angelgazing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angelgazing) wrote2005-08-14 03:00 am
angelgazing) wrote2005-08-14 03:00 am
Entry tags:
dogdays ficlet - eos dragging twilight - aug. 13th - r
Wee! I finally finished one! Hey, it's later. :p
Eos Dragging Twilight - 388 words - Sirius/Remus - R
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dogdaysofsummer's Aug. 13th prompt
We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic
- Van Morrison, 'Into the Mystic'
---
His heels sink into the sand: bare, dirty, scratched, callused flesh slipping into the earth, gasping for purchase and drowning. He gasps, desperate and boyish, as the sky above pinkens, finally, smudged by the thumb of the goddess of dawn, and leaves Sirius a silhouette, black and golden, shadow and highlight against dawn drawing nearer, held above Remus like an offering. His knees in the sand, shaking scared, wanting, fingers sand-gritty against the hollow of Remus' belly like a prize. (They don't know who's the winner.)
Thumb sleepy hungerdrunken against Remus' hipbone—too sharp, too scarred, another old wound waiting for Sirius' fingers, just waiting to be reopened—scratching, nails uneven, pressing into Remus' skin, leaving half-moon marks and they won't scar, maybe, but Sirius' mouth is the sun, following the path of his fingers and burning through him. He's the lost son of Helios, swinging the sun too close and blackening his skin.
Remus gasps, again, the sound lost in the wind that makes him shiver; too, too cold on the places where his skin is damp from Sirius' tongue. His heels slide, and he can't get a grip, the knuckles of his almost-fisted hands slipslide slip and bump, on the salt and chilled sweat sticky, slippery parts of Sirius: his back, shoulder blades and curved spine, his neck, his cheekbones: sharp and cutting and stubble-rough and, and. He bites down, his teeth whitesharp and easy, striking pressure, against the flesh of Remus' belly, his chin against Remus' skin, a sharp point, pushing at the denim of his waistband.
He tilts his head back, far enough to see the way that gold peeks above the horizon, to see the way that white-capped waves rush forward, closer and closer, the salt in the air thick on his tongue, his mouth wide, dropped open, silent and pleading. Remus falls, soars, rushes forward and back, the ebb and flow of the moon, of the ocean, Sirius' hand on the inside of his thigh tight and tightening, holding him in place. His hands fall above his head, uselessly gripping around nothing, sand and saltwater slipping through his fingers. His head tips back, to watch the curve of the earth slink nearer and then away and then nearer; Sirius curls his fingers, finally, there, and Remus closes his eyes and sets sail.
for
dogdaysofsummer's Aug. 13th promptWe were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic
- Van Morrison, 'Into the Mystic'
---
His heels sink into the sand: bare, dirty, scratched, callused flesh slipping into the earth, gasping for purchase and drowning. He gasps, desperate and boyish, as the sky above pinkens, finally, smudged by the thumb of the goddess of dawn, and leaves Sirius a silhouette, black and golden, shadow and highlight against dawn drawing nearer, held above Remus like an offering. His knees in the sand, shaking scared, wanting, fingers sand-gritty against the hollow of Remus' belly like a prize. (They don't know who's the winner.)
Thumb sleepy hungerdrunken against Remus' hipbone—too sharp, too scarred, another old wound waiting for Sirius' fingers, just waiting to be reopened—scratching, nails uneven, pressing into Remus' skin, leaving half-moon marks and they won't scar, maybe, but Sirius' mouth is the sun, following the path of his fingers and burning through him. He's the lost son of Helios, swinging the sun too close and blackening his skin.
Remus gasps, again, the sound lost in the wind that makes him shiver; too, too cold on the places where his skin is damp from Sirius' tongue. His heels slide, and he can't get a grip, the knuckles of his almost-fisted hands slipslide slip and bump, on the salt and chilled sweat sticky, slippery parts of Sirius: his back, shoulder blades and curved spine, his neck, his cheekbones: sharp and cutting and stubble-rough and, and. He bites down, his teeth whitesharp and easy, striking pressure, against the flesh of Remus' belly, his chin against Remus' skin, a sharp point, pushing at the denim of his waistband.
He tilts his head back, far enough to see the way that gold peeks above the horizon, to see the way that white-capped waves rush forward, closer and closer, the salt in the air thick on his tongue, his mouth wide, dropped open, silent and pleading. Remus falls, soars, rushes forward and back, the ebb and flow of the moon, of the ocean, Sirius' hand on the inside of his thigh tight and tightening, holding him in place. His hands fall above his head, uselessly gripping around nothing, sand and saltwater slipping through his fingers. His head tips back, to watch the curve of the earth slink nearer and then away and then nearer; Sirius curls his fingers, finally, there, and Remus closes his eyes and sets sail.
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Gorgeous. Lyrical and just guh.
By the way, you've missed the 'of' after 'ebb and flow.' I always get nervous pointing this stuff out in comments, but it's a lovely sentence, and I selfishly want it perfect. *G*
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Heh, okay, the 'of'is now in place. Thanks for pointing it out to me. :) And thanks for the comment. I'm glad you liked it.
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::giggles::
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I have in fact discovered that I can only write for prompts and challenges, or I would, of course, live to offer you your fandom wants. *G*
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So. um. You need a prompt you just talk to me, honey. ;)
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