#drowsyanddazed

🌸FLUFFY FRIDAY #55🌸

Warning! This could be too sweet to handle!✨

Heartstones, by eyra (5k)

Remus is a lonely painter. Sirius is a shopkeeper who might just have a solution for that. Summertime on the Yorkshire coast, with crystals, and candle-smoke, and sunshine.

You know, normally, anything remotely new age-y gives me the ick. Not this though! This was lovely, just like everything else eyra has written.

tell me what you want, say it like an oath, by drowsyanddazed (3k)

Sirius tilts his head. “What? What do you want?” Gray eyes. Collarbones. Body heat.

“Nothing,” Remus' eyes shift to Sirius’ lips and then quickly back to smoky eyes, “it doesn’t matter.”

Don’t look at me, no I’m not drooling, nope. Urgh, this short little piece of writing is just so perfect. Pining Remus, hot tension, and a wonderful (wonderful!!) scene where that tension is…resolved.

Btw sorry loves for being a bit absent lately. I’m not leaving this blog (you’ll never get rid of me!!), I’ve just had a few shitty weeks which have left me with absolutely no energy for anything else.

first war, flatmates Summary: The black kohl along his water line is smudged, black flecks of it dusting his cheekbone. His hair is still flying everywhere, whipping across his face. He’s a mess. He’s the blurred edges of a photograph. He’s a heartbeat and stinging lungs. He’s the rattling behind Remus’ ribcage. And Sirius grins at him, tongue between teeth —illecebrous and tantalising and all things beautiful and dangerous— and all the air rushes out of Remus’ lungs in one fell swoop. He’s lightheaded and dizzy and burning. or: Flat-sharing, jealousy, grocery shopping, a war, a party, a broken sink, a pub quiz, and a love that won’t sit still.

Comment: I'm always here for a good flatmates to lovers fic with angsty first war themes, so this fic was right up my alley, and I just love the writing, and the mutual pining, and their misunderstandings and love confessions and just the whole atomosphere of this fic was great, I highly recommend checking it out and reading it!

Sirius’ neck is arched, the pale, white column of skin exposed to the night air. His head is completely out the window, the wind throwing his hair in wild disarray, untamed hair wisps flying everywhere. The lamplights along the streets light his features in gold and then coat them in shadow in a dizzying kaleidoscope of light. And he’s laughing; a soft, vivacious thing. 

And Remus wants to reach out, his fingers itch at the thought but they stay on the steering wheel; white-knuckled, gripping tight. Because this is not how this works. The sempiternal truth of it is this: Sirius is fire, burning, burning, burning. And Remus is weathered leaves on the forest floor; dried out kindling. Sirius would ruin him and Remus is more than willing. Because the sempiternal truth of it is this: Remus is making him tea after Sirius wakes to another man. He’s the flatmate. He’s the best friend— and isn’t that all just terribly unfair.

Sirius’ head pops back up. Eyes catching Remus’ and holding. The black kohl along his water line is smudged, black flecks of it dusting his cheekbone. His hair is still flying everywhere, whipping across his face. He’s a mess. He’s the blurred edges of a photograph.  He’s a heartbeat and stinging lungs. He’s the rattling behind Remus’ ribcage. And Sirius grins at him, tongue between teeth —illecebrous and tantalising and all things beautiful and dangerous— and all the air rushes out of Remus’ lungs in one fell swoop. He’s lightheaded and dizzy and burning.

“Eyes on the road, Moony.”

Remus turns back around.

Right, eyes on the road.