The inside of Sirius

Remus knows every ridge, each smooth hairless plain of Sirius\' body. He has learnt it since he was eleven years old, the first time Sirius welcomed him to his bed, chest bare. His hands found flesh gratefully, flesh that sculptured itself through different forms. Oh and it was innocent, night terrors found him and Sirius rescued him from them. He had stroked Remus\' hair (damp with sweat) and tried to still him when he slept, and twitched away from the moon that beckoned in his dreams.

Ah but in dreams, Remus knows everything. He has caressed each vein; he knows the intimate workings of his muscles. He has sifted his hands through intestines, as he would stroke his love\'s black hair. The tastes, the scent, the heave of Sirius\' lungs as he plays Quidditch. He has bathed his tongue in the seamen he so loves to taste as a human, drowned in it, dreamed in it. As the wolf, he has lapped acidic juices that dance on his tongue…deep from the centre of Sirius. Yes, Remus knows exactly how Sirius\' soft 17-year-old flesh would give if his teeth sank into his belly. He dreams of it, delicious but shameful dreams.