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They decide to take the bus, a Muggle one, middle of the day, windows fogged and floor damp from melted sleet. Sirius slouches beside him with his legs too far apart and a knit cap low over his ears like a disaffected art student. Remus reads. Reading on the bus is the point of the bus. He turns the page slowly, fingers curled under the spine of a hardback autobiography of some Ministry whistleblower who’d once run the Department for Magical Transport Infrastructure. It’s about as dry as double crisped toast, and Remus is visibly enjoying it.
They get off near a square stone building with banners that flap wearily in the wind. “THE WHEELS OF MAGIC: A HISTORY OF WIZARDING TRANSPORT.” Sirius reads the banner out loud in a stage-whisper and gets smacked in the stomach with a folded umbrella for his efforts. For muggles the banner will show something else, but Sirius doesn't care enough to find out exactly what.
Inside, it smells like aged parchment and polish. There’s not a soul in sight except for a hunched curator behind a desk, reading the Daily Prophet. Sirius leans in. “He’s doing what you’ll be doing in five years…” he murmurs, and Remus just hums.
The first exhibit is on carriage enchantments and the changing fashions of axle width. There’s an entire wall dedicated to the use of actual rubber seats in the 1930s, and Remus stands there for a long time, one hand in his pocket, the other gesturing at a display placard with quiet, scholarly reverence.
Sirius watches him like he’s at his museum. Like Remus is the last living specimen of something rare and feral—gorgeous and occasionally ridiculous. He follows behind with his hands shoved into his coat pockets, mouth twitching into a smirk whenever Remus gets particularly impassioned about “the underrated charm of predictable travel time.”
They spend fifteen entire minutes in front of a broom evolution display, with nothing but broom handles behind glass, labelled by date and manufacturer.
“I just think the Nimbus line traded structural integrity for speed…” Remus says, squinting at one from 1920. “Look at that binding. The new ones, they all snap if you hit the tail end too hard.”
“Which is exactly how I prefer my men…” Sirius adds unhelpfully.
Remus elbows him. Doesn’t even look.
“Wizards,” Remus sighs later, as they wander into the diagram-heavy steam schematics section. “Have no appreciation for slow transport that allows for indulgence. You read on a bus. You nap on a train. You write poetry on a boat—”
“Oh god, this again—”
“—but no, we have to Apparate, like it’s all about efficiency. There’s no grace to it.”
“You said this when we were twenty…” Sirius says, brushing their knuckles together. “In bed. Naked. You stopped blowing me to rant about axle weight. I think I have it memorised by now.” Remus smirks. And leans in to kiss him, right there between the diorama of wizard traffic signs and the suspended Floo Network prototype.
They go to a pub after. Small, warm, tucked away in some Muggle corner Remus likes. Sirius orders fish and chips, Remus gets a pie with mashed peas and gravy, and they split a half pint like it’s a ritual. Sirius wipes gravy off Remus’s chin with his thumb and mutters something about boring professors and how fit they are even with what they eat. Remus tells him to shut up and licks the thumb clean.
The pub’s warmth clings to them even after they step into the cold again. Remus is flushed and satisfied, full of steak pie and affection. Sirius slings an arm around his waist as they walk.
“See,” Remus says, smug, “wasn’t that a splendid day.”
“You dragged me through a museum that had a section on ticketing systems, and then you made me share a half pint.” Sirius says, trying to sound like it had all been horrible.
Remus just hums, bumping his shoulder into Sirius’s.
They round the corner and there it is—Sirius’s bike, locked and tucked in under a parking charm where he’d left it the night before, too pissed to fly it home. The spells held, but the seat’s slick with condensation, the engine cold.
Remus eyes it, then eyes him. “You didn’t tell me we were taking that home.”
“You would’ve insisted on the bus again.” Sirius grins. “Thought I’d surprise you. Bit of contrast after all those carriages and axle lectures... Come on, you love her too.”
“Let me drive?” Remus asks.
“...You want me dead.”
“You trust me to top you but not to ride your bike?”
Remus straddles the front seat anyway, adjusting his coat, hands familiar on the grips, because Sirius does let him drive it, he is just being dramatic.
Sirius climbs on behind him, wraps his arms around his waist, mouth near his ear.
“That is a different—”
Remus kicks it to life and Sirius cuts off with a yelp, holding tighter as the bike surges up into the night sky.
It’s a fast ride. Wind in their coats, the glimmer of stars, the skyline lit like spellfire. Remus doesn’t push it—just enough thrill to feel it. Sirius is half-hard before they even land.
They touch down just outside their flat, back tyre kissing cobblestone. The engine’s still murmuring when Remus cuts it. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t swing his leg off. Sirius leans in, wraps arms back around his chest, presses a kiss to the edge of his jaw.
“Come on,” he murmurs, teasing, “aren’t you gonna tell me more about the friction-reducing charms on early-model Floo grates?”
Remus turns his head, kisses him over his shoulder.
Sirius tightens his hold, hips still flush to his back, and the next kiss is more—open-mouthed and eager. Cold air nips at their cheeks but neither cares. Remus twists around on the seat until he can reach, until he’s got Sirius’s collar bunched in one hand and his other fisted in his coat. They kiss like it’s been days, not minutes, since they last did it.
“We shouldn’t…” Sirius says, but he’s already pushing up Remus’s jumper. “We’re in the street—”
“Back alley,” Remus mutters. “No one's watching.”
“We’ll probably get arrested.”
“Then we’ll Apparate.”
“Oh, now you like efficiency—fuck—”
Remus has dragged his glove off with his teeth, and now his hand’s down Sirius’s trousers, tugging him free. He strokes slow, dirty, thumb dragging over the slick head. Sirius throws his head back with a choked groan, the engine still warm beneath them, seat vibrating faintly from residual magic.
“Bet this seat’s more comfortable than any of the ones you ogled today,” Sirius pants.
Remus smirks. “It’s damp.”
“So am I.” Sirius proclaims with a wink.
Remus kisses him hard, hisses against his mouth, “Want me to fuck you? Right here? On your precious bike?”
Sirius doesn’t even answer verbally, just bites his lip and nods, eyes wide and desperate.
Remus spits into his palm, slicks himself up, mutters a wandless stretch charm that makes Sirius whimper when it hits. He’s far too good at casting those by now. Sirius pulls his trousers lower, braces his boots on either side of the bike handle, jacket shoved open, shirt tucked to his ribs.
Remus pushes in slow, one hand holding the back of Sirius’s neck, the other holding Sirius legs up. Sirius whimpers as he sinks down, thighs shaking, mouth slack.
“Fuck—yes—there—you’re perfect—”
“Don’t…” Remus growls, rolling his hips, “fucking move.”
He sets a pace, riding him slow, making Sirius feel every inch. The bike creaks softly beneath them. Sirius clutches at the sidebar like a lifeline, trying not to moan so loud he’ll wake the neighbours. Remus doesn’t care. He watches him fall apart, breath fogging in the night, eyes wild,cheeks flushed red and pink and needy.
“You gonna come like this?” Remus murmurs, voice all gravel. “Like a fucking slut on your own damn bike?”
Sirius does, with a sharp cry, cock twitching between them, mess streaking across Remus’s coat.
And Remus doesn’t move.
Still seated. Still inside him.
The first few thrusts had been brutal, fast, a stolen rhythm fueled by post-pub adrenaline and two days of longing that had simmered through every step of the museum. But then—
Then he stopped.
Just like that. Still buried to the hilt, hands firm on Sirius’s hips, keeping him there on the seat, cock deep and unmoving. Sirius had whimpered.
And now they’ve been like this for a minute. Maybe more.
“I thought I’d remind you,” Remus whispers against his neck, voice low, “what it feels like… when you wait.”
His breath is hot on Sirius’s throat, teeth grazing skin already flushed. The bike creaks under them. A single spell is keeping Sirius warm enough not to shake, but not warm enough to stop the tingle in his thighs, or the way his hole clenches around Remus, greedy and twitching with every slow breath.
“When things take time,” Remus goes on, kissing just under his ear. “Since you’re not a fan of slow transport.”
“Remus,” Sirius groans, rocking his hips up, trying to make something happen. “Fuck, please—”
But Remus tightens his grip.
And doesn’t move.
The bike smells like oil and cold metal, leather warmed under their bodies. Remus shifts just slightly, cock dragging in a way that makes Sirius wail into his shoulder, arms wrapping tight around his waist.
“You love this bike,” Remus says, soft now. “You never let anyone drive it.”
“You’re not just anyone—”
“You let me drive it tonight aswell…”
“I’d let you do fucking anything if you’d just move—”
Remus does, just barely, aa subtle drag of his hips, slow as thick honey. It punches the air out of Sirius’s lungs. His hands scrabble at Remus’s back like he can force more out of him. Remus keeps the pace lazy. Exquisite.
“You’re gonna come from this,” he murmurs against his mouth. “Just like this. Nothing fast. No flash. Just. Fucking. Time.”
Sirius pants and writhes and moans his name, head tilting back against the seat, eyes half-lidded and filthy.
Remus fucks him in much the same way as Sirius loves his bike—with reverence. One hand creeps under his shirt, finds a nipple and rubs circles around it, making Sirius twitch and mewl. The other steadies them both, braced behind on the leather seat, cold air biting his knuckles.
They look like a sculpture from some erotic temple: a perfect man undone in someone’s lap, hair tangled, throat bitten, cock leaking onto his own stomach. Held wide open in public… well, half in private. Remus licks his neck. Then bites it.
“I like slow,” he growls. “And you’re gonna learn to like it too.”
Sirius whines something incoherent and bucks again.
Remus speeds up only when Sirius begs in a voice too rough to be faked. It’s still not fast. Just hard and deep. Relentless. Like being pulled under thick waves.
Sirius comes first, sobbing and whimpering and chanting Remus’s name like some lost prayer. Remus fucks him through it, chasing his own high, spilling inside and pressing tight as he groans low and heavy against Sirius’s open mouth.
Neither of them move after. Their legs ache. Their skin’s damp. The bike hums quietly, still cooling. Remus kisses him, long and slow.
When they finally move, it’s graceless and messy, both of them are still catching their breath. Remus pulls out with a groan, muttering a cleaning charm as Sirius slumps against him with a boneless, ruined sigh. He’s trembling in that way Remus likes, soft and pliant, thighs sticky, hair stuck to his forehead, face flushed like he’s run a mile.
He gets helped down off the bike and onto his feet. Wobbles. Hangs onto Remus like he’s forgotten how knees work.
“I hate you... he mutters. “I adore you, but I also hate you.”
Remus presses a kiss to his cheek, right by the ear.
“I love you, too,” he says. Calm. Steady. Like he hasn’t just spent the last half-hour fucking Sirius on a leather seat while lecturing him about the virtues of slowness in life.
Sirius stares at him. Remus’s hair is ruffled, lips kiss-bruised, but otherwise? Back to normal. That normal, maddening, buttoned-up version of him that reads autobiographies about steam valves and says things like splendid unironically.
They walk the last few feet to the door. Remus unlocks it, steps inside, starts taking his boots off, like any other night. Like they didn’t just have sex on a motorcycle.
Sirius stands in the doorway and gapes at him.
Remus’s voice floats from the kitchen: “I’m putting the kettle on. Do you want a—”
“I knew it,” Sirius growls, striding in, trousers still half undone. “You’re doing it again.”
Remus looks up, all calm domesticity, as if Sirius isn’t visibly leaking.
“Doing what?”
“This.” Sirius gestures violently. “The switch. You go from ‘let me fuck you until your spine detaches’ to ‘shall I make us tea, darling’ in under a minute. It’s psychotic, Remus.”
“I could put the kettle on before next time,” Remus offers, with a straight face. “Make sure it’s boiled and cooled enough by the time I’m finished.”
Sirius lunges and Remus laughs as he’s shoved up against the kitchen counter, Sirius kissing him hard and hungry, hands already under his shirt. He tastes like beer and fresh wind and sweat and the very edge of Sirius’ madness.
“You think I’m done?” Sirius pants. “You think you get to fuck me into the sidecar and then just—just—return to your regularly scheduled programming?”
“You weren’t even close to the sidecar.”
“We should try that next.”
Remus snorts, which only encourages him. Sirius grinds against him, messy and still half-hard again, biting kisses along his neck.
“You’ve made your point,” Sirius growls. “Trains are sexy. Buses are fucking noble… Even fucking carriages are a whooole ass kink. Fine. But you don’t get to walk in here like you’re not the most deranged bastard I’ve ever let inside me, and then just ignore me for tea?”
Remus smiles into the next kiss.
And they end up right there on the kitchen floor—clothes half-off, knees bruised, kettle whistling unattended in the background, while Sirius rides him from the top this time, muttering filth and grinding down until Remus breaks and starts begging.
Later, when they're curled up on the couch in warm jumpers, sharing tea, Sirius says:
“I want to enchant the sidecar with cushioning charms and see if it floats when you bounce me in it.”
Remus just hums as he takes a sip, like he is considering it.