ficlet: "fancy", r/s, pg
Title: Fancy
Author: scythia
Pairing: R/S
Word Count: 254
Rating: PG
Warnings: faintest hint of implied Blackcest
A/N: Written for spessartine. Crossposted.
Look: it is spring. All around the trees are softened and blurred and the new leaves shine like harsh magic in the sun and down the hill slides Sirius in silhouette against the afternoon light and “sorry,” he says, “got tied up,” and then he is kissing Remus against the tree and there will be bits of bark in his hair tomorrow, he knows, will be snags in his jumper tomorrow, he knows, and a thousand indignant insects scurry out of the way as Sirius pulls him down the tree and onto the grass and the wet earth seeps cold and insinuating between the wales of his corduroy slacks and look, it is spring, Sirius, oh. When they pull back Remus turns the new taste over on his tongue, the new smell in his nose, what is it? And when it hits him he looks at Sirius and his lucent eyes go flat, grey like metal on which no enchantments work and he says “she’s my cousin, Remus, you don’t understand,” and Remus pulls apart the strands of the scent that isn’t, he now realizes, new at all, the velvet and the burning wood, the black pepper and the bitter tang of gold, and there is no gentleness in the pale fierce green of the tender leaves as they force themselves once more into the sun, and he thinks that perhaps he does understand, after all, but he kisses Sirius again anyway because look: it is spring. let us pretend that it is gentle.
Author: scythia
Pairing: R/S
Word Count: 254
Rating: PG
Warnings: faintest hint of implied Blackcest
A/N: Written for spessartine. Crossposted.
Look: it is spring. All around the trees are softened and blurred and the new leaves shine like harsh magic in the sun and down the hill slides Sirius in silhouette against the afternoon light and “sorry,” he says, “got tied up,” and then he is kissing Remus against the tree and there will be bits of bark in his hair tomorrow, he knows, will be snags in his jumper tomorrow, he knows, and a thousand indignant insects scurry out of the way as Sirius pulls him down the tree and onto the grass and the wet earth seeps cold and insinuating between the wales of his corduroy slacks and look, it is spring, Sirius, oh. When they pull back Remus turns the new taste over on his tongue, the new smell in his nose, what is it? And when it hits him he looks at Sirius and his lucent eyes go flat, grey like metal on which no enchantments work and he says “she’s my cousin, Remus, you don’t understand,” and Remus pulls apart the strands of the scent that isn’t, he now realizes, new at all, the velvet and the burning wood, the black pepper and the bitter tang of gold, and there is no gentleness in the pale fierce green of the tender leaves as they force themselves once more into the sun, and he thinks that perhaps he does understand, after all, but he kisses Sirius again anyway because look: it is spring. let us pretend that it is gentle.