I haven't been updating any of my stories in quite some time. I am rather ashamed of myself, to tell everyone the truth. Add that to the fact that I abruptly learned of Nanowrimo and spent the entire month of November writing a 50,300 word novel, I have come to the conclusion that I can no longer offer any satisfactory excuses towards my unfinished stories. On that note, I offer this (hopefully) tantalizing little one shot in order to get back into the swing of things and then, one at a time, I plan on writing out the rest of my stories here on FanFiction and making sure that I meet everyone's standards.. as much as I can. Leaving so many stories unfinished and bereft is a shame I realize I can no longer handle, and will fix as soon as possible. I love you all, my reviewers, and thank you for being so understanding. Until then: (I OWN NOThING EXCEPT FOR MY OWN TWISTED IMAGINATION)(**WARNING: Underage sexual encounters, Semi Non-Con, Future twisted content in Sequels. Homosexual relations. Utter insanity.)
All Blacks Are Mad
All Blacks are stark raving mad.
He had fooled himself, had been fooling himself for much too long. He had allowed himself to think, in his adolescent life, that he had escaped the lunacy that Bellatrix had inherited. He had believed, truthfully, that the insanity that clung to too many generations of interbreeding within the Black name had suddenly and somehow jumped over him when he was born.
He had been so happy to consider himself more sane than them. He had been so thrilled to rub it in the family's name that he was good, a protector of the Light, an enemy to the megalomaniac who fashioned himself as Lord Voldemort.
He had been so proud of himself for surviving the hell named Azkaban. Though he came out a bit more skewed than he would have liked, at least he could think. And, oh, he had been so very very relieved to finally be able to meet Harry for the first time. He had been filled with pride at how the boy had survived his own personal hell with the good-for-nothing muggles that had raised him. He had been so strong, little Harry, fighting off the Dementors in order to save a man who he had just barely begun to get to know.
And Sirius had been overwhelmed with affection when Harry had said he would like to come live with him. He had…
None of that mattered now. He wondered if Bellatrix had had it right all along. She had opened herself to the darkness in her mind; had accepted that, no matter what, she was destined to be bat-shit tumbled in the head and had been able to firmly grasp onto it and wield it as her own.
And he, oh he had done it all wrong. Trying to be something else, something not Black.
But he was a Black… he is a Black.
And so began his maddening spiral into the depths of what he now considers to be his true damnation.
He doesn't even know how it happened, where it went wrong. He doesn't understand how paternal love can warp itself into something so disgusting. It makes him sick. Even now, in the silence of Grimmauld Place and the darkness of the corner that he has pushed himself into, he doesn't understand how his Gryffindor scale of right and wrong has been so easily toppled as if it had never even existed in the first place.
Maybe it never had. Maybe it had been built upon a rickety platform made up of his hopes and dreams and too many years of self-induced ignorance of what he really was… really is.
He ducks his head a bit more towards his chest, long tangled hair that he doesn't have the energy to try and groom sliding over his sharp angled face as he peers from his half lidded eyes towards the reason for betraying his morals, or what morals he thought he had, simply by feeling and thinking some of the things that he has in the past month.
He is beautiful.
Almost ethereal, curled up in a large high backed burgundy colored chair. The only light in the room comes from the moon filtering in through the bay windows, and the warm fire that crackles and dances in the fireplace next to where the boy is sitting. He's reading a book that Sirius had dug up for him, totally engrossed and not realizing that his round spectacles have begun to slip down the length of his nose.
His hair, ever mussed as if he has just rolled out of bed, sticks up in every direction despite his attempts to brush it down. It falls over his forehead to hide the tell-tale scar that jags over it, reminiscent of more depressing days.
His skin is a pale milky white that soaks up the orange glow from the fire and his small shoulders are enveloped in an entirely too big t-shirt that is a toss out of that lard of a boy named Dudley, and his long slender legs are tucked beneath him in baggy sleep pants that have to be tied as tight as they go to stay on him; though even from here and with the shirt in the way, Sirius knows that the fabric barely hangs onto the boys sharply jutting hipbones. Sirius knows, because Harry has no qualms with getting dressed and undressed in his godfather's presence. Why should he care? Sirius is, after all, his godfather.
Except… he's not.
He's not a Potter, no matter how much he had once longed to be.
He's a Black.
That ugly little monster inside of him preens as he unfurls his body, already massive now that he has had plenty of time out of Azkaban in able to eat properly. The pounds had dropped onto his bones as easily as if he had never lost them in the first place. And he revels in the way the muscles bunch and then expand as he slowly stands up with barely a whisper of fabric to alert the boy to his movements.
But it wouldn't have mattered if he had ran into the wall, as far as he can tell. The boy doesn't move, doesn't twitch save for his eyes sliding back and forth over the page he is currently reading. Green. So very green.
He can see them from his position at the other side of the room. He can see them even as he takes his first step closer, head bent and his own grey eyes locked onto the boy like a wolf would a rabbit. He had heard people whispering that his eyes looked like the forest. Some had said his eyes looked like emeralds. One Witch had even had the indecency to state that he had eyes the color of the Avada Kedavra, as heartless as she was.
But Sirius can't put a name to the boy's eyes. They are none of those things; they are all of those things and more. So much more and green is all that fills his vision as he draws closer, prowls closer, hunts closer. There it is again, that little demon inside of him that crows out in victory as he finally reaches his destination, standing there silently for a moment before slowly, so slowly, he reaches out and his long rough fingers close around the book to tug it gently from the boy's smaller hands.
Green eyes blink in surprise and turn up to him, head tilting back and lips parting as brows furrow over those too-green eyes. He closes the book in his hand and leans just a bit to the side in order to place it on the little table beside the chair. He can feel the heat of the fire on his back.
So soft, so full of question. Sirius clenches his jaw and he can feel his face darkening as he stares down at the trusting, frail bodied boy that had ridden on the back of a Hippogriff in order to rescue him from his imprisonment in a tower in what feels like ages ago and yet has really not been so long ago.
He watches as a hint of fear strikes over the boy's face and he knows that he must be scowling. His hands twitch at his sides and he can feel his own muscles tightening across his shoulders, a part of his mind that used to belong to gold and red screeching at him to stop.
But, he bleeds silver and green.
"Harry," it starts, roughened and hoarse and low. The boy's head cocks a bit to the side in a bird like inquiry at the tone, the desperation he knows must be there. He reaches out and then pauses, tongue swiping out over his own lips as he can't make himself look away from those innocent and yet not-so-innocent green eyes.
"Harry," he tries again and this time, he can't force himself to stop. He has no energy left. He's tired. So tired. The devil in his head titters and fades away, replaced instead by the mind of a Black, and he finally reaches out enough to wrap his hand around one of those small biceps and pulls the boy out of the chair. The young male gives a shocked gasp as their positions change. Sirius sinks into the vacated seat and his hands maneuver the boy to stand in front of him, between his legs, close. So close.
He can smell the soap that Harry had used in his earlier bath. He can feel the heat of the boy's legs between his own and Sirius tightens his renewed grip on the boy's arm, now his forearm, as his free hand slides onto that small waist. He barely has to tilt his chin up to look into Harry's startled face and his throat constricts In self-loathing as his voice rasps out again.
"None of this is your fault," he rubs his thumb over a protruding hipbone absently, molten silver eyes boring into frightened green as he leans forward, his husky voice slicing through the sudden tension in the room. "This is the fault of a sick, delusional man."
He tugs Harry closer and the boy winces as his knees knock against the front of the chair even though they both know it's not his knees that makes him do so. Sirius has tightened both of his hands in order to force the boy closer, on top of his lap, and Harry is suddenly pressing a palm against Sirius' chest.
"Siri?" His trembling voice is a bit high due to his rising fear, and Sirius wants to feel bad, wants to stop himself, but he can't. He can't.
"This isn't your fault," he mumbles again as he slides his left hand up and nudges Harry's palm away from his chest only to move it up further and slide his grip around the back of Harry's throat. His fingers tangle into some of the soft black hair he meets there, and then he is pulling the boy's head down even as his own chin tilts up. "I'm sorry, Harry."
And then he is slanting his lips over soft ones that part on another gasp. He wastes no time, his tongue whipping out and diving into the moist cavern offered so unexpectedly and what he tastes there is sinful. Harry tastes like chocolate and strawberries and banana pudding. He tastes like cool mint and chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the oven. He tastes of marsh-mellows and cinnamon and ginger all wrapped in one.
He wants to devour him. His tongue finds every interesting little dip that it can, never going too deep, until he begins to try and coax Harry into complying. He vaguely registers the sound of whimpering somewhere in the back of his mind, but then a small tongue is pressing back against his hesitantly and he inhales sharply through his nose as he becomes more frantic.
When he finally draws back, a string of saliva broken off by his tongue as he laves it over a slightly swollen lower lip, he can already feel himself hard. Off of a kiss. He swallows dryly and takes a ragged breath before he opens eyes that he doesn't even remember closing in order to see the damage so far.
Harry is there, on his lap, glasses askew on his face and cheeks flushed a bright red. His lips, kiss bruised and wet, are parted and allowing shallow pants of air to whoosh out from between them as those wide green eyes reflect a number of emotions that Sirius knows he should be taking note of.
Harry's arms are hanging at his sides and he looks as if to be petrified. Sirius can feel how stiff the boy is and he can feel the boy's heartbeat thudding in a rapid report against his ribcage. Sirius knows he should stop. He knows that it's wrong, that he is wrong, but even the threat of the rest of his life spent behind the bars of Azkaban once again does not break him from his path.
Instead his hands drop down to settle on narrow hips and he pushes them down as he rolls his own up and he is greeted with the feeling of a soft rump rubbing against his clothed erection. He moans at the contact, head lolling back against the chair as he rocks again a bit more insistently. Small, cold hands dart up to clench the back of his arms and he swallows again as he looks up from his lap to meet the somewhat horrified eyes of his godson.
"What are you….." the boy starts but doesn't finish because Sirius leans up and captures his lips again, this kiss more hungry and insistent than the last, leaving no room for the lithe male in his lap to pull away and form a coherent sentence.
"Shh," he mumbles half coherent, lips trailing up the side of the boy's neck. Harry doesn't struggle; whether it's from shock or acceptance Sirius doesn't know, nor does he care enough to dwell on such a thing. His hands deftly slide the shirt that drapes over Harry's torso off, throwing it to the side even as the younger male seems to choke on a nonexistent protest, wide green eyes disbelieving.
He watches as a trembling lower lip is caught between pearly white teeth and he groans out loud at the debauched picture that the boy makes. It's really too much… too much for the control that he can no longer say he has. He angles the boy awkwardly, forcing him up off of his own lap as his hands tug relentlessly on the boys trousers until he rips them down the length of milky white thighs, his own hungry gaze following the path of skin that the dropping fabric reveals. "Here… just…" he husks out the words, trying to show the boy with his hands that he wants him to stay up, and he is nearly amazed when his wordless command is followed, the boys legs trembling even as he lifts his own hips in order to clumsily jerk down on the waist line of his pants, his heavy aching erection springing forth just as hungrily as his thoughts.
Never so glad for wand-less magic in his entire existence, he mumbles a barely there spell that his questing fingers discovered really did make the boy's entrance slick and somewhat stretched, and he closes his eyes as he coaxes the shivering hips back down towards his lap, one hand snaking between them to take the base of his erection in hand in order to guide.
"Harry.." he mumbles into the boy's naked shoulder, the head of his engorged length pressing into the tight and wet heat above him, and a barely muffled sob whispers somewhere above his head. "Harry.." And then he is sheathed, moaning, and he draws back out almost immediately. Another whimper and blunt fingernails are digging into his shoulders as he eases the boy's hips back up before pulling back down, making his strokes slow and languid as he ghosts his lips over a pronounced collar bone.
He continues this, torturously slow, taking it as a punishment to himself just as easily as pleasure. The aching length buried into Harry pleads with him to do more, begging for him to just pound into the lithe body until he gets his release, but for a few minutes he makes himself stay at the slow pace. When he's pushed his maddening mind as far as he can he clutches the boy to himself, making sure that he stays buried inside of him, and stands while kicking his own pants the rest of the way off of his legs.
He doesn't know whether it's he who moans or Harry, because he is moving towards the bed and leaning over it to let Harry lay on his back while he still stands, knees bent, his hips rolling in a somewhat quicker cadence as he takes Harry's left leg and holds it to curl around his waist.
He's looking down, watching his thick and heavy erection slide in and out of Harry, when he hears it louder. This time he's sure and he lets his eyes trail up the expanse of the incredibly small body beneath him up to Harry's face.
He stops breathing.
Glasses free eyes are closed tightly and his cheeks are stained with the same red. Now, however, his skin glistens with tears and his lips are pressed together to suppress the next moaned sob that Sirius calls forth with his repeated thrusts. He reaches up with his left hand to trace the boy's cheek bone, entranced, the pads of his fingers smearing the wetness there.
Pained green eyes open and half focus on his face, watery gaze holding so many different things that Sirius can't properly pick out what they are. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry."
But he doesn't stop, he can't stop.
And for some reason, some reason….
It's a breathless sigh, a catching sob, a wanton moan. He's unraveling faster, faster than he originally thought, and his control is slipping through his desperate grasp like water from a roaring river. He picks his pace up more, hands bruising although he tries to pry them away from the boy's hips, tries to reign in what little self-respect he has left and simply walk away.
But it's too late, way too late.
He growls and shifts, tucking Harry's right leg over his shoulder and leans forward to drive in deeper, and the resulting cry that wrenches from Harry's throat is so astoundingly gorgeous that Sirius feels his own eyes burning.
"Beautiful," he croaks out, "I'm so sorry."
And then small hands are blocking that reddened, tear stained face from his view as his rapid pace refuses to slow. Loud cries full of pleasure are muffled from his ears by Harry's choosing as he relentlessly presses into him, searching, delving.
Harry arches up off of the bed with a scream and Sirius is filled with fear so suddenly that he stills. Except Harry falls back down panting, tears flowing again as dilated eyes hazily trace Sirius's face, and that's when Sirius feels it.
The evidence is there, thick and hot against both of them when he looks down to note that he had not even realized that Harry had also gotten hard. He had not even thought such a thing possible, and yet the now sated member twitches between them, glistening with drops of cum that hadn't shot out with his orgasm.
And he can't control it, merlin, he snaps.
With a snarl he draws out and flips the boy over onto his stomach only to yank his hips up off of the mattress in a not-at-all gentle way. In one fluid motion he is buried deeper than he has been since they began and his hand creeps up over the path of vertebrae that leads up to Harry's neck and he curls his fingers into messy black locks to jerk his head to the side.
He is greeted with one wild, rolling green eye that has tear stuck eyelashes, and a loud moan. That's all it really takes and he finds himself pistoning in and out of the boy at a rapid, no nonsense pace that would break most people. It could break Harry, and Sirius is startled to find that with every thrust, he wants to break the trembling boy beneath him.
Except he isn't. He isn't, because those small hips attached to the shuddering chest pressed against the mattress belongs to Harry Potter, and Harry Potter presses back into the thrusts as much as he possibly can in a welcoming embrace of Sirius' invading length.
With a growl that would put his animagus form to shame Sirius' whole body tightens and then shudders, his eyes closing as he slumps over the lithe body beneath him, breath fanning against the sweat soaked skin at the back of his neck.
When he finally comes down from riding his hazy cloud of release, the body beneath him is trembling. He blinks and sits up, drawing out of the boy as slowly as he can, the sickness at the base of his throat threatening to erupt as he takes in a scratched back, bruised hips, and hands clenching tightly into the covers.
He moves as if to escape from the bed, one foot making it to the ground as he swallows back the rising bile, but a hand wrapping around his wrist freezes his momentum with frightening efficiency. He takes a deep breath before turning his sad, sad eyes to meet florescent green….
…and the softest of pleas meets his ears as wide green eyes meet his own, begging, and he can't help but allow himself to slip back onto the bed, throwing the disheveled covers over them both and drawing the small, thin body against his own.
"Don't leave me too, Siri…" Echoes in his mind, over and over, grating at his sensibilities and threatening to raise James and Lily from their graves. He pushes the thoughts away viciously, tightening his arm around the boy's thin waist as he buries his nose into wild sweaty black hair and takes in the unique scent that is Harry, musing on the boy's words. He feared for a moment that perhaps he had damaged Harry more than could be repaired….
But then, thanks to Dorea Black, Harry had a bit of the same insanity too.