ficlets: "sometimes under your hedge"; "country skin"
spring ficlets woo!
title: sometimes under your hedge
rating: pg
words: 352
notes: for wellymuck, day 2.
( Sirius had some strange idea the papers weren’t delivered out to the countryside )
title: country skin
rating: g
words: 193
notes: for moonix: lupin, milk.
the milkman's delivery boy has skinny brown knees, trousers rolled up out of the way of his bicycle chain, rusty spokes and a crooked wheel as he coasts down the lane, sending dust up in his wake. his laces are never tied, but he can pedal without hands, arms spread out, upturned palms and his freckled nose, peeling pink cheeks in the dapple of sunlight through the trees.
sirius waits for him on the stoop with twenty pence he nicked from regulus, enough for fizzy drinks and the cinema, enough for lupin to spill his secrets: the batty old bearded man on nagle, the new boy moved in across from the barclays, the evans girl’s tits, the scrape on his chin. his pockets are always stuffed with sweets, wrapped in colourful foil, like the milk tops, bright like the way lupin's shaggy hair is haloed in the afternoon sun, the way he wiggles a loose front tooth with his tongue.
lupin’s smile spreads like milk in tea, lazy, lop-sided, and sirius eyes the green door at no. 12 once before he hops down to lupin's side. “well, give us a ride, then!”
title: sometimes under your hedge
rating: pg
words: 352
notes: for wellymuck, day 2.
( Sirius had some strange idea the papers weren’t delivered out to the countryside )
title: country skin
rating: g
words: 193
notes: for moonix: lupin, milk.
the milkman's delivery boy has skinny brown knees, trousers rolled up out of the way of his bicycle chain, rusty spokes and a crooked wheel as he coasts down the lane, sending dust up in his wake. his laces are never tied, but he can pedal without hands, arms spread out, upturned palms and his freckled nose, peeling pink cheeks in the dapple of sunlight through the trees.
sirius waits for him on the stoop with twenty pence he nicked from regulus, enough for fizzy drinks and the cinema, enough for lupin to spill his secrets: the batty old bearded man on nagle, the new boy moved in across from the barclays, the evans girl’s tits, the scrape on his chin. his pockets are always stuffed with sweets, wrapped in colourful foil, like the milk tops, bright like the way lupin's shaggy hair is haloed in the afternoon sun, the way he wiggles a loose front tooth with his tongue.
lupin’s smile spreads like milk in tea, lazy, lop-sided, and sirius eyes the green door at no. 12 once before he hops down to lupin's side. “well, give us a ride, then!”