![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: Full Moon
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Sirius/Remus
Warnings: Slytherin!Sirius AU
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: While exploring the woods near his family’s country house, Sirius runs into a werewolf. When they change back in the morning, things go a little too far; Sirius may be in serious trouble, but he really doesn’t care.
AN: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hp_silencio.
The wolf is huge. So huge, in fact, that his ears turn back and flatten against his skull before he can think to react differently. He lowers himself to his belly when yellow eyes turn in his direction; flattens himself against the forest floor and whines softly. Every breath brings with it the smell of fur and overpowering musk – there’s the faintest hint of blood in the air too, and it makes his hackles rise. Something has met its end in the wolf’s jaws tonight; he has no desire to be next.
The wolf pads towards him on giant paws, stands over him and sniffs. The fur on the back of his neck ruffles in the gusts of the wolf’s breath, and he has to force himself to remain still as jaws clamp down on the scruff of his neck. The longer the wolf stays over him, teeth digging through thick fur to only just put pressure on his skin, the more his heart pounds and his breath starts to come in whines and whimpers.
Then the pressure is gone. The wolf steps back. He cocks his head at Padfoot and his ears twitch invitingly. Padfoot – apparently not big enough to count as a threat, nor human-scented enough to appear as prey – clambers shakily to his feet and feels his tail begin to wag. He’s happy. Proud, even, to have won the wolf’s acceptance. He steps forward, and mindful of the claws and teeth and size of the wolf, he noses his way down the wolf’s side, filling his lungs with its rich scent. Fur and musk and blood is attractive, to his dog’s mind, and beneath the thick fur the wolf is nothing but pure muscle.
He draws away before he can take that thought any further; pulls back and stretches out his forelegs and arches his back, wagging his tail and opening his mouth to let his tongue loll out in a playful smile. His nights as a dog are usually fun - anything that takes him out of his family’s wards and into the world is fun – but they’re also quite dull. There’s only so far he can go before he can’t make it back by morning; there’s only so many new smells to investigate. The wolf is the first new thing he’s seen in ages, and he’s also the first company he’s had since Regulus decided he’d much rather be a house cat than a mouser.
He yips invitingly, earns himself an amused huff, and darts forward to nip at the wolf’s tail before dashing off into the woods. He hears paws thundering after him and the heavy pants of the wolf’s breathing, but he knows he won’t be hurt.
They play until moon-set.
As soon as the moon dips down below the horizon, the wolf raises its head from the carcass of the deer they killed together. Its ears flatten, and its growl is like nothing Padfoot has ever heard. It backs away from their kill, hackles rising, and Padfoot can only whine and watch, blood still dripping from his jaws, as his companion starts to scream.
He cowers behind the body of the deer, eyes wide and ears pulled back and whimpers spilling from his mouth. He wants to get closer, but the wolf is thrashing about in its sudden agony, and a blow from one of its pause would put a swift end to any comfort he could offer.
It takes him a moment to realise, but the wolf is changing. Bones snap, reshape and reform, muscles twist and fur shrinks; his lovely, strong wolf is being twisted into the form of a human. A werewolf, he realises, and as soon as the thought crosses his mind he’s on his paws and howling at the absent moon and the pain that it’s putting his new companion through.
The screams stop when it’s over, and Padfoot slinks around the body of the deer – still steaming in the cold air – and nudges the human with his nose. He’s not built half as powerfully as the wolf is, and he’s covered in scratches from where he’s cut himself on his own claws, but there’s a decidedly pretty turn to his jaw that Sirius – swimming up to the surface of Padfoot’s simpler mind – rather likes.
The boy groans when he nudges him again, and he weakly raises a hand to shove Padfoot away. His eyes snap open when they make contact with Padfoot’s fur, however, and Padfoot wishes that his colour vision were better so that he could see the shade of the boy’s irises before they were swallowed up by his pupils. He nudges him again, lets long fingers curl into his fur, and realises that the boy is going to be freezing cold – it’s winter, after all.
He lowers himself down and lets the boy curl into his side, shaking from the cold and his exhaustion. It’s not long before he’s asleep. Padfoot keeps watch.
He keeps watch for so long that he knows he’s going to be in trouble when he goes back. Either that, or he’s going to owe Regulus something terrible for covering for him, and that amounts to roughly the same thing. The sun rises weak and pale. Birds twitter around them, darting from tree to tree and snacking on red berries and worms brought up by the dew; the boy sleeps on, ruffling Padfoot’s fur with every breath.
He keeps watch until the sun has risen above the tops of the trees and the boy stirs, pressing his face into Padfoot’s fur to hide from the light before jerking back with a yelp. Suddenly very awake, he stares at Padfoot with huge, round eyes – a similar look to the one Reg had worn when seeing his animagus form for the first time. He does look terribly like a Grim, after all.
Time to change back.
His change is nothing like the wolf’s was, and he feels a little guilty for that as he sprawls out on his stomach, still in his robes from the previous day. A blurred, stretching sensation is all he gets; something that’s far from agony.
He thinks he sees the boy mouth his name, but that’s ridiculous. He’s never met a werewolf before, and he doesn’t think that they’d let one into school. Instead he’s distracted by the rich amber of the boy’s eyes, and the way that there’s tiny flecks of grey in his brown hair. He looks so much better like this; in human vision, he’s as perfect to Sirius as his wolf was to Padfoot, and even though it’s a really, really stupid idea – he’s a werewolf - Sirius leans in to kiss him.
He’s more surprised that the boy lets him than anything else.
He can taste blood on the boy’s tongue. Deer, he thinks, because his own mouth tastes of it as well. Those long fingers reach for him again and curl into his robes, drawing him closer, and the boy gives a soft little sigh through his nose. It’s endearing. And more than anything, it’s wonderful. He presses closer and slides his hands over all the bare skin that he can reach. There’s rather a lot – the boy is naked beneath him, and while Sirius tries his hardest to be gentle, his breath does hitch as Sirius’ fingers skim lightly over his injuries.
He’s taking it too far. His boy is more than willing, but he’s also wounded and Sirius knows nothing about him except that he’s a werewolf. Still, there’s some kind of instinct – one of the last vestiges of Padfoot, perhaps – that’s drawing him in. It’s like his tongue was made to slip into the boy’s mouth and lick blood from his teeth; like their bodies were supposed to slide together so perfectly.
The boy’s hands are deft as they wind their way beneath his robes and pull them up his legs and over his arse. He hesitates a little, and Sirius draws back just enough to pull them off, over his head, before casting them aside and settling down onto the boy’s body again. Gently. So gently, but still enough to draw a pained wince along with his pleased moan.
There are so many things he thinks he should say. Things like introductions or apologies, but they’re all clogging up his throat and catching on his tongue, and the only thing he can do is sink into the boy’s warm kisses and his reverent touches and the perfection that is a stranger on a winter’s morning.
He’s in so much trouble, but really, he doesn’t care.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Sirius/Remus
Warnings: Slytherin!Sirius AU
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: While exploring the woods near his family’s country house, Sirius runs into a werewolf. When they change back in the morning, things go a little too far; Sirius may be in serious trouble, but he really doesn’t care.
AN: Written for
hp_silencio.The wolf is huge. So huge, in fact, that his ears turn back and flatten against his skull before he can think to react differently. He lowers himself to his belly when yellow eyes turn in his direction; flattens himself against the forest floor and whines softly. Every breath brings with it the smell of fur and overpowering musk – there’s the faintest hint of blood in the air too, and it makes his hackles rise. Something has met its end in the wolf’s jaws tonight; he has no desire to be next.
The wolf pads towards him on giant paws, stands over him and sniffs. The fur on the back of his neck ruffles in the gusts of the wolf’s breath, and he has to force himself to remain still as jaws clamp down on the scruff of his neck. The longer the wolf stays over him, teeth digging through thick fur to only just put pressure on his skin, the more his heart pounds and his breath starts to come in whines and whimpers.
Then the pressure is gone. The wolf steps back. He cocks his head at Padfoot and his ears twitch invitingly. Padfoot – apparently not big enough to count as a threat, nor human-scented enough to appear as prey – clambers shakily to his feet and feels his tail begin to wag. He’s happy. Proud, even, to have won the wolf’s acceptance. He steps forward, and mindful of the claws and teeth and size of the wolf, he noses his way down the wolf’s side, filling his lungs with its rich scent. Fur and musk and blood is attractive, to his dog’s mind, and beneath the thick fur the wolf is nothing but pure muscle.
He draws away before he can take that thought any further; pulls back and stretches out his forelegs and arches his back, wagging his tail and opening his mouth to let his tongue loll out in a playful smile. His nights as a dog are usually fun - anything that takes him out of his family’s wards and into the world is fun – but they’re also quite dull. There’s only so far he can go before he can’t make it back by morning; there’s only so many new smells to investigate. The wolf is the first new thing he’s seen in ages, and he’s also the first company he’s had since Regulus decided he’d much rather be a house cat than a mouser.
He yips invitingly, earns himself an amused huff, and darts forward to nip at the wolf’s tail before dashing off into the woods. He hears paws thundering after him and the heavy pants of the wolf’s breathing, but he knows he won’t be hurt.
They play until moon-set.
As soon as the moon dips down below the horizon, the wolf raises its head from the carcass of the deer they killed together. Its ears flatten, and its growl is like nothing Padfoot has ever heard. It backs away from their kill, hackles rising, and Padfoot can only whine and watch, blood still dripping from his jaws, as his companion starts to scream.
He cowers behind the body of the deer, eyes wide and ears pulled back and whimpers spilling from his mouth. He wants to get closer, but the wolf is thrashing about in its sudden agony, and a blow from one of its pause would put a swift end to any comfort he could offer.
It takes him a moment to realise, but the wolf is changing. Bones snap, reshape and reform, muscles twist and fur shrinks; his lovely, strong wolf is being twisted into the form of a human. A werewolf, he realises, and as soon as the thought crosses his mind he’s on his paws and howling at the absent moon and the pain that it’s putting his new companion through.
The screams stop when it’s over, and Padfoot slinks around the body of the deer – still steaming in the cold air – and nudges the human with his nose. He’s not built half as powerfully as the wolf is, and he’s covered in scratches from where he’s cut himself on his own claws, but there’s a decidedly pretty turn to his jaw that Sirius – swimming up to the surface of Padfoot’s simpler mind – rather likes.
The boy groans when he nudges him again, and he weakly raises a hand to shove Padfoot away. His eyes snap open when they make contact with Padfoot’s fur, however, and Padfoot wishes that his colour vision were better so that he could see the shade of the boy’s irises before they were swallowed up by his pupils. He nudges him again, lets long fingers curl into his fur, and realises that the boy is going to be freezing cold – it’s winter, after all.
He lowers himself down and lets the boy curl into his side, shaking from the cold and his exhaustion. It’s not long before he’s asleep. Padfoot keeps watch.
He keeps watch for so long that he knows he’s going to be in trouble when he goes back. Either that, or he’s going to owe Regulus something terrible for covering for him, and that amounts to roughly the same thing. The sun rises weak and pale. Birds twitter around them, darting from tree to tree and snacking on red berries and worms brought up by the dew; the boy sleeps on, ruffling Padfoot’s fur with every breath.
He keeps watch until the sun has risen above the tops of the trees and the boy stirs, pressing his face into Padfoot’s fur to hide from the light before jerking back with a yelp. Suddenly very awake, he stares at Padfoot with huge, round eyes – a similar look to the one Reg had worn when seeing his animagus form for the first time. He does look terribly like a Grim, after all.
Time to change back.
His change is nothing like the wolf’s was, and he feels a little guilty for that as he sprawls out on his stomach, still in his robes from the previous day. A blurred, stretching sensation is all he gets; something that’s far from agony.
He thinks he sees the boy mouth his name, but that’s ridiculous. He’s never met a werewolf before, and he doesn’t think that they’d let one into school. Instead he’s distracted by the rich amber of the boy’s eyes, and the way that there’s tiny flecks of grey in his brown hair. He looks so much better like this; in human vision, he’s as perfect to Sirius as his wolf was to Padfoot, and even though it’s a really, really stupid idea – he’s a werewolf - Sirius leans in to kiss him.
He’s more surprised that the boy lets him than anything else.
He can taste blood on the boy’s tongue. Deer, he thinks, because his own mouth tastes of it as well. Those long fingers reach for him again and curl into his robes, drawing him closer, and the boy gives a soft little sigh through his nose. It’s endearing. And more than anything, it’s wonderful. He presses closer and slides his hands over all the bare skin that he can reach. There’s rather a lot – the boy is naked beneath him, and while Sirius tries his hardest to be gentle, his breath does hitch as Sirius’ fingers skim lightly over his injuries.
He’s taking it too far. His boy is more than willing, but he’s also wounded and Sirius knows nothing about him except that he’s a werewolf. Still, there’s some kind of instinct – one of the last vestiges of Padfoot, perhaps – that’s drawing him in. It’s like his tongue was made to slip into the boy’s mouth and lick blood from his teeth; like their bodies were supposed to slide together so perfectly.
The boy’s hands are deft as they wind their way beneath his robes and pull them up his legs and over his arse. He hesitates a little, and Sirius draws back just enough to pull them off, over his head, before casting them aside and settling down onto the boy’s body again. Gently. So gently, but still enough to draw a pained wince along with his pleased moan.
There are so many things he thinks he should say. Things like introductions or apologies, but they’re all clogging up his throat and catching on his tongue, and the only thing he can do is sink into the boy’s warm kisses and his reverent touches and the perfection that is a stranger on a winter’s morning.
He’s in so much trouble, but really, he doesn’t care.
