(no subject)
Title: Tepidity
Type: Slash
Genre: Angst, sorta smut
Characters/Pairings: Sirius/Remus
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Vaguely described outdoors sex, and angst. Heaps of angst.
Prompts: "warm stone"
Word Count: 571
Summary: Sirius and Remus and a summertime shortcut through a graveyard.
Disclaimer: All JKR's; will put back later.
Feedback: Yes, please!
A/N: Just when you think you're off the boys for good... anyway. Written for dogdaysofsummer. By the way, I'm not promising any more; this just kind of happened. May be more. Who can tell?
Humidity settles into the scene like a second skin, erasing all possibility that, not so long ago, it had been winter and the Potters had a Christmas tree up. It’s even worse in the graveyard, where it should, by all logic, be cold, even just a little bit, but the memories must make their residence there, exhaling on the trees, the grass, and the dirt in short, sweltering breaths. That’s the real reason for the dew collecting on each green blade, not any of Moony’s explanations about condensation and how the nights are cold. Those don’t work anyway, since the nights are anything but cold. Even Moony slept in shorts last night.
And he’s wearing as close to nothing as he ever gets on this excursion of a short cut back to James’ place - swim trunks and two layers of collecting water (one sweat, and one from the lake that Sirius still can’t believe he talked Moony into swimming in) are all that keep Moony from the world. And the light shines snugly on his skin, melting off each layer slowly… every one, save the swim trunks. No going naked, not for his Moony. Even in the sultry, torrid dog days of this midsummer, their last midsummer as students, he has too much quiet dignity to show off in such a manner.
Sirius lacks such qualms, and has even less about keeping James and Peter waiting for their Friday night Butterbeers and poker. He sneaks glances and waits until he’s no longer hidden. He flashes a smile that’s still half unsure as to the agreements of forgiveness, but Moony seems to like it, and nothing of absolution gets brought up. There’s just the two of them, and the fever between them, and the sudden thump of chest to chest, lips to lips, and arse to headstone.
And, wanton in these steamed-over doldrums, Sirius gets the boundaries down. Under the sparse, fluctuating shade of a willow tree, all lines physical and less so are erased. Blame the summer slow and the muggy effects of vapor on a seventeen-year-old brain.
July 1982. A full nine months, and just a little over. Nine cycles of the moon, the last of which is just waning just now. That’s how long it took Remus to be led, subject to the whims of his meanderings, back to the graveyard, and, even now, as he looks down graves that might as well be nameless, he’s not sure he wants to be here. James and Lily’s make him feel small, like a child who knows that he’s done something wrong, or a first year called up to McGonagall for a reprimanding, and Peter’s seems unreal. And there’s only one other that stands out to him at all, and he doesn’t even know the corpse beneath it, just that her name was Albina Turan and she died long before he was born.
Alone, under the sparse, fluctuating light of a willow tree - it’s taller than he remembers, but, then again, he’s a slouching twenty-two, though he feels decidedly older, and he can’t help any of it - he feels the warm ghosts of hands on his back. Sirius’ hands, large and awkwardly square-ish, but gifted with an uncommon, unbefitting grace… it was so long ago, in mind and time, they should leave him alone by now.
And still he shivers from them and their touch, standing alone in the bright sunlight.
Type: Slash
Genre: Angst, sorta smut
Characters/Pairings: Sirius/Remus
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Vaguely described outdoors sex, and angst. Heaps of angst.
Prompts: "warm stone"
Word Count: 571
Summary: Sirius and Remus and a summertime shortcut through a graveyard.
Disclaimer: All JKR's; will put back later.
Feedback: Yes, please!
A/N: Just when you think you're off the boys for good... anyway. Written for dogdaysofsummer. By the way, I'm not promising any more; this just kind of happened. May be more. Who can tell?
Humidity settles into the scene like a second skin, erasing all possibility that, not so long ago, it had been winter and the Potters had a Christmas tree up. It’s even worse in the graveyard, where it should, by all logic, be cold, even just a little bit, but the memories must make their residence there, exhaling on the trees, the grass, and the dirt in short, sweltering breaths. That’s the real reason for the dew collecting on each green blade, not any of Moony’s explanations about condensation and how the nights are cold. Those don’t work anyway, since the nights are anything but cold. Even Moony slept in shorts last night.
And he’s wearing as close to nothing as he ever gets on this excursion of a short cut back to James’ place - swim trunks and two layers of collecting water (one sweat, and one from the lake that Sirius still can’t believe he talked Moony into swimming in) are all that keep Moony from the world. And the light shines snugly on his skin, melting off each layer slowly… every one, save the swim trunks. No going naked, not for his Moony. Even in the sultry, torrid dog days of this midsummer, their last midsummer as students, he has too much quiet dignity to show off in such a manner.
Sirius lacks such qualms, and has even less about keeping James and Peter waiting for their Friday night Butterbeers and poker. He sneaks glances and waits until he’s no longer hidden. He flashes a smile that’s still half unsure as to the agreements of forgiveness, but Moony seems to like it, and nothing of absolution gets brought up. There’s just the two of them, and the fever between them, and the sudden thump of chest to chest, lips to lips, and arse to headstone.
And, wanton in these steamed-over doldrums, Sirius gets the boundaries down. Under the sparse, fluctuating shade of a willow tree, all lines physical and less so are erased. Blame the summer slow and the muggy effects of vapor on a seventeen-year-old brain.
July 1982. A full nine months, and just a little over. Nine cycles of the moon, the last of which is just waning just now. That’s how long it took Remus to be led, subject to the whims of his meanderings, back to the graveyard, and, even now, as he looks down graves that might as well be nameless, he’s not sure he wants to be here. James and Lily’s make him feel small, like a child who knows that he’s done something wrong, or a first year called up to McGonagall for a reprimanding, and Peter’s seems unreal. And there’s only one other that stands out to him at all, and he doesn’t even know the corpse beneath it, just that her name was Albina Turan and she died long before he was born.
Alone, under the sparse, fluctuating light of a willow tree - it’s taller than he remembers, but, then again, he’s a slouching twenty-two, though he feels decidedly older, and he can’t help any of it - he feels the warm ghosts of hands on his back. Sirius’ hands, large and awkwardly square-ish, but gifted with an uncommon, unbefitting grace… it was so long ago, in mind and time, they should leave him alone by now.
And still he shivers from them and their touch, standing alone in the bright sunlight.