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anotherusedpageWarning for slightly violent (but not graphic or explicit) het, implied slash, and extreme angst.
Three days before the full moon, he is restless. Pacing, tingling with pent-up emotions, rage, mostly, but sorrow too, and then rage at the sorrow and his own inability to deal with it. She tries to talk calmly to him, but he is short tempered, brushes away her concern. He lashes out with bitter words, trying to push her away, not wanting the emotional closeness, not wanting to inflict this on her, and not knowing how else to protect her from it. Leave, he is trying to say. I am not worth it, and you cannot help me. Her gentleness and patience angers him. It is not right, she should be the fiery one, he the rational. Normally, he is so careful, keeps it all locked away, or writes it down in spiky handwriting in an ancient leather-bound diary, buries his mess away from others. Normally, he is polite and gentle and controlled, normally thought comes first. But five days before the full-moon, thought begins to be overcome by... something else.
He answers her in clipped, short sentences if he answers at all, trying to keep it all inside, except for the moments of weakness when it explodes out of him, and he yells, on and on, ranting and furious, and slamming his fists down on the table. Once, he broke a glass, threw it at the wall above her head, and afterwards tears came, and she gathered him up into her arms, held him, and whispered to him that it was ok, it was ok. And he let her hold him, but the guilt ate away at him.
You should not have to do this, he said.
I love you, she answered, and he wept bitter tears.
Sometimes, he gives in in another way, and they make love, three days before the full moon, and it’s passionate and violent, her breathing rasps in his ears, hot and heavy, and he bites down on her shoulder, hard, and she arches her back, throws him aside, and rakes her nails down her back. They struggle for dominance, and it’s ungentle, there’s no tenderness in it, and it reminds him of something else, another time, another kind of love. She likes it this way too, comes up grinning and panting for breath, and he forces himself to share her smile, and something in his heart is exultant, and something at the back of his head is sick with himself for wanting this.
Her face changes, her hair ripples through every colour of the rainbow, her breasts grow and shrink with her desire, and suddenly, violently, he envies her this control of her body. She lives inside her own skin, thoroughly, intimately, controlling every inch of muscle and bone. Even before the wolf, he was not comfortable in his own skin, his body was awkward, clumsy, angular. Now, his body is not his own, for one day a month it is utterly outside his control. Even now, after all these years, the thought terrifies him.
He bites down on her neck, marking her skin, and it is done in anger and bitterness and jealousy.
She loves the part of him that’s violent and dangerous, loves that too, and it makes him want to weep. That part is not his to share with her. She wants it, and suddenly he feels guilty for the way he is the rest of the month, old and careful and sensible. She kisses him on the mouth, joyfully, and he cannot help but bite down on her lip, and she snuggles up besides him and goes to sleep in the crook of his arm, feeling safe and loved. He hates her, then. Hates himself too. He does not sleep.
Two days before the full moon, and he is a wreck. Every month, he gets through the day, does what has to be done, because it needs doing because there is no one else to do it. His hands shake, and his head buzzes, and previously unnoticed smells fill his nose and send little shivers of excitement down his spine, and something in the back of his head says run, run, run, and he wants to put down all his tasks and flee to the woods, take of his humanity, stop caring, and disappear into the shadows, never to return. He wants to be held, not by her, by someone bigger than him, someone who knows, as much as anyone can know, what this feels like. Tears come unbidden to his eyes. Two days before the full moon, the sense of loss is overwhelming, and he longs for the moon to rise just to make the pain go away, knowing that when it does he will feel nothing, will let himself go to it, will no longer care.
He is exaggeratedly, carefully polite to the people that come and go through the house, on official business. He knows that he looks tired and worn. They sympathise. But it’s only a couple of days a month.
The night before the full moon, he takes the potion. Sometimes, impulsively, he imagines not taking it. The anger, he knows, will give way to joy, the thrill of the chase and the kill. No more sadness, no more pent-up longing for… for so many things.
He sighs, and forces himself to gulp it down. He’s never yet got used to this, and he thinks he never will. For a little while longer, the anger sings in his blood, and his hairs stand on end. Then, it subsides. He has a moment in which to feel relief and sadness, and then there is no feeling at all, except overwhelming tiredness, dizziness, numbness. He lies on his bed, and stares at the cracks in the ceiling. Anything else would take to much energy. There is no sadness, and no regret. She comes and touches the side of his face, and he doesn’t look at her, and there are tears on her cheeks, but right now he doesn’t care. She locks the door behind her when she leaves, an extra precaution, useless, because if the wolf wanted to leave, no door in this house would keep it in.
On the night the moon rises, he knows he must be wolf, but the wolf is drugged, it sleeps, and knows nothing. He could never remember the night of the full moon anyway. This is no different, he tells himself, and far less dangerous. This ways is best.
The day after the full moon he is sick and shivery. The potion lingers, and he feels numb and dizzy and strange. She sits beside him, and they talk quietly. He has a headache.
He tries to remember if it was like this before. He remembers feeling relief, the day after the full moon. There is no relief now, just the sick headache, like the aftermath of too much crying. He remembers coming to in a pile of fur. He remembers being held.
The pain of remembering is sharp, now, but there is no anger, and no bitterness. There is a great deal of love and regret, but it is bearable, he is resigned to it. He feels drained.
In the late afternoon, when the dizziness has passed, they go for a walk, arm in arm, old-fashioned. This has become a routine. They talk, and talk, and talk, for they are both lovers of words, though hers spill out of her in a beautiful, colourful jumble, and his are careful, measured, lovingly polished. She nods in understanding. There is tenderness between them now, gentleness.
If he talks about Sirius at all during the month, it is now, the day after the full moon, with the potion still taking the edge of his emotions and the wolf still leaving them open to the world. Tomorrow, he will have a handle on them again, and it won’t need speaking of.
He strokes her cheek. She talks animatedly, and he is quiet, listening to her, loving her, painfully.
Absently, he wonders how much longer he can go on like this. The world is falling to pieces around him, the dark lord has risen. Love, it seems, is not enough.
***
Fandom: Harry Potter, post HBP
Disclaimer: They belong to JKRowling amongst others.
AN: Well, it wouldn't be advent without angst now would it?
I feel slightly bad about the fact that despite the fact that I 'ship them like anything, I've never written Sirius/Remus, and now I've written Remus/Tonks as close to smut as I ever get...
Three days before the full moon, he is restless. Pacing, tingling with pent-up emotions, rage, mostly, but sorrow too, and then rage at the sorrow and his own inability to deal with it. She tries to talk calmly to him, but he is short tempered, brushes away her concern. He lashes out with bitter words, trying to push her away, not wanting the emotional closeness, not wanting to inflict this on her, and not knowing how else to protect her from it. Leave, he is trying to say. I am not worth it, and you cannot help me. Her gentleness and patience angers him. It is not right, she should be the fiery one, he the rational. Normally, he is so careful, keeps it all locked away, or writes it down in spiky handwriting in an ancient leather-bound diary, buries his mess away from others. Normally, he is polite and gentle and controlled, normally thought comes first. But five days before the full-moon, thought begins to be overcome by... something else.
He answers her in clipped, short sentences if he answers at all, trying to keep it all inside, except for the moments of weakness when it explodes out of him, and he yells, on and on, ranting and furious, and slamming his fists down on the table. Once, he broke a glass, threw it at the wall above her head, and afterwards tears came, and she gathered him up into her arms, held him, and whispered to him that it was ok, it was ok. And he let her hold him, but the guilt ate away at him.
You should not have to do this, he said.
I love you, she answered, and he wept bitter tears.
Sometimes, he gives in in another way, and they make love, three days before the full moon, and it’s passionate and violent, her breathing rasps in his ears, hot and heavy, and he bites down on her shoulder, hard, and she arches her back, throws him aside, and rakes her nails down her back. They struggle for dominance, and it’s ungentle, there’s no tenderness in it, and it reminds him of something else, another time, another kind of love. She likes it this way too, comes up grinning and panting for breath, and he forces himself to share her smile, and something in his heart is exultant, and something at the back of his head is sick with himself for wanting this.
Her face changes, her hair ripples through every colour of the rainbow, her breasts grow and shrink with her desire, and suddenly, violently, he envies her this control of her body. She lives inside her own skin, thoroughly, intimately, controlling every inch of muscle and bone. Even before the wolf, he was not comfortable in his own skin, his body was awkward, clumsy, angular. Now, his body is not his own, for one day a month it is utterly outside his control. Even now, after all these years, the thought terrifies him.
He bites down on her neck, marking her skin, and it is done in anger and bitterness and jealousy.
She loves the part of him that’s violent and dangerous, loves that too, and it makes him want to weep. That part is not his to share with her. She wants it, and suddenly he feels guilty for the way he is the rest of the month, old and careful and sensible. She kisses him on the mouth, joyfully, and he cannot help but bite down on her lip, and she snuggles up besides him and goes to sleep in the crook of his arm, feeling safe and loved. He hates her, then. Hates himself too. He does not sleep.
Two days before the full moon, and he is a wreck. Every month, he gets through the day, does what has to be done, because it needs doing because there is no one else to do it. His hands shake, and his head buzzes, and previously unnoticed smells fill his nose and send little shivers of excitement down his spine, and something in the back of his head says run, run, run, and he wants to put down all his tasks and flee to the woods, take of his humanity, stop caring, and disappear into the shadows, never to return. He wants to be held, not by her, by someone bigger than him, someone who knows, as much as anyone can know, what this feels like. Tears come unbidden to his eyes. Two days before the full moon, the sense of loss is overwhelming, and he longs for the moon to rise just to make the pain go away, knowing that when it does he will feel nothing, will let himself go to it, will no longer care.
He is exaggeratedly, carefully polite to the people that come and go through the house, on official business. He knows that he looks tired and worn. They sympathise. But it’s only a couple of days a month.
The night before the full moon, he takes the potion. Sometimes, impulsively, he imagines not taking it. The anger, he knows, will give way to joy, the thrill of the chase and the kill. No more sadness, no more pent-up longing for… for so many things.
He sighs, and forces himself to gulp it down. He’s never yet got used to this, and he thinks he never will. For a little while longer, the anger sings in his blood, and his hairs stand on end. Then, it subsides. He has a moment in which to feel relief and sadness, and then there is no feeling at all, except overwhelming tiredness, dizziness, numbness. He lies on his bed, and stares at the cracks in the ceiling. Anything else would take to much energy. There is no sadness, and no regret. She comes and touches the side of his face, and he doesn’t look at her, and there are tears on her cheeks, but right now he doesn’t care. She locks the door behind her when she leaves, an extra precaution, useless, because if the wolf wanted to leave, no door in this house would keep it in.
On the night the moon rises, he knows he must be wolf, but the wolf is drugged, it sleeps, and knows nothing. He could never remember the night of the full moon anyway. This is no different, he tells himself, and far less dangerous. This ways is best.
The day after the full moon he is sick and shivery. The potion lingers, and he feels numb and dizzy and strange. She sits beside him, and they talk quietly. He has a headache.
He tries to remember if it was like this before. He remembers feeling relief, the day after the full moon. There is no relief now, just the sick headache, like the aftermath of too much crying. He remembers coming to in a pile of fur. He remembers being held.
The pain of remembering is sharp, now, but there is no anger, and no bitterness. There is a great deal of love and regret, but it is bearable, he is resigned to it. He feels drained.
In the late afternoon, when the dizziness has passed, they go for a walk, arm in arm, old-fashioned. This has become a routine. They talk, and talk, and talk, for they are both lovers of words, though hers spill out of her in a beautiful, colourful jumble, and his are careful, measured, lovingly polished. She nods in understanding. There is tenderness between them now, gentleness.
If he talks about Sirius at all during the month, it is now, the day after the full moon, with the potion still taking the edge of his emotions and the wolf still leaving them open to the world. Tomorrow, he will have a handle on them again, and it won’t need speaking of.
He strokes her cheek. She talks animatedly, and he is quiet, listening to her, loving her, painfully.
Absently, he wonders how much longer he can go on like this. The world is falling to pieces around him, the dark lord has risen. Love, it seems, is not enough.
***
Fandom: Harry Potter, post HBP
Disclaimer: They belong to JKRowling amongst others.
AN: Well, it wouldn't be advent without angst now would it?
I feel slightly bad about the fact that despite the fact that I 'ship them like anything, I've never written Sirius/Remus, and now I've written Remus/Tonks as close to smut as I ever get...