Hello all! This is my newest RLSB tale. It can most definitely be considered a DarkFic and it does contain VIOLENCE and mature themes. If you can't stand to see the puppies fight, don't read this. If you can bear it, then please enjoy! But don't flame, it'll just be a big waste of your time, 'kay?

Fantasies and Rationales

There are days that I look upon him with such loathing. I can never rationalize these moments, for they are anything but rational. He is the man I chose to share my life with. Why is it now, three years too late, that my subconscious feelings insist on showing themselves? I do not believe that these feelings of loathing have merely manifested themselves in my mind in recent months. For reasons beyond my awareness, I am certain that somewhere inside, these feelings have always been present. I have ignored them so long and so dutifully that I have nearly forgotten they ever even existed until recently.

In these moments that my unreasonable hatred grows too strong to properly handle, I have to leave him. I have to leave the apartment we share. I have to drown myself in other men; filthy, vile and putrid men who force me to face the fact that who I have waiting at home for me really isn't worth hating. But the effect of these men, and the encounters I disgustedly experience with them, is only ever temporary. As of late, the effect has hardly satisfied my subconscious for a few days.

I know he knows what I am doing when I claim I 'need some air'. He can smell them on me. He can literally sense what I have done. I know I am hurting him, but more importantly, I know that I should care. But the man never says a word. He never indicates that he is fully aware of what I am doing, ironically, 'behind his back'. If I didn't know him so bloody well, I'd naively think I was getting away with the whole fiasco. But I notice the subtle twitch of his delicate nose when I enter the bedroom. I notice the minute delay in administering my 'Welcome Home' kiss. I am quite sure that I am no longer very welcome.

And yet, he never says anything! I am sure he realizes that his distinct lack of reprimanding only encourages my actions. I know I am getting to him. Eventually, he will let it out on me. I wait for that day with bated breath. If he is waiting for my conscience to get the better of me, he is sorely mistaken. That is one thing that will never happen. I never regret. I never apologize.

He is so easy to break. Even after blowing the most despicable man a mind can fathom, he will not hesitate to open his legs for me if I so desire it of him. He is so easy to destroy. Destruction is something that my blood allows me to do quite efficiently and quite naturally. And yet, I have not yet succeeded. I know him so well, it surprises me that I cannot hear his very thoughts. I am well aware that I am causing him great deals of emotional pain, but he is finding his own despicable ways of dealing with it. I have not broken him. He is still holding on to some glimmering strand of hope that his life is not a complete shithole. Something still brings a genuine smile to his face. Something still ignites fire in his eyes. I am sure that I no longer do either of these things.

His eyes don't glow when they look at me anymore. I don't blame him. The loss of life in his eyes brings life into my heart. Though I love to see those eyes burn with passion, the lack thereof is almost as great. His pain has become my life-blood. I thirst for it. It feels wrong to consider us lovers anymore. What we have is a far cry from love. Do we still fuck? Of course. We live together and we both have tremendous needs. Not to mention that pesky old saying, 'habits die hard'. Do we make love anymore? I don't even know the meaning of those words. They are as empty as his eyes have become. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

What I experience in his bed now holds far more passion than anything else ever did before my hatred and occurrences of utter betrayal piqued. He knows that he is far better at what he does than any man I could ever hope to find. And he uses this knowledge to his great advantage. He knows exactly how to make me scream; how to make me writhe helplessly beneath him. He knows how to make me submit to his will. But don't be fooled; it goes both ways.

I have often wondered if he thinks these encounters are some kind of punishment for me. Oh, how very wrong he would be! What he does to me in these moments of intense, heated, angry and violent passion are some of my fondest memories of him. And, fucking hell, can he take what he dishes out!

Physical pain is not my forte, regardless of what you have heard to the contrary. Emotional pain is where I truly excel. Yet, with him, physical pain is something I inflict very efficiently. I think he may even enjoy the pain as much as I do. He keeps coming back. And trust me when I say that he is not nearly as innocent as he looks. You may think me as wicked as they come, but you don't know the half of it.

Signed,

Sirius O. Black

30 October 1979

"Sirius, what the fuck is this?"

I peer in the direction of the man of my supposed dreams. We are moving to a new flat soon. Thank Merlin he decided to take it upon himself to pack my things as well as his own. I direct my attention to his hand. He is brandishing in my direction a tattered scroll of parchment. I shrug, looking away once more.

"Some old parchment?" I suggest dryly.

He is in front of my face in a fraction of a second. I can hear angry magic crackling all around my bedroom. Internally, I smile. I haven't seen him lose control like this in a very long time. (Unless, of course, he is sprawled across my bed.) This could be very entertaining to say the least. He is staring at me with eyes that shine with that fire I love and hate so much.

"Yes?" I inquire nonchalantly.

He repeats, "What the FUCK is this, Sirius?" He throws the mangy old scroll into my lap. With a roll of my eyes, I unravel it. The first line is all I need to read to know exactly what this is. 'There are days that I look upon him with such loathing'. I vaguely remember crafting this gem. I don't even have to pretend like I don't care.

"What about it?" I ask, tossing it back to him carelessly as I stretch my weary limbs.

He doesn't reply, but I hear several glasses in the kitchen shatter. This is getting exciting.

Several minutes pass as I toy with my wand, efficiently ignoring him and his obtrusive anger. Finally, the man decides to do something with himself.

There were no words exchanged, nor curses flung, but I'm positive I will be sporting a glorious black eye tomorrow. I look at him through my throbbing eye, but only for a second. Those swirling amber irises are far more than my libido can handle right now. Not to mention the labored rising and falling of his chest that I have seen on oh-so many occasions. It all makes my blood rush.

The parchment is crushed in the fist he struck me with. His other hand has managed to find his wand. He has it pointed at my throat. I chuckle at him as he stands there, so bothered and upset. It is almost endearing.

"Do it," I jeer, eyeing his wand with mirth. "Do your worst, Remus. Give me my victory." My voice is soft, but I know he can hear the iciness dripping from my tongue. I have risen from my chair now, and we are standing face to face. He is seething. I truly feel victorious. I have finally gotten to him. I have finally broken him.

What happens next, oddly, I never expected. Though upon reflection, I certainly should have. After all, there must have been some reason as to why he's put up with me for so long. I realize, as he crushes himself against me, that he is just as fucked up as I am. The only difference between the two of us is my utter lack of self-control. Control is one thing he always seems to have.

His lips are bruising my own. His teeth are drawing blood and his tongue is lapping it up. I feel alive as he slams me ruthlessly into the wall behind me. I thread one powerful hand into his hair and yank his head away from me. He looks deranged with his teeth and lips coated in my blood. I am certain I don't look much different.

His eyes are completely feral. They look upon me hungrily and I feel a tingling desire shoot through my spine. He fights through the hands I have lodged in his hair to coarsely lick the blood from my lips before attaching his teeth mercilessly to my neck. I allow my nails to claw painfully into his hips as I pull him flush against me. He is enjoying this as much as I am. I almost smile at the realization. I simultaneously pull his waist against me and push his brutal teeth from my throat. He growls deeply from his chest. I stare at him for a few long seconds, grinding against him with intense need as the look on his face only succeeds in turning me on more. He grabs my hips firmly, slamming me against the wall once more before dragging both of our weights to the floor.

I reach for his pants, intent on releasing their intruding hold upon him. Again, his unexpected actions surprise me. He smacks me across the face, hard. My head cracks against the floor. I'm sure that will bruise as badly as my eye.

"Don't you dare," he growls, pulling his body away from mine. "Don't you fucking dare."

The fire in his eyes is slowly dying. And I had been enjoying it so. His irises are returning to their normal somber gold. I am disappointed. I should have seen that this was his plan all along; bring me to my highest peak and leave me there to freeze. I don't deny that I wholly deserve it, but it doesn't make me any happier.

I move for his pants once more, knowing this exchange has turned into a whole new kind of game. Again, his palm makes sharp contact with my face. But this time, I expected it and I do not flinch away. I squeeze my fingers under the waistband lying across both of his hips. The fire is returning to his glorious eyes. I smirk. This time, it is his fist that connects with my chin. I can taste blood in my mouth once more, but again I do not flinch away from him. I give those pants on good, forceful pull and I am satisfied by the sound of ripping fabric.

His hands have given up on my face and are instead digging deep into my wrists. He looks so angry straddled atop me with his hair falling gracelessly into his face, but he must realize that his attempts are fruitless. Does he not get it? This is what I get off on!

A bubble of laughter erupts from my chest. Even to my own ears, it sounds crazed. "You're so beautiful, Remus," I choke out around my laughter. I see anger flash across his features again. He doesn't know what to do. He wants to hurt me for what I have done to him, but he knows that no physical pain will serve as a punishment for me. I would enjoy it all too much. He wants to walk away, to ignore this, but I have pushed him too far for that. He is like an animal in a cage contemplating his escape.

My mirth continues as I drag the torn fabric over his thin hips. I can feel him hard against me. I almost shiver. Almost. I can still see the internal war going on in his blazing eyes, as I drag him roughly across the floor. We are at the side of my bed now, his pants pulled past his knees. I do not dare to look down at him. I do not think my minimal amount of self-restraint can handle it. He is growling that animalistic, wolfish growl that sends all of my blood between my legs. A short moan escapes my battered lips as I force him up and onto my bed. I press myself against him, his destroyed pants piled upon the floor. Again, he growls.

"Fight me if you don't want it," I breathe boldly in his ear. "Make me stop."

His eyes flash and his nails dig sharply into my sides. I am sure he's drawing blood. I vaguely wonder if his werewolf nose can smell it. In the time it took me to blink, he has flipped our positions trying to obtain dominance. One of the glorious gifts and cruelest curses of fucking a werewolf is his brute strength. I could never hope to measure up to his physical might. He braces his arms on my hips as he hovers above me. I smile placidly at the fury swirling lustily in his eyes.

"I know what you want, Sirius Black," he states audaciously, pushing me harder into the mattress. "I will not give you what you want."

"And what is that?" I snarl mockingly, "What do I want, Remus?"

His breath is labored. What a turn on.

"I will not submit to you," he declares, lowering his face to mine in the most menacing of ways. "I will not let you abuse me for one more day."

I laugh my characteristic barking laugh. "Abuse you?" I ejaculate incredulously, "What about you, Remus? What about what you do when I'm not here?" For emphasis, I pull down the collar of his shirt to reveal a plethora of hickeys spanning his chest. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing," I drawl, "You're just as bad as I am, Remus. Stop denying it!"

For one full minute we are trapped in the awkward aftermath of our exchange. Only the sounds of our heavy panting can be detected. Then, he speaks.

"I never wanted to break you," he says, "I always knew I didn't have that kind of hold over you; the kind of hold that you have over me. The kind of hold that allows you to destroy me." He pauses, looking away as he rolls himself away from me. Oh, wonderful. It's becoming a fucking sentimental moment. I could scream in frustration! I don't want this shit! I just want to have my brains fucked out of my head so we can go back to our lives!

But Remus has other plans.

"I know you never really loved me," he bursts out bluntly. "I know this was all an intricate façade. I've known for a very long time." There is a touch of sadness in his statement, but it sounds more like a resignation to his fate; to our fate.

I shrug in response. What does he want me to say? 'Yes dear, you've finally figured me out'?

And then all Hell breaks loose. He cries. The goddamn fucking bastard cries. The one and only weakness of Sirius Black (and the reason he doesn't date women) are their goddamn tears. This is about to get really fucking awkward.

I feel my erection slowly fade away. I am quite sad to see it go so unsatisfied. With a rough, unsympathetic sigh, I sit up against my pillows and put an arm around his thin shoulders. Just the simple comforting gesture makes me feel foolish.

"I don't hate you," I say. And it is more or less the truth. The loathing is irrational and subconscious. I have never consciously and purposefully hated this man. As he leans his weeping head against my shoulder, I can't help but envision the intense and passionate sex we should be having at this very moment. I suppress the sigh of longing threatening to escape my throat. That wouldn't be very sensitive of me, now would it? I am thoroughly frustrated.

Damn it, this didn't turn out right at all.

He is blubbering. I'm not quite sure what he's saying, but I catch certain words, like "never" and "deserved", and it doesn't take a potion's master to piece together his thought process. He never meant to hurt me and he doesn't deserve this, blah, blah, blah. When will he realize that it's about me, not him? It has nearly nothing to do with him. I was just fortunate enough to seduce a man who can be so easily broken. And broken he certainly is.

I have now succeeded, regardless of what he thinks. For now, I will simply be the boyfriend I know I always should have been and coax his depressed little mind into sleep. Maybe tomorrow is destined to be a better day. For me, at least.

I wake up trapped under a tangle of limbs and white sheets. And damn it, I'm not even naked. I peer over at Remus. He always sleeps with a frown. Even in dreams, the man can't find peace. I suppose I should wake him up then. I won't even try to convince myself that I'm disturbing him for his own benefit and not my own selfish, insatiable needs. I cannot deny what is resting uncomfortably between my legs, wanting to know why last night was such a letdown.

I lean over and drape an arm and leg over and around him, grinding softly against his hip bone. His eyes flutter before opening to the broad daylight streaming in through the window. He looks disoriented; he probably is, considering the fact that it has easily been months since he has spent a full night in my bed. He blinks several times before noticing my quiet ministrations on his side. He peers at me blearily, eyebrows arched. I wonder if he'll smile.

He doesn't. But he doesn't tell me to stop either. That counts for something in my book.

"G'morning," he says, voice clogged with grogginess.

"Morning," I reply, allowing my hands to spread across his bare chest before moving into his hair. I comb my fingers through it in a way I know he can't stand. He has an association between this action and sex, for it is something I always used to do to him during foreplay. I'd run my fingers through his hair, lower them to his cheeks and neck (much like I am doing now) and lock him in a fierce kiss. Sex was always quick to follow, as I hope it will be presently.

But alas, I am disappointed once more. He kisses me back, but with a distinct lack of passion. I suppose, subconsciously, I expected this. But it doesn't make me any happier about it. This is twice now that he has denied me what I want. When did I start letting him decide when I get laid? But I know why he's doing this. He thinks something happened between us last night; like some magical bond formed and solved all of our problems – my problems. This, unfortunately, is untrue. I still enjoy his pain more than anything else he has to offer me, but I can play along with his naïve fantasy for now.

I kiss him slowly and sensually. His eyes are soon closed and he has turned his body towards my gentle, thrusting hips. Apparently, he suffers from a familiar morning-time affliction called Morning Wood. It is the very affliction I have been fruitlessly trying to relieve myself of since I awoke. I smile against his lips and I know he has misinterpreted it.

"Sirius," he coos, turning fully onto his side to press himself more directly against me. "What did I do wrong?" He doesn't sound hurt or upset. He shows no signs of tears. What a relief.

We lay in silence for some time. My conscience is attempting (and failing) to get the better of me. What I am considering is false hope. Any comforting thought I could pass on to the fragile man before me is nothing but twisted truths. But still, I give great consideration to the proposal of letting false assurances fall from my lips. I try to refrain, but my vocal chords do not listen.

"You've done nothing wrong," I say. It isn't a complete lie. It is the closest to the truth I can get without crushing him completely. The fact that he has done nothing wrong is true. He just cannot seem to comprehend the fact that this is not about him. The only fault to his name is the fact that he fell in love with me. He let himself be dragged into the fucked up world of Sirius Black.

As we lay there subtly grinding against each other without much desire or want, I have a vivid flashback to a time when we were still in school, before we started dating. I distinctly remember warning him that things like this tended to happen when I found myself in a serious relationship. He told me I was foolish for thinking so lowly of myself, and that I could never possibly be as bad as I made myself seem. I am sure he regrets ever saying those words now. Merlin, he almost convinced me that he was right. But he couldn't possibly have seen this coming, no matter what I told him. The stupid boy was so in love with me.

But I did. I definitely saw this coming.

I pull myself back to the present. Dearest Remus has managed to pull himself atop me. He is pressing sloppy, morning kisses all down my neck and across my chest. I smile as I once more envision the events that should have transpired last night. Everything is finally going right.

Until I gracefully remove his shirt, and see those god damn marks on his beautifully imperfect flesh. Those marks are someone else's claim upon him and I do not appreciate them. Vaguely, in the back of my lust and anger driven mind, I realize this is how he must feel when he can smell other men on me. I do not bear physical evidence as he does, but the scent to him is analogous to what these hickeys are to me. I hate them.

Luckily, a great side effect of my anger is the way it tends to remove all other thoughts from my mind. I turn him violently beneath me. I see surprise on his face, but this is a common game. After last night, perhaps he tricked himself into expecting something different. He sees me staring at those dreadful hickeys marring his already ruined skin. He chuckles deep in his throat.

"Make you angry, do they?" he says huskily, lavishing in my fury. He digs his nails into my forearms as I hover over his now naked body. He sneers as he claws painfully into my skin, gold swimming through his irises dangerously. Merlin, I haven't been this turned on in ages. And that says a lot.

Again, he forces me to face the fact that I am no match for a werewolf. He removes me forcefully from the bed to slam me into the door that leads to our conjoined bathroom. He growls as I struggle futilely against his grip. The game has now officially begun, and it doesn't take long for us to find ourselves a struggling mass of limbs, spent, bruised and bleeding steadily across the hard tiles of the bathroom floor. I haven't felt so alive in months. What a glorious sight! What a glorious experience! Merlin, I miss this shit. No one has ever been able to satisfy me like that man. Even after three years of turmoil, distrust and pain, sex with Remus Lupin is still… glorious.

I should consider myself lucky to be with this man; to experience these kinds of experiences with this man. I would, were there not fifty other factors in this relationship and in my life that are just so fucked up. A part of me wants to love him like I did when we were in school. That part of me dwindles day by day, but it is still there, and times like this never cease to bring it out. But it's just not that easy. To think it is would be like having the maturity and mentality of a twelve year old who just knows Mommy and Daddy are going to stay together forever even though they fight and they scream at each other almost every day. Life just doesn't work like that. Shit goes wrong; shit falls apart. The pieces can't always be picked up and shoved back together to create some twisted recreation of what they used to be. This is how I feel about my relationship with Remus. I want it to work, but most of the pieces have already been lost or destroyed.

I look over at him. Blood is running from the corner of his lip, dripping steadily onto the tile. I smile at it. This is how I mark what is mine. Fuck hickeys. His eyes are closed, and for the first time in ages, he looks content. It feels wrong, even for me, to ruin this moment for him. So, I gently disentangle my legs and make my way out of the bathroom, grabbing a towel as I go. He does not stir. I look back at him, but only once. He looks gorgeous splayed across a blood spattered floor, like a murder victim. And I am the murderer.

I cross into my bedroom, cleaned of blood and other lover's messes. I stretch myself into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Something plain. I don't feel like being extravagant today. Quietly, I tip toe out of my room and the apartment. Remus thinks everything is different now. I cannot allow him to live in that fantasy. It will just hurt him more when it all comes crashing down. And it will come crashing down. It is with this rationale stuck firmly in mind that I ride the elevator out of our apartment building and find myself in the never-ending search for other men.

All right, I know that was not the happy, fun and rainbows story that everyone loves to see of our favorite pups, but it was something I felt the need to write after reading a certain DarkFic by Children of Shadows. Go read her stories, they are amazing. Anyways, I hope that at least someone enjoyed this! Review if you like, I won't beg you. =]