the inconveniences in our favour

This is a story about a graffiti-covered wall, a boy unhealthily obsessed with it, and a man who really only wanted his dream of owning a peaceful bookshop not to be ruined by a stubborn artist.
Sometimes, the most frustrating inconveniences turn out to really work in your favour.

Notes:

This came to me as a fever dream while I was listening to this 2000's brazilian song – and that’s also where the title comes from.
Mandatory disclaimer: English is not my first language. If you notice any horrible mistakes, please be kind and leave it in the comments. (:
Edit: Apparently tagging is not enough, so IF AGE DIFFERENCE BOTHERS YOU, DO NOT READ THIS FIC AND DON'T COME COMPLAIN IN THE COMMENTS. This story is not for you, go read something else.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Sirius Black rides his skateboard past that wall every bloody day on his way to class.

And every time, it looks just the same.

It’s an ordinary wall, lost in a sea of others across the city. It’s relatively small too – about ten feet long, squeezed between a chemist’s and the boarded-up windows of the dead shop it belongs to. You probably wouldn’t notice it, unless, of course, you’re Sirius Black.

It seems the wall was originally painted a rather unfortunate shade of green, with far too much yellow undertone in it. Now it's faded to something that can only be described as puke-coloured. So really, it's a bit of a blessing that so many graffiti and street artists have tried to cover it up.

Over on the left, next to the boarded-up windows, there’s a stylized drawing of a girl. She has a long black fringe covering one eye, and the other seems to be leaking eyeliner, as if she’s been crying. Then there’s what Sirius affectionately calls the “junkie rabbit” – the poor thing has some seriously red eyes. It looks like a take on The White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, since it’s wearing a bowtie, which always made Sirius wonder if the girl is supposed to be an emo version of Alice.

There’s a load of other crap scrawled about, graffiti words, acronyms, doodles… but the real gem is in the upper right corner, almost bleeding onto the chemist's wall. It's a quote, one that Sirius has decided is his favourite one, ever. It’s a proper little pearl of street wisdom. Sirius has searched high and low for the source of it, but no luck. Must be a local genius, this random street artist.

It reads, "One day I was walking and I tripped, tomorrow it could be you."

Although absolutely profound and the subject of many of Sirius’s pot-induced reflection sessions, the quote isn’t the reason he’s so fond of this wall. No, he loves this wall because, before the abandonment and the boarded up windows, this was the front of a game shop. And not just any game shop, but the one he and Regulus would visit after school as kids and waste hours testing out new games they’d later buy and play on their little PlayStation – yes, the very first one.

They’d sit on the floor, backs against this very wall, starving and bored, waiting for their old man to finally drag himself away from another bloody work meeting to come pick them up. And if you look close enough, near the floor, just below the left paw of the “junkie rabbit”, there's a little message in black marker. 'R & S 1996', in Regulus's handwriting.

This wall is truly special, and Sirius loves it.

He notices it every day when he rides his skateboard to art school, and then again on his way home. It’s like a tiny piece of his childhood right there, which is precious – especially because he doesn’t have many good childhood memories.

The wall is such a part of Sirius’s routine that, on the day he passes by and it’s gone, he nearly runs over an old lady, slams into a lamppost, and crashes off his skateboard.

He lands up on his arse, jeans ripped, knee bleeding, and the old lady is having a fit – understandably. She curses and yells at him and he tries to apologise as he scrambles to get back on his feet. His knee is seriously messed up from hitting the concrete, and dammit, those were his favourite jeans.

He picks up his skateboard and limps across the street, muttering, “What the fuck?”

Of course, the wall isn’t gone. It’s still there – brick, concrete, or whatever walls are made of – but it’s gone. Painted over. Completely white. Sirius limps closer, lightly touching the surface with the palm of his hand. He can’t believe his eyes. He must be dreaming. That mural of street art and graffiti had been there since he was a child – over ten years – and now, just overnight, it’s gone? How is that possible? How is that allowed?

“Oi! Boy! That’s fresh paint, you’re messing it up!” a voice barks from his left.

He jerks his hand away, spinning around to face a short, fat man emerging from the abandoned shop, ladder in hand, covered in paint.

“What happened to the wall?” he asks.

“I painted it.”

“I can see that.”

“Then why'd you ask?”

Sirius takes a deep breath.

“I meant, why did you paint it?”

“‘S my job,” the bloke replies, propping the ladder against the freshly painted wall. “Now move over, you’re on my way,” he adds, waving an impatient hand at Sirius to get him to leave.

Sirius limps away, glancing at the open door of the shop. Even though the windows are still boarded up, the inside looks like it’s under renovation.

He winces, looking down at his messed-up knee, and curses under his breath when he notices that, in addition to being ripped at the knee, his trousers now also sport a white paint smudge on the side, where he brushed his apparently paint wet hand.

Noticing the wall was already part of Sirius’s routine, but after that, it becomes an obsession.

He wants to know who’s renovating the old shop, and why. He needs to find out who’s responsible for painting over the wall – his wall – and he wants to give them a piece of his mind. He has arguments with himself in the shower, rehearsing his angry monologue. He’s even stopped riding by on his skateboard; instead, he walks, slowly, peeking through the front door whenever it’s open, trying to gather information. By the end of the week, he’s not just passing by twice a day but has actually set up camp across the street at the café, in one of the sidewalk tables, just watching. Staring. Waiting for the culprit to show up.

“I hear it’s going to be a bookshop,” a voice says, jolting Sirius back to reality.

He looks up to see a boy leaning against the café’s doorway, wearing a barista apron with a tea towel draped over his shoulder.

“What?” Sirius asks, confused, taking in the boy’s round glasses that make his brown eyes appear unusually large, like saucers.

“You've been staring at that shop for ages. You did the same thing yesterday,” the barista says, gesturing towards the blank wall. “I’m just letting you know I heard it’s going to be a bookshop.”

Sirius blinks. “I wasn’t–” he begins, but his gaze falls on the sketchbook in front of him, an empty page staring back since who knows when. There’s no denying it. He might as well make the most of this chance to gather more information. “Okay, I was. Tell me more.”

The boy’s eyes twinkle with mischief as he grins broadly. He pulls out the chair across from Sirius and sits down.

“My dad says the shop’s been dead since right after he opened the café. The old man who owned it died ages ago, and his kids spent years bickering over the inheritance,” he explains.

“I knew him,” Sirius says, a touch of sadness in his voice. “Didn’t know he’d passed away.”

The old man is likely Arthur, the owner of the game shop. The last time Sirius visited, Arthur was alive and well, but that was ages ago. He hadn’t come back since he was about twelve, when he and Regulus changed schools. Not until last year, when he moved to this neighbourhood to be closer to his classes. Finding that old inscription in black marker on the wall – it was a real blast from the past.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the boy says sheepishly. “Didn't mean to bring up a downer.”

“No, it's alright. Carry on.”

“That’s about it, I guess. Dad said they finally reached an agreement, sold the old place to split the money. We reckon it's gonna be a bookshop, all the boxes that’ve been arriving say Penguin, HarperCollins, that sort of thing.”

“Huh,” Sirius tears his eyes from the boy and looks back at the shop. It doesn’t look like a bookshop, but then again, it doesn’t look like anything. Just a plain blank wall.

He gazes at it and suddenly he feels like crying. To think that Arthur’s little shop, the one Sirius and Regulus used to visit, has been scraped and painted over, all their memories erased, just so some big chain like Waterstones or WHSmith can take over and make even more money. Erasing all the personality, all the history, washing it away, turning it into something bland and conformist, just another product of the new millennium. But then, a spark ignites.

Oh, he’s angry.

“Why do you care?” the barista asks.

“I don’t,” Sirius lies, shrugging. “Cheers for the coffee.” He throws the words over his shoulder as he stands, sets his skateboard on the ground, and rides away.

When he comes back, the night has settled in, and the street is deserted. Perfect. He skates along the asphalt until he reaches the wall, glancing around to ensure he’s truly alone, but there’s no need to worry. He’s so isolated that the drill of his skateboard’s wheels echoes through the empty street.

He stops, walks up to the wall, and takes off his backpack, letting it drop to the ground. Inside, the spray paint bottles rattle. He wraps an old T-shirt around his head, covering up his mouth and nose, and, pulling his hoodie over his head, he thinks – yeah, maybe wearing all black and a hoodie is a bit dramatic, but if you’re going to do it, you’ve got to do it right.

Initially, he planned to bring just a black marker to redo Regulus’s inscription near the floor, hoping it would go unnoticed due to its small size. But that doesn’t feel like enough of a statement.

He doesn’t want it to go unnoticed. He wants it to be seen.

And he’s been toying with the idea of street art in school anyway. He’s done a few murals with his mates – mostly legally, with permission, but some illegally, like this one’s about to be.

He spent all afternoon considering what to paint. He wants it to feel like a clear statement against the newly painted wall. Not just any random graffiti made in an act of opportunity, but something that shows his displeasure. He toyed with a few design ideas but reached the conclusion that the best thing he can possibly do is to recreate what has been erased.

Nothing screams “how dare you?” quite like that.

Of course, he can’t replicate it exactly, couldn’t even if he had a reference picture – which he doesn’t. But he’s confident enough in his skills to know that while it might not be identical, the person who erased the wall will definitely get the message that it’s meant to be the same.

He reaches into his pocket, presses the button on his iPod until he finds a song that fits the mood, and gets to work.

The original wasn't exactly a Michelangelo, and the wall isn't that big, so it doesn't take long. He sketches it out first, then fills in the colours, and finishes with the outline, recreating the emo girl, the junkie rabbit, a few doodles and graffiti letters he remembers were there before. He finishes by repainting the quote on the right side. Stepping back, he gives it a critical eye.

Good enough.

He retrieves all the spray bottles and, before leaving, pulls out a black marker from his backpack. Sitting on the floor, just as Regulus did years ago, he writes “R & S 1996” and adds “2005” right beside it.

The next day, as he rides past the wall, Sirius grins from ear to ear, admiring his artwork in the bright daylight. When he returns after class, he stops by the coffee shop again.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” the barista says, handing Sirius his coffee.

“What?”

“The wall. The graffiti. You did it,” he repeats, pointing through the shop window to the other side of the street.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sirius says, shrugging as he takes his coffee and giving a knowing wink.

The barista laughs.

When Sirius came up with his contrarian plan, he didn’t really think about what would happen after he redid the mural. If he had, he might have anticipated what happened next. Instead, he’s completely shocked when he passes by the wall the next afternoon and finds his street art gone.

The wall is blank again.

He lets his anger simmer for a few days as he ponders his next move – if it’s even worth making a move at all. By the time he skates back through the street on a dreary Tuesday night, he’s found peace with himself. He started this because of Regulus, because of Arthur, and because of the wall.

Now, he’s continuing it out of pure spite.

Because if there’s one thing Sirius excels at, it’s being a petty little bitch. A right pain in the arse. He’s very good at it, and he’s not about to stop now.

So, he takes out his newly bought spray paint bottles all organised in an appropriate new bag – money well spent, as far as he’s concerned – and repaints the exact same mural.

Except for the quote.

For the quote, he writes: "One day I was walking and I tripped, tomorrow I hope it’s you."

This time, it takes over a week for the wall to be painted over. Every day, Sirius rides past it, and every day it’s still there. It’s ironic, really – he started all this because he was furious the wall had been painted over. He wanted it to stay the same. But now, every time he rides by and sees his mural staring back at him, he feels a twinge of disappointment.

Has the owner of the bookshop given up so easily? Where’s the fun in that?

Oh, and it turns out it really is a bookshop. But Sirius was wrong – it’s not a Waterstones or WHSmith. It’s just a small, independent bookstore. The newly added sign reads “The Wolf – Bookshop,” and the first time Sirius sees it, he feels a pang of guilt. Maybe the wall hasn’t been painted over again because the owner’s run out of money. Messing with a local business doesn’t seem like the sort of thing a socially conscious street artist would do, does it?

He briefly considers coming over to apologise, maybe even offering to help repaint the wall. But then he notices the windows are no longer boarded up, and the door is now glass, revealing a fully renovated interior. Tall wooden bookshelves filled with volumes line the walls, a fancy chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and plush, comfortable chairs are scattered about. This is no struggling entrepreneur – whoever’s financing these renovations clearly has money. They can afford their own paint jobs.

And any remaining empathy he might have felt for the bookshop owner completely fades the next day. As he skates past on his way home, he sees the mural has been painted over again. This time, it’s not white, but green – a rich, dark green that perfectly matches the new shop’s vibe. Not the hideous green of the old days, but something elegant, almost luxurious.

And Sirius would have left it alone. He really would have.

Honest to God.

He would’ve moved on – if it weren’t for the plaque.

A tiny, smug, passive-aggressive little thing the owner just had to add in the corner of his freshly painted green wall. It reads:

Mr. Graffiti Artist,

While we all appreciate your art, there has to be a more suitable place for it than this wall. As an incentive, the money saved on repainting the wall will be donated to a local charity. Can we join forces for this good cause?

Thank you in advance.

That, in Sirius’s book, was a declaration of war.

He bursts out laughing as he reads the text. Absolutely unbelievable. He hops onto his skateboard and rides down the street, shaking his head in amused disbelief. Of all the approaches this bloke could’ve chosen, he went for the two things guaranteed to rile Sirius up – patronising and condescending.

He’s practically salivating. This is a challenge, and he loves a challenge.

That night, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, Sirius makes a decision. When he strikes back, he’s not just going to recreate the old mural. He’s going to paint something new.

Partly because he’s tired of painting the same thing – he’s bored of it. But more importantly, his new piece needs to make a different statement. It needs to be a direct response to that passive-aggressive plaque, and it needs to be offensive.

He’s so absorbed in his little vengeance plan that he stops paying attention in class, forgets to turn in an important assignment, and spends most of his time with his earphones in, sketching away, trying to create something that feels like the perfect comeback.

It’s what he’s doing back at the sidewalk table in the café, sketching away, when the barista plops down opposite to him and motions for him to take out his earphones.

“Hey,” Sirius says, yanking out one earphone, letting it dangle loosely from his T-shirt collar by its cord.

“Aren’t you going to do it again?” the barista asks, propping his feet up on another chair, far too relaxed for someone technically on the job.

Sirius raises an eyebrow, his pencil hovering over the sketchbook. “Do what?”

“You know,” the barista challenges, leaning forward slightly, grinning.

Sirius drags the pencil across the paper a few more times, adding a couple of lines to the drawing in silence. He then takes a deep breath and drops the sketchbook on the table with a thud. With a casual flick of his hand, he knocks off the left earphone, the blaring music spilling out like a mini sound system.

“What’s your name?” he asks, locking eyes with the barista.

“James.”

“So, James,” Sirius begins, his voice suddenly serious. “I’m not saying I’m doing anything, but if I were, would it really be wise for you to get involved in these illegal antics? You could get in trouble, you know.”

James chuckles, his eyes twinkling. “I love getting in trouble.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow, casting a pointed look at James’s apron and tea towel. “Oh, you do, do you?”

“Absolutely. Why else would you think my rich dad makes me work as a barista in his café?” James sits up straight, challenging Sirius. “He’s trying to teach me a lesson – thinks a bit of customer service will straighten me out.”

Sirius laughs. “So, out of spite, you decided to befriend your regular coffee shop troublemaker?”

“Au contraire,” James says with mock seriousness. “I actually think you might be a good influence on me.”

Sirius chuckles, shaking his head. “So, have you seen him?” He nods toward the new bookshop. “The new owner?”

“Yeah, yeah,” James nods. “Few times. Bit of an oddball.”

Sirius frowns. “Odd how?”

“Tall, lanky. In his thirties, but dresses like a seventy-year-old retired professor.”

Sirius's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Really? I figured I was dealing with some old bat.”

“Well, he certainly looks like he’s got the soul of an old bat,” James points out with a smirk. “Let me see what you’re working on,” he reaches out to grab Sirius’s sketchbook, but Sirius snatches it away, holding it close to his chest.

“Hey!” Sirius yelps. “I don’t think we’re quite there yet!”

James chuckles, rolling his eyes in amusement. He leans forward, meeting Sirius’s gaze with a teasing grin. “And what is your name?” he asks.

“Sirius.”

“Really?” James arches an eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

“What a bullshit name,” James quips, earning a sharp look from Sirius. But before Sirius can voice his offence, James cuts him off, his tone shifting to one of exaggerated pleading. “Look, Sirius. I’m bored out of my mind working at this café day in and day out. Please, put me out of my misery and let me help you mess with the weird bloke across the street? Pretty please?”

And really, how could Sirius say no to such a noble cause?

Sirius spends days lost in his sketchbook, it’s a whirlwind of wolves and witty slogans, page after page. There’s a wolf with a price tag around its neck that reads “will repaint for cash. ” Another shows a wolf in a business suit, holding bags of money. By his side there’s a giant fake receipt from "The Wolf Bookshop Charity" with absurd items like “Repainting Fee: £0.01, Public Image: £10,000, Soul: SOLD.” One of his favourites is a hungry wolf at a dinner table, feasting on books made of paper money – “Feeding the hungry, only the finest literature.” He even sketches a large book with a snarling wolf on the cover – “The Wolf’s charity. All proceeds go to the painting fund.”

But despite all the clever ideas, something still feels off.

Then, one afternoon, while they’re chatting at the café, James casually throws out an idea that has him thinking of another idea, and another idea. One quick brainstorm session later, Sirius knows he got it.

It’s the perfect response.

Sirius meets James at the corner of the street at 1 AM sharp. James arrives on his bike, Sirius on his skateboard, as usual. Sirius’s bag is heavy, rattling with the sound of the new spray paint cans he bought earlier. One earphone is still blasting music into his ear, the other dangles from his shirt, so he can hear James.

“Think we can pull this off in one night?” James asks as they roll up to the rich green wall.

James had zero experience with spray painting, so they did a few trial runs the day before at an abandoned building, chugging beers and passing a spliff between them. After that, Sirius is confident in two things: one, James can definitely help fill in the sketch, which will speed up the process. And two, they practically share the same brain cell, and honestly, they should’ve become friends ages ago.

“Might need to touch it up tomorrow,” Sirius admits, pulling out his backpack, “but we'll get the bulk of it done tonight, yeah.”

Sirius reaches into his bag, pulling out an old T-shirt. He wraps it around his head, covering his nose and mouth, and signals for James to do the same. Then, he carefully lays out the different coloured spray paints on the ground, arranging them by hue, and they get to work.

He starts by sketching out the outlines in each colour, his movements quick and practised. As he finishes one section, James fills it in with paint, while Sirius moves on to the next, the scent of the paint growing stronger as they work. The rhythm they fall into is almost seamless—outline, fill, repeat. Finally, Sirius picks up the black spray paint to do the final outline. It’s the trickiest part, requiring a steady hand, but it’s also the most satisfying.

Once they’re done, Sirius steps back, taking in the mural for the first time with James standing beside him.

The mural features a wolf in a grandma’s dress, like the one from Little Red Riding Hood, running a charity sale. The sign beside it reads, “Buy one donation, get one guilt trip for free.”

Just below the bookshop owner’s plaque, Sirius has added, in black marker: “Don’t worry, Mr. Wolf. I’m all for your good cause. I doubled what I spent on spray paint this time and donated it to a local charity. Are you proud? ”

"Sick," James breathes out, pulling the T-shirt from over his mouth, and Sirius does the same. The scent of fresh paint still lingers in the air, mixing with the cool night breeze.

He smiles wickedly. "It needs a few finishing details, I think. Some light and shadow—" He starts gesturing to James, pointing at the mural, when suddenly, a light flicks on in the flat above the bookshop.

Sirius’s eyes widen in alarm.

"Shit, shit," James curses under his breath. "C’mon, let’s go!"

They scramble to gather the spray paint bottles, shoving them hastily into the bag, and the sound of their running footsteps echoes through the empty street just as one of the flat’s windows creaks open.

He almost got caught.

He almost got caught by Mr. Wolf – which is how he’s been referring to the bookshop owner in his head – and if he had, shit would’ve hit the fucking fan. He’s almost certain he could get kicked out of art school for something like this, couldn’t he?

He really should be more careful. Yet, he just can’t stop.

The next morning, as he passes by the mural, he admires it, but there’s something missing. A bit of white would make the image shine; a splash of colour for a second outline would make it pop off the wall. And then there’s the most important part, which he stupidly forgot last night.

He has no choice, really. He has to come back.

Just has to.

He does it alone, though. He’s not going to risk James getting caught, because, apparently, the good-natured barista wasn’t kidding when he said he loved getting in trouble. If Mr. Wolf called the police, it wouldn’t be James’s first offence, and he’d be screwed for good.

So Sirius goes back alone, the next night, at 2 AM. He keeps the spray bottles inside the bag this time for a quicker getaway, and wraps the same old shirt around his face. He really should get a new one, or a proper mask, because this one already reeks of paint. The dim streetlights are a challenge, but he works quickly, relying on memory and instinct. A few more sprays of colour, some strategic shadows, and the mural is almost complete.

It’s peaceful, working alone, and he gets lost in the music, the smell of paint, and the cool feel of the metal canister in his hand when, suddenly, it happens again – the same light in the flat above the bookshop turns on.

Adrenaline spikes. He freezes, the spray can still in his hand, his gaze darting between the wall and the illuminated window and back to the wall again.

Shit, he forgot it again. The most important part.

He throws the spray paint can into the bag and zips it up quickly. His fingers fumble for the black permanent marker in the outside pocket, and he drops to his knees, leaning close to the ground to scribble "R & S 1996" in that same old spot, then "2005" just beside it.

He's just finishing the "05" when he hears the door click open. His heart skips a beat as he scrambles to his feet, cursing under his breath, but before he can move, he's blinded by the harsh beam of a torch.

Oh, fuck. Caught red-handed.

“Back for another guilt trip?” a voice says, firm and collected. For a moment, Sirius can’t see who’s speaking against the glare of the torchlight, but then the light clicks off.

All the air leaves Sirius’s lungs at once as he takes in the vision before him. James’s description of the bookshop owner didn’t do the man any justice. Yes, he’s tall. Yes, he’s lanky. Maybe he dresses like a retired professor – Sirius wouldn’t know, given that he’s standing there in nothing but boxers and socks. But ‘oddball’? Not a chance. He’s utterly and completely gorgeous.

His hair is dark blonde, a bit curly and tousled as if he just got out of bed – which he probably did – and it looks so soft that for a moment, all Sirius can think about is how it would feel to run his hands through it. His skin has a warm tan, his eyes are kind and brown, and his limbs are long and lean. His nose is slightly long, but it fits his face in a way that’s almost unfairly perfect. Taller than Sirius – which isn’t common – he stands there, in his boxers, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he scans Sirius from head to toe. Undeniably sexy, everything Sirius has never known he wanted.

Sirius raises his hand to his face, double-checking that the cotton shirt is still covering him – thankfully, it is. A mischievous grin spreads across his face, though the man can’t see it.

“What can I say, Mr. Wolf? You always leave me wanting more,” he winks at the man, his voice muffled by the shirt, but still understandable. With a swift motion, he slings the bag strap over his shoulder, hops onto his skateboard, and pushes off, riding away before the man can think of calling the police.

“He caught you?” James all but yells from behind the coffee shop counter the next morning. A few customers turn to look, startled, and he quickly lowers his voice, leaning closer to Sirius with wide eyes. “He actually caught you? What did he do?”

“Nothing, he just stood there. I ran away,” Sirius shrugs, glancing over his shoulder through the window at the bookshop across the street. The door is still closed, the shop not yet open for business, and his mean mural is there, almost beckoning him back. Turning back to James, he adds, “Oh, and by the way – you lied to me. You didn’t tell me he was hot!”

“What?” James’s face twists in confusion, his eyebrows shooting up. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same person? Maybe you were caught by some hot construction worker…”

Sirius waves a dismissive hand. “No, it was him – just like you described: older than us, tall, lanky–”

“And you think he’s hot?” James’s tone is incredulous.

“You don’t?”

James chuckles, still looking puzzled. “Nah, mate, sorry. Definitely not my type,” he says, shaking his head as he leans back and casually places the tea towel on his shoulder.

“What is your type then?”

James gives him a look like the answer should be obvious. “You know my type,” he replies, his tone matter-of-fact. “My type is–”

“Short, red-headed and annoying,” Sirius interrupts with a smirk, “Like Lily from the chemist’s shop.”

“Exactly,” James closes his eyes and nods solemnly, as if Sirius has just spoken a great truth.

Sirius chuckles and turns his back to James, leaning against the counter, his gaze fixed on the closed bookshop across the street. “Well, I think Mr. Wolf is hot,” he declares, a hint of determination creeping into his voice. “And I want to find out everything about him.”

It’s been weeks, and Mr. Wolf still hasn’t painted over Sirius’s offensive mural. Sirius can’t figure out why. You’d think he’d want it gone as soon as possible – especially since a giant piece of street art mocking his shop can’t be good for business. Granted, the shop isn’t open yet, but still.

It seemed unlikely they’d never crossed paths before, given how long Sirius had been obsessing over the wall. That mystery was solved a few days later when James reported that his old man had exchanged a few words with Mr. Wolf. Apparently, the bookshop owner had only just moved into the upstairs flat.

After the ‘getting caught’ incident, Sirius starts seeing Mr. Wolf around much more often. Sirius kills time at the coffee shop, sometimes flipping through a book, sometimes sketching or working on an assignment on his laptop. But really, he’s waiting – no, hoping – for Mr. Wolf to show up across the street.

And most of the time now, he does.

Strangely, as his fascination with Mr. Wolf grows, the opposite happens with his love for the mural. It’s like they’re two inversely proportional variables – one diminishing as the other intensifies. Sirius rides past it in the morning and back in the afternoon, his eyes lingering on the wall. Each day, he likes it less and less.

And each day, he watches Mr. Wolf and likes him more and more.

The first thing Sirius notices about the man is that he really does dress like a retired professor. James wasn’t lying about that. It’s like a runway show of corduroy pants, knitted vests, and cardigans that would put his old uncle Alphard – may he rest in peace – to shame. There are lots of browns, greens, and beiges too.

But then, one time – this one very special time – Mr. Wolf comes downstairs wearing a Pink Floyd Dark Side of The Moon T-shirt.

And that’s the moment Sirius knew.

He simply knew that the retired English professor look is a mask. This man is secretly very cool. The T-shirt is certainly a glimpse behind the curtain, a sliver of rebellion hidden beneath the layers of wool and tweed.

Obviously, Mr. Wolf likes to hide it, for some obscure reason that Sirius longs to uncover. But the facts are facts, and Sirius has decided that, against all odds, Mr. Wolf is cool.

And hot – let’s not forget hot.

And oh, also, he’s kind. Literally so kind, all the time, to everyone. Sirius has heard muffled conversations from across the street, and he witnessed Mr. Wolf being kind to the rude construction workers doing his renovations, kind to delivery people, to the neighbourhood kids, and even to random passersby.

So, he’s very cool, very hot, and very kind. Sirius can’t help but wonder what other things Mr. Wolf is also very, but how could he find out? He can’t just approach the man on the street and start talking to him, can he?

Besides, what if Mr. Wolf recognized him? Sure, that night he had half his face covered and the lights were dim, but still. The risk lingered, and what if he approached Mr. Wolf and the man started yelling at him? He can imagine it – Mr. Wolf’s soft eyes hardening, his voice rising in anger. It seems unlikely, giving how kind the man is, but honestly, Sirius sort of deserves it.

The more Sirius watches Mr. Wolf being kind to people, the more he reconsiders the plaque on the wall. Maybe he severely misinterpreted it. Because, now that he knows how Mr. Wolf acts, it doesn’t seem passive-aggressive or condescending at all anymore. It seems genuine.

It seems Mr. Wolf really meant, “Hey, I really enjoy your art, but please leave my wall alone? Let’s do this nice thing together, how about it?”

And if that’s the case, then he’s been a massive arsehole. Not just a petty little bitch or a pain in the ass, but an actual, literal arsehole.

Not only had he ignored the plaque, but he’d made fun of Mr. Wolf – very cool, very hot, very kind Mr. Wolf – in a really mean and public way.

Ugh, what an arsehole move.

He’s honestly considering putting his tail between his legs, buying some green paint, and erasing his own mural in the dead of the night when, one morning, it’s gone.

The mural is not there anymore. Neither is the plaque.

Nothing – just the wall, green and bare, like nothing ever happened.

He stands there, staring at the empty space, his heart sinking. He’s going to be late for class, but he doesn’t care. The hollow feeling in his chest drives him straight into the coffee shop, where he barges up to the counter.

James is just finishing handing out a ‘to go’ coffee to a blonde lady, who leaves without a word.

“Yeah, I saw it,” James says, not needing Sirius to say a word.

“Why do you think it took so long?” Sirius asks, glancing over his shoulder at the bookshop. It’s still closed, but the window display is already decorated, hinting that it’s ready to open for business.

James shrugs, his tone playful. “Maybe he’s just trying to save up on paint jobs. Every time he covers it up, you ruin it the next day–”

“Yeah, not gonna do that this time,” Sirius replies, remorseful.

James sighs dramatically. “Ugh, I really liked you better when you weren’t a softie for Mr. Wolf,” he teases.

That same afternoon, Sirius is sitting at one of the coffee shop tables, earphones in, lost in his music and looking through an art magazine as research for one of his classes, when, suddenly, something happens.

The door to the bookshop opens, and Mr. Wolf steps out, carrying what looks like a large poster. He’s dressed in dark wash jeans and a brown jumper, his curly hair tousled by the wind. Sirius watches, unable to look away as Mr. Wolf adorably fumbles with the poster, trying to fix it in the shop window. After a few minutes, he finally gets it in place, stepping back with his hands on his waist, admiring his work.

Satisfied, he slips the roll of scotch tape around his wrist like a bracelet and turns away from the shop, crossing the street. As he moves, Sirius leans forward to get a better look. The poster is now fully visible, and Sirius reads the words: “Bookshop Inauguration” followed by the date – next Friday.

And oh fucking hell, Sirius has been so focused on the poster that he completely missed the fact that Mr. Wolf has crossed the street and is now heading in the direction of the coffee shop. Sirius's heart skips a beat – no, several beats – because Mr. Wolf is walking directly towards him.

Yep, he’s coming in. He’s inside the coffee shop.

Fuck, he looks so good.

Panic flares in Sirius's chest. He takes out his earphones so he can hear and drops his gaze to the art magazine in front of him, the glossy pages slipping slightly under his fingers as he pretends to flip through them casually, sipping his coffee.

It’s fine, he’s fine. This is just the closest he’s been to Mr. Wolf since that fateful night. But it’s fine, it’s completely fine.

Mr. Wolf’s steps echo through the quiet coffee shop, and when it seems like he’s walked past Sirius, he finally feels it’s safe to steal a look. The man has stopped at the counter, scanning the menu, and James catches Sirius’s gaze with mischief glinting in his eyes. Sirius gives him a quick, desperate shake of his head, silently pleading, “Don’t you dare embarrass me.”

James smiles innocently.

Sirius rolls his eyes and drops his gaze to the magazine, hoping for the better.

“Hi, how can I help you?” he hears James say cheerfully.

“Uh, I think I’ll have some tea. To go?” Mr. Wolf responds, and Sirius’s breath catches in his throat.

It’s the first time he’s really heard Mr. Wolf’s voice. Sure, there were those muffled interactions from across the street, but they were too distant to appreciate. And there was that one sentence Mr. Wolf had said to him that fateful night, but back then, Sirius had no idea who he was dealing with.

No, this is different. This is the first time Sirius is truly hearing Mr. Wolf’s voice while fully aware of the man’s presence, and dear lord, he loves it. It’s deep, gentle, and slightly husky, with a smoothness that makes the back of Sirius's neck prickle. The words flow effortlessly, as if Mr. Wolf savours them as they leave his lips. Sirius can’t help but think he could listen to that voice forever.

James is listing off all the different flavours of tea, and Sirius sneaks another glance. Mr. Wolf is leaning against the counter now, propped on his elbows, and – oh my god, that arse. Sirius quickly looks away, nervously flipping through the pages of his magazine as if it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing he’s ever read. No impure thoughts. Not here, not now. Not with the man in the room, for God’s sake.

“Just herbal tea, yeah, that’s fine,” Mr. Wolf says, and Sirius shifts in his seat, trying to discreetly rearrange his trousers. “I think I met your dad the other day,” Mr. Wolf adds casually.

“Oh, yeah,” James replies, “I think he mentioned it. You’re the bloke who owns the new bookshop across the street, right? What’s your name again?”

Oh, bless you, James Potter. Bless you, bless you, bless you. Sirius’s been dying to know Mr. Wolf’s real name for weeks, and James has heard every single whine and complain about it. Right now, Sirius could leap over the counter and kiss his friend full on the mouth for seizing the opportunity so seamlessly.

“It’s Remus,” Mr. Wolf says, and Sirius repeats the name silently in his mind. Remus. Remus. Remus. The name feels like a revelation, a small yet significant piece of the puzzle falling into place. “And yes, that’s my little bookshop right there,” Remus continues, his tone slightly sheepish as he chuckles. “Is this a good street for business, would you say?”

“Oh yes, definitely,” James replies, adopting an unusually serious tone. “My family has owned the coffee shop here for over five years now. It’s a great street.”

Sirius has flipped through his entire magazine without absorbing a single word. He opens it again to a random page in the middle, pretending to be engrossed in an article. Risking another glance, he watches as James hands Mr. Wolf – Remus – his tea in a small foam cup, and the man adds sugar to it.

“Good. We’re opening on Friday; there’s going to be an inauguration. You’re invited. You and your dad, of course.”

Sirius’s eyes remain glued to his magazine, though he’s barely skimming the pages. He listens intently as Remus pays for his tea and politely chats James. And then, he chooses the worst possible moment to try and sneak another peek – exactly as Remus is turning on his heels to leave.

Their eyes lock, and Sirius’s heart races – his anticipation surges as he studies Remus’s face.

To Sirius’s surprise – and immense relief – there’s no flicker of recognition in Remus’s eyes.

He simply offers a polite smile and a nod, then leaves the shop, tea in hand. The door clicks shut behind him, and Sirius waits, breathless, for a few moments to make sure he’s not coming back, before he jumps to his feet and turns to face James, his jaw completely agape, laughing hysterically.

James is shaking his head. “Seriously? You really think he’s that hot?”

“You really don’t?”

James grabs the tea towel from his shoulder and starts wiping his hands. “You’re a very weird bloke. Anyone ever told you that, Sirius Black?

Sirius meets James in front of the coffee shop at 6PM on Friday.

“I can’t believe my dad actually gave me the day off just because you asked. If it was me, he’d have said no,” James says, feigning offence as he leans against the shop window.

“Well, parents usually like me,” Sirius replies cheekily. “Except mine, obviously.”

James laughs, though there’s a touch of sympathy in the sound. His eyes then drift to the bag Sirius is carrying, and he asks, “What’s with the spray paint? Thought you said you were done messing with Mr. Wolf?”

“I am, but there’s this professor I can’t stand. I figured after this, we could go mess with him instead,” he winks.

James makes an exaggerated sign of relief. “Phew, thank God! I was really starting to worry I’d lost my partner in crime when you went and developed that weird crush on Mr. Wolf.”

Sirius grins mischievously. “Never.”

They stash the spray paint bag in the backroom of the coffee shop before finally crossing the street towards the bookshop’s inauguration.

“I don’t know why you wanted to come anyway,” James grumbles. “I bet the average age in there is, like, 35. We’re young! There’s loads of cool things we could be doing tonight instead!”

“I told you,” Sirius replies, his tone deadly serious. “Mr. Wolf – no, Remus – invited you, remember? And he didn’t recognize me, which means this is the perfect chance for you to introduce your dear friend, Sirius Black.”

“Mate, you really need to get over this obsession with this man,” James says, exasperated, as they reach the sidewalk in front of the bookshop. Through the window, they can see a modest gathering inside – smartly dressed adults, sipping champagne, and chatting, likely about very smart things. Soft, tasteful music plays in the background. “And why are you wearing that anyway?” he adds, eyeing Sirius’s outfit.

Sirius, who has traded his usual ripped jeans and battered Vans look for actual trousers and shoes that aren’t falling apart, rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he mutters, elbowing James in the ribs before striding confidently through the bookshop doors.

Remus has really outdone himself with the renovation. Not a single corner of the old shop looks the same, and if Sirius didn’t know for a fact this used to be Arthur’s game shop, he’d never have guessed. The walls are covered by towering dark wooden bookshelves that look old and expensive. In the centre of the room, a few tables and book racks are thoughtfully placed, each adorned with what appear to be carefully curated displays of novels and collections. Some plush green chairs are arranged near these tables, making a perfectly good spot for someone to sit down and flip through a book or magazine.

The shop is not particularly big, but Sirius can tell that each detail in it was carefully picked out to fit a very particular vibe – the atmosphere of an old castle library, with dim lighting, dark woods, and an irresistibly cosy, inviting ambiance.

He’s still absorbing the room when James tugs at his arm. “C’mon, if you’re gonna drag me here, at least let me get some free alcohol,” he says, breaking Sirius’s reverie.

They make their way to the back of the store, where a small champagne table is set up near the counter. While James busies himself fetching them glasses, Sirius takes another look around the room.

James was right – everyone here seems at least fifteen, if not twenty, years older than them. But they’re not old like parents; they’re more like artistic old, if that makes sense. The women are all dressed stylishly – one even has pink hair – and there’s a guy who looks to be in his forties with two full sleeves of the raddest tattoos. They look like the artists and professors at Sirius’s art school, and if this is Remus’s crowd, Sirius feels validated in his judgement. Mr. Wolf really is cool.

Speaking of which, Remus looks particularly fancy tonight, at least in a retired professor kind of way. Sirius spots him across the room, sipping champagne and chatting politely with the pink-haired woman and a tall, dark-skinned woman with long dreadlocks. He’s wearing a tweed blazer, and his hair is styled to accentuate his curls perfectly. When he politely excuses himself to greet a new arrival, Sirius notices the two top buttons of his dress shirt are undone, revealing just a hint of blonde chest hair. Sirius forces himself to look away before he melts into a bloody puddle of want and longing right there, by the drinks table.

“Here, have one,” James says, handing Sirius a champagne flute.

Sirius swirls the glass, takes a sniff, and then sips. “Hmm, nice,” he says after swallowing the bubbly. “See, I told you he’s cool. Look at what’s playing – it’s David Bowie.”

“David Bowie’s not cool. It’s old people’s music.”

“David Bowie is the epitome of cool, and you, Potter, have dreadful taste.”

James is in the middle of rolling his eyes when he sees something that makes him gasp and choke on his champagne. Sirius turns around and, as expected, spots Lily Evans from the chemist’s walking into the bookshop.

“Oh my God, she’s here,” James says, dabbing champagne from his chin with his sleeve.

Sirius scoffs. “Right, and I’m the one who’s obsessed.”

James and Sirius are, without a doubt, the uncoolest people in the room. While everyone else is either engaged in lively conversations, examining books on the shelves, or exchanging sophisticated remarks, they’re both pretending to browse through the books, trying to discreetly keep an eye on their respective crushes.

Sirius is scanning the room for the right moment when James can swoop in to greet and compliment Remus. But Remus seems preoccupied, moving from group to group, engaging in polite chatter. Finally, he excuses himself and heads towards the back of the room, where Sirius and James are.

“Now, now,” Sirius whisper-yells, giving James a gentle but urgent push. “Go, now!”

“Remus!” James exclaims, stepping forward and almost colliding with Mr. Wolf. “Hi! I’m James from the coffee shop!”

Remus looks momentarily startled but quickly regains his composure. “James, yes, right!” he says, a warm smile spreading across his face. Sirius notices a tiny dimple forming at the corner of Remus’s mouth when he smiles, and it’s absolutely adorable. “Your father couldn’t make it?”

“No, no, he’s very busy,” James replies with a dismissive wave. “The shop looks fantastic. I can hardly believe it’s the same place. Congratulations!”

“Thank you!” Remus beams, surveying the room with evident pride. “I can hardly believe it myself.”

Sirius clears his throat, drawing the attention of both James and Remus. Remus’s forehead furrows slightly in curiosity, while James quickly jumps in. “Right, yes. I brought a friend,” he says, motioning towards Sirius. “This is my good friend, Sirius Black. He’s an artist, a true artist!” He adds, enthusiastically.

What’s he thinking? What if Mr. Wolf is already suspicious of Sirius and this information seals the deal? Honestly, James–

“An artist?” Remus inquires, his interest clearly piqued, just as Sirius discreetly kicks James in the shin, causing James to yelp in surprise.

“Aaah! Yes, an artist, but, like, only the respectable, conservative kind. Nothing too modern, or– or offensive, or street–”

“What James is trying to say,” Sirius interjects before James fumbles the bag completely, catching Remus’s gaze with a calm expression despite the flutter in his chest, “is that I’m in art school and am still experimenting with various styles,” he concludes, hoping that was convincing enough.

“Yes, exactly,” James agrees solemnly.

“Oh, art school?” Remus’s initial confusion melts into a warm smile. “That’s great. Where do you study?”

“Uh, UAL. I go to UAL,” Sirius replies, his heart racing as he tries to maintain his composure.

“Wow, that’s impressive! Congratulations!” Remus says with genuine enthusiasm. “We actually have a robust art section here. Have you had a chance to check it out?” He gestures towards the back of the room.

“Not yet,” Sirius replies, mustering his most charming smile. “But I’d love to. Maybe you could, you know, show it to me sometime?”

Remus’s lips curl up in what appears to be a retained smile, and he licks his lips before responding. “Sure. I’ll be waiting for you.” His eyes linger on Sirius for a beat longer. “But if you’ll excuse me, boys, I was actually headed to the loo,” he adds in a conspiratorial whisper, which Sirius finds utterly adorable.

And oh my God, that was flirting, wasn’t it? The whole “I’ll be waiting for you” – he was definitely flirting, wasn’t he?

Or maybe he was just being kind and polite; he does need customers for his shop. But no, it really did sound flirty…

“Am I mad, or did he just flirt with you?” James asks, his voice full of disbelief, once Remus is a safe distance away.

“I know, right!” Sirius exclaims, his eyes wide with excitement.

He manages to hold back his impulse to revisit the bookstore on Saturday, and Monday is consumed by a giant project deadline. But by Tuesday, as he skates home past the open bookshop, he reasons – there’s really no harm in popping in, is there?

He steps off his skateboard, lifting one end to make it easier to grab, and tucks it securely between his body and backpack before walking into the shop.

The atmosphere is markedly different from the inauguration day. The store is nearly empty, and the silence is broken only by the soft background music – The Kinks this time, Sirius notes. He quickly scans the room and spots Remus, dressed in a green jumper, engaged in a conversation with a customer at the back by the cash register.

He’d prefer if they were alone, but the customer chatting with Remus will likely leave soon enough. Sirius makes his way to the corner Remus had pointed out the other day as ‘The Art Section’ and starts browsing through the books. For a smaller shop, they boast an impressive collection. Sirius’s eyes wander over familiar titles like Ways of Seeing, The Shock of the New, and The Private Lives of the Impressionists. There are even a few editions of Art Review, which he always tries to keep up with for his assignments.

He’s flipping through The Art of Looking Sideways, genuinely intrigued by it, when he hears footsteps approaching.

“I see you’ve found the art section,” Remus’s voice carries a noticeable smile.

Sirius’s lips curve into a grin, though he lingers on the book for a moment longer before looking up. “Quite the impressive selection,” he says, meeting Remus’s gaze with a hint of admiration.

It’s intimidating, really, talking to Remus one on one. His presence is so magnetic, dominating the space around them. Despite Sirius’s usual confidence with romantic interests, this feels different, and he can’t help but feel a bit nervous. He swallows, doing his best to mask his unease.

“Thank you,” Remus says, taking a step closer to stand right beside Sirius in front of the art shelf. “The opinion of a true artist is very important,” he adds in a playful tone.

Sirius snorts. “Oh God. I’m sorry about James, he’s an idiot,” he says, recalling the awkward way James introduced him the week before. “I’m no true artist; he was just messing with me.”

“Oh, don’t be humble on my account,” Remus replies, his frown softening slightly.

“But I’m not, believe me,” Sirius insists, nodding for emphasis. “I’m barely finished with my second semester.”

Remus smiles, but narrows his eyes slightly, swaying his head as if pondering Sirius’s response. “Yes, but art school, although helpful, isn’t what makes one a true artist, wouldn’t you say?”

Sirius bites back a smile. He’s just found out another thing Mr. Wolf is very – he’s very cool, very hot, very kind and also very smart. It’s an intoxicating combination, and such a fucking turn on.

“What does make a true artist, then?” Sirius challenges.

“You tell me, you’re the artist,” Remus replies, his smile widening as he gestures for Sirius to answer his own question.

Sirius considers how to answer without sounding very foolish in front of this intelligent man. He closes the book he’s holding and places it back on the shelf to buy himself some time. He decides to approach it like a tricky question from a stern professor, which he usually excels at. He turns and leans against the shelf, meeting Remus’s gaze.

“I think I chose art school because other pursuits, say medicine, law, even business… They are crucial for survival and, I guess, like, societal function. But art is kind of what makes you want to keep living, beyond mere survival. So, I guess I would say, what makes a true artist is that– whatever it is that they do, they do it to feel alive.”

Sirius watches as Remus’s eyes widen, clearly impressed, and a broad smile spreads across his face. Nailed it, he thinks.

“Art exists because life is not enough,” Remus says simply.

Sirius frowns, intrigued. “I’ve never heard that before. Where is it from?”

Remus shifts from one foot to another and then he engages himself in the hottest, most adorable, most interesting ramble session Sirius has ever witnessed.

“Oh, it’s from Ferreira Gullar, a South American poet. I used to teach at the university, before I swapped academia for this place, and I gave some lectures on South American Literature back then. There are some real gems, you know? But Nietzsche, probably a name you’re more familiar with, right? Nietzsche actually said something similar, I can't remember exactly how it goes,” he stops for a second to think “I think it’s something like ‘we need art in order to not die of the truth’ or maybe it’s ‘we have art to not die of the truth’... yeah, that’s it. ‘We have art…’ And that’s what you’re saying, right? An artist needs to put their truth out into the world, or else, what’s even the point of sticking around?” He laughs, sheepishly. “Oh, I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

Sirius watches Remus, trying not to melt into a puddle of admiration, and realises he’s been smiling dumbly the whole time. “And here I was, paraphrasing Dead Poets Society , and you throw fucking Nietzsche at me,” he says, in a self-deprecating tone. “I’m feeling rather thick now.”

Remus bursts into a hearty laugh, his eyes showing sympathy. “Oh, no, don’t feel that way. I’m just a few years ahead of you in my reading. And Dead Poets Society is a great movie, if you ask me.”

So very kind. Always so very kind, Mr. Wolf.

“It is, isn’t it?” Sirius laughs, and Remus joins in. When the laughter fades, Sirius adds, “So, uh, you were a professor, but you gave it up to open this shop? So, you’re like, technically, a retired professor?”

Remus frowns, likely puzzled by the question, but responds anyway. “Yes, I suppose so.”

Oh, James is going to love that one.

On Thursday, Sirius swings by the store again, using the latest edition of Art Review as an excuse – though it's not entirely untrue that he needs it. That day, Remus launches into a long ramble about the publishing industry's deepest woes. Sirius just stares, noticing the way Remus's bottom teeth peek out when he talks and how his lips curl when he says something witty.

“It’s a real shame you gave up teaching,” Sirius says, after a while, “I think I would’ve really enjoyed being your student.”

Remus leans in over the counter, smiling fondly. “Would you, now? And why’s that?”

“Yeah,” Sirius feigns a bit of shyness, just enough to be endearing. “I don’t know, I just really like listening to you talk.”

Remus bites his bottom lip and gives a small shake of his head, as if trying to suppress a smile, but he doesn’t respond to Sirius’s remark.

On Saturday, Sirius has no real excuse to visit the shop, but he does anyway. With more customers around, he grabs a book from the fiction shelf, settles into one of the plush green chairs, and pretends to read. They don’t chat much, but they exchange a few glances, and Remus smiles at him every time.

The following Wednesday, Sirius runs into Remus at James’s coffee shop. The man orders herbal tea again, and Sirius asks if maybe he wouldn’t want to join him. Clearing the table of his laptop and the magazines he’d been using for a collage project, he and Remus fall into an easy conversation about the project and the assignments Remus used to give his students back in the day.

Sirius decides to dial up the flirting – because, honestly, what’s the worst that could happen? He smiles even more, locks eyes with Remus, and sometimes delays his answers just long enough to be noticed, all while blatantly staring at the man’s mouth. He leans in as they talk, drops clever innuendos, and even touches Remus’s arm across the table, watching closely for any reaction to his provocations.

Remus never seems uncomfortable, never pulls away. Occasionally, he says things that make Sirius wonder if he’s flirting back, but mostly, he just laughs and keeps his distance, which is maddeningly frustrating.

But Sirius isn’t one to back down easily. Oh, no, definitely not.

So, the next week, when he genuinely needs a book for school, he seizes the chance to visit Remus’s shop again. Could he grab the book from the university library and save a few quid? Absolutely. But money’s never been an issue for him. Besides, any excuse to see Remus is a good one.

When Sirius walks through the door, Remus looks up from behind the counter and exclaims, “Sirius!” He grins. “I’m sorry, still no sign of the new Art Review, if that’s what you’re after.”

“No, not today.” Sirius smiles back, strolling up to him. “I’m actually here for a book this time – need it to study for one of my finals.”

Remus nods and steps out from behind the counter. “Sure thing. What are you looking for?” he asks, leading Sirius toward the art section.

“It’s, uh–” Sirius fumbles in his pocket for the piece of paper with the title. “Gombrich’s The Story of Art . I missed a big assignment earlier in the term, so I basically need to ace this test or I’m screwed in Art History.”

Of course, Sirius isn’t about to admit that the assignment he missed was because he was too busy obsessing over creating a piece of mean art to paint on Remus’s wall. Nope. That secret is going to the grave with him.

Remus snorts. “That’s a classic – we’ve definitely got it.” His eyes scan the shelf until they land on the large grey book. “Ah, here it is,” he says, pulling it out and handing it to Sirius.

It’s huge and heavy, and Sirius nearly drops it. He whines, “I can’t believe I’ve got to read this whole thing.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Remus teases, flipping the book open at random. The right page is taken up entirely by a Velázquez painting, and the left features a close-up detail of the same picture, with barely any text. “See? You’ll survive.”

“I guess…” Sirius replies, still eyeing the hefty book with suspicion. “No one warned me that art school would involve this much reading. Feels like a bit of false advertising, if you ask me,” he adds, dragging his feet as he follows Remus to the cash register.

“Not a fan of reading?” Remus asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Not particularly, no. Sorry,” Sirius admits with a shrug.

“Huh,” Remus muses, sliding behind the counter and placing the book on top. He leans back, locking eyes with Sirius. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, why do you visit a bookshop so often if reading isn’t your thing?”

Sirius feels a slow grin spreading across his face as he leans against the counter. “Maybe it’s not the books I’m here for,” he says, fluttering his eyelashes with deliberate exaggerated charm.

Remus chuckles again, lowering his gaze with an amused shake of his head, but doesn’t respond to Sirius’s flirtation. Instead, he beeps the book and says, “That’ll be twenty pounds.”

He’s so tired of dancing around the subject and never getting a clear reaction, that, suddenly, he just blurts out, “Do you have a girlfriend, Remus? Or a boyfriend, maybe?”

The man finishes putting the book inside a plastic bag before looking up to meet Sirius’s gaze again. He’s still smiling kindly, but his expression is unreadable. “No, I don’t,” he replies, pausing just long enough to make Sirius hold his breath. “But if I did, it’d be the latter.”

Sirius feels a flicker of hope – Remus clarifying his orientation like that must be a good sign, right?

Sirius takes out a twenty from his pocket and hands it to Remus, grabbing the plastic bag from the counter. “Well, if you’re ever looking for one, let me know,” he says with a wink. Honestly, he’s not sure how he could be more obvious than that.

If this doesn’t get a reaction, then maybe it really is a lost cause.

He’s already halfway to the door when Remus calls out, “Sirius, how old are you?”

Sirius spins on his heels to face him again. Remus is leaning forward against the counter, watching him with a peculiar expression that Sirius can’t quite read.

“I’ll be nineteen in November,” Sirius replies, grinning.

Remus nods, biting his bottom lip. “Do you know how old I am?”

“I feel like this might be a trick question.”

Remus snorts, “Fifteen years would be quite the age gap, don’t you think?”

Sirius shrugs, unfazed. “You know, Remus, I figured someone as smart as you wouldn’t get hung up on something as trivial as age.” He turns on his heels and walks out of the shop with a casual wave.

For a while, Sirius is so buried in assignments, art projects, and finals that he barely does more than skate past the street. One Tuesday morning, determined to break the routine, he leaves his flat fifteen minutes early to grab a coffee at James’s, since he hasn’t seen his friend since their 2 AM graffiti escapade on some-kid-that-James-hates’s wall, which was over a week ago.

“Sirius, oh my God, is that you?” James exclaims dramatically as Sirius walks into the coffee shop. “I’d almost forgotten what your face looks like!”

Sirius rolls his eyes fondly. “Sorry, Jamie. End of term, you know how it is,” he says, heading to the counter.

“I wouldn’t know, actually,” James shrugs, smirking. “The usual?”

Sirius nods and James starts making his coffee. “So, how’s it going?”

“Oh, you know, nothing much,” James says, pouring milk into the cup. “Except the greasy kid from the chemist’s got fired – apparently, he was selling drugs out of the shop? Total mess.”

“What? No way!”

“Yeah, Lily told me herself,” James says, handing over the coffee. “Here you go.”

“So, you’ve been talking to Lily, then?” Sirius takes the coffee with a knowing smile.

James blushes slightly but waves it off. “Oh, it’s nothing, she just comes in for coffee, that’s all.” But then, his expression shifts into a frown as he looks over Sirius’s shoulder. “Oi, what’s Remus doing to your wall?”

Sirius turns to look. “Is he… putting up another plaque?” He squints, noticing Remus – this time in corduroy pants and a green vest – apparently fixing a new plaque exactly where the old one was.

“Looks like it,” James says, intrigued. “Wonder what it says this time…”

Sirius lingers in the coffee shop a little longer, even though it means risking being late for class, just to wait until Remus heads back inside. The moment he does, the boy casually crosses the street and leans down to read the new plaque.

It reads:

Mr. Graffiti Artist,

Been missing you. I thought you liked a blank canvas.

If it’s nice, I might even keep it.

Mr. Wolf

Well, that was unexpected.

Remus keeps throwing Sirius curveballs.

At first, Sirius was sure they were at war over the wall, and he was determined to do whatever it took to get under the bookshop owner’s skin. But then, when he finally met Remus, he became convinced that Remus wasn’t at war with him at all – he just wanted to be left alone.

And since Remus was so very hot, so very kind, and cool, and smart, Sirius did what he thought the man wanted. He left the wall alone.

But this? This open invitation or whatever it was – this was never in the cards for Sirius.

If he weren’t so buried in schoolwork, he’d be obsessing over what that plaque meant twenty-four hours a day. But with so much to do, he only does it in his free time, which adds up to about two hours a day – including showers, meals, commute, and the three minutes it takes for him to fall asleep at night.

Okay, that’s a bit of a lie.

It actually takes him much more than three minutes to fall asleep at night.

Ever since he first met Remus in person – on that fateful night when he saw the man in just his boxers – there hasn’t been a single night when that image hasn’t haunted the inside of his eyelids as he tries to drift off to sleep.

No matter how tired he is or how early he has to wake up the next morning, every night, when he closes his eyes, Remus’s body is all he can see.

Remus’s long limbs, the curve of his neck, his Adam's apple. Those big hands. The tiny curls on the nape of his neck. Remus’s lean chest and stomach. That trail of hair below his belly button. The V of his hips – They all haunt him.

This always, inevitably, leads to the same outcome: blood rushing to his groyne and a storm of thoughts and sensations that have nothing to do with the projects and exams that fill his mind during the day.

Inevitably, his mind drifts from the vivid images to a realm of fantasy and imagination. He envisions Remus wrapping his arms around him, his hands exploring his body. He imagines Remus towering over him, unfastening the buckle of his pants right in front of his face.

At that point, he almost certainly already has his hand down his own boxers. He squeezes his cock, teasing a nipple with the other hand, imagining that these are actually Remus’s hands.

When he starts stroking himself, he imagines what Remus’s cock must look like. In his head, it’s always big – thick, long and gorgeous. He pictures himself kneeling in front of the man, taking him into his mouth, what he would taste like. If he would be gentle, or if he would wrap his hands on Sirius’s hair, force himself down Sirius’s throat.

The more he’s been around Remus in the past few weeks, the more details he’s been able to add to his fantasy. When he found out what Remus’s voice sounded like, he started imagining what sort of sounds he would make as Sirius touched him, sucked him, as he came. When he got close enough to sniff Remus’s scent, he wondered how much stronger it would feel if Sirius got to smell his neck, his chest, the patch of hair on the base of his cock.

Sometimes, when he’s feeling daring, he’ll even let the hand that’s been teasing his nipple travel down his body, past his cock and balls, until it finds his entrance. He’ll tease it, picture it’s Remus’s hand. Lube up his fingers and insert one or two, picture it’s Remus’s cock.

He sees Remus on top of him, bending him in half. Or behind him, grasping his hips hard enough to leave bruises. Strangled gasps leave his mouth as he imagines if Remus would lean down to kiss his neck, if he would reach around to stroke his cock, if he would get close to his ear and whisper, husky, “Come for me, Sirius.”

Sirius always does, inevitably, Remus’s name on his lips. Only after that, after he cleans himself up, his heartbeat slowing down, it’s when he’s finally able to drift off to sleep.

Sirius takes a drag from the spliff, squinting as he watches James attempt cartwheels on his bike, speeding around the skate park. The setting sun casts golden shadows, making it difficult to see against the light. James tries to do a wheelie but loses his balance, falling onto the ground. Sirius laughs, exhaling smoke and air. James gets up, limps over with the bike, and drops it before sitting down next to Sirius on the concrete.

He takes the joint from Sirius and takes a drag. “So, are you going to do it?” James asks, holding the smoke.

“He asked so nicely,” Sirius replies with an innocent smile. “How could I say no?”

James half laughs, half coughs, blowing out the smoke. “I don’t get that guy. I thought he hated your guts—” Sirius elbows him, and James shoves him back. “You know what I mean! Not your guts. Mr. Graffiti Artist’s guts, obviously.”

“I am Mr. Graffiti Artist.”

“Well, Mr. Wolf doesn’t know that,” James points out.

“Maybe he does,” Sirius muses.

It’s Friday afternoon and Sirius just handed in his last assignment today, which means he’s free from school for the next eight weeks. It feels blissful. He’s been wondering what to do with all this free time, but now that Remus has put up that plaque essentially inviting him to mess up the wall again, he knows exactly where to channel his energy.

He’s going to paint the most stunning, breathtaking mural he’s ever created. And then, perhaps, if Remus likes it, he’ll keep it. Sirius will make up for being such a gratuitous little shit when he first renovated the store. And then maybe, just maybe, he’ll muster the courage to confess to Remus that he is, in fact, Mr. Graffiti Artist.

That is, if Remus doesn’t already know, which seems like a distinct possibility – although it really makes him panic to consider so.

“The pressure’s on, though,” James says after a while. “You’ve got to make it nice, so he’ll keep it.”

“Oh, trust me, James Potter, I’ll make it nice.”

James laughs, turning to face him with a puzzled frown. “I don’t trust that tone. What are you planning?”

Sirius snatches the spliff from James’s mouth and sticks it between his own lips. “Nothing!” he says, the spliff dangling. He stands up, takes a drag, and hands the spliff back. “I’m just going to paint the nicest mural that man has ever seen.”

James’s face lights up with understanding. “Oooh, I see what you’re doing. You’re trying to win Mr. Wolf’s heart with your art skills. Yes! You were critiquing him with your art, now you’re trying to romance him with it! You sly little fucker!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sirius says playfully, kicking James in the shins before hopping onto his skateboard and speeding towards the park.

James isn't completely wrong, though.

If Sirius is honest with himself, the scenarios he’s been spinning in his head all end the same way – with Remus being thoroughly impressed by the mural and pleasantly surprised to learn Sirius is behind it.

From that point on, the details vary. Sometimes, Remus kisses him right there in front of the mural. Other times, he awkwardly – yet adorably – asks Sirius out for a date or invites him inside for tea. But always, without fail, the fantasy concludes with Remus fucking him raw in his bed – or sometimes, they don’t even make it to the bed, and it all plays out right there in the middle of the bookshop.

But he knows those are just childish fantasies.

Remus has made it clear that their fifteen-year age gap is a problem. And while Sirius can’t help that he’s still attracted to Remus – maybe even developing feelings for him, though he’s not entirely sure – he’s been keeping his distance.

Partly because the past two weeks have been consumed by schoolwork, but also because flirting with Remus and trying to get a response out of him was fun at first, but when it started to border on rejection, it hurt in a way Sirius hadn’t experienced before.

Not that he’s never been rejected. Sure, he knows he’s good-looking, and that comes with certain advantages. But he’s also a lot to handle, and some people dislike him before even getting to know him. That’s fine.

What’s not fine is Remus – so very hot, so very kind, so very cool, so very smart – being also so very unattainable right now.

This is making Sirius question himself and feel a kind of insecurity he's not used to, and he doesn’t particularly enjoy it. He finds himself wondering if it’s really the age gap or if Remus simply isn’t attracted to him. And if it is the age gap, then maybe if it’s because Remus sees him as too immature, not well-read, or not cool enough to date – which stings more than the idea of Remus just not finding him attractive, for some reason.

Either way, these thoughts are no fun at all, and they’ve been killing his vibe. So, he decided a little distance was in order.

Because of this, nearly two weeks pass before Sirius talks to Remus again – since the day he bought Gombrich’s book.

He’s skating down the street on a Sunday, heading to meet some mates, when he spots Remus standing outside his shop. The street is otherwise empty. It looks like Remus is overseeing a delivery, given the truck parked out front and the tall, broad man unloading giant cardboard boxes with a cart.

“Hey, Sirius!” Remus calls out as soon as he sees him. Sirius presses down on the back of his board to slow down, eventually coming to a stop. “Long time no see. Did you do well on that test?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Got an A, passed the class,” Sirius says, grinning.

He takes in Remus from head to toe – maybe it's because it’s the weekend and the shop is closed, but Remus is dressed more casually than usual in soft sweatpants and a Queen T-shirt. Sirius tries his hardest not to stare at the outline of Remus's dick in those pants.

“Really? That’s fantastic!” Remus beams, his smile warm and genuine. “Did the book help?”

“Definitely. I ended up reading the whole thing. It was actually pretty interesting, I had a good time.”

“See? I told you you could do it,” Remus teases, his tone playful yet encouraging.

Sirius grins, feeling a little more confident despite the awkwardness of the past few weeks. “Thanks. It was a tough one, but I pulled through.” And then, because his eyes are almost betraying him and travelling down Remus’s form again, he adds, trying to distract himself. “What about you? Busy day?”

Remus glances at the boxes being moved into the shop and shrugs. “Just some restocking. It’s easier to do with the shop closed.”

Sirius nods, his mind racing with the conflicting emotions of wanting to keep things light while also being hyper-aware of how close they are. “Well, you look good,” he blurts out, and then immediately feels the heat rise to his cheeks. “I mean, the shop looks good. The restocking… It’s good. Everything’s good.”

Remus chuckles, seemingly amused by Sirius’s flustered state. “Thanks, Sirius. It’s good to see you too.” He pauses, then adds with a teasing smile, “Even if you’ve been avoiding me.”

Sirius’s heart skips a beat at the playful accusation. “I haven’t been avoiding you,” he protests, though it comes out weaker than he intended. “Just busy, you know?”

Remus raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but before he can respond, they are interrupted by the delivery man.

"All set, Mr. Lupin. Just need your signature here," the man says, handing him a clipboard and a pen.

“Of course, Marvin,” Remus replies as he signs the paper. “Thanks a lot.”

The man nods and starts heading back to the truck. Without thinking, Sirius blurts out, “Mr. Lupin? Your name is Remus Lupin?”

Remus, who had been watching the delivery man, turns to Sirius with a bemused expression. “It is. Why?”

“Nothing,” Sirius says with a laugh. “It's just funny – you really are Mr. Wolf.”

Remus chuckles, explaining that’s how the shop got its name. They share a moment of easy laughter before parting ways. It’s only two hours later, as Sirius lounges by his mate’s pool with a beer in hand, that the realisation hits him like a ton of bricks.

He called Remus Mr. Wolf .

To his face.

It’s 2 AM on a Tuesday when Sirius skates down the street again, a bag full of spray paint canisters slung over his shoulder. Almost a week has passed since Mr. Wolf put up the open invitation, and six weeks since Sirius last painted here – which was also the night he first saw Remus.

He took a few days to finalise his design, and now he’s ready. His sketchbook holds the blueprint, his bag carries every colour he’ll need, and his iPod is loaded with the perfect soundtrack for this project.

This will be the most complex mural he’s ever painted. With only a couple of hours each night to work, it’s going to take him quite a few nights. Luckily, summer break has just begun, giving him all the time he needs to pour into his masterpiece.

On the first night, Sirius manages to outline half of the background. It takes ages – each detail painstakingly mapped out. By four-thirty, he’s tired, sleepy, and the wall is a chaotic mess of colourful lines that make absolutely no sense yet.

He tears a page from his sketchbook and scribbles a note in black marker, slipping it under the bookshop door.

Mr. Wolf,

I know your wall looks like a mess right now.

Please trust me – I’m working hard to make it nice and special, but it’s going to take a few nights.

Sincerely,

Mr. Graffiti Artist.

The following night, Sirius brings James along as backup.

When they arrive at the wall just past midnight, Sirius is surprised to find a brown paper bag waiting on the ground. He crouches down, opens it, and finds six chocolate chip muffins and a thermos full of tea. There’s also a note tucked inside.

Mr. Graffiti Artist,

By all means, take your time.

Here’s a little midnight snack, in case you get hungry.

Yours,

Mr. Wolf.

Sirius stares at the note, his heart racing, a smile tugging at his lips. Of course, Remus would be this thoughtful, wouldn’t he?

“What’s that?” James asks, snagging the note from Sirius’s hand. After a quick read, he exclaims, “Awww, Mr. Wolf is a softie for you too, Sirius!”

Sirius rolls his eyes, taking the note back and shoving it into his pocket. But no matter how hard he tries to downplay it, he can’t ignore the warmth spreading through his chest, making his heart feel a little fuller.

They get to work, with the glow from the coffee shop lights James left on casting a warm hue on the street, making it easier for Sirius to visualise the colours. He’s also using a ladder, which he stored at the coffee shop, and this is really starting to feel like professional work.

James fills in the outlines while Sirius sketches new ones, their rhythm synchronised as the background image begins to take shape. By the time the birds start chirping, they decide it’s time to call it a night.

Before leaving, Sirius scribbles another note and slips it into the paper bag alongside the empty thermos.

Mr. Wolf,

Thanks for the snack.

These muffins are fantastic – where did you get them?

The next night, they begin working on the main image. It's the same process as before – Sirius outlines, James fills in, and they repeat the cycle.

As they arrive, another brown paper bag waits for Sirius. Inside, he finds homemade chicken sandwiches, two more muffins, and another thermos of tea.

This time, the note reads:

Mr. Graffiti Artist,

I see you've been working very hard. Gotta make sure you're well fed.

Be good, don’t eat dessert before the meal.

P.S. I bake the muffins myself. Glad you like them.

Yours,

Mr. Wolf.

Sirius bursts out laughing, then, in true rebellious fashion, he eats the muffin before the sandwich – even when he’s doing something nice, he’s still a badass rebel. That hasn’t changed.

The next few nights, Sirius works alone. There’s no point in James coming along now – what’s left requires a keen artist’s touch, not just filling in outlines. Each night, Remus leaves snacks, tea, and a funny little note. It’s so thoughtful that Sirius finds himself eagerly anticipating the next night, just to see what Remus will leave or write.

One note reads, “No dessert today, because I know you ate the muffins before the sandwiches.” Another says, “I baked cookies instead of muffins this time. I hope you like them.” (Sirius does – the cookies are delicious.)

He’s not seeing Remus during the day anymore; working through the night leaves him sleeping most of the day, anyway. This work is exhausting – every night he arrives back at his flat with his arms throbbing, his feet achy.

He’s really, really happy that it’s almost done.

The night after he completes the black outline, which truly brings the mural to life, Sirius finds another brown paper bag waiting for him. Inside are six more muffins and a note:

Mr. Graffiti Artist,

I know you’re not done yet, but may I just say this mural looks absolutely fantastic.

You really are a true artist.

PS: Enjoy the muffins.

Mr. Wolf.

That night, Sirius makes quiet but significant progress on the finishing details. He's certain that with just one more night of work, he’ll be satisfied enough to call the mural completed. So, he rips another page from his notebook and scribbles a note to leave with the empty thermos.

Mr. Wolf

Phew, thank GOD you like it.

Last night (or, actually, day – since that’s when I sleep, lol) I had a nightmare that you hated it and painted over the whole thing.

Can you imagine that, after all this work?

I think I’d cry.

PS: Will probably be done tomorrow. Thought you’d like to know.

The next night, when Sirius arrives at the wall, there's no paper bag and no note. He frowns, thinking it's odd but brushes it off – maybe Remus was just too busy or distracted. It's no big deal, he tells himself.

Still, he can’t quite shake the knot in his stomach, a nagging feeling that something is off. Pushing it aside, he shuffles through his iPod, searching for a good song, and gets to work on the final touches of the mural.

He wants to use white spray paint to add some highlights, but he realises he has forgotten to bring the new mask he's been using. He groans, wrapping that same old stinky T-shirt around his face that's been in the bottom of his backpack since this all started.

About thirty minutes in, the battery of his iPod dies. Sirius curses under his breath – no delicious muffins, no mask, and now no music? This isn’t the glorious finale he envisioned for his marathon at all.

He lets the shirt hang a few inches from his face as he works on some details with a small brush. He’s really bored, this is tedious work without music, when suddenly– The sound of a door clicking open breaks the silence.

His head snaps toward the noise. It’s the bookshop door. Someone’s stepping out at 3 AM, and it’s probably Remus. Panic surges through him – Remus is going to catch him, and this time, he'll recognize Sirius for sure because the shirt isn’t covering his face at all.

Thinking quickly, Sirius drops the brush and turns his back, heart hammering in his chest as he fumbles to wrap the T-shirt securely around his head again.

“I thought I’d bring your snack in person tonight, since it’s your last night of work,” Remus’s voice drifts from behind him, soft and calm, as if they do this every night.

Sirius doesn’t want to turn around. If he does, Remus will recognize him instantly – he’s seen his face too many times now not to. And then Remus will know that Sirius is the one who mocked him in that mean mural. He’s not ready for that, for the possibility that Remus will see him as a terrible person.

He can’t turn around. He just won’t.

But then he hears Remus sigh, followed by the soft sound of something being placed on the ground.

“It’s okay,” Remus whispers, his voice gentle and calm. “It’s okay, turn around.”

Sirius is trembling now. His heart pounds in his ears, and his knees feel like they might give out. He’s on the verge of panic, but what can he do? Run away?

He drops his shoulders and turns around, but he can't bring himself to meet Remus's gaze. He keeps his eyes fixed on Remus's shoes – despite his nervousness, he still has the spirit to think that, disappointingly, the man is fully dressed tonight. No boxers.

Remus steps closer, and Sirius feels a gentle touch on his cheek through the T-shirt still wrapped around his mouth and nose, urging him to look up.

He exhales shakily, his palms sweating, but he does it. He looks up, feeling more nervous than he ever has in his life.

But when their eyes meet, Remus is smiling – fondly, almost adoringly. With both hands, he unwraps the T-shirt from Sirius's face, letting it fall to the ground. Then, softly, he whispers, "Hi."

"Hi," Sirius responds.

They’re close – noses almost touching – and Sirius notices as Remus’s eyes darken, his gaze flicking from the boy's eyes to his mouth and back again. Then, he whispers, "Fuck it."

He closes the distance between them, their lips finally meeting. It’s chaste at first, just a brief touch of dry lips, but Sirius has been dreaming about this for weeks. He’s not about to waste any time. If this is happening, then it’s happening.

A low groan escapes him as he parts his lips, his tongue tentatively brushing against Remus’s mouth, seeking entry. Remus responds, opening up, and their tongues meet with a spark of electricity. Sirius is astonished at how much better this feels than any of his fantasies. Remus tastes incredible, his mouth warm and inviting, wet and hot against his, and their lips glide together effortlessly. Remus sighs into the kiss, his hands tangling in Sirius’s hair as he pulls him closer, deepening their embrace.

Nothing else matters – the mural, the muffins, the dead iPod. Sirius’s hands roam over Remus’s back, tugging at his jumper, feeling the solid, firm body against his, pulling the man closer. It’s hard to breathe, but there’s no way Sirius is pulling away anytime soon. He waited too damn long, and this is finally happening.

Remus does, though. He does pull away, his eyes closed as he tries to catch his breath, panting heavily. When he finally opens them, they’re intense, like pools of dark liquid staring back at Sirius.

"Would you– would you like to get your tea and muffins inside today, maybe?" he stammers slightly, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Yes, please," Sirius whispers back.

Sirius doesn’t know what he was expecting, but they really do sit down to drink tea and eat muffins. They’re in a small kitchenette tucked away behind a door beside the counter of the bookshop, sitting at a tiny round table under a dim yellow light. The clock on top of the small fridge reads 3:15 AM.

The muffins are delicious, as always, and the tea is warm and soothing, but Sirius can’t shake the uneasy feeling settling in his stomach.

Remus kissed him. On the mouth. With tongue.

It was incredible – better than he ever dreamed – but it also raises all sorts of questions. What does it mean? Has Remus wanted to do this all along, just like Sirius? Or was it an impulse? Did Remus kiss him because he figured out Sirius is the Graffiti Artist? Or has he known this whole time? And if so, for how long?

His mind is racing. He sips his tea and studies Remus across the table before deciding to ask his burning question.

“How long have you known?” he inquires, placing his mug on the table.

Remus meets his gaze, his smile still warm and inviting. “Known what?”

“That I’m the one behind all the graffiti.”

Remus looks genuinely confused. “What do you mean? I always knew. I saw you that night. You know that.”

Sirius’s mouth falls open in disbelief. The whole bloody time?

“But I had my face covered!” he protests.

Remus shakes his head, laughing. “Sirius, please. There’s no way I wouldn’t recognize your hair and those… bloody eyes–”

“Hey! What’s wrong with my eyes?”

“Nothing! They’re perfect. Beautiful. They’ve been burned in my mind since I shone that torchlight at you. The way you looked at me, like a deer in headlights… I’d recognize them anywhere.”

Sirius doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. He feels very stupid, knowing Remus had known the whole time.

After a beat of silence, Remus adds. “Besides, you’re always skating around, with spray paint stains on your fingers. And you’re in art school… it wasn’t really a state kept secret, was it?”

Sirius feels warmth creeping up his neck, self-conscious and unable to hold Remus’s gaze. He didn’t even think about the skateboard and the paint stains on his fingers. It really seems obvious now, that a smart man like Remus would have figured this out a long time ago. He grabs a muffin and starts tearing it apart with his fingers, staring at the mess he’s making on the table instead of looking at Remus.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” he mutters.

He hears Remus sighing. “Honestly? I don’t know…” The man lets out a disbelieving laugh. “That night, when I caught you, I wasn’t expecting you to – well, to look like that.” There’s a pause, and Sirius finally looks up, a question in his eyes – like that how? But he doesn’t ask, and Remus doesn’t answer, he just keeps talking, looking at Sirius with soft eyes. “And then I kept seeing you through the window of my new flat, always with James, across the street. I could hear your laugh from all the way over here. At first, I was angry, furious about the wall. I needed this shop to work, wanted it to be perfect, and you kept ruining it for me, and I didn’t know why… But then, watching you, I started… liking you.”

Sirius’s heart skips a beat. Remus started liking him. Remus likes him? He drops his gaze back to his ruined muffin, biting back a smile. And it’s all so fucking symmetric and ironic, isn’t it?

Remus is still talking. “The shop was about to open for business and I couldn’t find it in myself to erase your mural, as rude as it was. But I had to, I couldn’t leave it there, so I did. I painted over it. That same day, you were at the coffee shop again, and I worked up the courage to go inside. I wanted to see if you were going to say something to me about it, about your ruined mural. But you didn’t say anything, so I didn’t either. Then, at the inauguration, you tried to act like nothing happened, like we didn’t know each other, and I thought it was cute, so I played along…”

A film starts to play in Sirius’s head as he listens to Remus talking. All their interactions in the past month, every time he blatantly flirted with Remus… “I can’t believe you’ve known the whole time!” He grumbles again, unable to cover the frustration in his voice. He looks up, meeting Remus’s eyes. “Is that– Is that why you said–? Is that why you didn’t want to–?” He stammers, struggling to get the right words out. He wants to ask, ‘Is that why you rejected me?’ but the question gets stuck.

Remus seems to read his mind.

“No. No, that’s not–” The man shakes his head vehemently. He stops himself, pauses and swallows. “I was just insecure, I was in my head about it. You’re just so beautiful, and so young. And I felt guilty. About how much I wanted you, about what it would mean about me, if I pursued this thing–”

“Remus…” Sirius tries to interrupt, shaking his head. “That’s not–”

“No, let me finish, please.” Remus insists, his voice steady but tinged with emotion. “I was an idiot that day, and I’m sorry. But then you started avoiding me, and you never painted another mural, and I started questioning–” He runs his hand through his face, exhaling deeply. “Fuck, I feel so pathetic admitting this. But I started questioning if you had, I don’t know, moved on? Got bored, found someone your age and shit– That hurt. And it was when I realised that I really liked you.” He pauses, taking another deep breath. “So I put up the new plaque, the invitation. To see if you’d… if you’d come back.”

“I wasn’t avoiding you. I was just swamped with exams,” Sirius mutters, a bit defensively, but Remus is being so honest, he feels like he’s got to be honest too. His tone softens. “And, uh. I thought you were rejecting me, and it hurt.”

“I’m sorry,” Remus whispers with pleading eyes.

Sirius blinks, feeling absurd. Remus is sitting here, apologising, when he’s the one who–

“Fuck, I was such a dipshit to you,” he says with a reluctant laugh. “I’m sorry for ruining your wall over and over again. I was just being stubborn, and childish, and you didn’t deserve that. I totally understand if you don’t want to have anything to do with me–”

“Sirius–”

“But I– I hope you’ll accept my apology? And I hope that mural out there makes up for it, I– I hope you still like… it.” He almost finishes the sentence with ‘me’ instead of ‘it’, but that would’ve been too pathetic.

Remus stands up and extends his hand to Sirius, urging him to his feet. They’re close in the cramped kitchenette, and Remus’s gaze is gentle as he holds Sirius’s eyes. “Yes, I accept your apology. And yes, I still like your mural.” He raises a hand, tucking a strand of Sirius’s hair behind his ear. “It totally makes up for everything, it’s so beautiful,” he adds, leaning down to nuzzle Sirius’s neck, his breath warm against the boy’s skin. “You’re so beautiful…”

Sirius bites his lip, struggling to contain a smile. “And you still… like me?” he murmurs.

Remus pulls back slightly, meeting Sirius’s eyes. “I do,” he replies, his hand gently caressing Sirius’s cheek.

The boy leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. “I really like you too,” he whispers, as if sharing a secret.

Remus chuckles softly. “I’m going to kiss you again, okay?”

“Okay,” Sirius breathes, his voice barely audible.

Then, he does. Remus kisses Sirius again, slow at first, mirroring the kiss they shared outside on the sidewalk. He brushes his lips against Sirius’s, their tongues meeting, lips sliding together. But the kiss is different this time, more intimate, now that they’re enclosed in the tiny, dimly lit kitchenette. The cramped space seems to only amplify their closeness, and the earlier nervousness has melted away, replaced by the comfort of their shared confessions. The kiss deepens naturally, like a barrier has been broken. There’s no turning back.

Soon, Remus has Sirius pressed against the doorframe of the kitchenette, his hands gripping the sides of Sirius’s body, slipping under his T-shirt. Sirius gasps, his head thudding back against the doorframe, the sound muffled by Remus’s soft chuckle.

The man trails kisses from Sirius’s mouth down his jawline, biting gently at his neck. The sensation sends a shiver through Sirius, and a low moan escapes his lips as he arches back, feeling the heat of Remus’s body. Remus’s thigh slides firmly between his legs, pinning him more securely against the doorframe.

“Fuck,” Sirius breathes, shaky, rocking back against Remus’s thigh, and he’s already so hard it’s embarrassing. But how could he not be? He’s been fantasising about this forever .

Remus pulls back for a moment, breathing heavily. He cradles Sirius’s face in his hands, his gaze intense as he searches Sirius’s eyes. “Wait– Is this going too fast? We can stop–”

“Shut up,” Sirius whines, wrapping his arms around Remus’s neck, pulling him closer. “Shut up, just touch me.” He bites Remus’s lower lip, a desperate plea. “Touch me, please.”

Remus lets out a sound that’s almost a snarl, wrapping his arms around Sirius and pulling him away from the doorframe. Their lips meet again, more urgently this time, as Remus steers them out of the kitchenette and into the bookshop. Sirius sucks on Remus’s upper lip, pulling him closer by the shoulders as he backs away until his arse bumps against what he guesses is the bookshop’s counter.

Remus’s hands travel down Sirius’s body, pausing to squeeze his arse before hoisting him onto the counter, positioning himself between Sirius’s knees. He pulls back slightly, his gaze roaming over the boy’s face, as if trying to memorise every detail. “Fuck–” he breathes shakily. “I’ve wanted to do this for so long, you have no idea…”

Sirius smiles, reaching up to touch Remus’s cheek, feeling the soft stubble prickling his palm. “Oh, I think I do, actually,” he whispers back.

The man shakes his head slowly, a sly smile curling on his lips as his hands grip Sirius’s hips with newfound force. “No, you don’t,” he whispers against Sirius’s face, rolling his hips with deliberate pressure that draws a gasp from Sirius. “You don’t, because I was the one who had to watch you parading around in these stupid fucking skinny black jeans–” He snarls, fingers tugging sharply at Sirius’s waistband. “Every day– Fuck– all I could think about was taking them off.”

The low, husky tone of Remus's voice is a stark contrast to his usual gentle demeanour, and Sirius wasn’t prepared for this at all. It’s as if a different person has emerged from beneath the layers of wool and tweed, and while Sirius has fantasised about this for weeks, seeing it unfold before him? Fuck– He moans into Remus’s mouth, arching his back to amplify the delicious friction against his aching dick.

“Oh, you like that, do you?” Remus asks, maintaining his teasing tone as his hands slide under Sirius’s shirt, fingertips exploring the contours of his stomach and chest. “Is that what you’ve been wanting, huh?”

Sirius leans back, resting against the highest part of the shop counter, looking up at Remus with his most effective bedroom eyes. “Yes,” he breathes, the word almost a sigh, and the intensity of his gaze only deepens. “I touched myself every night, fuck–” His voice falters as Remus’s fingers graze over his nipple, sending a shiver down his spine. “I pretended it was you.”

“Fuck, Sirius–” Remus breathes, his movements growing more urgent as he quickly undoes Sirius’s pants, pulling them down along with his underwear, just enough to free the boy’s cock. Sirius watches with wide eyes as the man licks his lips, then spits into his own palm, wrapping his long fingers around the shaft and stroking with deliberate, teasing slowness to get Sirius wet. The sudden contact makes the boy hiss, his head falling back against the counter’s edge. “Look at me,” Remus commands, and Sirius, with effort, opens his eyes, locking gazes with him. “Like that, huh? You pretended I was touching you like that?”

“Yes,” Sirius tries to respond, but the word dissolves into a helpless moan as he rocks back against Remus’s hand.

The man’s eyes flicker between Sirius’s flushed face and his own hand working expertly on the boy’s cock. “And how is that?” he asks, voice low and thick with desire. “Is it how you imagined it?”

“Better,” Sirius manages to gasp, his voice trembling with pleasure. “It’s so much better– Ah!” His words cut off into a yelp as Remus grips him tighter, his pace quickening.

Remus watches him closely, the flicker of a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he feels Sirius’s body responding to him, completely under his control. He leans down and captures the boy’s lips, then whispers “Fuck– You’re so beautiful, Sirius. How are you even real?”

The constant praise is unravelling him, each word pushing him closer to the edge. Sirius is already teetering on the brink of orgasm, and they haven’t even fully begun. He’s barely touched Remus, his hands itching to explore, to feel more, to give back– but Remus’s touch is so damn good, so overwhelming, that he can’t bring himself to stop.

“Please–,” he hears himself beg, voice cracking between helpless moans against Remus’s mouth.

The man pulls back just enough to look down at him, straightening with a commanding presence that makes Sirius’s heart race even faster. “Please what, baby?” Remus asks, voice rich with a teasing edge. “What do you need?”

Sirius’s breath hitches as he meets his gaze, eyes wide, drowning in the moment. Fuck– did he just call Sirius ‘baby’? Oh dear lord, this is a lost cause. He’s never going to last, not with Remus talking to him like that.

“I’m so close–” He whines, his voice cracking as he tries to rock back against Remus’s grip. But the man has him pinned down, one strong hand on his hip, holding him in place, controlling his movements.

Remus chuckles, the sound smug and almost cruel in its sweetness. “Oh, you’re going to come already, baby?” he taunts, his voice dripping with condescension, hungry eyes dark as they rake over Sirius’s flushed face. “You’re so fucking eager for me, aren’t you?”

Sirius’s breath catches again, his body quivering with anticipation. The way Remus is looking at him, speaking to him– it’s too much. He’s never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, so utterly at the mercy of someone else’s touch. And it’s so good, it’s delicious, exhilarating.

“Remus, please–” He hears himself whine again, his voice betraying how close he is to the edge, how desperately he needs more.

But the man only slows his pace, his hand moving torturously slow over Sirius’s cock, drawing out the moment. “Ah, but you’re such a bad boy, aren’t you?” Remus’s tone is dripping with condescension, each word carefully calculated to elicit another shudder from Sirius. “You love breaking the rules, pushing every limit. But in the end, all you wanted to do was to beg for me to make you come, wasn’t it?”

The words hit Sirius like a physical blow, knocking the breath out of him. Remus’s voice is so smooth, so controlled, but there’s a glint in his eye, a subtle hint of pleasure at watching Sirius unravel. The contrast is dizzying– the softness of his touch, the hardness of his tone, the way he’s completely in control yet still so unmistakably Remus.

And it’s driving Sirius wild.

He arches into the slow, deliberate strokes, desperate for more, for everything. “Yes, yes,” he slurs, the words dissolving into moans as they leave his mouth.

“Then do it,” Remus’s voice is a low growl. “Beg.”

Oh, Fuck–

The command sends a shiver down Sirius’s spine. He locks eyes with Remus, feeling completely exposed and undone. The raw need in his gaze is evident. “Please,” the word comes out barely above a whisper.

“Please what?” Remus presses.

“Please, Remus,” Sirius whines, his eyes darting between the smug smile on Remus’s face and the man’s hand, still moving so torturously slow. The sensation is both unbearable and exquisite. “Please, make me come.”

Remus chuckles, the sound low and satisfying, and speeds up his pace once more, drawing a string of desperate breaths from Sirius. Leaning in, he whispers near Sirius’s ear, “Good boy, come for me, Sirius.” He nips at Sirius’s earlobe before pulling back, his voice rising in volume. “Come on, I want to see you come, baby, come for me.”

Sirius has imagined these exact words from Remus dozens of times, but this– this is so much better. The rhythm of Remus’s hand on his cock speeds up, and the words, the feeling– it’s all Sirius needs for his orgasm to finally crash over him, stronger than ever. He closes his eyes, head thrown back as his hands grasp at the edge of the wooden counter. He knows he’s moaning, nonsensical words leaving his lips, but the sound is distant, muffled, drowned out by the electric waves rippling through his body, surging from head to toe, trembling under Remus’s touch.

The man continues to stroke him, guiding him through the final throes of his orgasm. Then, he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to Sirius’s temple. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind Sirius’s ear, his gaze locking with the boy’s. “You did so good,” he whispers, and the contrast between Remus’s earlier harsh commands and this tender gesture sends a shiver down Sirius’s spine.

The boy barely lets him finish the sentence. He cranes his head up, capturing Remus’s lips with his own, pulling him down for a kiss, desperate to close the distance between them again.

Sirius’s hands find their home in Remus’s hair, and for now, Remus lets him have this tiny bit of control. He sits up on the counter, licking the inside of Remus’s mouth, his hands moving quickly down the man’s body, touching everything he hadn’t had the chance to touch before. The lean but strong arms, the firm chest, the soft skin of his stomach– until they finally land on the bulge in Remus’s pants.

Sirius palms it, pulling away from the kiss just enough to watch as Remus lets out a shuddering breath.

“Remus?” he whispers, his voice tinged with anticipation.

“Yes,” The man groans, leaning into the sensation of Sirius’s teasing touch.

“Take me to your bedroom, please?” He murmurs, planting a trail of soft kisses along Remus’s neck, watching as goosebumps rise on his skin.

“Yeah, okay,” Remus responds in a low whisper. “C’mon.”

The flat above the bookshop doesn’t seem very big. Granted, Sirius only catches glimpses of it as they make their way up the stairs and through the living space, entangled in a messy embrace of slippery lips, clashing teeth, and wandering hands, urgently pulling at each other’s clothes and panting into each other’s mouths.

When they finally reach the small bedroom, Sirius takes in the space: a full-sized bed, a wooden wardrobe, and a window overlooking the street. Maybe it’s the same window where Remus used to watch him from across the street. Maybe it’s also the window where Sirius saw the light flicker on, all those nights ago.

These thoughts flash through Sirius’s mind but vanish as quickly as they come, because how could he possibly think of anything else when he’s finally touching Remus? He’s sliding off the man’s shirt, his hands are roaming over the firm planes of his abdomen, the strong curve of his back. He’s leaning in, nuzzling the patch of hair on Remus’s chest – that same one that has been driving him insane every bloody time Remus wears a button-down with the top buttons undone.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sirius pulls Remus closer, the man positioning himself in between his knees. He looks up, shooting his most sensual eyes up at Remus. “You’re so fucking hot, did you know that?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just above the waistband of Remus’s pants. “So handsome…”

Remus shudders, a smile tugging at his lips as his hand finds its way to Sirius’s hair. The boy doesn’t waste any time, his hands already in motion, undoing the button of Remus’s trousers. The zipper whispers open, and he yanks them down in one swift motion. The man kicks them off to the side, leaving Sirius face-to-face with the outline of his cotton-covered bulge.

Fuck– he’s spent weeks fantasizing about this, and now it’s finally happening.

Sirius tugs at the waistband of Remus’s underwear – boxer briefs, this time – and his breath catches at the sight. He’s always imagined it would be big – thick, long, and gorgeous – but the reality exceeds his wildest dreams.

Sirius looks up at Remus, his eyes wide with anticipation. “Can I suck you?” he asks, mouth watering at the thought.

Remus’s hand moves to Sirius’s cheek, his touch very gentle. “You can do anything you want, baby,” he whispers, his tone soft yet still very much in charge. Sirius’s lips curl into a smile at the words, heart racing.

The man’s fingers tangle in Sirius’s hair, a firm but tender grip guiding him. Sirius hears the low, throaty groan that escapes Remus as he takes him in his mouth and begins to bob his head, saliva pooling in his mouth as he works to get it nice and wet. His hand moves at the base, stroking in time with his mouth, covering what he can’t fit.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so fucking good at this,” Remus groans, already sounding breathless. The praise sends a jolt of pleasure through Sirius, and if he could, he’d be smiling around Remus’s cock.

Instead, he hums in response, the vibration pulling another deep groan from Remus as he bucks his hips forward, a bit too harshly. Sirius’s throat tightens, and he gags, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as he pulls off, coughing and gasping for air.

Remus’s grip on his hair immediately loosens, concern flashing across his face. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–” he starts, but Sirius interrupts him with a hoarse laugh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“It’s fine,” Sirius reassures, his voice a little strained but steady. He looks up at Remus with a proud smile curling his lips. “You just caught me by surprise. But you can fuck my mouth, if you want to.” The offer is bold, laced with challenge.

Remus hesitates, biting his lower lip as his gaze flickers down to Sirius’s lips. He reaches out, thumb brushing away the spit that’s gathered at the corner of the boy’s mouth. “You have such a dirty mouth,” he murmurs with a mix of affection and lust. Then, he leans down, tilting Sirius’s chin up to claim his lips in a heated, messy kiss. “I’d love to, but I don’t want to hurt you, baby,” he whispers against his mouth.

Sirius’s smile returns as he sucks the man’s bottom lip into his mouth, releasing it with a soft pop. “I like it,” he breathes. “Please?”

He watches as Remus’s eyes darken, a dangerous glint flickering within them. The hand that was softly caressing Sirius’s cheek suddenly grips his hair, yanking his head further back with a roughness that sends a thrill coursing through his veins. Sirius hisses, his cock rapidly hardening again at the sudden, harsh touch.

“Oh, you like it?” Remus challenges, dripping with authority as he tightens his grip, forcing Sirius to look up at him. “You want me to hurt you?”

The words alone make Sirius’s whole body shudder, a wave of need crashing over him. The sharp tug on his hair makes his scalp prickle in the best way possible. “Yes,” he breathes out, his voice trembling with anticipation. “Yes, please.”

Remus’s lips curl into a smirk, his grip on the boy’s hair unrelenting. “Who would’ve thought you’d be such a good boy for me, huh, Sirius?” His tone is mocking, but it only fuels the fire in Sirius’s belly. He releases the tension slightly, and Sirius’s mind races.

He wants to shoot back something clever, something about how Remus, with his grandpa jumpers and quiet demeanour, never seemed like the type to take charge like this. But the words get lost somewhere between his brain and his tongue, swallowed up by the intensity of the moment. All he can do is stare up at Remus, utterly at his mercy.

“Well, you want it so bad,” Remus whispers, his tone softening slightly, but with an edge of condescension. “And my good boy gets anything he wants, doesn’t he?”

Sirius nods, trembling with need. Fuck– this is so hot , he thinks, every nerve in his body on high alert, attuned to every word, every touch.

“Open your beautiful mouth, then, baby,” Remus murmurs, smiling.

Sirius obeys without hesitation, his lips parting wide as he locks his eyes onto Remus’s. The man guides himself into Sirius’s mouth again, and he closes his lips around him, feeling the heat, the weight, the taste flooding his senses. Remus’s hands are back in his hair, tangling in the strands, and when he gives a soft yank, it sends a jolt of pleasure shooting down Sirius’s spine, all the way to his throbbing cock.

The mixture of pain and pleasure is intoxicating, and Sirius moans around Remus’s length, the vibrations making the man above him groan. He loves this– loves being at Remus’s mercy, loves the way Remus takes control, commanding him with just a touch and a few well-chosen words. Every part of him feels like it’s on fire.

Sirius strives to keep his eyes open, locking with Remus’s in a silent challenge. He watches as Remus’s expression shifts, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he pushes deeper, urging Sirius to take all of him. The plump flesh hits the back of his throat, triggering a gag reflex, but Sirius swallows around it, forcing his throat open as he pushes his face further until his nose is buried in the coarse hair at Remus’s base. A muffled hum escapes his lips, vibrating around Remus’s cock.

“Oh, you’re so good at that,” Remus murmurs in a husky voice, and Sirius realises he has closed his eyes. “Taking me like such a good boy.” The words send a jolt of heat through Sirius, making him want to open his eyes again, to see the expression on Remus’s face.

The grip in his hair tightens, fingers digging into his scalp, sending sharp tingles through his skin. He feels Remus’s body tensing, the twitch in his thigh, the subtle tremor of anticipation. Then, Remus begins to move, thrusting in and out of Sirius’s throat, fucking his mouth. “You look so pretty like that, Sirius, you have no idea,” he says between ragged breaths.

Sirius doesn’t move. He keeps his hands on his lap, surrendering completely to the sensation, feeling the burn in his throat with each thrust, the searing stretch as he takes Remus deeper. His scalp tingles under the pressure of the hands gripping his hair, and the tears he’s been holding back finally spill over, streaming down his cheeks, mingling with the heat of the moment. It’s overwhelming – but in the best possible way. The rawness of it, the intensity – it’s more than he ever imagined, and he never wants it to stop.

A choked whimper escapes Sirius’s lips as he glances up at Remus, his vision blurred by a soft sheen of tears coating his lashes. The sight makes Remus’s breath hitch, and he slows his pace, panting heavily as he gazes down at him. “You’re gonna make me come, baby,” he rasps, slipping out of Sirius’s mouth.

“Please,” Sirius whispers, his voice hoarse and raw, his throat burning. He widens his eyes. “I want to.”

Remus chuckles softly, leaning in to capture Sirius’s lips in a kiss that’s both tender and possessive. “Oh, baby,” he teases, his smile pressing against Sirius’s lips, “I’m not eighteen anymore. And I’m not anywhere near being done with you yet.”

The man’s hands cradle his face, the warmth of his palms grounding him in the moment, anchoring him in the reality of what’s happening. The kiss deepens, their breaths mingling, and Sirius wraps his arms around Remus, pulling him down and over him on the bed.

They scramble back onto the mattress, lips still locked in a heated embrace, a tangle of limbs and urgency. Sirius’s heart races as he feels Remus’s hands slipping beneath his shirt, tugging it off before his lips begin their descent. A shiver runs through Sirius as Remus’s mouth travels down his neck, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. When he licks over one of Sirius’s nipples, then sucks it into his mouth, catching it gently between his teeth, Sirius hisses, arching into the touch.

Remus’s kisses move lower, grazing over Sirius’s stomach, the muscles tightening under his lips. He pauses at the boy’s hips, sucking a bruise onto the sharp edge of his hip bone. The anticipation builds as Remus yanks down his tight pants, the fabric resisting before finally sliding off, leaving Sirius exposed and vulnerable beneath him.

Sitting back between Sirius’s legs, Remus takes him in, a reverent expression on his face. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful, Sirius,” he breathes out.

He keeps saying it, over and over again, like he can’t help himself. The words wash over Sirius, each one making his heart swell with something he can’t quite name. He knows he’s easy on the eyes, but hearing it from Remus, in this moment, hits him differently. It’s like nothing he’s ever experienced before, and it leaves him blushing, unsure of how to respond.

He averts his gaze, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks, a small smile tugging at his lips. Remus notices, though, and leans in to kiss the blush on his face. “You’ll have to get used to me complimenting you, baby,” he whispers against Sirius’s cheek, his breath warm and intimate. “‘Cause I’m not going to stop anytime soon.”

Sirius giggles, but it quickly transforms into a breathy moan as Remus takes him into his mouth. The sudden shift in sensation – Remus’s tongue swirling around the tip, coaxing out the pre-come – sends a shudder through his body. His hands instinctively grasp at the sheets, fingers curling into the fabric as he fights to keep himself grounded.

But Remus doesn’t linger long. With a soft pop, he releases Sirius, only to move lower. Sirius’s breath hitches as he feels the man’s strong hands lifting his hips slightly, granting him better access. The anticipation coils tightly in his stomach, and then Remus’s tongue traces a long, deliberate strip from behind his balls down to his crack, lingering at his entrance.

Sirius trembles, his entire body attuned to the sensation, the slow, deliberate lapping sending electric shocks of pleasure through him. This position has him feeling more exposed and vulnerable than he’s ever felt before, but he doesn’t have the presence of mind to dwell on fear or embarrassment. The sheets bunched in his fists are the only things keeping him tethered to reality as Remus’s tongue works him open, each stroke drawing out soft, desperate sounds that fill the room.

“Is this okay, baby?” Remus asks, pulling back slightly. His voice is serious. This is a check-in.

But Sirius can only whine at the sudden emptiness, the loss of contact making his body ache with need. Writhing beneath him, trying to pull Remus closer again, he whispers, “Yes, oh God, keep going, please.”

Remus responds with a soft, low chuckle. He nips at the soft flesh of Sirius’s arsecheek, drawing a sharp yelp from him. “I’m going to use my fingers. Is that okay?”

The mere thought makes his breath catch in his throat as a thick drop of pre-come leaking from his now neglected cock. He sinks further into the pillows, his eyes squeezing shut in anticipation. “Fuck—” he moans, “Yes, however many you want.”

Another soft bite lands on his arse, and then Remus’s tongue soothes the sting with a slow, deliberate lick. Sirius’s heart pounds in his chest, each touch sending a jolt of pleasure straight to his core. “So eager, my good boy,” Remus praises, his voice warm and approving. He feels Remus release his hip, the bed shifting as he raises to his knees, searching for something on the nightstand.

He then leans down, placing a chaste kiss on Sirius’s lips. “Turn around, baby, on your stomach,” he whispers against Sirius’s mouth.

Sirius obeys without hesitation, the cool air hitting his skin as he rolls over. He listens intently as Remus fumbles with the bottle of lube, the soft click of the cap opening, and then lays on his side, his body pressing close to Sirius’s. The cold lube touches his entrance, making Sirius hiss at the initial shock. But Remus is gentle, his fingertips gliding smoothly around the sensitive area, and it quickly warms up as Sirius feels the tip of one of Remus’s fingers push inside him.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” Remus murmurs, low and soothing. He’s so close to Sirius’s face that his hot breath fans across his cheek, making Sirius’s skin prickle.

A muffled moan escapes Sirius’s lips, half-buried in the pillows, as he welcomes the intrusion. The finger slides deeper, the sensation of being filled, even just a little, making his whole body hum with pleasure. “Not hurting,” he breathes out between ragged breaths, his voice shaky but sure. “Not hurting at all.”

Remus’s hand stays steady, fingers gently probing deeper, coaxing soft, breathy sounds from Sirius’s lips. Each movement is deliberate, calculated, and when Remus’s lips brush lightly against his temple, the tender gesture makes Sirius’s heart swell with warmth.

“Is this still okay, baby?” Remus asks, and Sirius barely manages a nod before he feels the careful insertion of a second finger, followed by a third after a few moments of adjustment. The stretch is intense, but Sirius welcomes it, his body gradually relaxing, surrendering fully to the sensation as he melts into the mattress.

Then Remus shifts his fingers just right, pressing firmly against that hidden bundle of nerves. The pleasure hits Sirius like a bolt of lightning, his entire body jolting as a strangled cry escapes his lips. Instinctively, his back arches, and he begins to rock against Remus’s fingers, the friction against the mattress heightening his arousal, causing his cock to leak a slick trail onto the sheets beneath him.

“Did that feel good, baby?” Remus’s voice cuts through the haze, that condescending edge sending another wave of heat through Sirius.

“Fuck yeah,” Sirius tries to respond, aiming for playful, but the words come out breathless, tinged with desperation. His voice melts into a series of helpless moans as he ruts against the mattress, chasing the pleasure that Remus is expertly drawing out of him.

Remus moves over him, hot breath against Sirius’s skin as he places tender kisses along the nape of his neck, down to his shoulder, and then along the curve of his back. “Could you come like that, Sirius?” he whispers, a mixture of challenge and affection.

Sirius hasn’t ever before, but right now, it does feel like a real possibility. His body is coiled tight with pleasure, teetering on the edge, and the way Remus’s fingers expertly move inside him is pushing him closer and closer. Words escape him; all he can manage is an endless stream of “yes, yes, yes,” tumbling from his lips, almost involuntarily.

“Fuck, baby, I love to listen to those sounds you’re making,” Remus groans against his neck, raw with need. “You’re driving me fucking insane,” he adds, strained, as though he’s just as close to losing control.

The words send a fresh wave of arousal through Sirius, his cock twitching in response. Remus’s wrist movements speed up, the rhythm relentless and precise, and Sirius feels like he’s about to unravel. He’s never felt anything like this before – so utterly consumed, so completely at the mercy of someone else’s touch. And yet, in the midst of it all, there’s a profound sense of safety, of being cared for in a way that makes his heart ache with something far deeper than mere lust.

“C’mon, baby, come on my fingers,” Remus finally whispers into his ear, the words low and husky. Whether this is coaxing, a command, or permission, Sirius doesn’t know – and it doesn’t matter. The moment the words reach him, it’s like a trigger, releasing the tension in his body all at once. His orgasm crashes over him in waves, pleasure coursing down his spine as he feels the warm spurts of come soak into the sheets beneath him.

When the world comes back into focus, he feels Remus gently withdrawing his fingers, the touch delicate, followed by soft, warm kisses placed on his hair and face. Sirius turns to his side, facing the man who’s been both his anchor and his undoing, and captures his lips in a messy, desperate kiss. His breath is still ragged, coming in gasps against Remus’s mouth, his heart gradually slowing its wild rhythm.

Remus pulls back just slightly, his hand tenderly caressing Sirius’s face, brushing away the stray hairs that have fallen across his eyes. “Are you okay, baby?” he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to Sirius’s cheek.

“Oh my God, so okay,” Sirius responds, a soft chuckle escaping him as he tries to nuzzle even closer, despite there being no space left between them. Wrapping one leg over Remus, Sirius grins as he feels the man’s hardness pressing against his hip. A mischievous glint in his eyes, he rolls his hips playfully, drawing a gasp and a sharp hiss from Remus. “Fuck, you’re so hard–” he murmurs, reaching down to wrap his hand around Remus’s big cock, giving it a slow, tentative stroke.

Remus groans, pressing his face into the crook of Sirius’s neck, his breath hot against his skin. He arches into the touch, helplessly thrusting into Sirius’s closed hand. “I wasn’t lying– you really are driving me insane,” he breathes out, the words shaky as he struggles to maintain control. But then, just as the tension builds, he stills his hips and pulls back slightly, his eyes searching Sirius’s with genuine concern. “But we don’t have to– I mean, if you’re not ready, we don’t have to do everything tonight.”

Sirius blinks, eyes widening in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?” He asks, his tone teasing but with a hint of urgency underneath. “After all that, you’re not going to fuck me?” He can’t help the smirk that tugs at his lips as he starts to stroke Remus’s cock again, slow and deliberate. “No, I get it– you want me to beg again, don’t you? ‘Cause I will beg–”

Remus rolls his eyes in exaggerated exasperation, though a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I was just asking–”

“Oh, Remus, please,” Sirius interrupts, laying it on thick with a feigned sensual tone, his voice dripping with mock desperation. “Fuck me, I’m begging you, please– I need your giant cock inside of me right– AH!” His words are cut off by a sharp yelp as Remus bites down on his shoulder.

The man flips Sirius onto his back, his strong hands quickly pinning both of Sirius’s wrists above his head. He hovers over him, an amused smile tugging at his lips as he looks down at the boy, who’s still trying to stifle a laugh despite the sudden shift in the mood.

“Can’t get too soft with you, huh? You absolute brat,” Remus teases, his voice taking on that authoritative edge again, the one that makes Sirius’s pulse quicken. “No need for begging. I already told you, my good boy gets anything he wants.” He cocks an eyebrow at him, a playful glint in his eyes. “But you’ve gotta be good.”

Sirius swallows, his heart racing as he looks up at Remus, the weight of his body holding him down in the most delicious way. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, biting back a giggle, though the sudden seriousness in Remus’s tone has him breathless again. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

“I know you’ll be good,” Remus whispers, his voice low and teasing as he positions a pillow beneath Sirius’s hips in a practised motion. “‘Cause you really want to be fucked, don’t you?” The playful tone in his voice is unmistakable. An eyebrow quirks up as Remus reaches into the bedside table again.

Sirius watches, practically mesmerised, as Remus tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth, then looks down at himself, sliding the condom over his thick, eager cock. And God, it’s a sight that sears itself into Sirius’s mind, one of those moments he knows he’ll replay over and over again– forever burned into his memory.

“Fucked by you?” Sirius teases, his voice thick with arousal, almost drooling at the sight before him. “Oh, yeah,” he agrees, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Remus chuckles softly, his laugh rumbling through the air as he slicks himself with an extra layer of lube. He then wraps Sirius’s legs around his waist and leans over him, the weight of his body pressing down just right. Their eyes meet– Remus’s filled with that unspoken question. But before he can even voice it, Sirius nods eagerly, his hands already reaching up to wrap around Remus’s broad shoulders, pulling him closer.

As Remus slides in, it burns– like it always does. But the sensation isn’t frightening or uncomfortable, not with Remus. There’s a trust between them, a deep understanding that Remus will make it good for him, and that knowledge steadies Sirius. He bites down on his lip, suppressing a groan, and focuses on his breathing as the burn slowly subsides, replaced by a growing warmth.

When Remus bottoms out, he leans in closer, his forehead resting against Sirius’s as he sucks gently on Sirius’s bottom lip. His voice, a hushed murmur, vibrates against Sirius’s mouth. “Oh God, Sirius, you feel so good, so good.”

Sirius’s eyes are squeezed shut, overwhelmed by the sensation, but he forces them open. The sight that greets him is nothing short of breathtaking– Remus’s face contorted in pure bliss, eyebrows drawn together in desperate need, pupils blown wide, and his lips parted as if he’s on the brink of losing control. Knowing that he’s the one responsible for that look, for giving this man such pleasure, it’s intoxicating, almost dizzying.

One of Sirius’s hands moves from where it grips Remus’s back, sliding up to touch his cheek. The soft, scratchy feel of stubble under his palm grounds him, and when Remus leans into the touch, a faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Their lips meet again, the kiss messy and full of urgency.

As Sirius feels his body relax further, muscles softening around Remus, he whispers against the man’s lips, his voice barely more than a breath. “I’m okay, you can move now.”

Remus moves slowly at first, just rolling his hips in a steady, controlled rhythm, but even that pace draws sharp gasps from both of them, their breaths mingling in the small space between their lips. Each movement brings them closer, lips brushing and retreating with every shift. Sirius’s legs spread wider on their own accord, hooking around Remus’s hips, trying to coax him deeper, urging him with a subtle push against his rear. But Remus holds back, keeping the thrusts shallow, deliberate.

“I’m not going to break, you know,” Sirius teases, breathy as he leans in to whisper in Remus’s ear. “You can fuck me for real.”

Remus chuckles softly, shaking his head in disbelief. With a quick, practised motion, he pins both of Sirius’s wrists above his head with one hand, never breaking the rhythm of his hips. “You’re fucking incorrigible,” he mutters, strained, each word punctuated by a slow, deliberate thrust.

Sirius giggles, a playful light dancing in his eyes. “Oh, but you said I could get anything I wanted if I was good,” he purrs, craning his neck to whisper close to Remus’s ear again. “And I’ve been good, haven’t I, Remus?”

A visible shiver runs through Remus, goosebumps rising along his skin as Sirius’s words wash over him. “Yes, you have been good,” Remus concedes in a mix of affection and arousal. He nuzzles into Sirius’s neck, his lips brushing against sensitive skin as his thrusts pick up a slightly faster pace, the friction between their bodies intensifying. “So good, baby, so, so good,” Remus groans into Sirius’s neck, and the boy’s breath hitches, his hips instinctively rising to meet Remus’s. The man pulls back again, locking eyes with Sirius, his expression a blend of amusement and desire. “You want me to fuck you hard , is that it?”

The answer is clear in the way Sirius’s body reacts, the way he arches up into Remus’s touch, the way his eyes darken with need, but he answers with words anyway. “I want you to fuck me until I’m crying,” he says.

The effect is immediate– Remus groans, his restraint unravelling as he hooks one of Sirius’s legs over his shoulder, folding him nearly in half. The shift in position has Sirius’s breath hitching, and then Remus picks up the pace, thrusting with a new, punishing rhythm that sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through Sirius. The angle is perfect– so perfect that Sirius’s vision blurs, stars bursting behind his eyelids.

“How’s that, baby?” Remus’s voice is rough, each word strained and punctuated by deep, powerful thrusts. “Is that what you wanted?”

“Oh, God, yes, fuck, fuck, yes,” Sirius slurs, the words tumbling from his lips in a disjointed stream, the pleasure too overwhelming to form coherent sentences. Each thrust hits that sweet spot inside him, sending jolts of ecstasy through his body, making him shudder and gasp.

Somehow, against all odds, he’s hard again – throbbing, leaking against his stomach, the slick mess smearing between their bodies. It seems impossible that he could come a third time, but the way Remus is fucking him, relentless and deep, makes him crave that release with a desperation that’s almost painful.

“So pretty, falling apart on my cock,” Remus praises, and it seems like he’s trying to maintain that collected, condescending tone, but his voice betrays him, rising in pitch, his own control likely slipping as he loses himself in the sensation of Sirius tightening around him.

The combination of Remus’s rough praise and the unrelenting pace is driving Sirius closer to the edge, the pleasure building in a way that feels like it might break him apart. Sirius’s hand instinctively reaches down to touch himself, but Remus swats it away with a breathless, yet firm, command. “That’s my job,” he says. “Ask for it, baby.”

The words tumble out of Sirius’s mouth without hesitation, driven by sheer need. “Touch me, fuck– Make me come again, Remus, please.”

A satisfied smile plays on Remus’s lips as he praises, “Good boy, using your words.” His hand wraps around Sirius’s aching cock, the touch electrifying, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through Sirius’s already overstimulated body.

Sirius tries to stifle his moans, biting down on his lip, but the effort is futile.

“No, baby,” Remus murmurs as he starts stroking, firm and deliberate. “Let me hear you. Let me hear you as you come for me again.”

It doesn’t take long. The combination of Remus’s relentless pace, thrusting deep and hard, and the expert movements of his hand on Sirius’s cock, drives him to the brink. The orgasm tears through him, leaving him gasping as his body shudders uncontrollably, the sensation so intense that it feels like there’s nothing left to give, yet he comes anyway, trembling and clenching around Remus.

The tightness around him, coupled with the sight and sound of Sirius falling apart, is likely enough to push Remus over the edge. A deep, guttural groan escapes his throat as his thrusts turn erratic, his face contorting in pure, unfiltered pleasure. He rides out his orgasm with a few more powerful thrusts, and then, spent, collapses on top of Sirius.

Sirius can feel the rapid thrum of Remus’s heartbeat, their chests heaving together as they both struggle to catch their breath. The weight of Remus on top of him is grounding, comforting, and Sirius wraps his arms around the man, holding him close as the last waves of pleasure slowly ebb away, leaving them in a warm, shared afterglow.

It takes a moment, but as Remus pulls off and falls onto his back beside him, Sirius feels like he can finally speak again. “Oh my God,” he breathes out with a disbelieving laugh, “Where did all of that come from?”

Remus chuckles, turning his head to lock eyes with Sirius. “What?” he asks, frowning slightly, though his expression is pure, contented bliss.

“Who would’ve thought there was such a Dom lying dormant behind the retired professor look?” Sirius clarifies, a teasing smile curling his lips as he moves closer, resting his head on Remus’s chest, that immediately rumbles with another soft chuckle.

“Oh, baby,” he says, amused, “You haven’t seen the half of it.”

Sirius’s jaw drops in mock shock, his eyes widening as he jolts up to look at Remus. It’s pure excitement, though Remus seems to mistake it for something else. Concern flashes across his face as he quickly hoists himself up, pulling Sirius back down onto the bed and hovering over him.

“I’m never going to do anything you don’t want to, okay?” Remus reassures, his tone serious but gentle, eyes searching Sirius’s for any sign of discomfort.

Sirius giggles, wrapping his arms around Remus and pulling him down for a brief, tender kiss. “Oh, I have a feeling I’m going to want the whole thing,” he whispers.

Laying in bed, staring at the darkened ceiling, they talk, and they talk, and they talk. The silence of the night wraps around them, broken only by their soft voices as they share pieces of themselves.

Remus explains why he decided to quit teaching, that he loved it, but the burnout was relentless, so in the end, he decided to take one of the most terrible things that had ever happened to him – his father’s death – and do something good with it. “I sold the old man’s farm,” he says, “and used the money, plus all my life’s savings, to invest in the bookshop.”

Hearing this, Sirius feels a sharp pang of guilt, which grows the more he thinks about it. For nearly fifteen minutes, he tries to convince Remus to let him reimburse him for all the paint jobs he did. But Remus just shakes his head, brushing off the offer with a small smile.

That’s also when Sirius shares that despite being disinherited by his parents, he’s swimming in money, all thanks to his late uncle Alphard, who left him everything when he passed away last year. Sirius also explains why the wall was so important to him, why he was so furious when it was painted over, and how it makes him sad that he and Regulus don’t talk anymore. He’s not sure what to expect, but when Remus apologises, it catches him off guard – and he finds it immensely sweet.

They talk about Remus’s friends and Sirius’s classes. When the subject of James comes up, Remus assures him that Lily comes in the bookshop all the time and that, on more than one occasion, Remus has caught her staring out the window into the café and sighing dreamingly.

As the birds outside begin to chirp louder and the first rays of sunshine filter through the window, Sirius suddenly sits up in bed, his heart skipping a beat. “Shit, all my stuff is still out there, in front of the wall!” he exclaims as the realisation hits him.

Remus, who had been lying peacefully beside him, immediately sits up as well, concern flashing across his face. “Oh, right,” he agrees, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Let’s go.”

It’s still fairly early, the street hushed and still, with all the shops closed, their signs dark. The first light of morning casts a soft glow on the pavement, and thankfully, all of Sirius’s belongings are intact, scattered brushes and spray cans exactly where he left them. He gathers everything, stuffing the supplies into his bag.

When he straightens up, he notices Remus standing on the edge of the sidewalk, his gaze fixed on the mural with a glint of wonder in his eyes.

“I can’t believe you painted all of this,” Remus murmurs, admiration clear in his voice. “It’s really beautiful.”

Sirius smiles, the compliment warming him, and leaves the bag on the ground, taking a few steps to stand beside Remus. Together, they admire the vibrant colours and intricate details, the mural taking on a new life in the soft morning light. “You really like it?” he asks, a thread of insecurity gnawing at him despite everything that has happened since last night.

“I love it,” Remus says, turning to face him, his eyes soft as he wraps his arms around Sirius’s waist. “It’s perfect, and I bet it’s going to attract loads of attention to the shop. It was really worth all the money I spent on paint jobs,” he teases affectionately.

Sirius’s eyes linger for a beat longer on the mural.

The background is a tapestry of bookshelves, filled with hundreds of colourful volumes that he painted one by one. Each book, meticulously crafted, holds a story of its own. Some of the spines bear titles of famous books, while others carry quotes that resonate deeply with him. Among them, he ensured the original quote that once graced the wall remained in place: “One day I was walking and I tripped, tomorrow it could be you.” Nearby, the words Remus shared with him echo in vibrant letters: “Art exists because life is not enough.”

In the foreground, a stylized anthropomorphized wolf stands proud, reading glasses perched smartly on its snout as it delves into a book. Sirius had dedicated countless hours to perfecting the wolf, making sure it was undeniably cool and exactly as he had imagined.

“Have you added your inscription at the bottom?” Remus asks, his voice softening as he recalls what Sirius had shared earlier in the bedroom. “Your brother’s?”

“Oh, no, I didn’t,” Sirius replies. He was going to, last night, but then– well, he got distracted, let’s just say that. “Can I?”

“Of course,” Remus says, a warm smile tugging at his lips as he gestures toward the mural.

Sirius finds the black marker in his bag, kneels down, and carefully adds the inscription just below the giant book the wolf is holding. He writes ‘R & S 1996’ and then ‘2005’ beside it.

Once he’s done, he stands and turns to face Remus, who is watching him with an attentive gaze. Sirius takes a deep breath and speaks, something he’s been mulling over for days. “It’s like that thing you told me, that Nietzsche said,” he begins, wrapping his arms around Remus’s shoulders and looking up at him. “About how we have art to not die of the truth?”

Remus nods to signal that he’s following, but his expression is very puzzled. “Well, I really get that. I feel like I had to ruin your wall with my graffiti because, otherwise, I would have died of the truth, you know. Of the fact that I have to face it– I’m growing up, things are changing. I’m not that kid anymore, the one who sat and waited for his dad to pick him up,” he swallows, trying to gather his thoughts. “‘Cause no one’s picking me up anymore. I’m a grown up now, I have to pick myself up, and that’s super scary.”

Remus seems to understand, because his eyes soften, and he pulls Sirius closer, his embrace warm and comforting. “But now, with this mural,” Sirius says, his smile returning as he gestures towards the mural, “This I feel like I had to paint because, otherwise, I would choke myself on the absurd and absolutely terrifying truth that I–” He hesitates for a moment, then decides to take the leap. “That I’m falling in love with you.”

His heart races as he looks up at Remus, waiting for his reaction.

Remus’s eyes widen slightly, and lets out a shuddery breath that quickly morphs into a disbelieving laugh. He pulls Sirius closer, almost lifting him off the ground, and closes the distance between them with a passionate kiss. “Well, that’s very fitting, because I’m very much falling in love with you too,” he confesses against Sirius's lips, his smile widening before deepening their embrace.

They kiss for about three seconds.

It would’ve been longer, if they hadn’t been interrupted by a loud yell of “WHAT THE FUCK?” followed by a resounding crash that echoes through the street.

They pull apart, bewildered, searching for the source of the commotion, until their eyes land on James – across the street, sprawled out on the pavement beside his bike, which has clearly collided with a trash can.

A dazed but curious smile is plastered across his face. “Shit, how long have I been away?!” He exclaims.

Notes:

I had THE MOST FUN writing this, I love this Sirius so much he’s actually everything to me. :’) I honestly hope someone out there loves this as much as I do, and if you do, please, don’t refrain from leaving a kudo or a comment. I love hearing the reader's thoughts! <3
You can find me on tumblr (@magicbeings) or tiktok (@magicbeingss)
xx
Mia

Actions

Kudos

asitshouldbe, DearestMoony, l0v3r_k1d, threetreestotheleft, LocalBookNerd26, caz4jegulus, aemondscar, ivyindia, hognose_snake2009, Hellhex, Viickiie_luck4kk2, ScienceCat13, MamaLarry28, Sagahhhhh, 1995Trillian, Anemone_nemerosa, Miniberry, usernumber, CantStandMeNow11, yeerba_mate, Lazuleep, LouLovesReading_77, hp_txt, sensitive_bore04, takeiteasybuttakeit, purplegiraffe21, LeeKnowIsMyLife, earthlupin, juneeflow, massivewhoops, Moonlovekat_88, jenoodles, I_am_irrelevent, dumbledores_army, reg_failed_swim_lessons, Ponzietta, jegulusisbloodytragicbutworthit, Stupidassfangirl, ch_intown, skippinginclouds, hanniemoon02, p00hthebear, Nikki__2024, Nessieschild, bela_valdis, Carperthv3, jegulusfreak, accio_jellybean, Solsticecalling, Pepperup232, and 583 more users as well as 82 guests left kudos on this work!

Archive of Our Own^beta

Actions

Work Header