

“Baby…” he said, voice low and warm, the word wrapping around Remus like it already fit. “You look good enough to keep.” Remus’s breath caught under the weight of that smile, and Sirius’s hand lingered at his lower back as he guided him toward the car.

—-

Sirius took him to a quiet place with dim lights and heavy wine lists, ordered without asking what Remus liked, and then just listened. Remus talked books for forty minutes straight, tracing the pattern on the tablecloth with a scarred finger while Sirius’s grey eyes stayed fixed on his mouth. When Remus finally paused, embarrassed, Sirius leaned in, elbow on the table, and said low, “Your mind is fucking hot... Keep going.”

When dinner was served, Remus sat stiffly across from Sirius, fork hovering over a plate of seared scallops that looked and smelled heavenly, garlic-glazed. And here he was, old, scars pulling tight across his cheek and throat every time he swallowed, and letting a twenty-year-old who looked like sin pay for food that cost more than his monthly grocery bill, no doubt.

Sirius hadn’t stopped looking at him–those grey eyes, mouth curved like he knew exactly how ridiculous this all was and didn’t give a single flying fuck.

“You’re not eating…” Sirius said quietly while leaning forward. His voice carried just enough that the couple at the next table glanced over. “Baby, you need to eat.”

Remus flinched at the endearment as heat crawled up his neck. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” Sirius’s smile sharpened, unrepentant. One long leg stretched under the table until his ankle hooked around Remus’s. “You are. My baby. My professor. Mine to feed and spoil and hopefully to fuck until you forget how to doubt me.”

Remus’s fork clattered against the plate. He stared at the scallops like they might save him. “You’re twenty. I’m forty-two. I have a bad back, a worse mortgage, and a face that looks like someone took a cheese grater to it. This—” he gestured vaguely between them “—is a very expensive joke. Or a bet. Or some rich kid’s mid-life crisis practice run very very early….”

Sirius’s expression didn’t flicker. He reached across the table, caught Remus’s scarred hand, and brought it to his mouth. Pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the knuckles right there in front of everyone. “I saw you in that café three weeks ago. You were reading, and you looked tired. Beautiful, like you’d been carrying everything alone so long you forgot people are allowed to help. I want to be the one who helps. Because I can.”

Remus pulled his hand back, chest tight. “You don’t know me at all this—”

“I can guess… You hide in that corner booth because you feel the light there is kinder to the scars. I think you haven’t let anyone touch you in years because you think the version of you that exists now isn’t worth wanting…” Sirius’s voice dropped, rougher. “I want the version with the scars. The one who probably grades papers at midnight and mutters about Victorian repression like it personally offended him. Let me have him?”

Remus’s throat worked; he wanted to believe it. God, he wanted to. But the voice in his head was louder—washed-up, pathetic, too old, too broken. “And what happens when you get bored? When you realize the novelty of fucking your sugar baby… older and scarred, wears off? I’m not… I’m not built for casual, Sirius. I’ll get attached. I’ll embarrass myself. And then you’ll leave, and I’ll be the idiot who let a twenty-year-old ruin what little pride I had left, if any…”

Remus’s voice cracked on the last word, low and rough, the kind of pathetic honesty that made his stomach twist. He kept his eyes on the scallops, garlic butter glistening under the low restaurant light, because looking at Sirius felt dangerous. The boy—no, the man—was too tall even seated, shoulders filling out that black button-down like it had been tailored to ruin Remus’s concentration. Grey eyes steady, mouth soft but edged with something hungry that didn’t match the ridiculous age gap. Sirius didn’t laugh. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned closer, elbow on the white tablecloth, voice dropping to that low, carrying rumble that made the woman at the next table glance over again with raised brows.

“Baby…” he said, letting the word land loud enough that Remus’s ears burned again. “Look at me.”

Remus didn’t. His scarred fingers tightened around the fork until the metal bit into his palm. “Don’t… People are staring.”

“Let them—” Sirius’s foot hooked more firmly around Remus’s ankle under the table, warm calf pressing against his. “I don’t give a flying fuck who hears. I saw you. I wanted you. Still do. And  I’m not some dumb kid playing dress-up with daddy’s credit card. I built the company that runs half the payment systems here. I’ve got my own money, my own flat, my own life. And right now I want to spend it on the man sitting across from me who looks like he hasn’t been properly touched since the last century...”

Remus let out a shaky breath, something between a laugh and a sob. “Properly touched… Christ. You don’t even know what I look like under these clothes. The scars don’t stop at my face, Sirius. They go down my chest, my hip, my thigh… I was in a crash, it mangled me. I limp when I overuse my leg or right before it will rain. My back aches if I stand too long. I’m soft in the middle and my co—” He stopped, cheeks flaming, voice dropping to a humiliated mutter. “It still works, but it’s not… impressive. Probably not like whatever you’re used to. I’m not the kind of sugar baby anyone puts on their arm. I’m the kind people hide in the dark and pretend never happened the next morning…”

Sirius’s hand slid across the table again, this time catching Remus’s wrist, thumb stroking slow over the pulse point where his heartbeat hammered like a trapped thing. The touch was warm and steady.

“You think I want impressive? I want... I want the man who sat in that café looking like the world had worn him thin and still made my chest tight just watching him turn a page. I want the professor who probably jerks off to the smell of old books or some such. The scars? I’ve already imagined tracing every single one with my tongue. The limp? I’ll carry you if you let me. The soft middle?” Sirius’s voice dipped, filthy and fond all at once. “I want something to hold onto when I’m buried inside you.”

Remus’s breath hitched hard. His cock twitched traitorously in his trousers, half-hard despite the shame curling hot in his gut. He finally looked up. Sirius was watching him with open hunger, grey eyes dark, lips parted like he was already tasting him.

“You’re going to regret this,” Remus whispered, voice cracking pathetically . “When the novelty wears off. When you realize you could have anyone, and instead you’re stuck feeding and fucking some broken forty-two-year-old who cries during sex because it’s been so long since anyone wanted him…”

Sirius’s grip tightened, possessive. “Then I’ll just keep feeding you and fucking you until you believe me.” He lifted Remus’s hand again, pressed another slow kiss to the scarred knuckles, then turned it over and dragged his tongue along the inside of the wrist, right there in the middle of the upscale restaurant. Remus jerked, a strangled sound catching in his throat.

“Sirius—”

“Eat your scallops, baby.” Sirius murmured against his skin, breath warm. Remus’s fork finally moved, shaky, lifting a piece of scallop to his mouth. The garlic butter burst rich and savory on his tongue, but it was nothing compared to the heat pooling low in his belly. He chewed, swallowed, tried to ignore how Sirius’s eyes tracked every movement like he was already imagining having Remus on his knees. Every bite tasted like expensive butter and the terrifying possibility that the twenty-year-old across from him might actually mean this. His cock stayed half-hard the entire meal, trapped against his thigh, leaking a little into his pants just from the weight of Sirius’s stare and the casual way he kept calling him baby loud enough for strangers to hear.

By the time the waiter cleared their plates, Remus’s hands were trembling. Sirius paid without looking at the bill, then stood—tall, so ridiculously tall–and offered his hand right there in the middle of the restaurant. Remus stared at the offered hand. Scars pulling tight across his own knuckles. Heart hammering so loud he was sure the whole room could hear it. He was pathetic, really—forty-two, lonely, already half-gone on a boy who didn’t know him at all and still looked at him like he was actually something. 

He took the hand despite his brain screaming no, and Sirius’s fingers closed warm and firm around his, thumb brushing over the worst of the scars.

“Good boy.” he murmured, soft enough this time that only Remus heard. But the promise in it was loud enough to drown out every self-deprecating voice in Remus’s head. For now.

—

They left the restaurant like that—Sirius’s taller frame cutting through the room, Remus trailing half a step behind, face burning, hand held like he might bolt if Sirius let go. The car was waiting, sleek and black and far too expensive for someone like Remus to be climbing into without feeling like a complete fraud. Sirius opened the door for him, before moving around the car and slid behind the wheel, legs stretching out, one hand resting easy on the gear shift. 

The silence lasted for three streets.

“You’re allowed to say no…” Sirius said quietly, eyes on the road but voice steady. “To any part of this. If you’d rather I drive you straight back to your flat, I will. No questions, no sulking. If you want to come up to the penthouse, have a glass of wine, talk about books or the repression or whatever the hell you want, and not touch each other at all—that’s fine too. And if you do want sex…” Sirius’s mouth curved, dark and promising, but he kept his tone even. “I’ll make sure you come at least five times before I even think about putting my cock in you.”

Remus swallowed hard, throat clicking. The flush hadn’t faded; it sat hot under his skin, making the scars pull tighter. He was old enough to know better. Old enough that being called “good boy” by a twenty-year-old should have felt ridiculous, condescending, wrong on so many levels, but instead it made his stomach clench with something needy and humiliating. He shifted in the leather seat, trying to hide how hard he was getting again, just from earlier.

“I… don’t want to go home yet,” he admitted, voice rough and small. It made him feel pathetic. “But I’m not—I’m not ready for all of that. Not tonight. Can we just… kiss? Or something. Start there. If that’s even—what you want?”

Sirius glanced over, eyes softening at the edges even as heat still simmered underneath. 

“Yeah, baby. We can just kiss. As much or as little as you want. You’re in charge of how far it goes.”

The penthouse in Vibe was everything Remus expected of the area and nothing he was prepared for—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking both Hyde Park and The Serpentine, sleek furniture that probably cost more than the entirety of the apartment complex where he lived, low lighting that made everything feel intimate. Sirius poured two glasses of red wine without asking, handed one to Remus, then sat beside him on the wide leather couch, close enough that Remus could feel the heat rolling off his body.

Remus took a shaky sip, then set the glass down. His hands were trembling.

“This is insane,” he muttered. “You’re twenty. I’m old enough to be your—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.” Sirius cut in gently, setting his own glass aside. 

“I know how old you are and I still want you here…” He reached out slowly, giving Remus every chance to pull away or stop it, and cupped the scarred side of his face. Thumb stroking along the silver line that ran down his cheek. “Can I kiss you now?”

Remus nodded before he could overthink it, and Sirius leaned in and pressed their mouths together—soft at first, almost careful, like he was giving Remus room to breathe, or a chance to stop it. Warm lips, the faint taste of wine, the clean scent of cedar and something else. 

Remus made a small, broken sound and leaned into it, one scarred hand coming up to clutch at Sirius’s shirt. The kiss deepened as Sirius’s tongue traced the seam of his lips until Remus opened for him with a shaky exhale. It stayed gentle for long minutes—lazy slides of tongue, quiet sighs, the wet sound of their mouths moving together—until Remus’s head started to spin and his cock ached heavy between his legs.

He pulled back just enough to gasp against Sirius’s mouth. 

“More—” he whispered, voice cracking with embarrassment. “Just… kissing. But more.”

Sirius groaned low in his throat at that, the sound vibrating through both of them. “Whatever you want, baby.”

He pulled Remus closer, one large hand sliding to the back of his neck, the other resting possessively on his hip. The next kiss was deeper, hungrier—tongues sliding hot and slick, teeth grazing Remus’s bottom lip, Sirius sucking gently on it until Remus whimpered. Remus’s hands fisted tighter in Sirius’s shirt, as his body tilted toward him without permission, thighs pressing together to ease the throbbing ache in his cock. Every time Sirius called him “baby” between kisses—soft, murmured against his jaw, his throat, the scarred corner of his mouth—Remus flushed hotter, hips twitching helplessly.

“You taste so fucking good,” Sirius breathed, nipping at the sensitive skin under Remus’s ear. “Could kiss you for hours. Just like this.”

Remus shuddered, a pathetic whine slipping out before he could stop it. He was hard, leaking, his face was burning with how easily his body responded to a boy half his age. He was old enough to be his father, and here he was, melting under slow, filthy kisses on a couch that probably cost more than his car had when it was new, letting himself be called “good boy” and “baby” like it didn’t make shame and want twist together low in his gut.

Remus turned then, moving into Sirius’s lap—taller frame solid and warm beneath him, hands steady on his hips—Remus didn’t pull away, he buried his flushed face against Sirius’s neck, before he was pulled up by the chin. He let himself be kissed until his lips were swollen, his breath came in shaky pants, and the only thing louder than his doubt was the steady thrum of Sirius’s heartbeat under his palm.

Remus’s hands started moving before his brain caught up. They were still on the wide leather couch, Sirius sprawled back against the cushions with Remus straddling his lap. The city lights glittered outside the penthouse windows, but Remus only had eyes for the way Sirius’s throat worked when he swallowed, the sharp line of his jaw, the dark spill of hair falling over those storm-grey eyes. Their mouths were still locked—wet, slow, filthy kisses that had turned Remus’s lips swollen and shining. Every slide of Sirius’s tongue made his head spin harder. His scarred fingers flexed against Sirius’s chest, then, without permission, they had started to explore.

“Fuck, look at you,” Sirius breathed, eyes dark as he felt him properly. “So pretty like this... So hard for me already.”

He pushed the shirt open button by button, clumsy with want, until the fabric parted and warm, smooth skin met his palms. Sirius was all lean muscle and sharp angles under his hands—broad shoulders, tight pectorals, the faint ridges of abs that twitched when Remus dragged his nails lightly down them. Remus broke the kiss with a shaky gasp, forehead pressed to Sirius’s, breathing hard as his hands mapped lower, thumbs brushing over small, peaked nipples until Sirius hissed through his teeth and bucked up beneath him.

“Fuck—Remus…” Sirius groaned, his voice low and wrecked, hands tightening on Remus’s hips. “Yeah— touch me, however you want, baby.”

The endearment hit Remus like a spark to dry tinder, flushed crimson, cock straining painfully against his trousers—whimpering at being called baby while his hands roamed greedily over a twenty-year-old’s body like he had any right to it at all. Shame and hunger twisted together low in his gut, making his hips roll forward without thinking as he ground down.

The first slide of his clothed cock against Sirius’s was clumsy and desperate. Both of them were hard—Sirius’s cock a heavy, obvious ridge beneath expensive fabric, Remus’s own cock leaking steadily, aching from hours of teasing. The friction dragged a broken moan out of Remus’s throat, and he buried his face against Sirius’s neck to hide the flush burning hotter across his scarred cheeks.

Sirius’s hands flexed on his hips, guiding, helping Remus find a rhythm. “That’s it…” he murmured in approval against Remus’s ear, his breath hot. “Rut against me, baby. Use me. Feels good, doesn’t it? Your cock rubbing on mine like you can’t help yourself.”

Remus’s body answered with another helpless roll of his hips, slower this time, grinding the hard line of his erection along Sirius’s in long, dragging strokes that made wet spots bloom on both their trousers. The fabric between them was already damp with precome, the obscene little sounds of cloth catching and sliding filling the quiet penthouse. Every grind pressed Remus’s cockhead against Sirius’s, the pressure perfect, sending sparks up his spine. His hands kept exploring—sliding up to cup Sirius’s face, thumbs stroking along sharp cheekbones, then back down to push the shirt fully off those broad shoulders so he could feel him properly. Sirius’s chest was warm, slightly sweaty already, nipples tight under Remus’s palms. Remus leaned in and licked a stripe up the side of Sirius’s throat, tasting salt and cedar, then sucked a mark just below his ear while his hips kept moving—slow, filthy rolls that had both of them panting. Sirius groaned deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against Remus’s mouth. One hand slid up Remus’s back under his shirt, palm broad and warm against scarred skin, but he didn’t push further. 

“God, you feel so fucking good…” he rasped. “All desperate and grinding on me like a teenager. Look at you—forty-two and humping my lap because you’re too turned on to stop… So pretty when you let yourself want something, baby.”

Remus whined at the words, hips stuttering harder, cock throbbing where it rubbed against Sirius’s thick cock. He could feel Sirius’s cock twitching beneath him, heavy and hot, the head catching against his own on every downward grind. His balls drew up tight, ache building low.

He was going to come like this. Fully clothed. Rutting in a twenty-year-old’s lap like a desperate, pathetic old man who couldn’t control himself. The thought should have mortified him. Instead, it made his cock leak harder, a fresh gush of precome slicking the way as he rolled his hips faster, chasing the pressure. His scarred hands clutched at Sirius’s bare shoulders, nails digging in as his breath came in ragged pants against Sirius’s neck.

“Sirius—fuck—I’m—” Remus’s voice cracked, high and broken.

“Good boy…” Sirius groaned out, lips brushing Remus’s scarred cheek. “Come whenever you need to, baby. Make a mess of us…”

Remus sobbed a shaky moan and ground down harder, hips stuttering in short, frantic rolls. The wet drag of fabric, the heat of Sirius’s thick cock against his, the low filthy praise murmured right against his ear–it all crashed over him at once as his orgasm hit hard, cock pulsing as he spilled hot and messy into his pants, hips jerking helplessly while he rode it out against Sirius’s lap. Wetness soaked through his trousers, smearing against Sirius’s still-hard length, the scent of come sharp and musky between them.

He collapsed forward, forehead pressed to Sirius’s shoulder, chest heaving, face burning with embarrassment even as the aftershocks trembled through his thighs. His hands were still splayed across Sirius’s bare chest, fingers twitching with the residual pleasure. Sirius’s arms came around him, holding him close but loose enough that Remus could pull away if he wanted. One hand stroked slow, soothing circles over his back, dragging over the scars hidden beneath his shirt.

“Beautiful…” Sirius whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the side of Remus’s neck. “So fucking beautiful when you let go. Fuck— I knew you would be.”

Remus didn’t pull away, not even with his cock softening in the sticky mess, even with his thighs still trembling from the aftershocks; he stayed right where he was—straddling Sirius’s lap, chest pressed to that warm, bare torso, scarred hands splayed across smooth muscle. He tilted his head and caught Sirius’s mouth again, kissing him slow and greedy, tongue sliding lazy against his like he had every right to take his time. Because he did. Sirius had said so earlier.

And right now, what Remus wanted was to keep feeling the thick, straining line of Sirius’s cock trapped beneath him. Not for his own release—his spent dick would need longer, maybe minutes, maybe more—but because Sirius was still achingly hard, the heavy ridge of him twitching every time Remus rolled his hips in a slow grind.

Sirius groaned into the kiss, low and guttural, the sound vibrating straight down Remus’s spine. 

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured against Remus’s swollen lips when they broke for air, voice husky and rough. “Look at you. Still grinding on my cock even after you came all over yourself. Greedy for it, aren’t you?”

Remus flushed hotter, the burn crawling down his scarred neck, but he didn’t stop. He rocked down again, slow, filthy circles that dragged the damp fabric of his trousers over the rigid length trapped in Sirius’s slacks. He could feel every inch: the thick shaft, the swollen head, the way it jumped when he pressed just right. The wet patch between them grew slicker, warmer, the obscene little sounds of fabric sliding through come and precome filling the quiet.

“Yeah,” Remus breathed, barely audible, embarrassed by how raw his voice sounded. He kissed Sirius again, deeper this time, sucking on his bottom lip while his hips kept moving in that lazy, possessive rhythm. “It’s… it’s still hard. For me.”

“All for you,” Sirius answered immediately, one large hand sliding up Remus’s back under his shirt, palm warm against scarred skin. His other hand stayed on Remus’s hip, guiding the slow rolls without forcing them. “This cock is yours, baby. Take what you want from it. Rub yourself on it until you’re satisfied. I love watching my professor get selfish like this.”

The praise hit Remus low and sweet, making his spent cock give a weak, interested twitch. He whimpered into Sirius’s mouth—soft, needy—and ground down harder, feeling the thick length slide against his own.

Sirius’s breath hitched, turning into a low, pleased coo right against Remus’s ear. “That’s it… just like that. Such a good boy, taking what belongs to you. My cock’s been aching for you since the café, and now you’re using it so sweetly. Grinding that pretty ass down like you own every inch. Fuck, Remus, you have no idea how perfect you look right now.”

He buried his flushed face in the crook of Sirius’s neck, lips dragging wet kisses along the tendon there while his hips kept up their lazy, filthy rhythm.

“Keep talking—” he whispered, voice cracking with want. “Please.”

Sirius’s arms tightened around him, holding him close as Remus continued to grind—slow rolls that dragged his hips from base to tip, feeling every twitch, every throb.

“My sweet, greedy baby,” Sirius cooed as his lips brushed Remus’s scarred temple. “Look at you, using my cock like your own personal toy. You came so hard already, and you’re not even done with me yet. Take your time. This dick is yours to play with. Rub on it, hump it, make it leak for you. I love feeling you take what’s yours.”

Remus moaned softly, the sound muffled against Sirius’s skin, and rolled his hips again. The praise kept pouring out in that warm, adoring murmur: soft coos and filthy endearments, telling Remus how good he looked, how perfect he felt, how much Sirius loved his older, scarred baby claiming every inch of his cock like it had always belonged to him.

The fabric between them was a filthy mess now—warm, slick with Remus’s spend and Sirius’s steady leak—but he didn’t care. He liked the way Sirius’s thick shaft pulsed and jumped beneath him every time he ground down, liked the heat of it, the sheer size, the way it strained desperately against expensive wool like it was trying to get closer.

He liked the power even more.

“Fuck—Remus,” Sirius gasped, voice cracking into something breathy and broken. “You’re—shit—you’re killing me like this. So good, baby, so fucking good. Just taking what you want… using my cock like it’s yours. God, I can feel how wet you made me. All that come soaking through—nngh—making everything slide so easy.”

Remus’s breath hitched as he leaned in and kissed Sirius again—deep, messy, tongues sliding wet and hungry—while his hips kept up that relentless grind. Slow drags from root to leaking tip, pressing down harder on the swollen head until Sirius’s hips stuttered up involuntarily. Sirius actually whimpered, and the sound sent a dark thrill straight through Remus’s gut.

“Yeah—yes, like that,” Sirius babbled, words tumbling out between panting breaths, short and fractured. “Right there—fuck—your hips, baby, the way you roll them—ahh—gonna lose it. You feel so warm, so heavy on me. My perfect professor… riding my cock without even taking it out. So greedy for it. So fucking pretty when you take what’s yours.”

Remus’s scarred hands tightened on Sirius’s bare shoulders, nails biting into smooth skin as he ground down again, slower this time, dragging the sensitive head of Sirius’s cock against his own softening length through the ruined fabric. He could feel every twitch, every throb, every desperate pulse. Sirius was close. Unraveling. And the knowledge made something hot and possessive bloom low in Remus’s chest. Remus stayed silent, just watching the way Sirius’s mouth fell open, the way his lashes fluttered, the way sweat gleamed at his temples.

“Remus—Remus—oh fuck,” Sirius choked out, voice high and strained now, breath coming in sharp little huffs. “Gonna—gonna come. You’re gonna make me come—. Please—don’t stop—hit—feels so good. My baby… my gorgeous, perfect baby taking everything I’ve got. I’m—ahh—yours. All yours. Please—”

The last word broke into a raw, guttural groan as Sirius’s hips jerked up hard, once, twice, then locked. His cock pulsed violently beneath Remus, thick spurts of come flooding hot and wet inside his slacks, soaking through the fabric until Remus could feel the fresh heat spreading between them. Sirius’s whole body shuddered, thighs trembling under Remus’s weight, head thrown back as broken little sounds spilled from his lips—whimpers, gasps, half-formed praises that dissolved into incoherent noises.

“So good—so fucking good—love it when you take me—love you using me—baby—fuck—”

Remus kept grinding through it, milking every last twitch and spurt while Sirius fell apart beneath him. The power of it—the way this tall, rich, confident twenty-year-old was reduced to trembling, babbling praise just from dry-humping in his own lap—made Remus’s spent cock give another weak, interested throb. He just watched Sirius unravel, drank in every fractured moan and desperate “good boy” turned back on its speaker, every shaky “yours” that fell from those pretty lips.

Sirius’s arms stayed loose around him for a long minute, both of them breathing hard in the quiet. The mess between them was cooling, sticky and unmistakable, but Sirius only pressed a lazy kiss to Remus’s temple and murmured. “Shower with me?”

Remus nodded before the doubt could catch up. The bathroom was ridiculous—marble and glass, rainfall shower big enough for an entire football team. Sirius stripped the rest of the way without ceremony, cock still half-hard with interest and glistening with come, then helped Remus out of his ruined clothes.  He didn’t flinch at the scars that ran down Remus’s chest and hip, didn’t hesitate when he traced one thick silver line with his thumb. Just turned the water on hot and pulled Remus under the spray with him. 

They didn’t fuck. They kissed under the water—while Sirius washed him with gentle hands, soaping the mess from his stomach and thighs, rinsing the spend from his soft cock. Remus returned the favor, palms sliding over Sirius’s taller frame, feeling the way his muscles jumped under warm water and careful touch. When Sirius’s cock started to fill again, Remus simply wrapped a soapy hand around it and stroked him, slow and possessive, until Sirius groaned and tilted his head back against the tile.

“Yours—” Sirius whispered, voice hoarse. “Still yours, baby.”

Remus didn’t answer, just kept stroking until Sirius spilled again, shuddering against him with a broken little keen, then kissed the sound from his lips. 

Afterward, Sirius wrapped him up in a thick towel and disappeared for a moment, returning with soft black joggers and a plain grey t-shirt that smelled like Sirius, cedar and laundry soap. 

“They'll be a little too big on you,” he said, eyes warm. “But your stuff’s in the wash. You can wear them as long as you want.”

The clothes swallowed Remus. The joggers hung low on his hips, the t-shirt draping loose over his scarred chest and soft middle. He caught his reflection—tired eyes, silver scars stark against the borrowed fabric, hair silvered through—and felt a flicker of that same shame. But Sirius looked at him like he was something precious, and the feeling eased.

They padded back to the living room, and Sirius poured them fresh glasses of wine, and they settled on the couch again, closer this time. Remus’s legs were draped over Sirius’s lap, one of Sirius’s hands resting warm and casual on his thigh, thumb stroking idle circles over the borrowed fabric. 

Remus took a slow sip, then another. The wine loosened something in his chest as they talked.

“I do like teaching,” he said quietly, staring into the glass. “Most people think I’m just… going through the motions. Grading papers, lecturing to half-asleep kids who only care about the credit. But when someone actually gets it—” He shook his head, a small, rueful smile tugging at his mouth. “When a student stays after class because they can’t stop thinking about how Eliot twists time in ‘Prufrock,’ or when someone writes a paper that actually argues with Hardy instead of parroting the textbook… that’s when it’s worth it. When they see the rage under all that Victorian politeness, or the way a single sentence can gut you if you let it...”

Sirius listened without interrupting, his fingers still tracing slow patterns on Remus’s thigh.

Remus kept going, voice gaining a little strength. “I like the ones who fight the text. Who get angry at it. Who fall in love with it even when it hurts. Last semester, there was this girl—quiet, always sat in the back—who turned in an essay on Tess of the d’Urbervilles that made me stay up half the night rereading the damn book again. She saw the cruelty in Angel Clare that most students miss. Called him out for his hypocrisy like she wanted to reach through the page and shake him. That’s the part I love. Not the pay cheque. Not the tenure track. Just… watching someone’s brain catch fire over something that’s been dead for a hundred years.” He laughed softly, self-deprecating. “Sounds pathetic when I say it out loud… Still getting excited because a nineteen-year-old finally understood why a poem about peaches matters…”

Sirius’s hand squeezed his thigh. “No… It doesn’t sound pathetic,” he said, voice low and warm. He shifted closer, pressing a kiss to the scarred corner of Remus’s mouth. “I like hearing you talk about it. Keep going, please...”

Remus flushed again—warmed by the wine and the easy way Sirius listened, but he did keep going. He told him about the quiet kid who wrote poetry in the margins of his papers, about the heated debate that broke out last week over whether Dracula was a villain or a victim of his own hunger, about how some days the classroom felt like the only place the world still made sense. Sirius listened, laughed at the right places, tilted his head when Remus got passionate, never once making him feel like the tired old professor in borrowed clothes was boring.

Eventually, the conversation slowed. Remus’s head rested against Sirius’s shoulder, the t-shirt soft against his cheek. The city lights glittered beyond the windows, the dryer hummed faintly in the background, and Sirius’s fingers kept up their lazy strokes along his thigh.

“You can stay the night if you want.” Sirius said quietly, offering.

Remus closed his eyes, the wine warm in his veins, Sirius’s body solid and warm beside him. He was still scared. Still half-convinced this would all vanish in the morning like a fever dream. But right now—dressed in Sirius’s clothes, lips still tingling from kissing and praise, chest loose from talking about the one thing he actually loved—he didn’t want to leave. “Yeah,” he whispered. 

“I’ll stay.” Sirius’s arm tightened around him, a soft, satisfied hum vibrating through his chest.

“Good boy,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Remus’s hair.

—

They did dinner again the next week. And the week after. Meals turned into a rhythm: Sirius picking him up in the sleek black car, Remus in the same rotation of corduroy and cardigans, feeling perpetually underdressed next to the younger man’s effortless, expensive tailoring. Sirius flirted, thumb brushing Remus’s knuckles when he passed the bread, voice dropping when he said baby like it was private currency between them. But he never pushed. Never reached. 

Remus told himself that was the point. The money was real, the dinners were real, but the want wasn’t. Not for a forty-two-year-old with scars that pulled tight when he laughed and a soft middle that pressed against every shirt. Sirius wanted the conversation, the company, the idea. Not the body, probably. A full month slid by like that.

Then came the credit card. 

Remus stared at the matte black card in his palm, the weight of it heavier than plastic had any right to be. 

Sirius had pressed it there after the last dinner, along with a slow, claiming kiss that still lingered on his swollen lips. Now they were back in Remus’s flat, the three large boxes sitting unopened on the coffee table like accusations.

“It’s in my name,” Sirius said, voice low, one arm draped along the back of the couch behind Remus. “But the money’s yours. You can spend it on whatever you want, whenever you want to. Groceries, bills, books, a new fucking couch if it makes you happy. I can’t touch what I put in, and I can’t take a single pound back. The Banker looked at me like I was crazy…”

Remus’s thumb brushed over the smooth edge of the card. His mouth felt dry. “That’s not how these things work. Most people don’t just hand over open accounts and give the key to them away…”

“I’m not most people.” Sirius leaned in, eyes dark and serious. “I told you I wanted to take care of you. This is part of it. No strings on the spending. The only rule is you use it when you need it. Or when you want it. That’s all.”

Remus swallowed hard. The flush was back, crawling up his scarred neck. He was still wearing the soft charcoal jumper Sirius had bought him; it felt too good against his skin, too expensive. “I don’t know how to do this without feeling like I’m… taking advantage.”

“You’re not.” Sirius’s hand slid to the nape of his neck, thumb stroking gently over the silver scar there. “You’re letting me do what I want. And what I want is for you to stop choosing between heating and eating. Stop worrying every time the car makes a noise. Stop looking tired, baby. Let the card fix what it can.”

That afternoon, he used the card for the first time. Electricity bill. Water bill. The credit card balance that had been choking him for months. Each swipe felt surreal. The numbers dropped instantly. No more overdraft warnings. No anxious calculations in his head about how many weeks of beans on toast it would cost him. 

Then he logged into his mortgage account and paid more than the minimum, a proper good chunk. The remaining balance shifted downward in real time. He stared at the screen until his eyes burned. For the first time in years, the constant knot behind his ribs loosened a little. He could actually breathe without the weight of it crushing his lungs.

The clothes from the boxes became his new normal. Fine merino jumpers that didn’t itch. Corduroy trousers that were cut properly. Leather brogues that supported his bad hip instead of aggravating it. Everything simple, nothing really flashy. 

His students noticed he looked less exhausted. One even asked if he’d won the lottery. Remus only smiled tightly and kept talking about The Mill on the Floss. He bought decent coffee instead of the cheap bitter grounds. Replaced the dying toaster. Ordered thick cotton sheets that didn’t pill after just the one wash. Small things. Things that made the flat feel less like a punishment. Every time he swiped the card, he waited for guilt to hit, but now, it never quite did. Not the way he expected. Instead, there was a quiet, trembling relief.

Friday night, Sirius showed up with Thai takeout and a bottle of the same type of red wine from their first dinner. He took one look at Remus—wearing the new charcoal jumper and the better-fitting corduroys, hair still damp from the shower—and his mouth curved into something dark and satisfied.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured, backing Remus against the wall the second the door clicked shut. “You look good spending my money.”

Remus flushed, but his hands came up to fist in Sirius’s shirt anyway. “It feels wrong. Like I’m using you.”

“You’re not.” Sirius kissed him slow and deep, tongue sliding lazy and possessive until Remus made that soft, helpless sound. “You’re letting me take care of you the way I want to... That mortgage payment you made? I saw it. Good. Keep going. Buy whatever makes your life softer. I like knowing the card is working for you.”

They ate on the couch, Remus’s legs draped over Sirius’s lap. Sirius listened while Remus talked about a student who’d finally understood the quiet rage in Tess, about how the new Audi didn’t stall in the rain, about how he’d bought real butter instead of margarine and it felt ridiculous and wonderful at the same time. Sirius’s hand stroked slow circles on his thigh the whole time, thumb pressing gently over the pattern on the corduroy.

Remus still wasn’t used to the quiet, not the silence in his flat—though that had changed too—but the absence of the low, constant dread that had lived under his ribs for the better part of a year. He had had a bad fall last summer that had wrecked his back and his savings in one miserable swoop. Months of missed lectures, physio that insurance barely covered, bills stacking like accusations. He’d clawed his way back to teaching, but the hole had been too deep. Every payday had been triage, never quite enough to climb out. Now the black card sat in his wallet like a secret. Sirius topped it up on the first of every month with sums that made Remus’s stomach flip. Sirius never called it “his” money. He simply said, “It’s yours, baby. Spend what you need. Spend what you want.”

Remus spent carefully at first. Then less carefully.

He paid the backlog on the mortgage until the balance looked almost manageable. He had changed out the radiators. He replaced the leaking tap in the bathroom and the ancient kettle that clicked ominously every morning, and he had changed the fridge that always made an annoying, loud buzzing sound and leaked on warm days. 

The gifts kept arriving anyway. A thin, elegant watch with a simple leather strap—nothing flashy, nothing clunky, just the type that Remus didn’t feel bad about wearing–slipped onto his wrist one evening when Sirius picked him up for dinner. 

“Saw it and thought of you,” Sirius had murmured, fastening the clasp himself, grey eyes warm. “Looks good on you, baby…”

Remus had flushed crimson, the way he always did when Sirius called him that, heat rushing straight down to his cock even as shame twisted in his gut. Forty-two and still getting hard from two quiet syllables.

Then came the jewellery: a slim silver chain that sat perfectly against the scarred hollow of his throat, a pair of cufflinks he actually liked wearing with the new shirts, small moons. Soaps that smelled like cedar and vetiver instead of the cheap bars he’d used to buy for years. A bottle of cologne—subtle, but no doubt expensive—that made Sirius’s nostrils flare every time he leaned in close.

Each time Remus accepted another gift, he felt a little braver, like there was a little less chance for the rug to be yanked out from under him. 

They still hadn’t had sex.

Not properly. Not beyond the slow, heated rutting on Sirius’s couch that first night and the increasingly desperate snogging sessions after. Sirius never pushed. He’d pull Remus into his lap in the driver’s seat, hands sliding under his jumper to map warm skin and old scars, kissing him until they were both hard and breathless and the windows fogged over.

—

Today, Sirius had picked him up after the evening office hours; he had spent the night at Sirius’s the night before, his own car parked at home. 

They’d driven a little while, then to a quiet spot overlooking the river, the car’s heater humming softly while rain streaked the windows in fat rivulets. Remus was in his lap again, jumper pushed up, Sirius’s hands warm on his bare back, kissing him slow and deep and filthy. Remus was hard, grinding down in lazy circles against the thick ridge of Sirius’s cock, breath coming in short, embarrassed pants. Sirius groaned against his mouth, voice low and rough. 

“That’s it, baby. Use me. Feels so good when you take what you want…”

Remus made a helpless sound, hips rolling harder, the thin silver chain shifting against his throat. The praise went straight to his cock the way it always did. He was flushed dark, scars standing out silver against red skin, and the words slipped out before he could stop them.

“Good boy,” Sirius cooed, thumb brushing over one peaked nipple. “My perfect baby, so pretty when you’re desperate.”

Remus shuddered, forehead pressed to Sirius’s. The words had been building for weeks, caught behind his teeth every time Sirius praised him. Tonight they finally broke free.

“Daddy,” he whispered, voice cracking with shame and heat, and Sirius went perfectly still for half a second. Then a groan tore out of his throat, and he surged up, one large hand fisting in Remus’s hair, the other gripping his hip hard enough to bruise as he dragged Remus down against his cock hard.

“Say it again,” he pleaded, voice dark and ragged, hips snapping up. “Fuck—say it again, baby, please.”

Remus whimpered, the sound punched out of him by the sudden intensity. “Daddy—ah—please—”

Sirius groaned again, as if in pain, his mouth latching onto the side of Remus’s neck, sucking a mark right over the silver scar there. His hips rolled up in sharp, hungry thrusts, rutting against Remus through their clothes like he was barely holding himself back from tearing them both open to get at him.

“Christ, listen to you—” he rasped, breath hot and uneven against Remus’s skin. “Calling me daddy with that pretty voice. My good boy—my fucking perfect baby—finally saying it.”

Remus could only moan, overwhelmed, hips stuttering as Sirius ground up against him with single-minded ferocity. The power shift was dizzying—Sirius usually so patient, so careful, now feral and possessive, hands gripping like he wanted to leave fingerprints on every inch of Remus’s body.

Sirius bit down gently on the chain at Remus’s throat, tongue flicking over the silver, then kissed him hard and messy, all teeth and tongue and desperate praise. “Again,” he growled between kisses. “Say it while you’re grinding on daddy’s cock like you own it.”

Remus’s voice broke on the word, voice wrecked and tapering off weakly. “Daddy—”

Sirius groaned like he’d been shot, hips jerking up harder, cock throbbing. “That’s my good boy. My baby. Fuck, I love you—”

They hadn’t fucked that time either, because Remus hadn’t asked… hadn’t initiated it, but he was becoming braver.

—

The first time it happened, Sirius was in the middle of a board meeting. The sleek conference room on the twenty-third floor was full of suits and quarterly projections when his phone vibrated on the polished table. He glanced at the screen —  -`♡´Baby`♡´-—and answered without hesitation, voice shifting seamlessly into the calm, professional tone he used for important clients.

“Sirius Black,” he said, leaning back in his chair, one ankle crossed over his knee. “How can I help you?”

On the other end of the line, Remus’s breath caught. He was in his flat, sprawled on the couch in nothing but the soft grey t-shirt and joggers Sirius had given him weeks ago. It had been nine days since they’d last seen each other—Sirius had been in Berlin for a tech conference—and the ache had built until Remus couldn’t stand it anymore.

“I… I missed you,” Remus said quietly. His voice was already rough, lower than usual. “I know you’re probably busy, but I just needed to hear you...”

Sirius’s mouth curved, but his expression stayed neutral for the room. “Of course. Take all the time you need. We can go over the details.”Remus exhaled shakily. The professional detachment in Sirius’s voice only made heat pool hotter in his gut. He palmed himself through the joggers, already half-hard just from hearing that.

“I’ve been thinking about you all week…” he continued, bolder now that Sirius couldn’t see the flush crawling up his scarred cheeks. “Every night. I wear the chain you gave me to bed. I get so hard just from that… from knowing it’s from you.”

Sirius didn’t miss a beat. He nodded at one of the executives mid-sentence, gesturing for them to continue the presentation while he listened. 

“Understood,” he said smoothly into the phone. “Please go on.”

Remus’s breath hitched. His hand slipped inside the joggers, wrapping around his cock—already leaking, sensitive from days of frustration, being with Sirius had made his own want, which he had thought gone, spark like fire in dry grass. He stroked slowly, thumb swiping over the head, spreading the slick.

“I rutted against the pillow last night…” he whispered, voice cracking with embarrassment and arousal. “Pretended it was you. The way you let me grind on you that first time… fuck, I was so close just from the memory. I wanted to call you then...”

Sirius’s free hand tightened on the arm of his chair, knuckles whitening, but his voice remained perfectly even. “That’s excellent feedback. We should definitely explore that further.”

Remus moaned softly, the sound barely muffled. He stroked faster, hips rocking up into his fist, the wet sound of skin on skin faint but unmistakable. Precome dripped steadily over his knuckles, soaking into the waistband of the joggers.

“I’m touching myself right now—” Remus gasped, no longer trying to hide anything. “Cock in my hand, leaking all over my fingers while you listen. I’m so fucking wet for you, Daddy. If you were here, I’d beg you to fuck my mouth… I’d let you use me however you wanted.”

His strokes turned desperate, obscene little wet sounds filling the dark flat. He could picture Sirius—tall and trying to stay composed in some glass-walled conference room, nodding along like this was quarterly projections while Remus fell apart on the other end of the line.

Sirius’s voice seemed more shaky now. “…That’s—very thorough. We’ll action that immediately…” 

That did it.

Remus came with a broken moan, biting down hard on his own wrist to muffle the sound as his cock pulsed hot and messy over his fist. Thick ropes of come spilled across his stomach and the hem of the t-shirt, hips jerking helplessly while he rode it out, whispering cracked little pleas into the phone until his voice gave out. Silence stretched for a few heartbeats except for Remus’s panting. Then Sirius spoke again.

“…Perfect.  I’ll follow up personally to make sure implementation is handled to your complete satisfaction…. Thank you for reaching out.”

The line clicked dead.

Remus slumped back against the cushions, chest heaving, come cooling on his skin. His face burned. His spent cock gave one last weak twitch against his thigh. He was a pathetic, forty-two-year-old mess—pants around his knees, shirt ruined, whispering filthy confessions to a boy half his age while that boy sat in a boardroom pretending it was business as usual. His phone buzzed almost immediately.

Sirius: Good boy.

Remus closed his eyes, the flush spreading hot down his throat, and let the words on the screen sink into his bones.

Remus was still catching his breath on the couch, come now sticky across his stomach and the hem of the t-shirt, when his phone buzzed, a call. He didn’t even look at the screen before he answered, voice wrecked and soft. 

“Yes…?”

A door clicked shut on the other end, then a low, ragged exhale that sounded like it had been held for the entire meeting.

“Fuck, baby...”

The meeting voice was gone. What replaced it was raw—dark, strained, barely holding onto control. Sirius sounded like he was barely keeping himself together.

“You have any idea what you just did to me?” The words came out rough, almost angry with how turned on he was. “Sitting in that fucking boardroom, hard as fucking concrete, while you moaned ‘daddy’ in my ear like a desperate little thing… I had to excuse myself the second the call ended. Locked myself in the bathroom because my cock is throbbing so bad I can’t think straight.”

Remus’s spent cock gave a weak, interested twitch against his thigh. He could picture it so clearly: Sirius in some bathroom, tall frame braced against the sink or the wall, one hand probably already palming the thick bulge in his trousers.

“I’m sorry…” Remus whispered, even though he wasn’t, not even a little.

“Don’t you dare be sorry—” Sirius’s voice dropped lower, a groan edged with frustration. “You called me in the middle of a thirty-person strategy meeting and told me you wanted to me to fuck your mouth… I had to sit there nodding like everything was normal while my cock leaked all over my damned pants because my baby was jerking off and calling me daddy…”

A shaky breath, then the unmistakable sound of a zipper being dragged down.

“I’m so fucking hard it hurts,” Sirius gritted out. “Rock solid. Head flushed dark and dripping because of you. I can still hear every filthy word you said. The way your voice cracked when you called me daddy—fuck, Remus, I almost came in my chair just from that...”

Remus swallowed hard, heat rushing back into his face and straight down to his groin. His hand drifted down without thinking, fingers brushing over his soft cock, feeling the mess he’d made as he dragged his fingers through the come-soaked pubes at the base of it.

“I didn’t mean to make it difficult for you…” he lied softly, voice still hoarse.

Sirius let out a broken laugh that sounded more like a groan. 

“Utter bullshit. You loved it—knowing I was sitting there pretending to be professional while my cock was trying to rip through my bloody trousers. You loved making me suffer...”

Remus bit his lip as he started stroking it, a fresh bead of precome welling up at the tip of his cock just from the raw need in Sirius’s voice. 

“Maybe…”

Remus’s fingers tightened around his own cock, slowly stroking the oversensitive length as he listened to Sirius fall apart on the other end of the line.

“I’m touching myself again,” he admitted quietly, the boldness from the call still lingering. “Still messy from before. Thinking about you in that bathroom—hand wrapped around that thick cock, trying not to moan my name where someone might hear...”

Sirius groaned, low and guttural. “Jesus Christ. You’re going to make me come in under a minute. My baby—my good fucking boy—calling me daddy while I’m supposed to be running a company. I’m so hard it feels like I could hammer nails with it.” The wet sounds grew faster, more urgent as Sirius’s breath hitched sharply.

“Next time I see you…” he rasped, voice strained and feral, “I’m done being patient... I’m going to lay you out and fuck you until you can’t remember anything but my name and how full you feel.”

Remus whimpered, stroking himself faster even though he was still sensitive from his first orgasm. Sirius’s voice cracked. 

“Fuck—Remus—I’m gonna—” A low, choked groan tore through the line, followed by a few harsh, stuttering breaths as Sirius came hard in whatever corporate bathroom he’d locked himself in. Remus could hear every ragged exhale, every quiet curse, every wet sound as Sirius worked himself through it.

When Sirius finally spoke again, his voice was rough and sated, but still edged with that possessive hunger. 

“You’re dangerous, is what you are—” he murmured. “Dangerous and perfect. I’m keeping that looping in my head for the rest of the day. Every time someone asks me a question, I’m going to remember my good boy coming while he called me daddy…”

—

The week after and the afternoon lectures dragged like wet cement, and by the time the final senior class filed in, the room felt too warm, the air too thick. Remus stood at the front in his slightly rumpled button-down, silver threading through his curls catching the fluorescent light, and tried to keep his voice steady as he led the discussion on The Picture of Dorian Gray.

“Appetites,” he said, tapping the book against his palm. “Hedonism. The pursuit of pleasure without consequence. Dorian believes beauty and sensation can be hoarded like currency. What does that cost him?”

A girl in the front row raised her hand quickly. “He gets everything he wants—sex, drugs, art, youth—but it rots him from the inside, and the painting takes the burden of it.”

“Exactly—” Remus continued, voice lower than he intended. “Unrestrained appetite devours the self. But Wilde isn’t just warning us… There’s seduction in it, isn’t there? The thrill of giving in, of letting the hunger win.”

He paced a slow arc in front of the whiteboard, thighs brushing together, the faint friction enough to keep him simmering. This was his favourite book, had been since he was younger than the students sitting here in his class now. Every time he shifted, he remembered Sirius’s voice, how he had sounded during that telephone call in Germany… 

A male student near the back smirked. “So… hedonism’s only bad if you get caught is that it?”

The class laughed. Remus’s mouth curved, voice dry. “Or if you’re the one left holding the rotting portrait while the world keeps praising only the mask.”

The discussion stretched as the students argued about morality versus desire, about whether Dorian’s fall was inevitable or simply poor impulse control. Remus guided them, voice measured on the surface, while underneath he burned. It reminded him of the same appetites Sirius had coaxed from him, things he had thought would never feel again. Now he burned so easily, felt how his body needed. Hearing his students arguing about pleasure, corruption, the hunger that eats you alive if you let it… Remus had sat at the front of the seminar table, feeling every word like a tongue dragging over his skin. Hedonism. Appetite. The slow burning of a beautiful thing that wants to be ruined.

By the time the clock hit six, Remus was aching as he closed the office door behind the last student who had a question for him, then he dropped into the old leather chair behind his desk, heart already hammering, and pulled out his phone. Sirius would be here soon to pick him up for dinner. Remus wasn’t sure he could wait that long. He hit call.

Sirius answered on the second ring. The low rumble of the car’s engine filled the line.

“On my way, baby,” Sirius said, warm and easy, the smile audible in his voice. “Ten minutes out. You ready for me, classes done?”

Remus leaned back in the chair, one hand already palming the hard line of his cock through his trousers. His voice came out low, rough, nothing like the measured professor who had just spent two hours talking about Victorian morality.

“I’ve been hard since the beginning of class,” he murmured. “We were arguing about how Dorian lets himself be devoured by every appetite, and all I could think about was letting you devour me... About spreading my legs on this desk and letting you take whatever you want from me…”

A soft laugh from Sirius, but it was already darkening at the edges. “Jesus, Baby. You’re going to make me crash if you keep talking like this.”

“Please don’t…” Remus whispered, bolder now that he knew Sirius was alone in the car. He unzipped his trousers and freed his cock, already leaking as he stroked once, slow and firm, spreading the slick down the shaft. 

“I kept picturing it. You walking in here after everyone’s gone, pushing me over the desk, and just… using me. No patience. No pretty words. Just your cock splitting me open because I’ve been thinking about hedonism and ruin all afternoon and I’m starving for it.”

Sirius’s breath hitched, and Remus could hear the way his grip tightened on the steering wheel, making the leather creak.

“Keep talking, baby…” Sirius’s voice dropping into that low, velvet coo that always went straight to Remus’s dick. “Tell Daddy exactly what’s got you so worked up…”

Remus moaned softly, stroking faster. “You… You’re the reason I am like this. I want you to ruin me... I want you to fuck me so deep and so hard that I feel every thrust in me for days. I want to limp into my morning lecture still leaking you, still sore, still tasting you on my tongue because you made me suck you clean after you came inside me…”

Sirius groaned, the sound raw and hungry. “My greedy professor. Are you sitting in your little office with your cock out and telling me how badly you need to be used…?”

“Yes—” Remus whined as his head fell back against the chair, hips rolling up into his fist. “Can’t stop thinking about your thick cock stretching me… About you calling me your good boy while you pound me over this desk until the books fall off the stupid shelves.”

Sirius made a low, appreciative sound, almost a purr. “That’s my baby… Keep going. Tell me how wet you are for me right now...”

“So wet—” Remus gasped, thumb swiping over the leaking head on every stroke. “Dripping down my knuckles. I’m making a mess of my trousers, and I don’t even care. I want you to walk in here and see what you do to me…”

Sirius’s voice turned darker, the praise pouring out like honey. “My perfect, hungry little professor. You’re going to look so fucking gorgeous taking every inch. I’m going to make you feel so good, baby. Gonna give you exactly what that greedy hole needs.”

Remus whimpered, stroking faster, the wet sounds loud in the quiet office. “Daddy—please… I need it—need you to wreck me. I want to come with your cock buried so deep I can’t breathe right... Want you to fill me until it’s dripping down my thighs when I try to walk to your car.”

“Door locked?” Sirius asked his voice tight now, the engine noise picking up as he drove faster.

“Unlocked,” Remus panted. “I’m sitting here with my cock in my hand, waiting for you. Come and take what’s yours…”

Sirius let out a low, filthy groan that sounded like he was in pain.

“Keep that pretty hand moving, baby. Don’t stop. I want you right on the edge when I walk through that door. Because the second I do, I’m locking it behind me and giving my good boy everything he’s been begging so prettily for.”

Remus moaned again, high and desperate, hips stuttering as he fucked into his fist. “Hurry,” he whispered, voice cracking.

“I’m almost there, baby… Be ready for me.”

Remus could hear everything, the low rumble of the car’s engine cutting off. The sharp click of the car door, then the smack as it was slammed closed. Then the rapid crunch of footsteps on gravel as Sirius started moving— it was fast, almost like he was running. Campus at dusk was quiet, but Remus still caught the faint echo of Sirius’s shoes hitting the stone path, the occasional muttered curse when he had to dodge a group of lingering students. 

“Fuck—Remus,” Sirius panted through the line, voice no longer even pretending to be calm. “You still there, baby?”

Remus had moved; he was perched on the edge of his desk, trousers shoved down to his thighs, cock heavy and leaking in his hand. He stroked slowly, just enough to keep himself aching without actually tipping over. The phone was wedged between his shoulder and ear, one hand busy, the other braced on the scarred wood behind him. “I’m here…” he breathed, the words already breaking. “Sitting on my desk with my cock out. Stroking it so slowly… trying not to come before you get here.”

A low, filthy groan crackled through the speaker. Sirius’s footsteps picked up speed, the rhythm turning into something closer to a sprint.

“Jesus Christ,” Sirius swore, breath coming harder. “You’re killing me. I can hear how wet you are. That slow, slick sound—fuck, baby, you’re dripping for me, aren’t you?”

Remus let out a soft, needy whimper and gave his cock one lazy twist at the head, spreading the fresh bead of precome down the shaft. The wet noise was obscene in the quiet office. “Yeah,” he whispered, voice trembling. “So wet. Every time I think about you running across campus just to fuck me, it leaks more. I’m making a mess on my desk, Daddy. Can’t stop touching myself.”

Sirius cursed again, sharper this time. Remus heard a door bang open—probably the side entrance to the humanities building—then the echo of footsteps on tile, fast and urgent, taking the stairs two at a time. “Let me hear you. Make those pretty little sounds while I’m coming to wreck that greedy hole.” Sirius growled.

Remus moaned louder, unable to hold it back, his thumb gliding over the sensitive head on every upstroke, hips rocking forward in tiny, desperate movements. 

“Ah—fuck—hurry—” he gasped, the phone slipping slightly against his shoulder. “I’m so close already— Just from knowing you’re running to me. From imagining you slamming the door behind you and bending me over this desk without even saying hello.”

Sirius’s breathing was ragged now, footsteps pounding up the final flight of stairs. “I’m almost there, baby. Two floors. Don’t you dare come. I want that pretty cock leaking and aching when I walk in. Want to see my good boy sitting there with his hand wrapped around what’s mine, waiting to be ruined.”

Remus let out a broken whine, squeezing the base of his cock to stave off the orgasm threatening to crest. The chain around his throat shifted with every shaky breath. His thighs trembled.

“I’m trying—Daddy—please—” Another slow stroke, another wet sound that made Sirius swear viciously on the other end. “I can hear you running. God, that turns me on so much…”

The footsteps grew louder, closer, echoing down the empty corridor now. He would hear him. “Fuck, Remus,” Sirius panted, voice raw. “My perfect baby. Keep making those sounds. I’m right outside—”

The office door flew open, and Sirius stood in the doorway, tall and breathless, black coat flapping open, grey eyes wild and dark with hunger. His chest heaved, hair disheveled from the run, cheeks flushed. He looked completely undone.

Remus was still perched on the desk, cock flushed dark and glistening in his slow-moving fist, phone still pressed to his ear even though the call was pointless now. His cheeks were burning, lips parted on another soft, desperate sound.

Sirius kicked the door shut behind him, locked it with one sharp motion, and crossed the room in three long strides.

“Give me the phone,” he ordered, voice low and rough. Remus handed it over with a trembling hand. Sirius ended the call, tossed the phone onto the desk, and immediately crowded between Remus’s spread thighs. One large hand wrapped around Remus’s wrist, stilling the slow strokes.

“Look at you,” Sirius murmured, eyes raking over the mess—cock leaking steadily, trousers shoved down, silver chain gleaming against scarred skin. “Sitting here playing with yourself, making me lose my fucking mind the whole drive over. Such a good boy for Daddy.”

Remus whimpered, hips twitching forward helplessly. Sirius leaned in, mouth brushing Remus’s ear, voice dark and filthy. “Now keep your hands on the desk, baby. I’m going to give you exactly what you’ve been begging for.” 

Sirius dropped to his knees between Remus’s spread thighs like a man starved, no preamble. No teasing. He wrapped one big hand around the base of Remus’s cock, held it steady, and swallowed him down in one wet, hungry slide.

Remus cried out, voice high and broken, both hands flying to Sirius’s dark hair. The heat, the tight suction, the way Sirius’s throat flexed around him—it was too much after all the edging on the phone. He came almost instantly, hips jerking, cock pulsing hard as he spilled down Sirius’s throat with a strangled. “Daddy—!”

Sirius didn’t pull off; he swallowed every drop, throat working, then kept going—sucking slow and filthy through the aftershocks, tongue swirling around the oversensitive head, lips sealed tight. Remus’s whole body seized, thighs trembling violently around Sirius’s shoulders.

“Ah—Sirius—too much—fuck—!” His voice cracked into breathy, desperate little sounds, oversensitive and raw. “—please—oh god—”

Sirius hummed around him, the vibration shooting straight up Remus’s spine, and sucked harder, his cheeks hollowing, one hand pushed Remus’s thighs wider, the other slid under his ass to tilt his hips up off the desk. Remus was shaking, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from the overwhelming pleasure-pain, but he couldn’t stop the broken litany falling from his lips.

“Sirius—more—please, I can’t—fuck, it’s too much, I need—ah—”

Sirius finally let Remus’s cock slip from his mouth with a wet pop, strings of spit and come connecting his swollen lips to the flushed, twitching head. He looked feral—eyes black, hair wrecked from Remus’s fingers, mouth shiny and obscene.

“Shh, baby,” he rasped. “I’ve got you.”

He shoved Remus’s thighs up higher, folding him nearly in half on the desk, and buried his face between his cheeks. The first broad, wet lick over his hole tore a sharp, keening sound from Remus’s throat. Sirius licked messy and greedy, spit dripping down Remus’s crack, tongue flat and insistent as he worked the tight ring open. Then he pointed his tongue and pushed inside—fucking into him with wet, filthy thrusts that made the most obscene slurping noises echo through the quiet office. Remus sobbed, oversensitive and overwhelmed, hands scrabbling at the edge of the desk.

“Oh fuck—your tongue—Sirius—more, please, more—” His voice was breathy and cracked, barely coherent. “I need your cock—please—need you inside me—”

Sirius groaned against his hole, the sound vibrating straight into Remus’s damned nervous system as he licked deeper, messier, spit running down Remus’s crack and pooling on the desk. One hand reached up to stroke Remus’s spent cock—slow, torturous pulls that kept him right on the knife-edge between too much and not nearly enough. Remus was a mess, whimpering, hips twitching uselessly, tears slipping down his scarred cheeks.

“Please—your cock, I need it—I’ll be so good, just please—”

Sirius pulled back just enough to bite the soft skin of Remus’s inner thigh, leaving a dark mark, then dove back in, tongue-fucking him harder, wetter, more desperate. His own cock was straining painfully against his trousers, but he didn’t touch himself. All his focus was on the man falling apart on the desk.

“My greedy baby,” he growled between licks, voice low. “Look at you… Begging for Daddy’s cock while I eat this pretty hole. You’re going to take every inch so well when I finally fuck you, won’t you?”

Remus keened at that, high and shattered, one hand fisting in Sirius’s longer hair as his hips tried to ride Sirius’s tongue. Sirius snarled, feral and possessive, and shoved his tongue deeper, licking into Remus like he wanted to devour him whole.

 When Sirius pulled back, it was with a wet, obscene sound. His lips were shiny, chin glistening with spit, his chest was heaving. He didn’t speak. Instead, he gathered spit in his mouth and let it drip deliberately onto Remus’s twitching hole—once, twice, a thick third glob that slid down the crease. The wet heat made Remus whimper, hips twitching uselessly in Sirius’s grip.

Then two thick fingers pressed against the spit-slick rim and pushed inside in one smooth, relentless slide, and Remus’s back arched off the desk with a broken cry. 

Sirius surged up, one hand still buried between Remus’s cheeks, the other moving behind Remus’s neck, and crashed their mouths together. The kiss was filthy—tongue sliding deep, tasting of Remus’s own come and the raw need that had been building for days in Sirius’s absence. Remus moaned into it, desperate, one leg kicking out so hard his shoe flew off and clattered somewhere on the floor. The other trouser leg was now tangled around his ankle, fabric bunched uselessly, leaving him exposed and messy with one leg half-bare and the other still half-dressed. Sirius didn’t seem to care about Remus’ state of undress as he crooked his fingers hard, stroking that spot inside Remus while he kept kissing him. The wet, squelching sounds of his fingers pumping in and out filled the small office. Remus was shaking, oversensitive and frantic, his nails digging into Sirius’s shoulders through his shirt.

Sirius groaned into his mouth, like the noises Remus was making were the finest music, adding a third finger without warning, stretching him wide and slick. The burn was perfect, overwhelming, exactly what Remus had been begging for on the phone.

“That’s it, baby…” Sirius rasped against his lips, voice dark. “Taking Daddy’s fingers so well. Look at you—shoe kicked off, trousers half around your ankle like a desperate little thing. All spread out on your desk for me. You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you? Waiting for me to come ruin this greedy little hole for so many days.”

“Yes—yes—please—” Remus sobbed, hips rocking down onto the thrusting fingers, cock twitching helplessly against his stomach even though he’d already come once.

Sirius kissed him harder, biting at his bottom lip, fingers pumping faster, scissoring, curling, opening him up with wet, filthy sounds. His bare leg trembled in the air, the tangled fabric of his trousers caught around the other ankle like a pathetic restraint.

“You’re going to get it…” Sirius promised, voice rough and low, lips brushing Remus’s with every word. “Gonna fuck you so deep you’ll still feel me when you teach tomorrow. Gonna make this pretty hole gape and leak until you can’t think about anything but how full Daddy made you.”

Sirius pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, spit shining on them, and reached for his belt; his eyes never left Remus’s flushed, desperate face.

Sirius yanked his belt open with shaking hands, the metallic clink loud. His cock sprang free—flushed dark, the head already glistening—and he gave himself one rough stroke before stepping closer.

“Fuck, look at you…” he rasped, voice cracking with months of pent-up hunger. “Been dreaming about this for so long. Every time you called me Daddy on the phone, every time you whimpered and begged… I had to sit there pretending I wasn’t leaking into my suit because my baby needed my cock so bad.”

Remus’s face burned. He was still sprawled on the desk, biting down hard on his lower lip. A small, embarrassed sound slipped out anyway—soft, almost inaudible—when Sirius gripped his hips and pulled him right to the edge. Sirius leaned over him, cock nudging insistently against his spit-slick hole, and kissed him again, deep and messy. When he pulled back, his voice was raw, unraveling.

“Wanted to feel this pretty hole stretch around me. Wanted to hear you try so hard to stay quiet while I fuck you stupid,” he groaned, pressing forward just for the blunt head to kiss against the tight ring.

Remus’s breath hitched sharply, his cheeks flaring even hotter if possible, eyes fluttering shut as the thick head pushed slowly inside him. He turned his face into his own shoulder, trying to muffle the soft, broken whimper that escaped anyway as Sirius’s hips stuttered, a low, guttural sound tearing from his throat.

“Shit—Remus—fuck, you’re so tight. So fucking warm. I have missed this—fuck. God, listen to the little sounds you’re making. Trying so hard to be quiet for me even while your hole is sucking me in…”

Remus’s fingers dug into the edge of the desk, knuckles white. Another quiet, shaky exhale left him as Sirius bottomed out, hips flush against him. The stretch burned; he felt so full—too full—his spent cock twitching weakly against his thigh. Sirius stayed buried to the hilt for a moment, forehead pressed to Remus’s, breathing hard.

“Days…” he whispered, almost reverent, before the hunger took over again. “Months of jerking off to the thought of you. Days of hearing you whisper ‘Daddy’ on the phone and having to act like it didn’t make me want to fuck you into the nearest flat surface...” He started to move—slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged his cock against Remus’s prostate. “And now I’m here finally. Good boy, letting Daddy fuck this tight little hole exactly how it deserves.”

Remus pressed his lips together, trying desperately to swallow the soft, breathy noises crawling up his throat. His cheeks were scarlet, eyes glassy, one hand flying up to cover his mouth as Sirius’s pace picked up.

“Don’t,” he growled, gently pulling Remus’s hand away and pinning it to the desk. “Let me hear you. I’ve waited too fucking long to miss a single sound.” He thrust harder, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder. 

Remus’s head fell back against the desk with a quiet thud. A small, mortified whimper slipped past his lips before he could stop it—high and needy. Sirius groaned like he’d been punched, hips snapping forward sharply.

“Fuck—that sound. That little whimper while you’re taking every inch. You’re killing me, Remus.” He leaned down, mouth brushing Remus’s ear, voice dropping into something darker, more desperate. “Been waiting so long to hear you like this again. Say it again, just once. Tell Daddy how much you need it.”

Remus’s breath stuttered. His free hand clutched at Sirius’s shoulder, fingers trembling. His voice came out small, flushed, barely above a whisper.

“…Daddy… please… more…”

It felt so good. Too good almost as he bit his lip hard, trying to stay quiet, but another soft, helpless whimper broke free when Sirius ground in deep and stayed there, hips circling slowly so Remus could feel every thick inch pressing against his prostate. Sirius made a wrecked sound and kissed the side of Remus’s neck, teeth grazing the silver scar there.

“I know, baby…” Sirius cooed, voice dark and tender. “I know… it’s been a while... But you’re taking me so well, aren’t you…”

He pulled back just enough to thrust in again—letting Remus feel the full slide of his cock dragging against his walls. Remus’s breath hitched, a quiet, broken “ah—” escaping before he could stop it. His eyes fluttered shut, cheeks scarlet, one hand flying up to cover his mouth again as the overwhelming fullness made his thighs shake. Sirius gently pulled that hand away and pinned it to the desk beside his head. “Don’t hide those sounds from me…” he murmured softly, hips snapping forward a little harder. “I’ve waited too fucking long to hear every single one. You feel that? Feel how deep I am? How full you are? That’s Daddy’s cock, baby. All of it. Just for you.”

Remus whimpered again, soft and mortified, but unable to hold it back. The stretch, the pressure, the perfect drag against his prostate with every thrust… His free hand clutched at Sirius’s shoulder, fingers trembling.

“Feels… so good—” he whispered, voice small and shaky, barely audible. “Daddy… you feel so good inside me…”

Sirius’s hips stuttered, another, almost feral groan tearing from his chest.

“God, listen to you—” he breathed, pressing their foreheads together, still fucking him in those deep, grinding strokes. “My shy, perfect boy finally telling me how much he loves Daddy’s cock... Been craving this for so long, haven’t you?"

Remus nodded jerkily, another quiet, breathy whimper slipping out as Sirius angled his hips just right and dragged the head of his cock over that spot again and again.

“Please…” The word was tiny, flushed with embarrassment.

Sirius’s rhythm faltered. The slow strokes turned rougher, hips snapping forward with less control, the wet slap of skin against skin growing louder in the quiet office. His breath came in harsh, broken pants against Remus’s neck, each exhale edged with a low, guttural sound that wasn’t quite a word.

“Fuck—Remus—” 

It came out more growl than name, raw and frayed at the edges. Sirius’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of Remus’s hips, pulling him harder onto every thrust, the desk creaking beneath them. He was losing the thread—days of distance, all of it burning away in the tight, wet heat wrapped around his cock.

The realization that they were still on campus—his office door locked but the hallway outside possibly still carrying the echo—sent a fresh, shameful rush of heat straight to his cock. They could be caught. Anyone could walk by. Hear the rhythmic thud of the desk against the wall. Hear the wet sounds. Hear him.

The thought made his face burn hotter. He pressed his lips together tighter, trying to trap the soft, breathy whimpers that kept spilling out, but another one escaped anyway—high and quiet, mortified. Sirius groaned at the sound, the noise low and almost pained. His hips stuttered hard, cock dragging against Remus’s prostate with every frantic push.

“Nngh—fuck—” Sirius’s forehead pressed harder into Remus’s shoulder, breath hot and ragged against the scarred skin as he fucked him harder, the wet slap of their bodies echoing obscenely. His usual smooth praise had fractured into rough, broken grunts and half-swallowed curses, each thrust punctuated by a low, desperate sound that vibrated through Remus’s chest.

Remus’s bare foot slipped against the edge of the desk, toes curling tight; the trousers still tangled around his other ankle only made him feel more exposed, more turned on even. He was leaking steadily again, cock twitching hard against his thigh with every brutal snap of Sirius’s hips. The fact that this was happening here—his office, the same room where he graded papers and held office hours—made everything feel filthier and more dangerous.

He bit his lip until it hurt, cheeks scarlet, but another soft, helpless whimper still slipped free when Sirius ground in deep, Sirius made a strangled noise, almost a whine, and thrust again—

“Remus—shit—baby—” His hands slid up Remus’s thighs, gripping him hard enough to leave marks, holding him open while he drove in again and again. The desk rattled, and a pen rolled off the edge and clattered to the floor, forgotten. Sirius’s hips stuttered hard, the rhythm turning erratic and desperate; his breath came in ragged, broken pants against Remus’s neck, every thrust accompanied by a low, guttural sound that was more noise than proper words. The desk creaked dangerously beneath them. Sirius’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of Remus’s thighs,  pulling him down onto every brutal snap of his hips.

“Baby—fuck—please—” Sirius sounded ruined. His thrusts turned shorter, deeper, grinding in hard like he couldn’t bear to pull out even an inch. His cock throbbed heavily inside Remus, thick. “I need—fuck—I need to come inside you,” he gasped, the words tumbling out raw and desperate. “Please, Remus. Let me fill you up. Want to pump you full. Please—baby—let Daddy come inside you. I’ve waited so fucking long. Please—” His voice broke on the last word, turning into a low, needy whine.

Remus swallowed hard, fingers trembling where they clutched Sirius’s shoulder. His voice came out small, barely more than a whisper, flushed with embarrassment and raw need.

“…Yes—” 

The single word cracked on the end as he pulled Sirius closer, arms wrapping tight around his neck, face burying into the warm curve of Sirius’s throat as if he could hide the shame still flooding his cheeks. 

“Fill me…” he said against Sirius’s skin, so quietly it was almost lost under the harsh slap of their bodies. “Come inside me, Daddy… please.”

“Fuck—Remus—thank you—” The words dissolved into noise, low grunts and broken moans as Sirius lost the last thread of whatever control he had. His cock throbbed violently inside Remus, swelling even thicker as he drove in one final time and came with a shattered groan.

Sirius’s cock jerked with each heavy release, painting his walls until the slick warmth overflowed. Sirius kept grinding through it, hips twitching, milking every last drop into Remus’s body with soft, desperate sounds pressed against his throat. Remus clung tighter, face still hidden in Sirius’s neck, a tiny, overwhelmed whimper escaping as he felt himself being filled—his own cock twitched weakly between them, leaking steadily. Sirius stayed buried deep, body trembling, arms locked around him like he never wanted to let go.

“Mine…” he rasped against Remus’s skin, voice hoarse and wrecked.

Remus only nodded, flushed and silent, as he didn’t trust his voice yet, his arms tightening around Sirius’s neck as the warmth of Sirius’s release slowly dripped out around the base of his cock, sliding down Remus’s crack onto the wood of the desk. Their chests heaved together, sweat-slick and trembling, the only sound in the office the ragged drag of their breathing and the faint creak of the desk beneath them.

Remus clung to him, arms locked around Sirius’s neck, face still hidden in the warm curve of his throat. His bare leg trembled where it hung in the air; the other was still tangled uselessly in the crumpled trousers around his ankle. He felt wrecked—full, leaking, oversensitive, every inch of him buzzing with the aftershocks of being so thoroughly used.

Sirius let out a long, shaky exhale against his hair, then pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the side of Remus’s neck.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured, voice hoarse and soft. “You were perfect. So fucking perfect for me.”

He stayed inside a moment longer, hips giving one last lazy grind, like he couldn’t bear to pull out yet. Then he looked at his watch, twisting his wrist to check the time without letting go of Remus. A low, rueful chuckle rumbled through his chest.

“We have a dinner reservation in ten minutes…”

Remus made a small, mortified sound and buried his face deeper into Sirius’s shoulder. His hip was already screaming, a sharp, familiar ache radiating down his thigh from the awkward angle and the brutal pace. He felt old. Ridiculously, embarrassingly old.

“I can’t feel my hip,” he mumbled against warm skin, voice quiet and flushed. “I’m too old for this. Fucking on furniture like some horny teenager. Next time I say I want that… just shoot me…”

Sirius laughed again—soft, fond, a little breathless—and carefully eased his cock free. A thick trickle of come followed, sliding warm and obscene down Remus’s thigh. He kissed the top of Remus’s head, then his scarred temple, then the corner of his mouth, gentle now where he’d been feral only minutes ago.

“You’re not too old…” he whispered, brushing damp curls back from Remus’s flushed face. “You’re perfect. And if you want me to bend you over something next time, I’ll make sure there’s a pillow under your hips and a bed nearby. Deal?”

Remus huffed a quiet, embarrassed laugh, cheeks still burning as he let Sirius help him sit up properly. His trousers were a lost cause, one leg still caught around his ankle, the lost shoe somewhere on the floor. Come dripped slowly down his inner thigh, and he felt every second of it—messy, claimed, thoroughly used. Sirius kissed him once more, slow and sweet.

“Ten minutes…” he reminded gently, thumb stroking over Remus’s bottom lip. “We can be late if you need a minute. Or we can cancel, and I’ll take you home, clean you up, and feed you in bed instead...”

Remus closed his eyes, still flushed and halfway mortified, but the corners of his mouth twitched into the smallest, most reluctant smile.

“…Home,” he murmured. “But you’re carrying me to the car if my hip gives out.”

Sirius grinned against his mouth, already reaching for the tangled trousers around Remus’s ankle.

“Deal, baby. Anything you want...”