Drabbles

He’s breathing hard. Panting. Tongue eclipsing the bounds of sharp teeth, canines extended and glossy with the rush of saliva brought forward.

Neville hushes again, pitch low and soothing, trying to curl the sound as deep as he can get it so it might reach where Sirius has gone.

Against his chest, the familiar-but-not-quite-right body heaves another rapid breath, panic fueling every tremor.

“Shh,” Neville hums. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you. You’re home.”

The last is a technicality because although they’re now sitting in the grassy meadows that surround The Burrow, Neville’s got him, his arms forming temporary walls around the shape Sirius had swirled down into when the attack had come, sudden and unexpected, halfway through dinner.

It’s been years since the fighting, but sometimes something as simple as a car backfiring will set him off, scars deeper than the ones patterning his skin activating to trigger his fight or flight. For his part, Neville had acted instinctively, too, half-tackling the shaggy dog and swirling them away. He’d only meant to go up to their roof, to give Sirius a shock of cold and a place to breathe. The meadow around them certainly accomplishes both, and though he's curious about the shift in location, he’ll unpack it later, when he has other less urgent things to unspool.

Sitting in the tall grass, thighs splayed wide around Sirius's body, Neville strokes a careful hand down the scruffy neck leaned against his shoulder, making the motions slow but firm; making sure Sirius can feel it. He whines a low sound and Neville clucks his tongue gently.

“It’s me,” he murmurs, expanding the stroke down to where he can feel the pounding heart within. “It’s Nev. I’ve got you, Sirius. You’re safe.”

Sirius's breathing is slowing, each pant less severe, his ribs expanding less and less within the confines of Neville's hold.

“That’s it,” Neville encourages. “You’re doing so good. Breathe just like that. Nice and slow. Slow and deep. That’s it. Good boy.”

That last slips out on reflex, used to coaxing obedience from his grandmother’s badly trained dogs and rewarding them when they learn. But the sound Sirius makes when he coos those words—a rumbling sound half growl, half laugh—makes Neville take note.

A moment later, Neville is holding the body he’s used to. Sirius chuckles again, more human but no less growling.

“Good boy?” he rasps. “That’s a new one.”

“It worked,” Neville says easily, keeping his hand moving soothingly over Sirius, feeling the smoothness of skin in between the patches of coarse chest hair.

“Oh, it worked.” Sirius shifts in his arms, turning so that their gazes meet. “Merlinfuck. You’re in so much trouble.”

“Eh.” Neville shrugs, then brushes Sirius’s hair back from his temple, tucking the fallen strands behind his ear. “Been in trouble before. I usually survive it.”

Sirius’s eyes flash, and Neville knows that despite being calm enough to emerge from his instinctive Animagus transformation, the waters of him are still rippling. The warmth of his skin speaks to a surge of blood, and when Neville strokes a hand down the trail of hair that had so often guided his gaze before he knew he could touch, he feels the surge of blood there, too. A benefit of spontaneous transfiguration: no clothes.

Sirius makes a low sound in his throat as Neville curls his fist then stokes, slow but firm, holding eye contact.

“Outside?” Sirius grumbles, but he reaches for Neville too, hands broad and warm when they slide under Neville’s shirt and up his back.

“Prefer if I go ask Molly for a bed?” Neville thumbs over the weeping slit, swirling through the clear liquid beginning to bead.

Sirius huffs an annoyed sound but Neville feels some tension drain now that he knows where he is. The hand under his shirt diverts to tuck rough fingertips under the waistband of Neville’s jeans. With them sitting in the grass, the touch can’t do more than imply a desired destination, but Neville feels the echo of those fingers all the same. 

“That’s it,” he teases, low and coaxing. “You don’t need a bed, do you, good boy?”

Sirius tsks and the next moment, Neville is flat on his back in the meadow, stars winking conspiratorially down at him from behind a lacy curtain of clouds. He grins up at them then rolls over before Sirius can so much as pat his flank in suggestion. He savors the second annoyed huff from behind him.

“Can’t you at least pretend?” Sirius whines, even as he falls forward, naked chest lithe and strong against the thick muscles of Neville’s back, heat permeating the thin cotton of his shirt.

“I could pretend,” Neville says agreeably, rocking back against the insistent erection wedged hot against his arse, “but you like me in charge of things, don’t you?”

Quick, tattooed fingers fight with the grass below them, working Neville’s trousers open. Their hips lift together so that Sirius can tug the fly apart, and the pressure, the friction, must be excellent because Sirius pants another harsh breath, this time pure arousal.

“Fuck. Yes.”

Neville hums a knowing sound, and then lifts up further, forcing Sirius up and onto his knees behind him so that Neville can rise up to shove his trousers and pants down. He drops back down to his elbows and Sirius palms his arse hungrily.

“Got your wand?” Sirius prompts, and Neville tuts at his impatient lover, propping himself up on a single elbow to reach into his rucked-down jeans pocket, palming his wand and murmuring the necessary spells.

“Good boy,” Sirius says, slapping his newly-slick cock against Neville’s arsecheek. Neville bites his lip to hold his laugh but, honestly. It’s cute.

“Fuck you,” Sirius laugh-groans, sensing Neville’s reaction, then aligns himself.

“That’s the idea.” Neville pushes back, relaxing, welcoming him in where he’s prepared himself magically. It’s better when he makes Sirius do it properly—putting that sharp, wet tongue and those clever fingers to use—but the Weasley’s meadow at dusk is hardly the place for extended foreplay.

A few press-and-retreats, and then Sirius exhales, holding himself deep, hands tight around Neville’s hips. Neville gives him a moment and then slides forward to the tip. He sinks back, then slides forward, then sets a rolling, moderate pace.

Sirius curls down over his back, matching the rhythm with thrusts that get harder and harder, mouth finding the hot skin above the collar of Neville’s t-shirt and licking at it, sharp teeth grazing. Panic has given way to passion, urgency fueling their motions until all too soon, pleasure is gathering heavily between them.

When his cock begins to throb for attention, Neville reaches down to pump himself with a firm grip and angles his hips until every stroke inside him is just right.

“Mm, just like that,” he murmurs, and Sirius muffles a groan into his neck. “Yeah, yeah—like that. Fuck me just like that.”

Sirius does, holding pace and power even as he starts to slip control, his teeth grazing less gently into the meat of Neville’s shoulder, hands like iron where they hold his sides.

“I’m close,” Neville assures him, the words strained as heat coils. “I’m right there. Fuck, you’re doing so good.”

Sirius growls a harsh sound of anguished pleasure and Neville sucks in a harsh breath through his parted lips as orgasm swells then breaks. Behind him, Sirius chokes on a whine, losing the rhythm entirely, fucking hard and urgent into the squeezes as Neville anoints the soil in a series of groan-rich streaks.

They’re both breathing hard. Panting.

Sirius nips him once more then licks the mark, soft and soothing, and Neville leans into it, tilting his head and then turning enough so that the next lick eclipses the bounds of his mouth, tongue sliding against Sirius’s to taste the points of his canines.

For a moment, it’s just the whisper of grass playing in the breeze, just the intermittent chirps and rustles of tiny things coming alive, just the slow softness of a kiss.

They break apart, Neville with a smile and Sirius with a low sound of satisfaction. Neville reaches for his wand to perform the next set of customary charms on them both before hoicking his pants and trousers up.

“Think Arthur’s got any drink?” Sirius ponders idly, gaze toward the lit windows in the near distance. “Or a smoke?”

Neville chuckles as he does up his zip. “He might have a pair of trousers, which you need more than either of those.”

Sirius sucks his teeth dismissively. “Rather have a whisky.”

“Well.” Neville shoves a hand through his hair, raking the sweaty strands back. “I suppose you’ll have to turn back into a dog then. But that’s alright; I know how to break you out of it now.”

Sirius gives him a flat look and Neville smiles, then reaches out and takes them home.