Of The
folder
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Remus/Sirius
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
Views:
1,555
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
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Category:
Harry Potter › Slash - Male/Male › Remus/Sirius
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
9
Views:
1,555
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Of The 1/31
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters and universe are property of JKR, Scholastic & other assorted publishers, and the WB.
Notes: Summary is a Winston Churchill quote. This is being written for the BlanketForts challenge at the LiveJournal Community of the same name. While some parts are not R or NC-17, overall the story is rated NC-17. The story will be updated regularly throughout the month, as this is a daily challenge lasting the month of January. The story begins at the end and will end at the beginning. Along the way, we'll be jumping back and forth in time. There are 31 parts in this story. The Roman Numerals at the beginning of each section give you an indication of 'when' in the course of Remus's and Sirius's history together these things happen.
xxxi.
"What is this?" he asks.
"Don't be a tit, Moony," Sirius laughs.
"Don't be a tit."
"It's a Cauldron Maker. Pint of ale, nip of Firewhisky. Afraid it's too fucking manly for you?" There it is again, laughter loud and barking and free, and he can see the chord of Sirius's neck stand out, beckoning, when he throws his head back.
Remus's lips purse. "You will not bully me into drinking by making ill attempts at insulting my masculinity, Sirius."
"Sodding knobhead." Sirius smirks.
He drinks.
He drinks. Sirius drinks. They drink.
They spill Cauldron Makers on their jumpers but forget about spelling them clean. They wear their alcohol-soaked jumpers everywhere: on the Knight Bus, to that one Muggle pub - or was it four Muggle pubs?, at Leaky Cauldron, on a last-minute trek to Honeydukes to nick sweeties for pre-midnight snacks. Chocolate goes well with alcohol, Sirius says. Remus tosses several Sickles and a gleaming gold Galleon on the counter. When they take a break in the tunnel on the way back to Hogwarts, Sirius says Remus left too much money. Remus says it's the holiday and he ought to be charitable. Even though I can't afford to be, he neglects to add. You're a fucking sap, Sirius says.
Instead of returning to Gryffindor, Sirius and Remus take their damp jumpers out to the beech tree under which most Marauder Pranks are conceived, where they lie on their backs and point at the stars. Remus is too pissed to know the difference between the Little Dipper and Orion's belt, while Sirius can still pick them out of the sky, even when the dull haze of alcohol has enveloped him. Remus always has to revise more than Sirius and James, and he vaguely, sourly, knackeredly remembers this just as he feels himself drifting off to sleep. Sirius is next to him, their shoulders press against one another, and Remus mumblemoans as a charmed-warm cloak - Sirius's - is settled over him. It's warm and--
"S'nearly midnight," Says Sirius, his knee bumping against Remus's. Remus sits up and
Refill. He drinks again.
looks at Sirius with wide, worried eyes. "I have--"
"Don't," Sirius says, holding up a hand, "tell me you have to do some prefect patrolling shite. It's the bloody holiday, Moony. Even old McGonagall's letting her hair down, so why don't you take off your net and untwist your knickers, eh?"
He is drifting, drifting off now, slow muted wash of fact and fiction and now and then engulfing mind, body, soul.
Sleep.
"You're pissed," Remus says flatly.
"Yeah," Sirius says hoarsely, and his hand is suddenly on Remus's jumper. His touch, for some reason - not that there needs to be one when one is more than a tad imbibed - makes Remus's eyes water. Remus's eyes water and his nerves stand on edge, especially those just beneath Sirius's hand. He is alive, electric, thrumming, and, "Fuck."
So Sirius.
"Beg your--" Remus starts.
"Fucking-- Moony," Sirius says in that same hoarse voice, his eyes downcast and Remus feels like Messiah, respected and magnificent and safe and saving.
A thumb traces the arch of a brow as shuddering breath rolls off his lips; he can practically taste Sirius, and Remus shakes.
Remus shakes, Sirius moves, and their lips meet like old friends, warm and gentle - how do you do - and familiar. Taste ale and whisky red and gold, fingers chilled pinky-pale from the snow, Warming Charm long gone but bodies more than warm enough, touching cheeks and temples and throats. They ring in the new year like this, doing this, gasping and needing this.
"Christ," Sirius murmurs as Remus pulls back for air.
Christ.
Remus can barely sit up, head pounding thumping splitting in two. Two two two no more. Certainly not two glasses on the table two bottles on the floor.
Excess is everywhere, save for the lone number struggling to move in the bed.
Remus had rang in the New Year gasping and needing, but knowing it would never be again.
New Year new beginning or end.
Sirius had ended.
Notes: Summary is a Winston Churchill quote. This is being written for the BlanketForts challenge at the LiveJournal Community of the same name. While some parts are not R or NC-17, overall the story is rated NC-17. The story will be updated regularly throughout the month, as this is a daily challenge lasting the month of January. The story begins at the end and will end at the beginning. Along the way, we'll be jumping back and forth in time. There are 31 parts in this story. The Roman Numerals at the beginning of each section give you an indication of 'when' in the course of Remus's and Sirius's history together these things happen.
xxxi.
"What is this?" he asks.
"Don't be a tit, Moony," Sirius laughs.
"Don't be a tit."
"It's a Cauldron Maker. Pint of ale, nip of Firewhisky. Afraid it's too fucking manly for you?" There it is again, laughter loud and barking and free, and he can see the chord of Sirius's neck stand out, beckoning, when he throws his head back.
Remus's lips purse. "You will not bully me into drinking by making ill attempts at insulting my masculinity, Sirius."
"Sodding knobhead." Sirius smirks.
He drinks.
He drinks. Sirius drinks. They drink.
They spill Cauldron Makers on their jumpers but forget about spelling them clean. They wear their alcohol-soaked jumpers everywhere: on the Knight Bus, to that one Muggle pub - or was it four Muggle pubs?, at Leaky Cauldron, on a last-minute trek to Honeydukes to nick sweeties for pre-midnight snacks. Chocolate goes well with alcohol, Sirius says. Remus tosses several Sickles and a gleaming gold Galleon on the counter. When they take a break in the tunnel on the way back to Hogwarts, Sirius says Remus left too much money. Remus says it's the holiday and he ought to be charitable. Even though I can't afford to be, he neglects to add. You're a fucking sap, Sirius says.
Instead of returning to Gryffindor, Sirius and Remus take their damp jumpers out to the beech tree under which most Marauder Pranks are conceived, where they lie on their backs and point at the stars. Remus is too pissed to know the difference between the Little Dipper and Orion's belt, while Sirius can still pick them out of the sky, even when the dull haze of alcohol has enveloped him. Remus always has to revise more than Sirius and James, and he vaguely, sourly, knackeredly remembers this just as he feels himself drifting off to sleep. Sirius is next to him, their shoulders press against one another, and Remus mumblemoans as a charmed-warm cloak - Sirius's - is settled over him. It's warm and--
"S'nearly midnight," Says Sirius, his knee bumping against Remus's. Remus sits up and
Refill. He drinks again.
looks at Sirius with wide, worried eyes. "I have--"
"Don't," Sirius says, holding up a hand, "tell me you have to do some prefect patrolling shite. It's the bloody holiday, Moony. Even old McGonagall's letting her hair down, so why don't you take off your net and untwist your knickers, eh?"
He is drifting, drifting off now, slow muted wash of fact and fiction and now and then engulfing mind, body, soul.
Sleep.
"You're pissed," Remus says flatly.
"Yeah," Sirius says hoarsely, and his hand is suddenly on Remus's jumper. His touch, for some reason - not that there needs to be one when one is more than a tad imbibed - makes Remus's eyes water. Remus's eyes water and his nerves stand on edge, especially those just beneath Sirius's hand. He is alive, electric, thrumming, and, "Fuck."
So Sirius.
"Beg your--" Remus starts.
"Fucking-- Moony," Sirius says in that same hoarse voice, his eyes downcast and Remus feels like Messiah, respected and magnificent and safe and saving.
A thumb traces the arch of a brow as shuddering breath rolls off his lips; he can practically taste Sirius, and Remus shakes.
Remus shakes, Sirius moves, and their lips meet like old friends, warm and gentle - how do you do - and familiar. Taste ale and whisky red and gold, fingers chilled pinky-pale from the snow, Warming Charm long gone but bodies more than warm enough, touching cheeks and temples and throats. They ring in the new year like this, doing this, gasping and needing this.
"Christ," Sirius murmurs as Remus pulls back for air.
Christ.
Remus can barely sit up, head pounding thumping splitting in two. Two two two no more. Certainly not two glasses on the table two bottles on the floor.
Excess is everywhere, save for the lone number struggling to move in the bed.
Remus had rang in the New Year gasping and needing, but knowing it would never be again.
New Year new beginning or end.
Sirius had ended.