Happy Birthday to dzturtlepower!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY dzturtlepower!!!
Terra, you're one of the few people I've felt completely comfortable with since I met them, and you're just so awesome and strong and a wonderful person. You rock my world girl, really. :)) *loves*
Now, a present, using as many as your interests as I could. And if someone sees a typo, IT IS STAYING THERE BECAUSE IT TOOK ME AGES TO GET THE WORD COUNT TO FIT THAT NUMBER. *breathes*
The Dust Sticking To Your Skin
Remus/Sirius - Gingerbread House - Swing Dancing - Road Trips - 4815162342 - Not Growing Up - Fairytales - 666 Words
They have a road trip, red hood sweltering under the June sun as the white leather makes them sweat, shirts stuck to their skin. They pretend to be somewhere else, sometimes sunny California with its starlets and vintage clothes, sometimes snowy Patagonia with its elegant penguins, and it always feel realer than the war brewing outside the convertible.
Sirius turns the radio up, music fills their ears as they pretend the ever-green English fields are dusty and yellow and a desert surrounds them. Sirius hums for a bit, and then he just gives in and stops the car, pulls at Remus’ hand until he’s out in the asphalt and they’re both choking on laughter as they dance in the middle of the road, swing music giving them a rhythm that comes out from the car’s open doors.
(They kiss, slowly, and people from the passing cars whistle at them.)
There’s interference at the radio that evening, and as the sun sets and the world turns orange (the same as Remus’ hair, the same as their hands brushing together) loose numbers come and go and neither of them cares enough to mutter Reparo and be done with it. 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, and 42, goes the female voice that comes and goes as if saying part of a puzzle, and Sirius wonders if it means anything at all. A code, maybe, and he’s curious to know what it opens.
“I’m so hot,” says Remus after a while, fanning himself with a pamphlet of the last town they drove across.
“Smoking, babe,” says Sirius with a fake American accent a la Elvis, and Remus licks his ear after laughing. He’s a gingerbread house, Remus is, all temptation wrapped with an innocent look, dark eyes that have been dilated with arousal for the entire trip.
(And it’s not like he minds.)
Remus then bites his earlobe, presses his face to Sirius’ neck to feel the vibrations from his moan, a hand going lower as the car starts to go erratic - same as both of their breathing. Remus strokes slowly, Sirius’ toes clench and unclench and the accelerator suffers the consequences (and off they go, flying across the road with an empty tank that doesn’t seem to need more fuel). Sirius pants, Remus smiles manic against his neck, and as Sirius comes and groans into the night he can remember why was it that little Peter in that forbidden Muggle fairytale didn’t want to grow up, and he doesn’t want to, either.
“Is it my turn already?” asks Remus after Sirius finally hits the brakes, finally down on earth again.
“You sly little thing,” Sirius answers as he turns the car off. He turns to Remus, presses him to the white upholstery with a kiss and hands that seem insistent to open the fly of his trousers.
“Well, you know me, I’m all charm.”
“Oh, you are. You definitely are.” Remus still tastes like the cheesecake they both ate a hundred miles away, and they’re still both sweaty even if the sun’s gone down. They don’t really fit while laying sprawled in the inside of the rental car, but one of Sirius’ feet goes out of the passenger’s window (or what would be a window, at least, in another kind of car), and Remus is left to deal with the fact that he’ll have to bang his head against the door quite a lot of times.
Sirius’ hands go down Remus’ shirt, and there’s a sigh and more humming as Remus keeps on singing along to the song in the radio. “You’re supposed to be far too gone to be rational, Lupin,” says Sirius, amused, and Remus drags him up for a quick kiss.
“Then you’re not doing this in the right way,” says the cheeky bastard, and Sirius tries harder.
(And ten minutes later Remus can only moan and bite his lip and make a grab for the leather seat as if it would keep him from falling.)
Terra, you're one of the few people I've felt completely comfortable with since I met them, and you're just so awesome and strong and a wonderful person. You rock my world girl, really. :)) *loves*
Now, a present, using as many as your interests as I could. And if someone sees a typo, IT IS STAYING THERE BECAUSE IT TOOK ME AGES TO GET THE WORD COUNT TO FIT THAT NUMBER. *breathes*
The Dust Sticking To Your Skin
Remus/Sirius - Gingerbread House - Swing Dancing - Road Trips - 4815162342 - Not Growing Up - Fairytales - 666 Words
They have a road trip, red hood sweltering under the June sun as the white leather makes them sweat, shirts stuck to their skin. They pretend to be somewhere else, sometimes sunny California with its starlets and vintage clothes, sometimes snowy Patagonia with its elegant penguins, and it always feel realer than the war brewing outside the convertible.
Sirius turns the radio up, music fills their ears as they pretend the ever-green English fields are dusty and yellow and a desert surrounds them. Sirius hums for a bit, and then he just gives in and stops the car, pulls at Remus’ hand until he’s out in the asphalt and they’re both choking on laughter as they dance in the middle of the road, swing music giving them a rhythm that comes out from the car’s open doors.
(They kiss, slowly, and people from the passing cars whistle at them.)
There’s interference at the radio that evening, and as the sun sets and the world turns orange (the same as Remus’ hair, the same as their hands brushing together) loose numbers come and go and neither of them cares enough to mutter Reparo and be done with it. 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, and 42, goes the female voice that comes and goes as if saying part of a puzzle, and Sirius wonders if it means anything at all. A code, maybe, and he’s curious to know what it opens.
“I’m so hot,” says Remus after a while, fanning himself with a pamphlet of the last town they drove across.
“Smoking, babe,” says Sirius with a fake American accent a la Elvis, and Remus licks his ear after laughing. He’s a gingerbread house, Remus is, all temptation wrapped with an innocent look, dark eyes that have been dilated with arousal for the entire trip.
(And it’s not like he minds.)
Remus then bites his earlobe, presses his face to Sirius’ neck to feel the vibrations from his moan, a hand going lower as the car starts to go erratic - same as both of their breathing. Remus strokes slowly, Sirius’ toes clench and unclench and the accelerator suffers the consequences (and off they go, flying across the road with an empty tank that doesn’t seem to need more fuel). Sirius pants, Remus smiles manic against his neck, and as Sirius comes and groans into the night he can remember why was it that little Peter in that forbidden Muggle fairytale didn’t want to grow up, and he doesn’t want to, either.
“Is it my turn already?” asks Remus after Sirius finally hits the brakes, finally down on earth again.
“You sly little thing,” Sirius answers as he turns the car off. He turns to Remus, presses him to the white upholstery with a kiss and hands that seem insistent to open the fly of his trousers.
“Well, you know me, I’m all charm.”
“Oh, you are. You definitely are.” Remus still tastes like the cheesecake they both ate a hundred miles away, and they’re still both sweaty even if the sun’s gone down. They don’t really fit while laying sprawled in the inside of the rental car, but one of Sirius’ feet goes out of the passenger’s window (or what would be a window, at least, in another kind of car), and Remus is left to deal with the fact that he’ll have to bang his head against the door quite a lot of times.
Sirius’ hands go down Remus’ shirt, and there’s a sigh and more humming as Remus keeps on singing along to the song in the radio. “You’re supposed to be far too gone to be rational, Lupin,” says Sirius, amused, and Remus drags him up for a quick kiss.
“Then you’re not doing this in the right way,” says the cheeky bastard, and Sirius tries harder.
(And ten minutes later Remus can only moan and bite his lip and make a grab for the leather seat as if it would keep him from falling.)