Lover I Don't Have To Love--

I want a lover I don't have to love,
I want a boy who's so drunk he doesn't talk
Where's the kid with the chemicals?
I got a hunger and I can't seem to get full
I need some meaning I can memorize
The kind I have always seems to slip my mind

Bright Eyes- Lover I Don't Have To Love

--

The music was too loud; it pulsated in his ear and as if drumsticks smashed down on his head, the sudden pang of headache fell on him.
Darkness pressed on his eyes, forcing him to shut them and squeeze them tight before he could stand properly on the threshold. He balanced his weight by placing his palm on the door frame and gripping hard.
Spinning went his mind, spinning spinning spinning. gritting his teeth, he opened his eyes and for a moment there were blinking lights directly in front of him, floating in mid-air. He stared at them, not realizing that it was only imagination. Dizzily he reached out with his other hand, leant forwards with his upper body and swayed dangerously when the lights disappeared.

He quickly gained balance again when he tightened his grip on the door frame and he hauled himself back with a strength that you could barely perceive while looking at his lanky figure. His left hand was shaking now and he raised it to his head, brushing aside the sweat soaked strands of hair that fell to his eyes.
Behind him the darkness emanated once more and he could feel it wanting to seize him, to drag him back into the club. Simply thinking of it made him shudder with disgust.

He took one step forward, leaving the reassuring grip on the door frame. When he also pulled out the other foot that was still on the threshold, the door behind him snapped with a loud bang on its own.
More than relieved to having debauched after five bloody hours of working, he shut his eyes once more. His work was so hard that he felt the slightest hint of nausea in his throat. Ignore, he told himself, simply ignore.

Opening his mouth to breathe, he inhaled deeply. He proceeded to forget the itching (the pain) that slowly crept up his throat again and didn't even dare to think of his certainly very sore arse. For a brief moment he wondered whether it had bled again.
He drunk in the icy oxygen and closed his eyes.

"1842," he mumbled into the darkness."Sobriquet: Fenris. 1842. Fenris."
They'd call later. He'd have to keep it in mind.

Then, with a very gentle crack(and a last glance to the small seedy house), he Disapparated.

- - - - -

When he came to a halt in front of the door of the flat, he shivered. The rhythmic thud thud thud of climbing the narrow staircase still echoed in his head. He looked for the keys in his trouser pocket and fetched them. Raising the keys to the lock, he ushered one into it. But he didn't unlock.

It was unnaturally quiet.

Usually, when he came home from work at two or three am (just like today) he could hear noises. Noises he fairly disliked: sometimes the rushing of fabric, and, if waiting long enough, the hisses of names, and then moaning. He would sit down on the staircase, leaning the back of his head against the wall, eyes closed and hands calmly clasped in his lap – and wait discreetly for the noises to end. He would not listen (at least he would try, but mostly he was successful).

Sometimes even the countdown he invented would function, but only under two circumstances.
Thus was: a), when the bed stopped creaking and the thumping against the wall as well (it was not the bodies against the wall. It was the bed. Well, sometimes also the bodies) or b) when loud moans echoed in the room and afterwards there would be hasty shuffling, accompanied by rushing of fabric and two voices whispering good-byes.

Then he would count to exactly one hundred and fifty-five and arise slowly, brush off the dust of his shabby clothing and take his time. In nearly all cases it had worked. Yet, it had been five or six times that he had still glimpsed one person in the room, not more than a mere dark shadowy figure. But he hadn't bothered. He had turned away, stared on the floor politely and waited for the person to leave. Well, waited for the woman to leave.

A cat mewed somewhere out in the dark and the sheer harshness of the cry made him shiver and he suddenly realized he had been daydreaming again (much more nightdreaming).
He stared down at the key, inserted in the lock, and without any further thinking he abandoned his thoughts and turned the key.

He half expected to see two naked bodies, to hear groans; to see two people shagging on the couch, on the floor, against the wall, on the desk, inside of the door frame (he sarcastically wondered whether he should clean the toilet before using it) – oh, how he was used to it by now.
But that didn't mean he had to watch it once more. Last time he witnessed it, he had crossed the living room with shaking limbs (hidden under far too-big clothes), locked himself up in his room, cast a silencing charm and one moment later he'd started to puke and the remnants of the earlier eaten pizza lay on the floor.

It's too quiet, was the first thought that came to his mind. And it was. He stepped inside and scanned the room for something familiar, but what unnerved him was the strangeness. Strangeness that had occurred already the last time he came home. And the time before that. The third, fourth and fifth time maybe as well. Could it also have been the sixth or the seventh? Anyway, it filled him with silent hope and the same time it unnerved him, because clearly his roommate would be -
"Look who's there."
...- home by then. He cursed inwardly.
Out of nowhere came the coarse voice.

The man who had just entered narrowed his eyes slightly, but he was so used to the darkness that he could at least make up the outlines. A man lay stretched luxuriously on the couch, one leg dangling lazily off the edge and the other one looped over the armrest.

"It's me," replied Remus Lupin and turned around when he saw that the other man was dressed in nothing else than boxershorts. This didn't really help his mood. He walked towards the dresser, pulled off his coat and frowned slightly. "Aren't you cold, Sirius?"
"Nah, why should I be. I just had a visitor," Sirius said and grinned toothily, "and you know that I love my visitors, don't you."
Remus felt like smashing this grin and leaving over only a couple of this too-white and too-perfect teeth.
"Yes, I certainly do," Remus murmured under his breath and sighed. He didn't want to think of two bodies. Not tonight. He'd seen enough flesh earlier.

The surrounding darkness made his eyes hurt slightly, so he raised his wand and swung it to his left. A dim light filled the room.
"Ow! What did you do that for, idiot? I wanted to sleep!"
Lightly amused, Remus raised an eyebrow while walking towards the small kitchen. He didn't look at Sirius. "You wanted to sleep with a bottle of firewhiskey?"
It was a statement, not a question.

Sirius lay on the couch, indeed with a bottle of firewhiskey in his hand, and now it was his turn to frown. "Well, yeah, bottles have holes. My cock doesn't fit in there because it's too big. The usual problems, you know."
"Sorry for your big cock," Remus said dryly. This was surely no conversation he liked to have. He sighed and tried again: "Git. I didn't mean that. You know what I -."
"I always do."
"...If you say so."
"I do."
"Alright then."
"Alright."
Silence engulfed both men. Remus could feel the grey eyes of Sirius boring into his back, but he didn't react to it. He never reacted. And with a man like Sirius, this was probably the most sensible thing to do. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but sigh.

Preparing tea, he stood quietly leaned at the kitchen table and looked over to the sink. One year ago this situation would have been his death. He would have blushed furiously at seeing Sirius only in his boxer shorts, lying so –deliciously - bare on the couch, watching him. But not now, this times were over.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sirius raising the bottle of firewhiskey to his mouth and taking a deep gulp. He could hear the deglutition. The fine hairs on his neck now stood, as if electrified. Quickly he turned around and was glad to find the tea ready.
"Gods," quietly groaning, when cupping the mug with his cold hands, he shuddered and nipped at the hot drink. Almost instantly sleepiness overcame him; limbs feeling too heavy to function any further, drowsiness filled his brain and he lowered his eyelids.
He was too distracted to be able to hear rustling and shifting. This process was all that kept him sane in the evenings that he came home. Tea always waited for him, making him forget blood and whips and bruises. Making him forget that he had to go there again in a time not that far away; he was not... the masked one, then... he was simply a man too exhausted of over-long working. Simply a man who needed his rest.

"What're you staring at, Moony?"

The voice was low and hoarse. And it was way too close to his auricle, which was why he nearly jumped by surprise and, as well, shock. Nevertheless did he manage to keep the mug in his hands, but it was no use since the whole tea was, rather pitifully, spilled on the cold tiles.
He kept himself from gasping but couldn't prevent that his eyes widened. He smelled seduction more that he heard it (although the voice really didn't lack of it); it was an odour his nose could scent at only the slightest implication - he had already smelled it already too often for his own good.
There was a loud 'clank' when Remus set the mug back into the sink – it was too loud. Remus could feel Sirius' mouth vibrating against his neck, puffing hot breath, emitting soundless laughter. Remus knowingly chose to ignore the goose bumps that crept up his forearms, making their way over cold skin. His left hand was now gripping the counter tightly, white knuckles protruding from the pale flesh. His right hand was in mid-air, floating, having stopped moving when he had realized that Sirius' bare body was only a few centimetres away of his own.

Suddenly all the weariness was gone and the air he drew in through his nostrils was oddly sharp. It was quiet in the kitchen, the only sounds being the rustling of fabric and heavy breathing. Two big hands were on the smaller man's side, pushing the body fully back to the counter, until hardly any space was left; only a thin sheet of paper could have fit between their bodies now.

Remus felt the hands as if they were boiling water, burning his skin through his clothes. Sirius' hands rested still on his hips and pressed into the soft flesh. Remus whimpered and shut his eyes tightly, humming in his mind a litany ofNot there, don't touch there, Gods no-- he had fully forgotten the raw wound, nearby his left hip. And Sirius was pressing his fingers there and oh fuck, how it hurt.
Sirius wasn't confused by that; in fact, it seemed that he didn't notice. His lips were barely brushing Remus' neck and yet Remus was more than aware of the occasional brush of Sirius' long, full eyelashes against his jaw. Remus' breath hitched and he couldn't help but to swear roughly.
"My, Remus, not at all decent today, are we?"
That bastard is chuckling again, Remus thought.
Somehow he felt the urge to spit in that face, oh, to tear this buggering smugly grin off.

Thirteenth, he thought suddenly. It was the thirteenth time it happened.

Could you call something you've done (forced to do?) 'only' thirteen times a liturgy? It was possible. Actually, more than possible, because it seemed that Sirius would never back down, never relent. He surely would go on, to the point that Remus really would spit into his face, smash his fist into Sirius' face, or do anything likely.

Sirius' nose bumped against Remus' jowl, lazily trailing circles around Remus' cheekbone. His mouth was open now, against Remus' jaw, this time touching the skin underneath. How much he disagreed of it, now, that was too much (and yes, too bloody good) to not make Remus shudder. The response of the black-haired man was very clearly an overture; he slid his hand, that had rested on Remus' left hip until then, under the jumper and touched the naked skin. Remus startled and shut his eyes once more, trying to forget the searing pain when Sirius' fingers brushed the raw wound.

"Sirius... stop it," he said, tone harsher and it sounded more dissent than he really felt it.

However, it didn't affect Sirius, who seemed to have taken a liking in teasing Remus (who inwardly thought, knew, this was more torture as teasing).
"Give me one reason, then, why I should do so," Sirius answered, voice still low, keeping his grip on Remus' hip steady; he even pressed two fingers into the wound. Remus sucked in breath, gritting his teeth.

This wasn't a game any more. Also not just plain seduction.
It was provocation; shameless provocation.

You should've known it, a reproachful voice in Remus' head sneered. You're not stupid. Tonight's the thirteenth time he tries to fuck you. Bloody obvious, even for one so unmindful. You should've known.
Suddenly there was a heavy pang in his head and another voice literally yelled in his head I Knew It and instantly Remus wanted to yell too, to scream, to push off the accusations though he knew it was nothing more than the truth.

Oh, he had known it. All along.

Eventually it had happened so often lately; everytime he had come here, had come home, it had happened (though he didn't know why). Sirius had stopped bringing girls (or sometimes funny, dubious figures) home, had stopped shagging – still, Remus suspected him of doing it whenever he was not around, for whatever reason that might be; but he couldn't help thinking it. Not that he minded; and not that it concerned him.
Certainly not.

And yet, Sirius had waited for Remus to come home, mostly very late after midnight still, had always cornered him and kissed him, then. Bloody hell, Remus had thought, what the fuck-?
Not even being able to think what the fuck- properly to an end, he had felt Sirius' fingers on his crotch, pressing, even through Remus' trousers.
Sirius, nevertheless, had never managed to get past those trousers or never done anything else than sticking his tongue in Remus' mouth. Not that he hadn't tried. Remus was sure he would've been shagged right there, wherever it was – couch, wall, table. He just wasn't so slutty, or easy to have.
Any anyway, he had thought, he would not make Sirius get him that easy.
Sirius wouldnot use him.

So the kisses had become harder and fiercer; as if this would change Remus' mind. Sirius was surely just pissed off by the fact that he couldn't have everyone he wanted.

But oh, when he had come thisnight, Remus was very well aware of what would encounter him in the flat. He had known it (and anticipated it, the voice in his mind drawled again).

"Because – I fucking do not want that," Remus suddenly hissed irritated and both his hands found their way to Sirius' (still bloody bare) chest, trying to push him away.
It was true; he had wanted it.
This realisation dawned over him, clouding his mind with self-disgust and shame and delusion; just how could he do that? How did it happen that Sirius could always cross the line?
And how could Remus let Sirius do that?

As Sirius pressed his fingers into the wound again, Remus whimpered. His hands were not strong enough to push Sirius away; usually this wouldn't have been any problem at all, but with his condition this night, bones aching, headache, sore arse, raw flesh wounds – it was likely he wouldn't have managed that. Sirius came still closer yet.

"Mmmm, I wouldn't be so sure of that," Sirius said casually, and as if to prove his point, he stretched Remus' legs easily and slid in between them. He pressed his erection against Remus' thigh and it was then that Remus honestly wondered what it was they were actually talking about.
Sirius moaned softly when he arranged his leg to press firmly against Remus' crotch.
"You see – ah – cock is cock, Remus – 's no difference-"
Remus definitely saw – sensed what he meant; his eyes fluttered and waves of heat rushed through his body; he thought he could see stars dancing behind his eyelids.

Something distinct told him (could it have been reason?) that if he didn't do anything against it, he would end up with his cheek against the wall and with Sirius' cock in his arse.

But those cold fingertips-- now rubbing his nipple, sending shivers done his spine and the barest promise of Sirius' tongue against the corner of his mouth, this still hidden cock against his leg and oh yes, right now he felt his trousers were really too tight and too entirely on his body-

And the telephone rang.

Whatever Remus might have been thinking in that very moment that Sirius just placed a kiss on his lips, he didn't know any more. And it didn't matter, either way.
How could he have forgotten that call?
Regaining his powers from seemingly nowhere, he quickly opened his eyes, shoved Sirius aside and made his way out of the tiny kitchen. The continuous ring-ring-ring made his ears funnily deaf; there was a roaring sound, never leaving them, and a funny sizzling. He hoped he could comprehend. Oh god, please, let me understand what he says, he prayed silently as he came to a halt in front of the telephone.

Breathing hard, as if he had just been chased, he reached for the receiver with a shaky hand. His mind was blank and his nerves were so tense it felt like they would break any given moment. He had forgotten anything that had to do with kitchen or grey eyes or long black hair. It was simply gone.

"Yes, Lupin here?," he demanded as he set the receiver to his ear. His voice wasn't shaky anymore; it sounded as though it was dead. He didn't care, as long as it was calm and... business-like. He coughed when there was no answer. He knew what he had to do.
It was all arranged.
No need to panic.
But it would be very nice if his heart stopped throwing itself against his ribcage so maniacally fast.

"Number 1842, that is correct, Mr. Fry."

Number 1842?
Was that number the right one? Hadn't it been 8142?
He'd tried to remember it the whole time, unconsciously... He was good at remembering things, but always way too insecure to count on his memory; something there could have gotten mixed up, after all... But no, he mustn't think that... 1842 had to be the right one; there was no other way.

It could not be any different. It must not.

"Repeat number. Add sobriquet."

Remus was startled to hear a cool voice replying, though he oughtn't to. He had known someone just had to reply. He had just been too deep in his thoughts. Everything was okay.

"1-8-4-2," he spoke into the receiver again, voice now a tone lower as if someone might overhear him. "Sobritquet: Fenris."

A soft 'click' came from the other end and then there was hissing. It was a moment before the man (or the machine, whatever it was; the voice didn't really sound human at all) replied; Remus kept biting lower lip nervously and his heart still raced. Cold sweat formed on his forehead.

"Fenris, you will be expected at Work in two days, ten pm. To confirm, repeat following sentence: 'Lupus will manage, on order of Dumbledore. Good-bye, Mr. Fry'."

They knew whom he worked for. It wouldn't end well.
Or maybe they knew he was sharing the flat with someone else and he needed to say 'Dumbledore' for not raising attention.
Yes, that seemed more probable.

"Lupus will manage, on order of Dumbledore. Good-bye, Mr. Fry."
"Ten pm, in two days. Good evening."
Without another word, Remus put back.

The world seemed to stop in the next moments; all Remus could hear was his own heartbeat, thud-thud, thud-thud, rapidly increasing in its rate instead of slowing down, now that he could rest for one day. All he could feel was the cold sweat on his forehead and now on his palms, too, and the nausea that was coming up again.
His left eyelid twitched and he noticed that a stain of blood appeared on his jumper, nearby his left hip. Hands hang uselessly in the air and he stared at his fingertips, unaware of that it were his own.

He didn't want to go. But he couldn't deny.
He needed the money.

"Ugh," he uttered and everything he could think of were cold hands, his own bruised flesh, whips and blood and leather and masked men that were fucking him, while he stormed into the bathroom, threw back the toilet pan and started to vomit.

---

"Back your head, fine puppy, now, doesn't that knife look lovely? Wonder what it will be like near your throat... and blood tripping down... red on your delicious white flesh... little werewolf, you like blood, don't you? Back your head..."

Scornful laughter.

The other man bent down. Remus' head was forced back and his throat was bared. Through the slits of his eyes he could see something silver glaring in the dark room. He felt one cold hand on his thigh, dangerously close to his cock, holding him in pace. Foul breath in his nose. He tried not to smell.

"Just like that, luv... Oh yes, blood, blood, blood, red blood on your white flesh..."

A mad glitter in the eyes of the man he ought not to see; the man's mask fell down and Remus saw a square-shaped face, two black eyes and a bald head. Exanimated. He closed his eyes. There was only desire. Don't swallow, he told himself. The searing feeling on his throat was all he needed to know; the man had the silver knife on his throat.
"A shame you werewolves don't like silver, you know that? Fits very well to your skin..."

Biting back a scream, he felt tears in his eyes. Laughter again and then the pain on his throat subsided. He dared not to breath in relieve.
The worst was yet to come.

"And what a tight ass, my, you go in for sports? Just trained that randy ass for me, huh?"
Foul breath again; his nostrils flared up. They were very sensitive, due to his condition. The foul breath made him all shudder.

"I see, you can't wait anymore, horny, indecent pup you are..."

All he remembered was a sharp pain in his buttocks; he was being forced apart, sliced up and everything burnt. Gross hands were keeping him still. A greedy mouth searched his.
Concentrate on that bruise on your wrist, he told himself, watch out or it will break soon, focus on the hard floor, try to count the tiles, haven't done that till now--
He tried not to feel anything as he felt something hot being poured inside of him. His eyeballs rolled back and his body shook violently, but only once.

Gasping, ragged puffs and foul breath again; that gross hands, gripping him everywhere, clawing at his skin; a slimy tongue on his neck; he tried to make it soft moans, long, elegant hands that were stroking him and a sweet tasting tongue and he thought very hard of long black hair and beautiful grey eyes, a red kiss-swollen mouth and a voice, so soft, and whispering things in his ears--

"Fuck... ahh- pup, you still need to work, uh-"

The heavy body fell down on his, pressing him down with his weight.
Remus couldn't breath; he didn't feel anything anymore. All was black.

----

"You still need to understand that you have to please the customer. You have to understand the will, look beyond the surface; but maybe you need to be told what you have to do until you will be able to notice it yourself. "

He was in the 'common room', as they called it; a narrow, long, dark room with nothing but one table in it and two chairs and a window that was never open. He had done his job for tonight and was about to be released, when his last customer had meant it well and went straight to the head. Now Remus was here and had to keep still, listen to what the head said.
He still smelled foul breath.

"Not all our customers are the same, as you will surely understand; those ones like to be dominated, the others like to dominate themselves. It is a hard thing to get to know and it is a tough process of learning, but we do know you are not unwise. You are a fast learner, are you not?"
He nodded.
The man that sat in opposite of him, looked down at the desk and searched something between files of paper. After a moment of rustling, which seemed strange and like nothing from this world to Remus, the rustling died and the man looked up.

"Ah. Yes. Here it is. You will be called tonight by Mr. Fry. You will have to mention a number. Thus will be 1842. Repeat it, please."
"1842."
The man nodded.
"Fine. Do not forget the number. Your sobriquet not, as well."
Remus inclined his head forwards, politely, and nodded again.

"Then, you are dismissed, Fenris."

---

He did not know how long he had needed to puke out everything he'd eaten the last two days; but when he tumbled dizzily back into the living room, Sirius was gone. He froze at the spot when he remembered what had happened earlier that evening.

If his innards could still do anything, they had clenched up themselves tightly and unclenched and clenched until they were nothing but mash. He watched warily and staggered towards the table, where a single sheet of white paper lay and he grabbed it and lead it very close to his eyes; his eyesight was very bad in the moment, and he felt like he was drunk, so he needed a moment until he understood fully what was written in black ink on the paper;

I know what you're playing at.
I know about your "work"... Fenris.

Remus knew that handwriting; it was curly and so unlike a boy, but it was clearly Sirius'.

He turned, went straight to the bathroom and puked out the little of the tea he'd had.