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Summary
Remus couldn’t be blamed for suggesting it, really. Multiple forces had conspired against him to such a degree that his hand was practically forced: eyes heavy with the weight of the hour, and mind a little fuzzy from that third glass of wine, and body so stupidly comfortable sprawled out on the stupid chaise end of Sirius’ stupidly massive sofa.
“We should get married.”
Remus and Sirius marry. Out of convenience, of course.
At least, at first. At least, until Remus begins to wake to a racing pulse; to a wing-tangled belly; to the giddy terror of belated epiphany.
At least, until the whole thing has turned rather inconvenient indeed.