f: Pure Reason! (PG, R/S)
Pure Reason!, 400 words, PG, for blanketforts.
1. pure reason! my bed more comfortable. his blanket = scratchy. & body heat! very cold out
2. compliment his jumper (without laughing) so he will be too shocked to protest
3. read big words from dictionary aloud until he cannot stand it any longer & must have me
4. pretend to have nightmare, thrash a bit, refuse to calm down until he has me pinned
5. pretend to be afraid of storm (tonight!); his bed, then, but can deal with scratchy blanket
This is the reason why Sirius doesn't make lists, or one of them. That list would include (in addition to they are stupid): can rarely read handwriting, lose everything all the time and would not follow list anyway, among other things. Remus could probably add to it. He is the list-maker, after all, carefully writing their collective homework onto a piece of parchment in order of priority and making sure it all gets done.
But Sirius is on the verge of 15 and beginning to get desperate, because for the last two years -- two horrible, hair-and-embarrassing-dream filled years -- he has found this compulsive Lupin behavior to be endearing. He has even suggested that Remus make shopping lists before their Hogsmeade trips, just so he could watch his hands while he wrote.
Something needs to be done about it, obviously, especially since for the past week or so he and Remus have been alone (together) in a room with not one but four beds. Whenever Sirius tries to think about it, though, his thoughts jumble together and then skip straight past the how to the what now and everything grows unseasonably hot. He needs the list to give him focus, just the like the focus Remus puts into his lists and essays, with the tip of his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth and -- no, forget focus, he needs a wank.
The list is pointless, anyway. He would never be able to compliment Remus's jumper without laughing. He crumples it up and tosses it at the pile of junk accumulating beside his bed since Christmas, and doesn't think about it again all day. He would not have ever thought about it again, except that night (while he's listening to the rain and thanking it for drowning out the sound of Remus's breathing), his curtains are pushed aside and Remus shines the lighted tip of his wand into Sirius's face.
"Budge over," he says in an unreasonably cross, impatient voice; "My blanket is scratchy and I'm afraid of the storm and it's bloody freezing," and he shoves his dictionary into Sirius's hands.
1. pure reason! my bed more comfortable. his blanket = scratchy. & body heat! very cold out
2. compliment his jumper (without laughing) so he will be too shocked to protest
3. read big words from dictionary aloud until he cannot stand it any longer & must have me
4. pretend to have nightmare, thrash a bit, refuse to calm down until he has me pinned
5. pretend to be afraid of storm (tonight!); his bed, then, but can deal with scratchy blanket
This is the reason why Sirius doesn't make lists, or one of them. That list would include (in addition to they are stupid): can rarely read handwriting, lose everything all the time and would not follow list anyway, among other things. Remus could probably add to it. He is the list-maker, after all, carefully writing their collective homework onto a piece of parchment in order of priority and making sure it all gets done.
But Sirius is on the verge of 15 and beginning to get desperate, because for the last two years -- two horrible, hair-and-embarrassing-dream filled years -- he has found this compulsive Lupin behavior to be endearing. He has even suggested that Remus make shopping lists before their Hogsmeade trips, just so he could watch his hands while he wrote.
Something needs to be done about it, obviously, especially since for the past week or so he and Remus have been alone (together) in a room with not one but four beds. Whenever Sirius tries to think about it, though, his thoughts jumble together and then skip straight past the how to the what now and everything grows unseasonably hot. He needs the list to give him focus, just the like the focus Remus puts into his lists and essays, with the tip of his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth and -- no, forget focus, he needs a wank.
The list is pointless, anyway. He would never be able to compliment Remus's jumper without laughing. He crumples it up and tosses it at the pile of junk accumulating beside his bed since Christmas, and doesn't think about it again all day. He would not have ever thought about it again, except that night (while he's listening to the rain and thanking it for drowning out the sound of Remus's breathing), his curtains are pushed aside and Remus shines the lighted tip of his wand into Sirius's face.
"Budge over," he says in an unreasonably cross, impatient voice; "My blanket is scratchy and I'm afraid of the storm and it's bloody freezing," and he shoves his dictionary into Sirius's hands.