Silver Rising

dirty_olive @ 2004-05-26T02:06:00

2004-05-26T06:08:07Z

Title: Nowhere Man
Rating: R for R/OFC and R/S hints
A/N: Rather depressing Remus-centered drabble. Takes place roughly in the late autumn of 1983.

The room is cold when Remus opens the door; he can feel the sting of air against his skin. He closes the door behind him. It closes heavily, the latch clicking into place with a rusty clunk. There's one window. It's small and is covered by heavy, dirty curtains that block out nearly all the light. In the dying dusk the only light that filters in the room is grey and darkened, falling in irregular patterns from the threadbare patches disguised by the thick creases of the curtains. Remus thinks the room feels like him. He sets down the worn suitcase on the bed, the aging metal frame bending inward noisily with the added weight, and he thinks it might collapse if he were to lie on it. His threadbare jacket is hung on the paint chipped hook that hangs on an angle from the wall, the bottom of it lying in the dust on the floor.

He stands in the grey light that's fallen on the creaking floorboards and looks out the small crack in the windows that's made by the curtains. There's a brick wall facing him. The bricks are chipped in the corners, weather worn and old. He thinks of the funerals, and how it rained. When they carried the coffins out the rain fell harder, and he lost his grip on James' and almost dropped it. He closes the curtain now and lies down on the bed, which shakes and bends in on itself. There's still a small patch of light on the floor. Remus watches it until it disappears, and he's left in darkness.

---

He eats downstairs in the main dining room, on a wooden table that tilts to one side. The man across the hall sits across the table from him. He has glasses, similar to James'. The man eats chips with all his meals, the greasy chips you can buy in town. He chews them with his mouth open, and asks a lot of questions. Remus' stomach turns, and he goes back to his cold stew, a thin slice of potato sitting on his spoon. He finds he's not hungry anymore. The man from across the hall asks Remus if he has any friends. Asks why he never has any visitors.

Remus pushes his chair back from the table and sets his napkin beside his bowl. He tells the man that they're dead. The next night, the man from across the hall sits at the other end of the table and gives him wary looks. As though Remus killed them himself.

---

He pays his rent late each month; leaves the money in an envelope signed John M. Black. He wishes he didn't sign it with that name, but when he gets upstairs to his room it's too late. They ask him why the rent is late. Tell him he needs to start paying on time. He tells them it's because his mother is ill. Can't keep his job that way. When he disappears for days at a time, and comes back pale, with dark circles around his eyes, they watch him. Think he's up to something. No illness in the family. Must be something else. Something illegal, maybe. He wants to tell them he's been busy being a wolf. Having his bones break and shatter and reform, having his muscles twist and rip and tear. But he apologises quietly and signs the envelope John M. Black, and a week after rent is due he slips it beneath the door and ignores the stares and questions. He's good at ignoring things.

---

The maid is young, and she has thick black hair that she puts up each morning. It's heavy, like the curtains. She wears a worn blue dress, so faded it's nearly white, and scrubs the hall outside his room when the first traces of morning are appearing, bleak and grey in the sky. She looks up at him each morning and nods her head, thick black hair brushing the top of her shoulder before she moves the rag over the floor, gathering splinters.

The first time he takes her is when he comes back early from a cold lunch, and she's still cleaning his room. She's scrubbing at the floor in his room, the rag nearly black. He watches from the doorway. Her short dress is hiked up, still young thigh exposed. Remus only watches her hair, and the way the ends brush over her collar and shoulder. He grabs her around the waist and she stands easily, and then they're at the bed, and it shakes beneath their combined weight, the frame jerking. They don't bother with undressing. Remus hikes her dress up and then, with shaking hands, unfastens his trousers. When he pushes into her she grips his shoulders hard, her nails digging into his skin. He presses his face into the pillow, cheek against the bottom of her dark strands. It's quiet in the room, the only noise the shaking of the bedframe, and when he comes he exhales sharply, just a quick release of air. He doesn't know if she comes or not. Once he's regained what's left of himself he sits up and tugs his trousers up, while she settles her dress and slips out of the room.

---

The next time he makes her put her hair down, long and black as it spills down her shoulders. She reaches for his shirt but he pushes into her before she can open it, and then she drops her arms and he moves. It's steady, not hard, not soft, just steady thrusts. Over and over. He buries his face in her hair, inhaling the dark scent, but it's not right. It's musty. Not musky. Smells like afternoon, not midnight. When he's done he pulls back and wipes the sweat from his brow. She lies still for a minute, gazing up at him, before she sits up and swings her legs over the side of the creaking bed, pulling her dress down over her lap. When she leaves she closes the door quietly. By that time the last of the light has seeped from the room, and Remus is left in the heavy darkness.

He takes her once or twice a week, when he catches her lingering in his room. He always makes her take her hair down, and always presses his face against it as he moves inside of her. He stays quiet, concentrating only on the burn inside him. It's wrong but it's easy, and something has to get him through the day. When they're done she looks up at him, while he fastens his trousers, and then she leaves, straightening out her dress. He's never sure exactly when he'll take her, but he knows it'll always be the same.

The last time she asks if he knows her name. He ignores her and slides his hand into her hair. She's breathing heavily, and asks again. Asks him to say her name. When he comes he chokes on a gasp and whispers Sirius. She doesn't come, but he pulls back quickly anyway, and she leaves before her dress is properly settled.

---

The next day he packs his sparse belongings in his worn suitcase. He opens the old door and shuts it with a dull clank behind him, and walks down the stairs. No one's in the hall. He slips his last rent under the door with his envelope. It's signed Remus. He leaves, and as he walks down the street, threadbare coat catching the same chill that had filled his room, bathed in the same grey nothingness that filtered over his floor, he doesn't look back

dirty_olive @ 2004-05-16T02:18:00

2004-05-16T06:20:02Z

Title: A Really Stupid Drabble With Milk
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Yea, a really stupid drabble with milk. Wrote it ten minutes before I had to run to work. S/R, duh.

"You've got some milk," Sirius said, trying and failing miserably to hold back a smile. Across the table, Remus poked his tongue out quizzically and licked at his lips.

"Milk? Did I get it?"

Sirius snorted as he tried to hold his laughter in.

"No, no, it's more of a moustache. Might want to get it - up a little more - no, no - you're miserable at it. Come here, don't squirm, stay still. Good wolf."

Remus rolled his eyes and sat patiently, watching in amusement as Sirius crouched beside him. Sirius grinned and leaned in, licking the milk slowly from Remus' upper lip.

"You know," Remus murmured, once Sirius had stopped lapping at him, "that really, really wasn't much of a turn on. You were licking milk, if you've forgotten."

Rather than pouting, as he was prone to, Sirius grinned again. "Well, if you want a turn on, I believe I've something else rather creamy you can lick, if you were so inclined."

"Sirius, that was the worst come on line I think I've ever heard. Something else rather creamy, honestly. You're losing your touch, Padfoot, if you think all the milk innuendo is going to get me to shag you, you'll have to come up with something better than-" and Remus paused abruptly as Sirius took his hand and placed it neatly on his already hardening cock.

"Remus? Do shut up." And with that, Sirius got up, grinned, and headed for the bedroom.

Remus hurried along right after.

dirty_olive @ 2004-03-10T15:14:00

2004-03-10T20:15:30Z

Title: Puppie Love!!11!!11!!!!1one
Rating: NC-17, because no one in their right mind should read this.
A/N: After reading plenty o' stories on Azkaban's Lair, I thought it was time I wrote something myself. This is dedicated to AL's ever lowering standards!

One day Remus woke up, and he glanced at his clock. It was 8am. Then he glanced at his calendar. It was February fifteenth, better known as Lupercalia. Then he glanced at the boy beside him. It was Sirius.

Sirius was asleep, his abony ebonie ebony hair splayed out on the pillow like a sea of black hair against a crisp white pillow. Which it kind of was.

My Love, Remus thought, his heart apang with desire and regret. How can I ever love you? The wolf is too strong in me.

Sirius' violet eyes opened and he smiled a smile to end all smiles that ever where smiled as smiles, and, because he could read minds, said "Remy, I love you," he said.

Remus' heart punged (panged? hahalolz watever) with love, and his breath caught. "I love you too, Siri," he whispered.

Sirius rolled around the bed several times, and over Remus a few times, then ended up where he wanted, on his side, facing his beloved. "Remy, I have a surpise for you. Close your eyes."

So Remus did and then suddenly he was blindfolded! And Siri lead him out of bed (ignor that their naked :)) and lead him through the school, and up to the Astronomy Tower. When they got there he took the blindfold off, and Remus gasped.

There was a picnick set up, with wine and cheeses and sandwiches and doggie treats. they ate slowly, savoring each bite, and when they were finally finished Sirius said, "look, Remy," and his voice was husky, and when remus looked there was a bed in the corner, a big bed with black and red sheets, and little roses that spelled out "puppy love".

"Oh Siri!" Remus cried, his heart leaping up and threatening to push out of his eyeball sockets. "I love it! And I love you!"

"I love you too, Remy! And... and I want to be your mate."

Remus gasped, and held his hand over his hart. "Are u sure?" he asked, watching Sirius carefully.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my entire life," Sirius replied, violet eyes soft with love. Remus stood up and took Sirius's hand and led him to the bed, and he pushed him gently down, both gasping at the feel of the roses and the sheets, which were really silky, and had absolutely no static cling. Making a mental note to thank Snuggles the house elf for the dryer sheets, Remus kissed Sirius and lied on top of him. (this is were it gets good!))

REmus took his wand from his trousers (not that one!!! hahahalolz) and charmed Sirius' closes off, smiling as the other, darker haired youth gasped. "It's okay," he whispered, and as he took off his own clothes he whisepred a lubrecation charm.'

Sirius gaspsed again and arched his back, feeling slick and open. "Remy," he moaned, "please". Remus, not wanting to disappoint his soon to be lover, pushed one finger slowly inside Sirius.

Siri moaned his name and Remus added another finger, and then another finger, and then he moved closer and slid his fist into Sirius's' body.

"Oh Remus!" Sirius moaned, pressing down so that Remus's arm, up to his elbow, was inside of him. "I feel so full!"

"Yes, Siri," Remus groaned, "I need to fill you completely." He slowly eased more and more into Sirius, until his shoulder brushed his love's opening, and craned his neck to get Siri's full balls out of his eyes. "Are you okay, love?"

"Yes, love," Sirius gasped. "More, I need more." Remus nodded and said, "relax, I promise this won't hurt." As Siri nodded Remus pushed and scissored and widened Sirius' tight, pink hole, and he started to crawl inside of his lover.

"Oh! Remus! Yes!" Sirius shouted, the sensattion of being so full overwhelming him. "More! More! More!"

"Yes, love!" Remus replied, muffled as to the fact that he was now halfway inside his lover. He pushed slowly and in a few short moments was completely inside Sirius.

Sirius opened his eyes and smiled, seeing his belly full of Remus. "I love you, remy, my mate," he said.

"MMfmfmf fgoh too" Remus mumbled from inside. Sirius sighed happily and gently patted his belly. Soon though, his stomach ached a little, and Remus knew it was time for the mating ceremony to finish. "Push, Siri," he instructed, and Siri pushed, and pushed, and suddenly Remus' feet were poking out, and then his knees, and then-

"i'm stuck!" remus cried, and Sirius pushed and pushed, but it was no use, remus was stuck. So then he scrunched his face up and PUSHED and remus went flying out and out the window and died.

and then siriusc cried and strangled himself with the non clingy sheets.

*~~~~~~FIN~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~** (but the puppys really lived!!!!!)

=======) (what does that look like??? HAHAHHAAHAHAHA)

dirty_olive @ 2004-03-06T22:55:00

2004-03-07T04:00:49Z

Title: Enough for Today
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Post-OotP. Remus gazes into his pensieve. Written for hp100.

Eleven and nervous. A quick smile on the train, a whoop of excitement during the ceremony, a pat on the back not long after.

Fourteen and brilliant. Plotting this and that, grinning wickedly, working hard to perfect the transformation.

Seventeen and mine. Softer and gentler, for me and only me, whispered words and murmured promises.

Twenty and dark. Doubtful, secretive. Everything was hard and everything hurt.

Twenty-one and gone. Locked away. Everything falling apart.

Thirty-five and back. Back to me. A second chance, a new beginning.

Thity-six and gone again. This time for good. No more chances.

Remus pushed the pensieve away. He'd seen enough memories for today.

dirty_olive @ 2004-02-12T17:00:00

2004-02-12T22:02:20Z

Title: Untitled
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Early 1980. Sirius and Remus fuck, because it's the only secure thing they have left. Sirius/Remus.

They fuck hard and fast, and when they do the headboard hits the wall hard enough to leave a mark.

Remus has one leg over Sirius' shoulder and Sirius thrusts hard and fast (ohsogood), and with each movement the headboard crashes against the wall, but the noise is drowned out by the sounds they make themselves. Remus is a screamer.

Sex is lust and passion and need, that urgent sense of need, of pushing harder (faster) towards release, blinding (glorious). If Sirius were coherent he'd balance himself on one arm and wrap his fingers around Remus' cock, hard (aching) weeping, desperate for more. But he's not coherent and instead he pushes harderharderharder, until the smack of the headboard merits an angry knock on the wall from the folks in the next flat over.

Sorry sir and ma'am, but we're too busy fucking.

(Just two abominations, fucking each other into oblivion.)

The outside world is close to crumbling (falling) and a moment's pause is enough to let the cold seep between them, so they don't stop. Blood and tears and sweat and semen (sexsexsex) all mingle and the fucking headboard keeps the rhythm. Beat beat beat (moan - very much a screamer) beat, the steadiness of the wood against the wall.

Remus is tighttighttight, each and every time, and he wraps his body around Sirius' cock so much the pleasure is painfully (wonderfully) good, and all Sirius can do is beat beat beat, headboard meet wall. You should be good friends by now.

When Sirius is close his back dips (arches) like a snake (the snake he is beneath) and he pushes hard(er!) and it's goodgoodgood and Remus screams loudly and his own back arches (rises) and their worlds explode and it's bursts of light (brightbrightbright) shining and everything and in that moment the world makes sense, and none of the outside problems can push (shove) their way inside. Quietquietquiet now, breathing the only harsh sound, no more headboard, no more beat beat beat beat.

Remus likes how they don't talk afterwards. Words are bad (dangerous) and words create feelings (webs) and snare you in, wrap you tight, and never let you go. Silence means they can knock the headboard again and not have to think about it. Silence means no feelings.

Silence means fucking, and nothing more. Nothing like it used to be. The past is donedonedone and all they have left is the darkness of the future.

dirty_olive @ 2004-02-12T16:54:00

2004-02-12T21:57:30Z

Title: This is Hope
Rating: R
A/N: Sirius Black is a man that knows each consuming emotion better than almost any other. As he reflects back on all the events of his life, he realises that even in the darkest of times, there's always hope. Sirius/Remus centered.

---

It's just sex, Peter had said, nothing more than two bodies working together, struggling and grunting and praying for release.

Sirius fleetingly thinks Peter's an idiot when his hips are rocking hard against the body above him, and he wonders if Peter's ever felt the pounding need and desire and lust that surges through him, from the very tips of his fingers all the way down his spine and to his toes. He wonders if sex with Remus would make Peter feel the same way, would make him arch his back and groan his name and move faster, harder. And then a wave of jealousy washes over him at the thought of Remus with anyone but him, so he pushes the thought aside and concentrates on the feel of Remus' hips rubbing down against his own, eliciting sparks and shock of red hot pleasure.

Remus' arms are thinner than his own, but there's strength there, oh there's so much hidden strength, and sometimes Remus breaks things if he isn't careful and then looks confused, as though for a moment he's forgotten the strength of the wolf beneath the surface, but Sirius knows that Remus never forgets. He's not sure he even forgets now, when his mouth is latched to his neck, his teeth and lips and tongue hot and sharp, marking him.

James was momentarily shocked when Sirius first began to talk of Remus in more than just shoulders bumping on the way to class, more than just flashed grins and shared notes and thought out pranks, more than just a familiar face to laugh with when they'd pulled off something spectacular or be scolded by when their plans had fallen flat. Sirius isn't sure when his feelings changed, when he tried to start imagining Remus without his clothes on, perhaps in the shower or spread out on the blankets covering his bed, though a part of him insists it was always there. He was scared at first, though he'd never admit it, because Remus wasn't soft curves and full breasts and warm wetness, he was hard muscles and a broader frame, and he was hot and hard and oh, so thick and heavy and perfect in his hand, against his hip...

The thought jars Sirius back to earth and he turns his head to the side with a rather violent jerk when Remus' hips hit rightthere, right where he needed them to hit, and he's surprised to find his back is arched up off the bed and the moan that's ringing in his ears is his own. Remus makes a noise deep in his throat and pushes his hips down again, and the world sways dangerously, making Sirius' heart pound in his chest, and he realises that if it were to burst open he'd die a happy man.

There are teeth at his throat and then there are teeth in his throat, and he hisses as Remus bites, harder than usual, and he can suddenly smell the coppery, metallic scent of blood and he's sure for a moment there he's going to pass out, but he doesn't because Remus' mouth is working against the bite now, and pleasure is spiraling through him and he'd be damned if he were to miss it all.

Hips are pressing harder against his and he closes his eyes and rocks back, breathing quick and hard and heavy, and it's not just two bodies working together, not just two people struggling and grunting and praying for release, it's two people getting as close as they can, until limbs tangle and mouths meet and it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. It's the whispered words and the gasps that pierce the steady sound of the sheets rustling and the soft squeaks of the bedsprings, it's the silent declarations of love that explode behind Sirius' eyelids with each touch of Remus' body against his, and it's that tense moment right before the world goes white and everything around him explodes where all the world comes down to just Remus.

That is what sex is.

---

His mother told him that pain was the feeling that hit when you realised you were disinherited, when you realised your status in society had plummeted and you no longer had to carry arm loads of invitations to balls and galas into the house from the impressive and inordinate mailbox that was plastered to the front of Grimmauld Place. She said that pain was when you realised you were no longer strong, and that pain was only for the street urchins and the mudbloods to feel. Blacks didn't feel pain, Blacks didn't lose their place in society. Sirius' jaw ached for a week when he reminded her she wasn't always a Black, and he still has a gash along his cheek where her ring tore through the flesh.

James offered to heal it, but Sirius didn't want to give in to her. He wasn't going to take the time to heal the cut, as though it somehow ached at night when the draft slipped under the dormitory door and curled around his bed. Because it didn't. Sirius had never been sure what real pain was, not when he was younger. Jumping from a tree and breaking an arm was pain that was quickly healed, a backhand to the face when he swore at his brother was pain that stung but soon tingled off into nothingness. None of it held any significance. They were quick instances of pain and forgotten the next time Sirius' attention was caught by something else, as it so often was. Meaningless.

But now Remus won't talk to him, and he turns his back to him when he even so much as glances at him, and this, this hurts. This is more lasting than his mother's ring, more lasting than Regulus' fist, this is a deep, permeating hurt that swirls with the guilt in the pit of his stomach and makes him want to rush to the toilets and be sick.

It hurts when Snape's eyes flash and narrow at Remus, and although the fucking bastard was nearly driven insane by fear he acts now as though he's above the wolf and above the other boy, dangling his secret over his head with each glare and knock of shoulders. If he were to tell Remus would be kicked out of school, and somehow Sirius is certain that it wouldn't make the dizzying guilt in his body any easier to manage.

Remus closes his curtains on his bed quickly each evening, usually bathed in darkness before the others are even changed out of their day clothes. Before one of them would slip from their open bed and join the other, and James turned the other cheek and if Peter knew he certainly didn't say anything. Now Sirius lies on his back in a bed that feels too large, too open, too cold, too lonely, and he wonders if Remus ever wakes up with tears still damp on his face the way he does. Not talking to Remus, not feeling his comforting weight in an embrace, not feeling his heated skin and hard arousal when they're together... Feeling the sick, hot guilt he feels everyday when he remembers what he did, seeing the dark circles around Remus' eyes and watching the way he flinches even when Sirius' name is mention...

That is what pain is.

---

James said that betrayal was helping the other team to win in quidditch, was being nice to Snape and was holding the doors open for Slytherin girls. Betrayal to him was fleeting and unimportant, it was a momentary flash of anger and then it was worked out amicably, and he went back to cuffing Sirius 'round the ears and messing up Peter's hair and snatching Remus' books from his startled hands. Betrayal was something liquid and flowing, leaving as soon as it came, and even after Sirius fucked it all up, it was something fixable.

Sirius, as he chokes down the bile in his throat, realises that the only time James knew true betrayal was when it killed him. James lies on his back, his glasses askew and one arm flung above his head, wand still gripped firmly in his hand. His other arm is underneath a bit of plaster and dust and what looks like a broken chair leg but could be a piece of wood from the railing along the stairs that led up to the second floor. James is motionless, his blue eyes wide, one eye strangely magnified by his glasses while the other is not, and Sirius feels like dying. He fixes James' glasses and reaches for his shoulders, shaking him hard. He shouts for him to wake up, tells him to stop fucking around, they have to go make sure his wife and son are okay too, but James was always stubborn and he is now, mutely refusing to answer. Sirius gets angry and has to remind himself not to shake too hard, because then he could hurt him, and he needs his friend.

Leaving James to collect his thoughts he stands and pushes past the debris from where the ceiling over the living room collapsed. The air is thick with dust and plaster and there's magic pulsing through the air, washing over him and creeping into his veins, and Sirius irritably wishes James would stop kidding around and help him clear this mess up. The top three stairs are missing so Sirius has to jump to reach the top floor, and it gives a lurch beneath his feet and threatens to fall below to join its brethren downstairs, but he's already moving to where the second floor miraculousy is still solid, and in his haste has nearly trips over Lily.

She's in a heap on the floor, as though her legs had given way and her eyes are open as well, staring in the direction of the crib. There's wailing, a mournful sound of loss and terror, but Sirius can barely hear it over the ringing in his ears. He and Lily never got along as well as she and Remus did, so he's convinced she's in on this joke, is following James' instructions and is trying her hardest to give Sirius a heart attack. He gently shakes her, swallowing back sickness again, but she won't stir, only stares in the direction of the heartaching sobbing, and though Sirius wants to shake Lily again the walls shudder and he's unsure if his mind is lurching or if the ruins themselves are. He's acutely aware of the sobbing and he turns and there's little Harry, in the corner of the crib with a gash across his forehead and blood pouring down into his eyes and down his face. He has the blanket Lily's mother knit for him tight in his hands and he's howling into it, turning all the little lambs a vibrant red colour.

Sirius scoops the boy up and takes the blanket, gently wiping the blood away, and he's angry because Lily should stop following James' directions and take care of her son, but she won't get up. Harry is comforted somewhat by the feel of familiar arms around him, and when he opens his eyes they're dark and green and wide, and he looks like his world has shattered.

The jump to the stairs is dangerous with a baby in hand, but Sirius steadies himself and manages to hold onto Harry. The stairs themselves shake and he realises they're going to give at any moment, so he hurries downstairs and into the cold October night, Harry in tow, his face still flushed from the blood that won't seem to clean off. His motorcycle is tipped over on the front lawn where he dumped it, and he debates how to fly with a child in his arms, but there's a crack of apparation and Hagrid's there.

The next few minutes are numb and a blur, and Harry is somehow in Hagrid's arms, even though he wanted to hold onto him, because James is going to be up any minute, and he'll want his son. Hagrid's hand is strong on his shoulder and his accent particularly thick with what Sirius recognises as pain, but he shrugs it off and tells him to make himself useful and wake James up. He leaves the motorcyle with him, because he needs to find Peter, needs to know why this is all happening, and it's in that minute that his world sways sideways and he nearly topples over, because James isn't pretending, James is dead and Peter has revealed their location and now they're gone forever and that...

That is what betrayal is.

---

Remus once wryly commented that Sirius knew no fear, that to him fear was just another thing that rolled off his back and landed with a splash in a puddle of shrugged off instances that Sirius was so adept at forgetting.

Sirius knows Remus is wrong when he apparates into their house and finds him asleep, and he can't bring himself to wake him up. What would he tell him? They're best friends were dead and it was all his fault? Fear pounds through his veins when he kisses Remus' forehead and hears him whisper his name in sleep, and it's fear that pushes him out the door and lands him in Muggle London, where he knows Peter's flat is. Fear that Remus may be next, and he can't let that happen. He's already let James and Lily di-

There's something off when Peter is in the street and he's shouting something, something about James and Lily, and all he knows is he's going to kill him, right there, right in broad daylight. The night has been stripped off sometime in his haste to right his terrible wrong, and although the world bustles around him the blanket of darkness is still thick over his head, and he can't even speak enough to get the words out to flash the light and end Peter's life. Peter has something in his sleeve and it takes Sirius a full minute to realise it's his wand, and fear errupts in his stomach and bursts through his body, because he doesn't have enough time to say the words before the world explodes and people are screaming and Sirius is there, wand out stretched, mouth open, and he's laughing like he's gone mad.

Peter's got away. The rat is gone, slithering off into the bowels of the city where he can escape death at the end of Sirius' wand, and Remus isn't safe and there are people everywhere. Magic is thick and tangy in the air, though different than the magic at Godric's Hollow, and there are cracks of apparation and Sirius laughs and laughs, his chest aching as he does, his eyes clenched shut, and he thinks he really has gone mad. The world is frightfully tilted and there are hands dragging him up and years later, while he's in his cell, he still laughs when he thinks about it. Madness.

Madness is imprinted in every single block of cold stone in his cell. Madness is sticky and thrives here, on the most heavily protected ward that magic can manage, and the madness is tinged with fear that Remus never thought Sirius could experience. In the freezing cold of the dementor's wake, in the way his skin bursts with cold so deep it's hot and scalding, and he belatedly realises it's so warm because he's clawed at his skin to let loose the hot blood, to stop the cold. Remus doesn't see the way he's sick after every encounter with the dementors, doesn't hear the screaming in his ears that may be from the people on the street on that first day of November or may be from his own raw throat, doesn't see James' blank eyes and Lily's limp body and the blood that covered Harry's face. He doesn't understand the terror pumping through him with each noise outside his cell that could bring them to him, doesn't understand the way the knife felt when it slid across his wrist and ripped open skin, doesn't understand the loss of the will to live. But Sirius does.

That is what fear is.

---

Determination is something Sirius thought himself familiar with. It was in the way he leaned forward on his broom during matches to slam the bat into the bludger, it was in the way he took his time and wrote essays rather than a sentence or two on his tests, it was in the way he lived and breathed and worked, always striving for more, to be the best to be at the top.

He understands he's determined as Padfoot limps through the deep brush along the edge of the road, paw torn open from glass on the street neither he nor Sirius had seen in his haste to reach Remus' house. Their house. He understands this as he pauses to nose through an over turned rubbish can that carries the enticing smell of meat, and although the human in him feels his stomach turn, Padfoot eats quickly and is satisfied as he limps again, on his way to the small house where he knows Remus will be. He can smell his scent still, after all these years, as sharp and appealing as it always was, and both Padfoot and Sirius pray it's stayed the same.

There's an abandoned cottage on the side of the road, ramshackled and dilapitated, and Padfoot bumps the door open and limps in side, favouring his left front paw. In an instant man has taken the dog's place, and with his good hand he reaches for the jar that's on the mantle of the fireplace in the rundown living room. There's floo in there that Dumbledore or quite possibly a disgruntled Snape has left for him, and as he holds the fine grains in his hand he remembers he hasn't used floo powder in over a decade. Convinced he's going to floo himself right into the Ministry he steps to the fireplace and tosses the powder inside, managing to choke out Remus' address - their address - through the cloud of emerald colour smoke that bursts to life in the empty fireplace. His head spins and he feels as though he's tumbling head over heels before he does, collapsing into a heap on the floor of another dark living room, though this room, this room smells of Remus and smells of pain and saddness and just a touch of hope.

He coughs, loud and hard from the soot in collected in his throat and there's noise from upstairs, and when Sirius looks up there's a dark shape hurrying down the stairs and into the living room, until they both freeze, Remus wearing an old tee shirt of Sirius' and a threadbare pair of pyjama bottoms, and Sirius, dirty and bleeding and covered in ash and mud and then one moves first, cautiously. There are arms around Sirius and his arms are around an equally thin and worn frame, and it's as Sirius clings and closes his eyes and shudders he vows to never let go again.

That is what determination is.

---

Hope is for dreamers, James once quipped, reading from a book of slightly disturbing poems for Lily's benefit that made the rest of them roll their eyes. Hope was something Sirius always had beneath the surface, buried away somewhere, kept locked up and hidden from anyone else. Hope of getting out of Remus returning his feelings, hope of getting out of Grimmauld Place, hope of Remus forgiving him, hope of James and Lily waking up, hope of escaping, and hope of starting his life over again.

So much has transpired since the day James read Lily poetry in the middle of the Gryffindor common room. Lives have started and lives have ended, tragedy after tragedy has knocked them over time and time again, but there is hope in an uncertain world. Sirius still has trouble remembering things and sometimes Remus has to gently remind him of what has happened and that they're not all right but they're getting there. He was gone for three months when he fell through the veil that day in the ministry but it felt like three lifetimes, and sometimes when he catches sight of himself in the mirror he's shocked to still see a man under forty.

Remus nearly broke that day, losing him again like that, but there's always hope, even in the war torn battlefields and in the dark stench of death. There's hope in small green eyes when a boy's parents lie dead before him, and there's hope in situations where you're certain have squeezed the last bit of sanity from your mind. Sirius still gets angry with the way the world works sometimes, but when he wakes up and Remus' head is tucked beneath his chin and Remus' hand is warm against his back, he remembers how to be happy. There are so many blank periods in his life, so many times where the world may have come to a crashing halt and he wouldn't have noticed, but now life is vibrant and vivid around his eyes, and he takes the time to appreciate the worn rugs and cracked walls of the house, because being alive and being in love is more important than the decorations his mother used to insist, is more important than ornate and dark gothic beauty. Waking up each day and knowing you'll at least survive the morning is breath taking, and holding onto the belief that he's back for good, that he never has to leave the warm security of Remus' arms is enough to keep him going through the day. This desire to live and to experience again is what keeps him going, is what makes him feel alive again. This is stability and love and a second- third, chance.

This is what hope is.

dirty_olive @ 2004-02-12T16:51:00

2004-02-12T21:52:22Z

Title: Reaching
Rating: R
A/N: Remus reaches for something he can't quite grasp. Remus/Sirius

They have a large bed in the bedroom.

It's very wide, and very long, and could comfortably fit another person or two. Sirius likes to spread out on the bed, stretching himself out, unable to touch both ends of the mattress.

Remus doesn't like it much. Sure, it's easy for when they slip into bed, enough space on either side for them to get comfortable, a sea of blankets and pillows that they can lose themselves in, but...

Remus would much rather lose himself in Sirius, though he never says so.

Sirius seems happy with the bed. When they fuck they have enough room to move around, enough room to roll the other over and not have to worry about toppling over the side. And afterwards, when they're sated, Sirius can move aside and stretch out without bumping into Remus. Then he can roll over and fall asleep, seemingly on his own bed, unconcerned with where his limbs are placed, knowing he has so much space all to himself.

Remus has grown to hate the bed.

He likes it when they're in the study, and Sirius suddenly decides he wants him, and drags him over to the couch, the couch that's against the wall, the small, narrow couch that they can both just fit on. When they get on the couch they can't fuck - they can only make love. Slow and gentle and wonderful, everything Remus wants and rarely gets. Sirius can't go too hard or too fast, there's not enough room. There's only enough space for them to gently move together, a quiet whisper of skin against skin. Afterwards Sirius has no choice but to curl up next to Remus, his arms wrapped around him to prevent himself from falling off the side of the couch.

It's then that Remus can pretend that he's happy. It's then that he can pretend that Sirius feels for him the way he feels for Sirius - that Sirius wants to hold him, wants to really love him, wants to comfort him and make sure he's always safe, always protected. It's when Remus' back is pressed against the wall, and Sirius body is half-draped over his, that he can let himself imagine it'll always be this way... that even when they go back to the big bed, Sirius will be gentle and soft and will pull Remus into his arms afterwards. Remus knows better than to imagine Sirius whispering words of love, but sometimes he can imagine those arms around him when he wakes up, those blue eyes gazing at him as he opens his own.

But when they got back to the big bed and Remus wakes, all he sees is the distance between them. The ever growing gap that separates them - so close yet so far. The sheets are cold betweem them, their bodies apart, Sirius' back facing Remus. He wants to move closer, to slide his arms around Sirius' waist, to press against him and know that Sirius will turn around and hold him, will wrap his arms around him and kiss him and tell him that everything's alright, that he loves him and only him, that he wants to spend the rest of his life just holding him.

Remus can't allow himself to dream to often though. He knows that when he wakes up they'll be apart, each on either side of the large bed.

And no matter how far he reaches, he can't quite grasp onto Sirius.

dirty_olive @ 2004-02-12T16:41:00

2004-02-12T21:45:07Z

Title: Summer Contentment
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Ron finds something enjoyable about hot, muggy, summer days. Ron/Harry.

It was hot, sticky, and muggy.

Ron hated being hot, sticky, and muggy.

The summer sun beat down on his arms and legs, the skin trying to absorb any hint of breeze that they could find. It was unbearable. He lay outside, in the back areas near the woods, enjoying the passing of the lazy day at the Burrow, trying his best to keep to the shadows that the trees created.

The heat seemed to rise from the ground, creating a twisting sort of haze that danced before his eyes, that danced but couldn’t be touched, that caught his eye and held it there. The sticky air was palpable, and perched on his shoulders, leaving him collapsed on the cool grass. He dug his heels in and sighed, letting an arm drape itself across his chest, squinting his eyes to block out the sun.

He didn’t hear Harry approach, until the other boy was sitting down beside him - or rather throwing himself, in an attempt to reach the shade as quickly as he could. He stretched out lazily, reaching his long limbs into the air, looking like some sort of large cat. Harry’s movements were graceful, a sort of grace associated with endless Quidditch practices, and finally growing into your limbs.

Ron sighed and rolled on his side, giving Harry a brief, tired smile. “Hey,” he murmered, thinking that it took too much effort to even think the words, never mind say them aloud. Harry flashed him back a smile, before settling down on his back, his knees slightly bent in the air. They sat like that for a long while, Harry breathing steadily, eyes locked on the sky, a small smile playing across his lips, looking as though he were reflecting on happy memories, of times that he actually enjoyed living.

“Hot,” he finally said, turning on his side to face Ron.

“Very,” agreed Ron, playing idly with a few strands of grass.

“Glad to be here, though,” said Harry, turning back to the endless expanse of sky above him. Ron studied his friend; the strong jaw, straight nose, black hair that hung along his cheekbones and edged into the corners of his eyes, their bright green color darkened by the whisps of hair. His skin tanned an olive color, which, Ron reflected, rather suited him. His chest rose and fell steadily, covered only by a thin white tee shirt, his tanned legs poking out of jean shorts, bare feet digging into the cool grass.

After awhile, Harry sat up slowly, hands gripping the edge of his shirt and pulling it off, knocking his glasses to the ground in the process. He smiled lazily and sat back down, tucking the shirt under his head as a pillow, gripping the glasses lightly and playing with the edges of the rim. His chest was as tanned as the rest of him, displaying whipcord muscles when he shifted.

Ron swallowed.

He itched to take his own shirt off, but a sense of inadequacy surged through him. He didn’t want to appear less than perfect in front of his friend - an odd feeling, Ron thought vaguely, but a strong one nevertheless. He squirmed a bit into the grass, feeling beads of sweat begin to form along the lines of his stomach. He turned his head and caught Harry’s amused gaze, one eyebrow arched.

“Problem, Ron?” he drawled.

Ron blushed. “No, just hot,” he replied, feeling somewhat foolish.

“Take your shirt off,” said Harry casually, grinning now.

“Uh,” said Ron, feeling his cheeks grow even warmer. “It’s okay, really, I’ll be-”

Harry’s hands silenced him, as they reached for the hem of his shirt, his fingers brushing against his skin.

“Come on, don’t worry,” he said, shifting closer to help get the shirt off. He pulled upwards, taking the shirt with him in one fluid movement. Harry handed the shirt back to Ron, letting his fingers trail over the other’s.

“Thanks,” whispered Ron, carefully watching his friend, who was still rather close to him.

“Mmm,” said Harry, noncommittally, as his eyes wandered the exposed skin of Ron’s chest, his hand moving to reach for his discarded glasses. Ron spotted them first and grabbed them, extending his hand and offering them to Harry.

Harry reached back over and again let his fingers trail along Ron’s, but this time he didn’t let go. He held onto the hand, gazing carefully at it, before raising it to his mouth and pressing a kiss to the knuckles.

Ron made a sharp noise and held his breath.

Lazily, Harry licked the middle finger, running his tongue along the salty skin, before putting the entire finger into his mouth and sucking gently.

Ron gasped.

His finger was engulfed in heat, but it was good heat, the kind he could stand, the kind he wanted more of, rather than the sticky heat of the summer day. He slowly pulled his finger from Harry’s mouth, and moved closer, feeling his knees bump against Harry’s. He lowered his head and pressed his lips to the other boy’s, feeling the cool fullness of them.

Harry’s hand crept forward and wrapped around his neck, as he opened his mouth, inviting Ron inside. They kissed for what seemed hours, tongues meeting and dancing, forgetting the steady heat that soaked into their skin, caring only about the heat their mouths were creating.

When Ron finally pulled away he saw that Harry was smiling, a gentle sort of smile that he’d never seen on him before. Ron smiled back.

They both sat back down, propping their knees up and staring at the sky, but this time their hands were together, fingers entwined.

Ron hated being hot, sticky, and muggy - but he liked being with Harry.

dirty_olive @ 2004-02-12T16:22:00

2004-02-12T21:23:48Z

Title: Lolly
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Draco watches Harry. Harry eats a lolly. Draco gets ruffled. Written for the Armchair's Food Fic Challenge.

He looked absolutely ridiculous.

Sitting there, sucking on that hideous purple...well, thing. I had watched the three of then tumble into the shop, laughing, out of breath, cheeks tinged red from the cold. It was December, and the last Hogsmeade weekend before the holidays. I was browsing Honeydukes, looking for something interesting to try, when they had come in and nearly ran me over, in their haste to cram as many sweets into their pockets as they possibly could.

That stupid Weasley was going to spend all the galleons his family owned on candy. Imbecile. Granger was inspecting the 'healthier' goods, and seems especially interested in some sort of minty floss. Muggles. I'll never understand them. How could Granger stand living with them?

And Potter. He had immediately zoomed in a wide array of lollies, and was now sitting on a stool, happily sucking a purple one. He looked absurd, to say the least - eyes closed, mouth moving over the candy and the top of the stick, a look of pleasure on his face.

After a few moments he opened his eyes and looked right at me. I felt my face flush, realizing that I had been caught staring. What was wrong with me? It was just Potter, licking a piece of candy, running his tongue along it, sucking it into the warmth of his mouth.

Ah. Well.

He still looked at me. His eyes seemed to dance, and he resumed his exuberant licking and sucking. Dear god, he was going to be the death of me. His pink tongue kept darting out to wrap around the sweet, eyes still trained on mine, and then, oh lord, he actually let out a moan. An honest to god moan.

Like I said - he was going to be the death of me.

Then he got up, slowly pulling the candy from his mouth, letting his tongue do one more sweep, and walked out of the store.

I wasn't going to be an idiot.

I followed.

I could see him walking towards the alley, that ridiculous sweet still in his hand, and oh dear - were his hips actually *swaying*? He turned into the alley and I hastened to meet him there.

He was standing against the wall, once again devouring the candy. It would be absurd, really, if it were any one else, but just the sight of Potter, the Golden Boy, damn near fucking that lolly with his mouth was enough to fuel my fantasies for months.

We looked at each other for a few minutes - him sucking, me painfully aware of my body's response to his actions. Then he finally spoke.

"Malfoy. Would you like a taste?"

Oh god.

I stepped up to him, pushing him firmly against the brick wall of the alley.

"I think I rather would."

And I kissed him. His mouth was heavenly, warm and soft, his tongue demanding.

He tasted of grape and strawberry.

Just the way I'd imagined.

dirty_olive @ 2004-02-12T16:06:00

2004-02-12T21:12:05Z

Title: Cold
Rating: R
A/N: Written for the SBRL Fuh-Q-Fest. Response to #99: Azkaban Angstfest: What was Sirius thinking all those years?

It was cold. That’s what I remember the most - more than the screaming, more than the terror, more than the seize of panic that would start slowly in your gut then suddenly wrench itself inside your throat - the cold. It was always cold.

Morning and night were indistinguishable. There were no windows in my cell, no means of telling the time of day, no way of knowing. And no matter what time it could’ve possibly been, it was always cold. Sometimes were more bearable than others. Those were the times when the Dementors were farthest away. The air was still cool, still caused your shoulders to shudder with each passing gust, but it was tolerable. Or as tolerable as can be expected in Azkaban.

And then there were the times the Dementors were closest. Cold doesn’t begin to describe what you’d experience. At first it would be the same - the same slow minutes, or were they hours or days, or months even? Unthinkably, could they be years? Stretching out before you? You’d look down at yourself to see if you looked any older, but by that time you’d realise that you looked older the moment you were shoved into your cell. Time can be cruel.

But then there was the slight change in the air, the small feeling of panic that you’d try to rationalise, try to pass off as nothing, but in no time (or was it hours? Was it days? Could it be weeks and weeks later?) your skin was crawling and your throat ached from the harsh, wintry air, and the panic was crawling up your throat and spreading through your body and it was cold, so cold, so unbelievably freezing. You wanted to tear at your own flesh to let loose the hot blood inside of you, and some did, some clawed their skin right off their own bodies, scratching and screaming and begging and pleading for warmth, for it to end, for it not to get any worse.

Wishful thinking will get you nowhere in Azkaban.

Then they were there. You didn’t see them by that point - all you could see was their faces, the expressions of sorrow and anger and hatred and disappointment and revulsion and anything, anything and everything, every last wretched sob, every last harsh word, every last cry of pain, all splayed out before you, images swirling and tumbling over each other, pouring through your mind and crowding your vision, until it was too much and your throat hurt from screaming. Apologies and regrets, pleading and begging for forgiveness, for ablution, for your wrongs to be righted, and for it all to stop.

My own memories were scattered and disjointed, mixed together and torn apart, bits and pieces and fragments of the past, all surging maddeningly through me until I was convinced I’d go insane. Like I hadn’t already. There were the moments I’d remember with words (I can’t be with you anymore) the pain and the anger and the sadness behind them (-you, I trusted you, Sirius), the knowledge that I’d ruined it all (They’ll never suspect him! It’s foolproof, James, trust me) ruined everything. (Always were the weak one - never like your brother - I trusted you, Sirius - How could you do this to me? - I can’t be with you anymore - it hurts, Sirius, can’t you understand that? I hurt. And you were the one that hurt me/) and it just. Never. Stops.

And then there were the moments I’d remember, the ones without any words. Those were images that flew through my mind, crowded behind my eyelids, which I had screwed up tightly when the screaming began, and those were worse, more fragmented, because words can only say so much.

There was Remus touching my hair and smiling and

he was looking away with tears in his eyes because I

had then kissed him deeply, parting his lips with my own as I deepened the kiss and he

was suddenly pushing me away and snarling at me, a gesture he had never, ever shown me before, and it was

all because James had smiled that smile and hugged me the way he always did, and we’d grinned and had a drink

but by then it was too late, I could see his body

but I couldn’t move, because Remus was on top of me, moving inside of me, and my arms

were tightly gripping his shoulders when I asked him if he ever wanted me to hurt him, and

the look in his eyes when I’d stare down at him, murmuring words of love and dedication, promising that

I would never hurt him, I knew I hurt him by the way he wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t speak to me, and now matter how

hard I try it always made me beam when I held Harry, always made my heart soar, and I could

swear that no matter what, they were dead, and nothing would bring them back, and Remus, Remus would look at me and he would-

I hate you. You’re a disappointment. Failed. You promised us, Sirius. Failed. You’re a disappointment. You said you loved me, I know now how you really feel. I can’t be with you. Don’t touch me. You’re nothing. Failed. Murderer. We all know the truth. I know, Sirius. Murderer. Murderer. God, why is it so cold?

I wake up screaming again and Remus is awake in an instant, his arms around me even as I howl and thrash and cry. It always takes me a few moments before I can remember where I am, remember that Remus is right there, that I don’t have to go back there, that I’m going to live. I turn and I burrow against Remus, shaking as I wrap myself around him, needing him more than ever. I run my hands over his bare back to reassure myself, and I can always feel him shiver. Sometimes he murmurs. When I’m coherent enough to hear it, I know he says “-you’re so cold, Sirius.”

I’m always cold.

It’s what I remember best.

What they say is true.

It just. Never. Stops.