BLOODY HELL, DRABBLE
I blame this soley on Jess [ kano ]. And well, a little on Meg [ wait_siriusly ] too, because without Meg, I would never have read Jess's drabble.
So yes. There you have it. All their fault. Don't blame me, none of it is mine. This is what happens at two in the morning when exhaustion has taken over.
I know I could draw upon the memories, the good ones - the ones where we laughed together and poked fun at one another in jest - but at this moment, I really can’t bring myself to do so.
I know that the spring term is ending soon, and I feel that I will miss him very much, so much, that the thought makes me feel sad and complacent inside. I want to give a little sigh, let my face fall into my arms crossed in front of me upon the wooden table we are sitting at. But I am sure that if I indulge upon such an action, I will distract Remus from his reading; and he will look up at me with a little frown of concern upon those lovely brows of his. I imagine his lips pulling back at the corners, only a little, because all of his expressions are done so with elegance, and if he shows displeasure, it is faint and barely discernable.
So I don't sigh. But I bite my bottom lip, and suck on it a little, eyeing him from behind the curtain of hair draping in front of my vision.
Although his eyes show a studious nature to their depths, his mouth is relaxed and his face smooth as he reads. The sun is breaking through the curtains of the old library windows, and his nutmeg colored hair has caught the reflections of the light as it hangs around his defined cheekbones in thick, glossy waves. I want to reach out, thread my fingers through his hair and feel the strands tickle my wrist. I'm going to miss touching his hair, or his skin -- the arch of his slender brows, or the delicate strength of the tiny bones in his long fingers. I'm going to miss everything about him, I realize pitifully to myself. But I don't dare voice these thoughts aloud.
I wonder what he is going to do over his summer. I hope it has nothing to do with studying; he studies far too much during the school year, he had better not pick up a single book during the entire summer break.
But then I realize, that this summer, unlike all the rest before it, will be full of distractions for him, and that reading a book will probably be most impossible indeed, to say the least. I know, quite truly, that he will not be alone this summer. I know that he will not be up long hours into the night over matters such as absorbing himself completely within a book of sorts. No, he will spend many sleepless nights for another reason. Or, more specifically, for another person.
I feel the dull hollow ache in my stomach again, and this time it takes every ounce of self restraint not to sigh; I catch it just as it pushes against my lips, and my lungs strain painfully as I swallow in down.
He is still reading as I watch him. His hand reaches up slowly, idly, to touch the side of his neck, low, right above the collarbone; and the spot he touches is hidden beneath the crisp white collar of his shirt. His fingers linger there, tracing lazy circles around the area and I know what he is touching.
I wince. I know that if I reach across the space of the polished wood and tug the fabric down to his shoulder, I will see a small bruise upon his pale flesh. And I know his face will become quite flushed in embarrassment, but that he will secretly feel a small sense of pride at the marking upon his skin -- of how it got there, and how there will be many more to come as the day ensues.
I know he hides the mark beneath his clothing because he is afraid of the prodding questions that might befall upon him because of it. And he is afraid of what will happen once it is known to all who the culprit is who has marked him. I know that he will fear losing that person because of the disapproval from others over him.
Of course, all these concerns of his are frivolous and unnecessary. Even if the reaction to the truth were that of disdain or horror, that nothing truly awful could ever really happen to him. Because the one who he now belongs to would never let such a thing happen to him. But, for as intelligent as Remus is, he is also not very logical when it comes to other matters.
I can't help but feel a wistful smile tug at my lips as I think of his innocence. But then I think of how much of that innocence must be ravaged by now and the thought makes me want to wretch again.
I think now that if I do not touch him, or see him smile at me, that I will either throw the book he is reading across the room, or really will begin to wretch all over him. Neither of the two are acceptable, and I know it.
So I swallow hard, taste the sour acid scorch my throat, and I open my mouth to speak.
But I am interrupted.
His head lifts immediately at the sound of the voice that breaks through the sacred silence of the library, and I see his eyes spark with that special affection that graces his complexion only when he sees the one he considers most dear.
The intruder barks a laugh at my companion with a wild smile upon his lips, and he is, of course, dressed in the most unruly way; with his white shirt pulled free from his waistband and hanging around his narrow hips. I see he has ripped open his shirt at the base of his throat, and he is strolling towards Remus like a wolf ready to devour his prey.
I shudder involuntarily. And I want to flee. I can't see them together, I know that once he reaches my lovely companion that he will thread his fingers through the soft brown hair at the nape of his neck, and pull his head back and kiss him hungrily ( and, perhaps, a bit playfully as well ) on the mouth.
Already I can hear his sly greeting trailing through the air as he draws near.
"Hello there, Moony. Studying hard?" Without concern of what Remus will say, he sits himself down easily on the book Remus has been reading, legs dangling over the corner of the table. His eyes are gleaming with a secret mischievousness as he continues, "Or is that lovely little brain of yours just swirling around with lustful thoughts of yours truly?"
Remus always blushes when Sirius flirts with him. And today will be no different. The library is empty let alone for the three of us, and I realize with that familiar sense of horror, that I can not flee the scene. I have to watch them. I have to watch Sirius brace his hand on Remus' narrow chest, and lean down smoothly and casually to his silently delighted lover. I have to see him touch Remus at the throat, tease his lower lip with his teeth and entice that reluctant moan of longing from Remus' mouth.
“Admit it, pet, you were waiting for me,” he whispers against Remus’ mouth, and I imagine his breath hot as it slips past Remus’ lips and down his throat.
It cripples me to watch them, and yet I can not tear my eyes away from them; from the forbidden desires of want and greedy affection that is expressed between the two of them. Good Lord, they are hypnotizing.
"Hello, Raine," Sirius murmurs against Remus' parted lips. He is talking to me, but his attention is solely absorbed upon the task of tasting Remus’ lips, skillfully playing with the supple and now very swollen flesh as his coaxes Remus to play a little further upon his restrained hunger. Remus' hand is gripped fiercely upon the arm of his chair, his knuckles white. But he remains perfectly still in his chair, his posture taunt as Sirius continues to kiss him.
Soon he will drag his lips away from Remus' and he will bite at his neck and Remus will shudder and give way to the pent up emotions of frustrated desire; and he will grip at Sirius shoulder and arch that perfectly delicate throat to Sirius' mouth in wanting.
I know Remus is embarrassed that I am watching him as Sirius has his way with him; I know Remus is embarrassed by the needy responses he is making towards his lover, the tiny whimpers escaping from his throat. But Sirius' lips are upon him now, with one hand at his hip, fingers looped onto the waistband of his pants, as the other locks possessivly around Remus' trembling wrist. Remus cannot create any logical thoughts in his brain, because right now, every hot and shuddering part of him belongs to Sirius.
I manage to whisper a "hello" of my own; but my eyes are burning in my skull, transfixed upon the two of them. And I know that Sirius has already forgotten about me.
Sirius is whispering something in Remus' ear now, his lips curling back in a devilish smile. And Remus is blushing furiously now and trying to maintain his composure all at the same time.
He is failing. If anything, he is crumbling beneath Sirius touch. Because he twists his face towards Sirius’ and captures his mouth with a hungry desperation of his own. And that is all it takes to push Sirius over the edge. Remus does not protest as Sirius grabs him by the arm a little harsher than he should. And Remus does not protest when Sirius growls into his mouth, his fingers clutching Remus’ jaw so he can force his mouth to open wider to his demanding lips. He can taste and bite and devour all that Remus tremulously offers now.
Remus does not protest. Because Remus likes it. He wants it. He wants Sirius. Always has, and always will. He will return to Hogwarts after summer has ended and he and Sirius will continue to room together. Sirius will continue to chase him through the hallways and try to tie socks in his hair, or some other crazy stunt like that. And Remus will scold him, and Sirius will love him for it.
And Remus will be happy simply by being with his lover and him alone. And that's just the way it will be.
I see Remus convulse beneath Sirius and I cannot bear it any longer. I force myself out of my chair and stumble through the rows of books, trying to block out the moans and gasps that taint the air behind me.
So yes. There you have it. All their fault. Don't blame me, none of it is mine. This is what happens at two in the morning when exhaustion has taken over.
I know I could draw upon the memories, the good ones - the ones where we laughed together and poked fun at one another in jest - but at this moment, I really can’t bring myself to do so.
I know that the spring term is ending soon, and I feel that I will miss him very much, so much, that the thought makes me feel sad and complacent inside. I want to give a little sigh, let my face fall into my arms crossed in front of me upon the wooden table we are sitting at. But I am sure that if I indulge upon such an action, I will distract Remus from his reading; and he will look up at me with a little frown of concern upon those lovely brows of his. I imagine his lips pulling back at the corners, only a little, because all of his expressions are done so with elegance, and if he shows displeasure, it is faint and barely discernable.
So I don't sigh. But I bite my bottom lip, and suck on it a little, eyeing him from behind the curtain of hair draping in front of my vision.
Although his eyes show a studious nature to their depths, his mouth is relaxed and his face smooth as he reads. The sun is breaking through the curtains of the old library windows, and his nutmeg colored hair has caught the reflections of the light as it hangs around his defined cheekbones in thick, glossy waves. I want to reach out, thread my fingers through his hair and feel the strands tickle my wrist. I'm going to miss touching his hair, or his skin -- the arch of his slender brows, or the delicate strength of the tiny bones in his long fingers. I'm going to miss everything about him, I realize pitifully to myself. But I don't dare voice these thoughts aloud.
I wonder what he is going to do over his summer. I hope it has nothing to do with studying; he studies far too much during the school year, he had better not pick up a single book during the entire summer break.
But then I realize, that this summer, unlike all the rest before it, will be full of distractions for him, and that reading a book will probably be most impossible indeed, to say the least. I know, quite truly, that he will not be alone this summer. I know that he will not be up long hours into the night over matters such as absorbing himself completely within a book of sorts. No, he will spend many sleepless nights for another reason. Or, more specifically, for another person.
I feel the dull hollow ache in my stomach again, and this time it takes every ounce of self restraint not to sigh; I catch it just as it pushes against my lips, and my lungs strain painfully as I swallow in down.
He is still reading as I watch him. His hand reaches up slowly, idly, to touch the side of his neck, low, right above the collarbone; and the spot he touches is hidden beneath the crisp white collar of his shirt. His fingers linger there, tracing lazy circles around the area and I know what he is touching.
I wince. I know that if I reach across the space of the polished wood and tug the fabric down to his shoulder, I will see a small bruise upon his pale flesh. And I know his face will become quite flushed in embarrassment, but that he will secretly feel a small sense of pride at the marking upon his skin -- of how it got there, and how there will be many more to come as the day ensues.
I know he hides the mark beneath his clothing because he is afraid of the prodding questions that might befall upon him because of it. And he is afraid of what will happen once it is known to all who the culprit is who has marked him. I know that he will fear losing that person because of the disapproval from others over him.
Of course, all these concerns of his are frivolous and unnecessary. Even if the reaction to the truth were that of disdain or horror, that nothing truly awful could ever really happen to him. Because the one who he now belongs to would never let such a thing happen to him. But, for as intelligent as Remus is, he is also not very logical when it comes to other matters.
I can't help but feel a wistful smile tug at my lips as I think of his innocence. But then I think of how much of that innocence must be ravaged by now and the thought makes me want to wretch again.
I think now that if I do not touch him, or see him smile at me, that I will either throw the book he is reading across the room, or really will begin to wretch all over him. Neither of the two are acceptable, and I know it.
So I swallow hard, taste the sour acid scorch my throat, and I open my mouth to speak.
But I am interrupted.
His head lifts immediately at the sound of the voice that breaks through the sacred silence of the library, and I see his eyes spark with that special affection that graces his complexion only when he sees the one he considers most dear.
The intruder barks a laugh at my companion with a wild smile upon his lips, and he is, of course, dressed in the most unruly way; with his white shirt pulled free from his waistband and hanging around his narrow hips. I see he has ripped open his shirt at the base of his throat, and he is strolling towards Remus like a wolf ready to devour his prey.
I shudder involuntarily. And I want to flee. I can't see them together, I know that once he reaches my lovely companion that he will thread his fingers through the soft brown hair at the nape of his neck, and pull his head back and kiss him hungrily ( and, perhaps, a bit playfully as well ) on the mouth.
Already I can hear his sly greeting trailing through the air as he draws near.
"Hello there, Moony. Studying hard?" Without concern of what Remus will say, he sits himself down easily on the book Remus has been reading, legs dangling over the corner of the table. His eyes are gleaming with a secret mischievousness as he continues, "Or is that lovely little brain of yours just swirling around with lustful thoughts of yours truly?"
Remus always blushes when Sirius flirts with him. And today will be no different. The library is empty let alone for the three of us, and I realize with that familiar sense of horror, that I can not flee the scene. I have to watch them. I have to watch Sirius brace his hand on Remus' narrow chest, and lean down smoothly and casually to his silently delighted lover. I have to see him touch Remus at the throat, tease his lower lip with his teeth and entice that reluctant moan of longing from Remus' mouth.
“Admit it, pet, you were waiting for me,” he whispers against Remus’ mouth, and I imagine his breath hot as it slips past Remus’ lips and down his throat.
It cripples me to watch them, and yet I can not tear my eyes away from them; from the forbidden desires of want and greedy affection that is expressed between the two of them. Good Lord, they are hypnotizing.
"Hello, Raine," Sirius murmurs against Remus' parted lips. He is talking to me, but his attention is solely absorbed upon the task of tasting Remus’ lips, skillfully playing with the supple and now very swollen flesh as his coaxes Remus to play a little further upon his restrained hunger. Remus' hand is gripped fiercely upon the arm of his chair, his knuckles white. But he remains perfectly still in his chair, his posture taunt as Sirius continues to kiss him.
Soon he will drag his lips away from Remus' and he will bite at his neck and Remus will shudder and give way to the pent up emotions of frustrated desire; and he will grip at Sirius shoulder and arch that perfectly delicate throat to Sirius' mouth in wanting.
I know Remus is embarrassed that I am watching him as Sirius has his way with him; I know Remus is embarrassed by the needy responses he is making towards his lover, the tiny whimpers escaping from his throat. But Sirius' lips are upon him now, with one hand at his hip, fingers looped onto the waistband of his pants, as the other locks possessivly around Remus' trembling wrist. Remus cannot create any logical thoughts in his brain, because right now, every hot and shuddering part of him belongs to Sirius.
I manage to whisper a "hello" of my own; but my eyes are burning in my skull, transfixed upon the two of them. And I know that Sirius has already forgotten about me.
Sirius is whispering something in Remus' ear now, his lips curling back in a devilish smile. And Remus is blushing furiously now and trying to maintain his composure all at the same time.
He is failing. If anything, he is crumbling beneath Sirius touch. Because he twists his face towards Sirius’ and captures his mouth with a hungry desperation of his own. And that is all it takes to push Sirius over the edge. Remus does not protest as Sirius grabs him by the arm a little harsher than he should. And Remus does not protest when Sirius growls into his mouth, his fingers clutching Remus’ jaw so he can force his mouth to open wider to his demanding lips. He can taste and bite and devour all that Remus tremulously offers now.
Remus does not protest. Because Remus likes it. He wants it. He wants Sirius. Always has, and always will. He will return to Hogwarts after summer has ended and he and Sirius will continue to room together. Sirius will continue to chase him through the hallways and try to tie socks in his hair, or some other crazy stunt like that. And Remus will scold him, and Sirius will love him for it.
And Remus will be happy simply by being with his lover and him alone. And that's just the way it will be.
I see Remus convulse beneath Sirius and I cannot bear it any longer. I force myself out of my chair and stumble through the rows of books, trying to block out the moans and gasps that taint the air behind me.