R/S darkfic- "Addiction"
After finally getting to see my friend Amy, who tends toward the dark side in her preferences for fic, I decided to pursue the dark side of Remus, Sirius and Snape in regards to potential addictions. The first 2/3 are done, so I'm going to post them one day at a time in the hopes that I'll have the third one done shortly. It's in my head, just not on the page. Yes, I should be thinking about packing, but it's more fun (??) to think about these complicated men and things to which they might find themselves unable to let go.
Feedback, of course, is generously accepted, even if the content makes you ache. Having realized that a couple of my stories have made people cry has been oddly inspiring. :P I'm obviously a sick soul.
Anyway, here's the first of this trio. Hard-R rating for language and m/m implied content. Marauder-era primarily.
I. Sirius
“You holding out on me, Pads?”
James was joking, but he didn’t really know what he was asking.
“Hardly. Bottle’s right there. Get your own.” Sirius jerked a thumb toward the contraband firewhiskey, recently filched from the unsuspecting owners of The Hog’s Head.
James shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll save my poison for later.” He rifled his hand through his unkempt hair. “You okay, Sirius?”
“Yes. Of course. Brilliant, as always.”
James looked askance at him. “Fine. But you don’t have to be miserable forever, y’know. Remus will forgive you. He has to. We’re-”
“No. He doesn’t have to. I’m studying, do you mind?” Sirius glared across the room at his best friend.
James made a snort that sounded a lot like ‘wanker,’ and turned on his side.
What James didn’t know was what else was in the small amount of alcohol, surreptitiously added when James was using the toilet. Sirius had allowed the shredded slivers of his pride be pulverized, strained, or otherwise distilled into a potion created by his most despised enemy. And now he was drinking it. Didn’t know what’s in it, wasn’t half sure - and half hoping - that Snivellus really will kill him, as he sneeringly suggested he could. But Sirius couldn’t take it anymore.
He was a fucking idiot, his own anger having strung him up by the balls after the shockingly few seconds of satisfaction of having scared Snape shitless. Now he would pay for it, seemingly forever. Remus had finally begun speaking to him, but his former packmate was so impersonal that Sirius felt as far away as the furthest, most miserable planet in some distant constellation. It gnawed at him. He wanted to turn into Padfoot, to sit and whine and follow Remus around until he could no longer be ignored. And he knew it wouldn’t happen.
So he asked Snape to deaden him. Snape laughed at the offer of money, insisting he didn’t need it, that the fact that he was being begged by the high and mighty Sirius Black for something to make him not want to feel meant far more than anything else he could offer.
Because Snape could kill him, and given what had happened, he just might. He knew Snape was too clever to risk it, but even if he did, he was also too clever to be caught.
Sirius didn’t care. Every resolute pulse throbbed with loss and abandon and he had only recently realized that he had never felt better than when Remus’s teeth bit into his shoulder, sucking and marking as they wrestled, naked, reveling in the pleasure of lust and the hunger and being together…
Whatever Snape had made, the potency was remarkable. Sirius was able to be civil, even chummy with Remus. He didn’t feel a thing. Every rough comment glazed off of him like water on glass, at least for a little while. The irony that Snape could create something that Sirius actually wanted, needed, clung to, even ceased to bother him. He and Remus finally reconciled, but it had been long enough that Sirius had managed to coddle Snape’s ego enough to figure out most of the ingredients in what he had been making.
After the first night in their London flat, months later, when Remus lay panting at his side, licking over the bite marks on Sirius’s neck, his Remuspeak for ‘I love you,’ Sirius promised himself he would never again need such a substance, that he would never again not face the pain of living, of pulsing life.
And he knew, within the marrow of his bones, that he lied.
*****
It was the worst part of the War. Remus had been gone for weeks, their parting ambivalent at best, and Sirius was careening down a well-trodden path of self-destructive habits. He didn’t have to check on Pettigrew for a good couple of hours yet- Remus wasn’t there to give him his combination withering/mournful look that he received when Remus caught him with the potion, since he had perfected it during his dark days. And so he reverently poured some into a small tumbler, swirled it around with a mockery of absentRemus, his beloved scotch, drank it, and dozed.
***
Waking up from his fog, he looked at the clock and swore at the time. After racing from Wormtail’s to James’s; far, far, astoundingly Sirius-fucked-up-yet-again far too late, he saw the carnage, witnessed his betrayal, and surrendered.
After a few years in Azkaban, those memories, and how to make his fix, were the only possessors of his sanity.
Feedback, of course, is generously accepted, even if the content makes you ache. Having realized that a couple of my stories have made people cry has been oddly inspiring. :P I'm obviously a sick soul.
Anyway, here's the first of this trio. Hard-R rating for language and m/m implied content. Marauder-era primarily.
I. Sirius
“You holding out on me, Pads?”
James was joking, but he didn’t really know what he was asking.
“Hardly. Bottle’s right there. Get your own.” Sirius jerked a thumb toward the contraband firewhiskey, recently filched from the unsuspecting owners of The Hog’s Head.
James shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll save my poison for later.” He rifled his hand through his unkempt hair. “You okay, Sirius?”
“Yes. Of course. Brilliant, as always.”
James looked askance at him. “Fine. But you don’t have to be miserable forever, y’know. Remus will forgive you. He has to. We’re-”
“No. He doesn’t have to. I’m studying, do you mind?” Sirius glared across the room at his best friend.
James made a snort that sounded a lot like ‘wanker,’ and turned on his side.
What James didn’t know was what else was in the small amount of alcohol, surreptitiously added when James was using the toilet. Sirius had allowed the shredded slivers of his pride be pulverized, strained, or otherwise distilled into a potion created by his most despised enemy. And now he was drinking it. Didn’t know what’s in it, wasn’t half sure - and half hoping - that Snivellus really will kill him, as he sneeringly suggested he could. But Sirius couldn’t take it anymore.
He was a fucking idiot, his own anger having strung him up by the balls after the shockingly few seconds of satisfaction of having scared Snape shitless. Now he would pay for it, seemingly forever. Remus had finally begun speaking to him, but his former packmate was so impersonal that Sirius felt as far away as the furthest, most miserable planet in some distant constellation. It gnawed at him. He wanted to turn into Padfoot, to sit and whine and follow Remus around until he could no longer be ignored. And he knew it wouldn’t happen.
So he asked Snape to deaden him. Snape laughed at the offer of money, insisting he didn’t need it, that the fact that he was being begged by the high and mighty Sirius Black for something to make him not want to feel meant far more than anything else he could offer.
Because Snape could kill him, and given what had happened, he just might. He knew Snape was too clever to risk it, but even if he did, he was also too clever to be caught.
Sirius didn’t care. Every resolute pulse throbbed with loss and abandon and he had only recently realized that he had never felt better than when Remus’s teeth bit into his shoulder, sucking and marking as they wrestled, naked, reveling in the pleasure of lust and the hunger and being together…
Whatever Snape had made, the potency was remarkable. Sirius was able to be civil, even chummy with Remus. He didn’t feel a thing. Every rough comment glazed off of him like water on glass, at least for a little while. The irony that Snape could create something that Sirius actually wanted, needed, clung to, even ceased to bother him. He and Remus finally reconciled, but it had been long enough that Sirius had managed to coddle Snape’s ego enough to figure out most of the ingredients in what he had been making.
After the first night in their London flat, months later, when Remus lay panting at his side, licking over the bite marks on Sirius’s neck, his Remuspeak for ‘I love you,’ Sirius promised himself he would never again need such a substance, that he would never again not face the pain of living, of pulsing life.
And he knew, within the marrow of his bones, that he lied.
*****
It was the worst part of the War. Remus had been gone for weeks, their parting ambivalent at best, and Sirius was careening down a well-trodden path of self-destructive habits. He didn’t have to check on Pettigrew for a good couple of hours yet- Remus wasn’t there to give him his combination withering/mournful look that he received when Remus caught him with the potion, since he had perfected it during his dark days. And so he reverently poured some into a small tumbler, swirled it around with a mockery of absentRemus, his beloved scotch, drank it, and dozed.
***
Waking up from his fog, he looked at the clock and swore at the time. After racing from Wormtail’s to James’s; far, far, astoundingly Sirius-fucked-up-yet-again far too late, he saw the carnage, witnessed his betrayal, and surrendered.
After a few years in Azkaban, those memories, and how to make his fix, were the only possessors of his sanity.