sam_storyteller (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-15 10:00 am
sam_storyteller) wrote2005-07-15 10:00 am
Entry tags:
Chasing the Moon
Rating: NC-17 (sexualized violence)
Summary: Remus has disturbing dreams.
Warnings: Violent sexual content.
Also available at AO3.
***
He used to get the dream when he was at school; he figured it was one of those puberty things. Unfortunately, puberty for a werewolf was spent less on worrying about voices settling and more on how one sometimes had to spend History of Magic concentrating on one's hand, which wanted to be a paw. The books all said he'd grow out of it, just like all the rest of the horrible things that happened during the awkward years.
He wasn't sure whether he wanted to shake the dream or not.
It usually happened near full moon, or when he fell asleep on a night when the moonlight cut through the curtains of the dormitory windows and pooled over his bed. It was uniquely vivid, so much so that he always thought this time it's real, with the particular suspension of disbelief that comes in dreams.
She was beautiful, of course. Sometimes he thought he caught a hint of a familiar face; one of the girls that made up their adolescent fantasies, Lily Evans or Andromeda Black or one of the Bones sisters. Usually, though, she was just herself.
He'd open his eyes and think he was awake, because he was lying in his bed, turned to face the window. The world was a murky black, blurred around the edges, and she stood there crisply outlined in the moonlight, in a short white dress that wouldn't have looked out of place a hundred years ago, except for its hemline.
(Most of what Remus had learned about girls had been from books.)
She had black hair and true grey eyes, not the light blue that everyone called grey, and she had a scar on her cheek, silver against her pale, luminous skin.
She always smiled at him first, lips pressed together, a mischievous smile. She moved forward and he rolled back and she bent to kiss his forehead -- never his mouth -- lips ghosting lightly over it. Next to hers, his skin looked golden, and sometimes in more lucid moments during the day he'd wonder if that wasn't all it was: an ancient dream, sun-chasing-moon-chasing-sun like in the myths.
And then, because this was that sort of dream, the sort that made all the boys really eager to learn the cleaning spells, she'd slide under the blankets and brush against his skin, let him pull her down to him, kiss his cheek -- never his mouth -- running a warm tongue down his jawline.
He knew she was the moon. She never had to tell him, which was good, because they never spoke. She was a woman who was the moon and the moon was her, and he didn't have to be afraid of her because he belonged to
worshiped
feared
loved her. There was no reason to be afraid, not when her thighs slid against his and he steadied her hips and slipped inside, an embrace that froze and burned him.
It was so real. Later, when girls were not quite the Mystery they had once been, he'd sometimes find himself comparing his girlfriends to the dream.
Sometimes he found the reality wanting.
She arched and tightened and he touched her, exploring her body, everywhere; he could feel the smooth skin on her shoulders, her breasts; he knew the way she gasped under his fingers. Knew the way his body quickened and his breath came short and his chest grew tight.
Knew that just when he was almost there, she would smile again and this time he could see her small, even, sharp teeth --
A moment of fear --
And she would bend over him and the motion made him gasp and come even as those teeth closed over his neck, ripping out his throat.
He always woke the minute he felt his blood begin to spill. The first time he'd had sex with a girl she'd been surprised to see him close his eyes and cover his throat with one hand when he came.
Now he sat up in the bed, slowly, cheeks still burning a little as he whispered the familiar words that would clean the sheets, embarrassed that after twenty years...
Well, he almost never had the dream anymore. There were other nightmares, he could really take his pick of those, and a man pushing forty doesn't have the same obsessions as a boy of fourteen.
He rubbed his face, and draped his arms on his knees, turning to rest his cheek on his crossed arms.
The moonlight was streaming through the window. Waxing.
He thought he saw a glimmer of white, the faint hint of a sharp-toothed smile, in the silver light.
END
Summary: Remus has disturbing dreams.
Warnings: Violent sexual content.
Also available at AO3.
***
He used to get the dream when he was at school; he figured it was one of those puberty things. Unfortunately, puberty for a werewolf was spent less on worrying about voices settling and more on how one sometimes had to spend History of Magic concentrating on one's hand, which wanted to be a paw. The books all said he'd grow out of it, just like all the rest of the horrible things that happened during the awkward years.
He wasn't sure whether he wanted to shake the dream or not.
It usually happened near full moon, or when he fell asleep on a night when the moonlight cut through the curtains of the dormitory windows and pooled over his bed. It was uniquely vivid, so much so that he always thought this time it's real, with the particular suspension of disbelief that comes in dreams.
She was beautiful, of course. Sometimes he thought he caught a hint of a familiar face; one of the girls that made up their adolescent fantasies, Lily Evans or Andromeda Black or one of the Bones sisters. Usually, though, she was just herself.
He'd open his eyes and think he was awake, because he was lying in his bed, turned to face the window. The world was a murky black, blurred around the edges, and she stood there crisply outlined in the moonlight, in a short white dress that wouldn't have looked out of place a hundred years ago, except for its hemline.
(Most of what Remus had learned about girls had been from books.)
She had black hair and true grey eyes, not the light blue that everyone called grey, and she had a scar on her cheek, silver against her pale, luminous skin.
She always smiled at him first, lips pressed together, a mischievous smile. She moved forward and he rolled back and she bent to kiss his forehead -- never his mouth -- lips ghosting lightly over it. Next to hers, his skin looked golden, and sometimes in more lucid moments during the day he'd wonder if that wasn't all it was: an ancient dream, sun-chasing-moon-chasing-sun like in the myths.
And then, because this was that sort of dream, the sort that made all the boys really eager to learn the cleaning spells, she'd slide under the blankets and brush against his skin, let him pull her down to him, kiss his cheek -- never his mouth -- running a warm tongue down his jawline.
He knew she was the moon. She never had to tell him, which was good, because they never spoke. She was a woman who was the moon and the moon was her, and he didn't have to be afraid of her because he belonged to
worshiped
feared
loved her. There was no reason to be afraid, not when her thighs slid against his and he steadied her hips and slipped inside, an embrace that froze and burned him.
It was so real. Later, when girls were not quite the Mystery they had once been, he'd sometimes find himself comparing his girlfriends to the dream.
Sometimes he found the reality wanting.
She arched and tightened and he touched her, exploring her body, everywhere; he could feel the smooth skin on her shoulders, her breasts; he knew the way she gasped under his fingers. Knew the way his body quickened and his breath came short and his chest grew tight.
Knew that just when he was almost there, she would smile again and this time he could see her small, even, sharp teeth --
A moment of fear --
And she would bend over him and the motion made him gasp and come even as those teeth closed over his neck, ripping out his throat.
He always woke the minute he felt his blood begin to spill. The first time he'd had sex with a girl she'd been surprised to see him close his eyes and cover his throat with one hand when he came.
Now he sat up in the bed, slowly, cheeks still burning a little as he whispered the familiar words that would clean the sheets, embarrassed that after twenty years...
Well, he almost never had the dream anymore. There were other nightmares, he could really take his pick of those, and a man pushing forty doesn't have the same obsessions as a boy of fourteen.
He rubbed his face, and draped his arms on his knees, turning to rest his cheek on his crossed arms.
The moonlight was streaming through the window. Waxing.
He thought he saw a glimmer of white, the faint hint of a sharp-toothed smile, in the silver light.
END
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I have read nearly every one of your fics over this past week, for I saved them all in preparation for a long flight to a vacation destination. As a poet and a ficcer, I can really appreciate the poetic nature of this piece. Of course, I am a devoted R/S shipper, but I love love love this. One of my favorites of yours, excluding the Stealing Harry-verse.
Beautiful.
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