wildestranger | Drabble Remus/Sirius

Drabble, Remus/Sirius, for

txilar.

Remus' head is bent down as he writes, his back taut with the fury of his pen, his hair falling over his brow. A still pose of eagerness that pleases the teachers and they nod with satisfaction at him, seeing nothing in Remus' exposed neck and deft fingers except a good boy.

Sirius sees more.

He watches as a drop of sweat falls down, from the roots of Remus' hair where the pale brown is still a darker root, across the midge-bite that Remus has been stratching all morning and which has now become red and angry with itching, down to the piece of raw skin by his collar where the rough wool of Remus' jumper has brought blood to the surface. Remus twitches under his eyes, irritation raising the tension in his shoulders and making his pen flick exceedingly fast on the parchment.

It takes only a little noise, a breath of a smidgeon of a moan, to make Remus pause. And Sirius stares, with greed and longing, at the sudden flush of release on Remus' cheeks and the slight drop of his eyelids.

Later, they say.