"Come on, you can do better than that!" A dash of deadly mirth, buying time
to get Harry out of here, need to
REDPAINREDHOTOHMYGODPAIN CAN'TTAKEITCAN'TTAKEITCAN'T
Falling.
*
where am i? where's harry?
black.
cold too.
black and cold. black and cold. blackandcoldandblackandcoldandblackand
cold
*
bored.
*
"Who's there? Show yourself!"
*
Maybe a moment had past, perhaps decades. Sirius had no way of knowing. There were no markers to count time here, no fading of pasts as new memories were made. There was nothing beyond this blackness and Him. Around him, above him, inside him; no that wasn't right either because he wasn't here either. He had no form, nothing to distinguish outer from inner. He was the cold. He was the black. He was everything and nothing. Just there. In nothing. Or everything. With Him.
Then a candelabra, chairs, an abruptness of table piled high with fruit and pheasant; a rich scene from some muggle image that Sirius vaguely recalled. The decadence of the color, the embarrassment of sensation was overpowering, stunning him. Too many flowers, too many flickering candles, too many.
"The Mistress always said it, always grieved her, now the Master's going to get what's his, what's been waiting for him."
Kreacher? Sitting at the feet of? It couldn't be, not him. Not that man, that awful man from his ancient history who had watched his teenage body with a familiarity that had both terrified and electrified the young Sirius. Desire and shame, forever twined. One of the Death Eaters, he had been sure of it, and more that that, he suspected. One of the many dark figures that had come through his family's door. This one came alone more often then not, his calm presence sending the Black household in nervous disarray. It must be what, 20 years since he had knelt beside Him, long fingers tangling through his hair. He hadn't changed. His cold eyes were the same ones that had probed and tasted all while thin lips sipped tea from his Grandmothers black bone china.
"Do sit down, Sirius"
The man waved a pale hand towards an empty chair. Not on his knees then, not in his place. And Sirius was suddenly acutely aware that he was naked.
*
The food was more real perhaps than anything Sirius had ever tasted. Devoured more accurately, aware of juices dripping down his chin, greasiness left on his fingers, crumbs drifting down his lap as all the memories of foods past paled in comparison to the smorgasbord before him. Greedy for it, for anything other than black and cold. Greedy for the distraction to the dull throbbing coursing through him, distraction to the traitorous jealousy he knew he shouldn't feel towards to kneeling figure of Kreacher.
"I like you like this, age suits you".
Sirius met the stare. His voice was richer how, the vowels rounded and seductive, baritone resonating, the range of sound impossible for human ears to follow. But Sirius heard them. He had always listened to this voice, conspiratory, alone, laughing at the sycophants vying for attention.
"They all think that defeating death is about immortality, worthless, every last one of them"
Fingers scratching behind ears oh yes right there, right there, ouch! Sharp nails dug into his scalp and Sirius knew a response was expected of him. Struggling to bring back the topic cannot disappoint Him, no;
"Any fool can achieve that. Look at Nicolas Flamel, and he's hardly the greatest Wizard alive"
A soft laugh, "To conquer death is to make time irrelevant, do you understand that, my Boy?"
No, he hadn't, but he had nodded anyway, and he knew it was the correct response because the hand slid down his neck, teasing the skin bound by his robe's collar, then twisted his fingers around the fabric until it wound tight around Sirius' throat and his breath came in short gasps. Sirius still longed for that touch.
And suddenly He was next to him, close enough to touch as the rich tableaux dissolved into soft shapelessness.
"You were always mine. I could have had you at anytime but it amused me to see you struggle against who you are. What you are"
Thin hands stroking his face, heady, cotton-brain, a spell maybe? and oh that touch, that perfect combination of cold disdain and heated demand, and he wanted to lean into it, just let it wash over him, but no, he can't, not this, not for Him. Struggling to remain and Sirius knew he was missing something. Then the Man laughed, tracing his finger against his jaw then pulling him forward into a kiss. Possessive, owning, and oh-Remus-I'm-so- sorry, melting into him.
Feeling his mouth probed and overpowered, and the shudder that wracks him momentarily sharpens his teeth to canine points, biting the invaders lips. Copper salt overpoweringly strong, his olfactory responses able to distinguish the fine nuance between their bloods and the kiss deepened into savagery and he's being bitten back, pressed down to the (floor?) and fingers (claws?) tearing across his chest, warming his skin (fur?). He stretched his throat out, letting the Man (beast?) bite his neck and rolled like a willing bitch onto his haunches.
Not quite a laugh, but enough to rouse him.
"Mine".
And of course it was true. He was always His. He was the first for whom Sirius had transfigured, when black dog was met by His white wolf and they had run together, hunted, rolling until the wolf had bared His teeth. Biting him, then rutting and that had been a first for Sirius too, painful, confusing, and nothing had ever come close to the exhilaration he had felt that lost afternoon.
Until now, here again the white wolf had the scruff of his neck in his jaw, shivers of anticipation, of dread, of need, conflicting and paralyzing him. Then the warmth of skin on skin and Sirius realized their animagus forms were only from the shoulders up. Not quite beast to beast then, but neither were they man to man as Sirius felt himself being pushed open, cold nose and hot tongue probing into him, licking, snuffling deep between his thighs, lapping wetly at the tight ring of guardian muscle that had never been able to thwart His invasions. Whimpering, keening then lost in instinct as he threw his head back and howled.
The howl was answered, a primal wrenching of longing from their throats even as His hard answer pressed into him. Tight, too tight, but pushing back against it anyway, breached hard then slamming into him, and oh god oh god he had missed this. The aching driving inside him, the sharp bite of teeth against his neck, those same teeth wrenching him upwards, arched and exposed. Handclaw scratching for him, and scraping a harsh rhythm along his flesh. Desperate now, and he wouldn't last, and there would be hell to pay, but whatever it was it couldn't be worse that the treachery his lust had already committed, and shaking he screamed out, tainting the rough hand tormenting him.
And the cotton-brain cleared, lucidity returning with the continuing thrusting of Voldemort into him. Hyper real as He growled and pushed his hand to Sirius' lips. Whimpering that even now his tongue curled around the fingers that had murdered so many of his friends, irresistible and horrible, sharpness and bitterness choking him, constricting his throat and chest. Pressed down, harder now, it wouldn't be long and he felt it, the burn of hate and possession rushing into him, hot flesh collapsing on him, trapping him still.
"I hate you" whispered broken defiance.
"I know you do. That too amuses me"
"Let me go, please"
"Ah so my creature begs? And where would you go? Do you think I would allow mine to die? I have made time irrelevant for you"
"You're insane, Voldemort". And with what strength he could muster, he leaned up and bit His arm, hard.
Sharp surprised laughter, and He was up, eyes probing and tasting.
"Perhaps, but that too is a feeling you have only because I allow it."
Then black and cold. And aching.
"Shouldn't have bit him, stupid, foolish, always biting the hand that feeds him"
He bit me first, the reply too petulant to say aloud.
REDPAINREDHOTOHMYGODPAIN CAN'TTAKEITCAN'TTAKEITCAN'T
Falling.
*
where am i? where's harry?
black.
cold too.
black and cold. black and cold. blackandcoldandblackandcoldandblackand
cold
*
bored.
*
"Who's there? Show yourself!"
*
Maybe a moment had past, perhaps decades. Sirius had no way of knowing. There were no markers to count time here, no fading of pasts as new memories were made. There was nothing beyond this blackness and Him. Around him, above him, inside him; no that wasn't right either because he wasn't here either. He had no form, nothing to distinguish outer from inner. He was the cold. He was the black. He was everything and nothing. Just there. In nothing. Or everything. With Him.
Then a candelabra, chairs, an abruptness of table piled high with fruit and pheasant; a rich scene from some muggle image that Sirius vaguely recalled. The decadence of the color, the embarrassment of sensation was overpowering, stunning him. Too many flowers, too many flickering candles, too many.
"The Mistress always said it, always grieved her, now the Master's going to get what's his, what's been waiting for him."
Kreacher? Sitting at the feet of? It couldn't be, not him. Not that man, that awful man from his ancient history who had watched his teenage body with a familiarity that had both terrified and electrified the young Sirius. Desire and shame, forever twined. One of the Death Eaters, he had been sure of it, and more that that, he suspected. One of the many dark figures that had come through his family's door. This one came alone more often then not, his calm presence sending the Black household in nervous disarray. It must be what, 20 years since he had knelt beside Him, long fingers tangling through his hair. He hadn't changed. His cold eyes were the same ones that had probed and tasted all while thin lips sipped tea from his Grandmothers black bone china.
"Do sit down, Sirius"
The man waved a pale hand towards an empty chair. Not on his knees then, not in his place. And Sirius was suddenly acutely aware that he was naked.
*
The food was more real perhaps than anything Sirius had ever tasted. Devoured more accurately, aware of juices dripping down his chin, greasiness left on his fingers, crumbs drifting down his lap as all the memories of foods past paled in comparison to the smorgasbord before him. Greedy for it, for anything other than black and cold. Greedy for the distraction to the dull throbbing coursing through him, distraction to the traitorous jealousy he knew he shouldn't feel towards to kneeling figure of Kreacher.
"I like you like this, age suits you".
Sirius met the stare. His voice was richer how, the vowels rounded and seductive, baritone resonating, the range of sound impossible for human ears to follow. But Sirius heard them. He had always listened to this voice, conspiratory, alone, laughing at the sycophants vying for attention.
"They all think that defeating death is about immortality, worthless, every last one of them"
Fingers scratching behind ears oh yes right there, right there, ouch! Sharp nails dug into his scalp and Sirius knew a response was expected of him. Struggling to bring back the topic cannot disappoint Him, no;
"Any fool can achieve that. Look at Nicolas Flamel, and he's hardly the greatest Wizard alive"
A soft laugh, "To conquer death is to make time irrelevant, do you understand that, my Boy?"
No, he hadn't, but he had nodded anyway, and he knew it was the correct response because the hand slid down his neck, teasing the skin bound by his robe's collar, then twisted his fingers around the fabric until it wound tight around Sirius' throat and his breath came in short gasps. Sirius still longed for that touch.
And suddenly He was next to him, close enough to touch as the rich tableaux dissolved into soft shapelessness.
"You were always mine. I could have had you at anytime but it amused me to see you struggle against who you are. What you are"
Thin hands stroking his face, heady, cotton-brain, a spell maybe? and oh that touch, that perfect combination of cold disdain and heated demand, and he wanted to lean into it, just let it wash over him, but no, he can't, not this, not for Him. Struggling to remain and Sirius knew he was missing something. Then the Man laughed, tracing his finger against his jaw then pulling him forward into a kiss. Possessive, owning, and oh-Remus-I'm-so- sorry, melting into him.
Feeling his mouth probed and overpowered, and the shudder that wracks him momentarily sharpens his teeth to canine points, biting the invaders lips. Copper salt overpoweringly strong, his olfactory responses able to distinguish the fine nuance between their bloods and the kiss deepened into savagery and he's being bitten back, pressed down to the (floor?) and fingers (claws?) tearing across his chest, warming his skin (fur?). He stretched his throat out, letting the Man (beast?) bite his neck and rolled like a willing bitch onto his haunches.
Not quite a laugh, but enough to rouse him.
"Mine".
And of course it was true. He was always His. He was the first for whom Sirius had transfigured, when black dog was met by His white wolf and they had run together, hunted, rolling until the wolf had bared His teeth. Biting him, then rutting and that had been a first for Sirius too, painful, confusing, and nothing had ever come close to the exhilaration he had felt that lost afternoon.
Until now, here again the white wolf had the scruff of his neck in his jaw, shivers of anticipation, of dread, of need, conflicting and paralyzing him. Then the warmth of skin on skin and Sirius realized their animagus forms were only from the shoulders up. Not quite beast to beast then, but neither were they man to man as Sirius felt himself being pushed open, cold nose and hot tongue probing into him, licking, snuffling deep between his thighs, lapping wetly at the tight ring of guardian muscle that had never been able to thwart His invasions. Whimpering, keening then lost in instinct as he threw his head back and howled.
The howl was answered, a primal wrenching of longing from their throats even as His hard answer pressed into him. Tight, too tight, but pushing back against it anyway, breached hard then slamming into him, and oh god oh god he had missed this. The aching driving inside him, the sharp bite of teeth against his neck, those same teeth wrenching him upwards, arched and exposed. Handclaw scratching for him, and scraping a harsh rhythm along his flesh. Desperate now, and he wouldn't last, and there would be hell to pay, but whatever it was it couldn't be worse that the treachery his lust had already committed, and shaking he screamed out, tainting the rough hand tormenting him.
And the cotton-brain cleared, lucidity returning with the continuing thrusting of Voldemort into him. Hyper real as He growled and pushed his hand to Sirius' lips. Whimpering that even now his tongue curled around the fingers that had murdered so many of his friends, irresistible and horrible, sharpness and bitterness choking him, constricting his throat and chest. Pressed down, harder now, it wouldn't be long and he felt it, the burn of hate and possession rushing into him, hot flesh collapsing on him, trapping him still.
"I hate you" whispered broken defiance.
"I know you do. That too amuses me"
"Let me go, please"
"Ah so my creature begs? And where would you go? Do you think I would allow mine to die? I have made time irrelevant for you"
"You're insane, Voldemort". And with what strength he could muster, he leaned up and bit His arm, hard.
Sharp surprised laughter, and He was up, eyes probing and tasting.
"Perhaps, but that too is a feeling you have only because I allow it."
Then black and cold. And aching.
"Shouldn't have bit him, stupid, foolish, always biting the hand that feeds him"
He bit me first, the reply too petulant to say aloud.