#sirius drives a yamaha r7

[saintsofthestarfield]

Wolfstar Microfic: Shouldn’t Be, But Is

Part 1/2: Moony

‘That really shouldn’t be as attractive as it is,’ Remus thought, watching the man peel black gloves off slender, porcelain hands. He watched as he lifted the helmet off his head, tilting it upside down, throwing the gloves inside, and then raking a hand through tousled hair.

It was so unfunny— the way he stretched forward when dismounting the seat and throwing a leg over the backend, standing straight as he locked the handlebars in place then rotated the bike on its kickstand. It was a lot of bike, and the strain in the mans forearms told Remus is wasn’t light by any measure.

At this point, watching Padfoot— as he’d come to learn was his instagram handle— pull up to uni in all his mysterious bad-boy glory was the only thing keeping Remus’ attendance record in good standing. He liked school, sure; he was good at it, even, but that seemed to be the issue. No test was any match and no lecture was riveting and new. It was high school 2.0.

What was riveting and new, however, was his fascination with this mystery man. The first time he’d watched him swerve into the parking spot diagonal of his chosen study place he’d thought, ‘how obnoxious.’ How could one vehicle make so much noise? The sway of the tree leaves above him was completely drowned out by the growling of the black bikes engine.

Remus watched as the man looked up from where he was typing on his phone, catching his killer unimpressed glance, and immediately scrambling to kill the engine and take off his gear. He’d ran up to Remus with frantic apologies of disturbing his reading and promises of never doing it again.

It was then that Remus decided he wouldn’t mind, rather, he’d like it if he disturbed him again.

And so, a semester of Remus’ playful teasing and Padfoot’s over dramatic displays of apology took off with vigor. It was natural, almost.

Remus would return to his shady study spot, read for half an hour, listen for the zippy sound of Sirius’ motorcycle, only slightly abashadly check him out, chat him up when he ran over to see what Remus was up to, then watch him run off to the tech building.

When he’d leave, Remus would stare blankly at the book, replaying the way Padfoot’s fingers would flex around the clutch and his foot would fiddle with the gear, or the way his back would arch in a stretch when he’d shake off the buzz of the journey, or the way he’d unzip his leather jacket and roll his shoulders… All in all, that book was not getting read and Remus had never wished to be a piece of machinery more.