Give a Dog a Bone (PG)
Title: Give a dog a bone
Rating: PG for just-awake boys
Words: 611
Disclaimer: Not mine. They belong to JKR.
Summary: Sirius likes Remus' bones. Pure fluff.
Among other things, Sirius likes him for his bones.
They’re such shameless bones, big and sturdy and plain. Not little delicate, finickity bones like all his blasted cousins have, birdlike and prim. Remus’ bones are honest bones. His knuckles press against his skin, his ribs can be counted, and not just because he’s still too skinny, and his knees are knobbly.
Now, as dawn filters through their thin curtains, he’s asleep, burrowed under the duvet and snuffling slightly. Sirius takes the chance to cup his hand around his heel, brushing the top of his foot with his thumb. There’s the funny knob on his ankle - Sirius can never remember its name, but he likes it.
Furry shins. One hairy lycanthrophic bibliophile, property of Sirius Black. He likes names like that, rolling, complicated, weighty things. Remus Lupin is too plain - da-dum da-dum. It doesn’t roll off his tongue properly, like names should.
Remus twitches, and grabs a handful of duvet.
Sirius moves his hand up, feeling the hair on Remus’ leg spring back against his palm. His own hands are too soft, despite years of trying to harden them. Even his Quidditch calluses don’t show.
Here’s a knee. If he squeezes it right, Remus’ toes curl up.
He doesn’t want to wake him up, so up the thigh, and Remus goes, “Uh-mm. Heliotrope,” which means he’s still dead to the world.
Sirius grins, and lifts the duvet gently, letting his hand rest on Remus’ hips. He likes those hips, and not just for what lies between them. They’re the only delicate bones Remus has, and Sirius likes to nibble his way between them, holding them down against the mattress.
If he strokes his finger down, he hits that crease in Remus’ thigh that’s just guaranteed to-
Remus jerks, and gasps, “Sirius!”
“Ssh,” Sirius says, dropping a kiss onto the nearest hip.
He climbs his fingers up Remus’ ribs, and Remus says, sleepy-indignant, “Tickles!”
“Yah,” Sirius says, and nuzzles his way up Remus’ breastbone, stopping to nibble his neck.
Remus arches his neck back. “What you doing?”
Vaguely abashed to be caught lusting after someone’s bones, Sirius mutters, “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
Remus rolls round, wrapping him in an embrace of knotted duvet and warm thighs and pointy elbows. “Can’t. Someone tickled me.”
“Didn’t. Counting.”
“What?” Remus says, and his voice is going foggy again. “My ribs?”
“You might have lost one. In your sleep.”
“Would’ve been careless,” Remus murmurs, working his face into the crick of Sirius’ neck. There’s a tuft of hair sticking up on top of his head, and it tickles Sirius’ chin. “Padfoot - it’s Saturday.”
“Sorry.” He’s not, not when Saturday means long, sleepy mornings, and Remus burrowing beside him.
Sirius breathes in the smell of him, musk and tea and sweat, and blows into his ear.
Remus pinches his back, lightly.
“I was thinking,” Sirius says, happily.
“Help. Should I run away to sea?”
“Prat. I was thinking about when we’re both dead.”
Remus opens an eye and squints up at him blearily. “That’s cheerful.”
“When we’re both dead and mouldering in our grave,” Sirius says, rolling his r’s. “When the all the flesh has rotted away, and our skulls are all teeth and empty eye sockets. Then…”
Remus sighs, and says, “Then what?”
Sirius slings an arm across his back. “I reckon our bones will be tangled together.”
There’s a long silence, and he assumes Remus has gone back to sleep. Then he says, “Sirius. You’re insane.”
Oh. Sirius can feel his face fall.
“And I love you. Now go to sleep.”
Sirius grins, and pulls him close, pointy elbows and all. Then, for once, he does as he’s told.
Rating: PG for just-awake boys
Words: 611
Disclaimer: Not mine. They belong to JKR.
Summary: Sirius likes Remus' bones. Pure fluff.
Among other things, Sirius likes him for his bones.
They’re such shameless bones, big and sturdy and plain. Not little delicate, finickity bones like all his blasted cousins have, birdlike and prim. Remus’ bones are honest bones. His knuckles press against his skin, his ribs can be counted, and not just because he’s still too skinny, and his knees are knobbly.
Now, as dawn filters through their thin curtains, he’s asleep, burrowed under the duvet and snuffling slightly. Sirius takes the chance to cup his hand around his heel, brushing the top of his foot with his thumb. There’s the funny knob on his ankle - Sirius can never remember its name, but he likes it.
Furry shins. One hairy lycanthrophic bibliophile, property of Sirius Black. He likes names like that, rolling, complicated, weighty things. Remus Lupin is too plain - da-dum da-dum. It doesn’t roll off his tongue properly, like names should.
Remus twitches, and grabs a handful of duvet.
Sirius moves his hand up, feeling the hair on Remus’ leg spring back against his palm. His own hands are too soft, despite years of trying to harden them. Even his Quidditch calluses don’t show.
Here’s a knee. If he squeezes it right, Remus’ toes curl up.
He doesn’t want to wake him up, so up the thigh, and Remus goes, “Uh-mm. Heliotrope,” which means he’s still dead to the world.
Sirius grins, and lifts the duvet gently, letting his hand rest on Remus’ hips. He likes those hips, and not just for what lies between them. They’re the only delicate bones Remus has, and Sirius likes to nibble his way between them, holding them down against the mattress.
If he strokes his finger down, he hits that crease in Remus’ thigh that’s just guaranteed to-
Remus jerks, and gasps, “Sirius!”
“Ssh,” Sirius says, dropping a kiss onto the nearest hip.
He climbs his fingers up Remus’ ribs, and Remus says, sleepy-indignant, “Tickles!”
“Yah,” Sirius says, and nuzzles his way up Remus’ breastbone, stopping to nibble his neck.
Remus arches his neck back. “What you doing?”
Vaguely abashed to be caught lusting after someone’s bones, Sirius mutters, “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
Remus rolls round, wrapping him in an embrace of knotted duvet and warm thighs and pointy elbows. “Can’t. Someone tickled me.”
“Didn’t. Counting.”
“What?” Remus says, and his voice is going foggy again. “My ribs?”
“You might have lost one. In your sleep.”
“Would’ve been careless,” Remus murmurs, working his face into the crick of Sirius’ neck. There’s a tuft of hair sticking up on top of his head, and it tickles Sirius’ chin. “Padfoot - it’s Saturday.”
“Sorry.” He’s not, not when Saturday means long, sleepy mornings, and Remus burrowing beside him.
Sirius breathes in the smell of him, musk and tea and sweat, and blows into his ear.
Remus pinches his back, lightly.
“I was thinking,” Sirius says, happily.
“Help. Should I run away to sea?”
“Prat. I was thinking about when we’re both dead.”
Remus opens an eye and squints up at him blearily. “That’s cheerful.”
“When we’re both dead and mouldering in our grave,” Sirius says, rolling his r’s. “When the all the flesh has rotted away, and our skulls are all teeth and empty eye sockets. Then…”
Remus sighs, and says, “Then what?”
Sirius slings an arm across his back. “I reckon our bones will be tangled together.”
There’s a long silence, and he assumes Remus has gone back to sleep. Then he says, “Sirius. You’re insane.”
Oh. Sirius can feel his face fall.
“And I love you. Now go to sleep.”
Sirius grins, and pulls him close, pointy elbows and all. Then, for once, he does as he’s told.