![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Author: Nekare
Rating: G
Paring: Remus/Sirius
Words: 479
Written for the scarvesandhats community, for the October 4th propmt.
Erm, I'm new to LJ, anyone kind enough to tell me how make the cut say what you want it to?
Sirius says he wanted to play fetch. Remus doesn’t believe him, but chooses to follow him anyway. And off they go, two boys in scarves and muggle clothing (because even a pistachio colored shirt is an act of defiance for Sirius), patched for the loony boy (and Peeves doesn’t know his nickname from him comes so close to the truth) and with magic-made holes for the doggy one.
They run off to Hogsmeade, hiding from people that might know they’re not supposed to be there, laughing in dark alleys and using James’ cloak to steal the best of Madam Rosmerta’s firewhiskey (you only live once, Sirius says when Remus proclaims his outrage, and Remus slips a few sickles on the counter when the other’s not watching).
Remus’ scarf decides to play tag without permission, and they both chase through the endless yellowing fields, breathless with laughter and maybe a bit drunk with life (although the firewhiskey had its part in it) and the sweet smell of autumn – candy, deep orange pumpkin, and sugary apples.
(And with the shared idea of eating one together. Neither knows the other thinks it too, though.)
When Sirius finally catches the runaway tartan scarf (legs aching, but a grin on his lips), he turns around to the still running Remus, throws the fabric around his neck, with the ends still between his fingers, and pulls Remus to him; bodies close and breaths mingling.
A blush, for even when both had seen this coming it is still too new, too unstable to put on words. The smiles don’t disappear. Remus is made of Autumn, Sirius muses, when he realizes (not for the first time) that his hair matches the dying leaves at their feet; soft light in his eyes and quiet presence too often ignored by those more interested on its fellow stations (not by Sirius, though, he’s always painfully aware of him).
“Good dog,” Says Remus in between short intakes of breath “although fetch is supposed to be played with a stick.” Sirius laughs loudly, and leans down to kiss him, sweetness and whiskey and some of the life they’ve been taking as a drug passing back and forth; warmth overtaking the chilling wind that still wants to play with them (it takes the leaves instead, and they both end up with peaces of red and brown twisted in their hair).
Remus breaks away, regains the control of his scarf and starts running, a smirk toying with Sirius’ heart as he yells “Catch me!”; pink on his cheeks and a bear-like dog at his heels.
They pass the rest of the evening playing fetch, and Remus tries to overlook the fact that he’s being used as a substitute for a stick. (Doesn’t want to think about the puns either, but Sirius reminds him of them anyway.)
In the end, he doesn’t mind getting caught.
Rating: G
Paring: Remus/Sirius
Words: 479
Written for the scarvesandhats community, for the October 4th propmt.
Erm, I'm new to LJ, anyone kind enough to tell me how make the cut say what you want it to?
Sirius says he wanted to play fetch. Remus doesn’t believe him, but chooses to follow him anyway. And off they go, two boys in scarves and muggle clothing (because even a pistachio colored shirt is an act of defiance for Sirius), patched for the loony boy (and Peeves doesn’t know his nickname from him comes so close to the truth) and with magic-made holes for the doggy one.
They run off to Hogsmeade, hiding from people that might know they’re not supposed to be there, laughing in dark alleys and using James’ cloak to steal the best of Madam Rosmerta’s firewhiskey (you only live once, Sirius says when Remus proclaims his outrage, and Remus slips a few sickles on the counter when the other’s not watching).
Remus’ scarf decides to play tag without permission, and they both chase through the endless yellowing fields, breathless with laughter and maybe a bit drunk with life (although the firewhiskey had its part in it) and the sweet smell of autumn – candy, deep orange pumpkin, and sugary apples.
(And with the shared idea of eating one together. Neither knows the other thinks it too, though.)
When Sirius finally catches the runaway tartan scarf (legs aching, but a grin on his lips), he turns around to the still running Remus, throws the fabric around his neck, with the ends still between his fingers, and pulls Remus to him; bodies close and breaths mingling.
A blush, for even when both had seen this coming it is still too new, too unstable to put on words. The smiles don’t disappear. Remus is made of Autumn, Sirius muses, when he realizes (not for the first time) that his hair matches the dying leaves at their feet; soft light in his eyes and quiet presence too often ignored by those more interested on its fellow stations (not by Sirius, though, he’s always painfully aware of him).
“Good dog,” Says Remus in between short intakes of breath “although fetch is supposed to be played with a stick.” Sirius laughs loudly, and leans down to kiss him, sweetness and whiskey and some of the life they’ve been taking as a drug passing back and forth; warmth overtaking the chilling wind that still wants to play with them (it takes the leaves instead, and they both end up with peaces of red and brown twisted in their hair).
Remus breaks away, regains the control of his scarf and starts running, a smirk toying with Sirius’ heart as he yells “Catch me!”; pink on his cheeks and a bear-like dog at his heels.
They pass the rest of the evening playing fetch, and Remus tries to overlook the fact that he’s being used as a substitute for a stick. (Doesn’t want to think about the puns either, but Sirius reminds him of them anyway.)
In the end, he doesn’t mind getting caught.
creative
(no subject)
(no subject)