hp fic: False Imprisonment

[xylodemon]

Title: False Imprisonment
Pairing: Remus/Sirius, Remus/Stan, implied Remus/Tonks
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: This is borderline crackfic. Also, there is Stan.
Summary: In which Remus has an incurable fetish for Azkaban prisoners.
A/N: For sioniann, because she hates Stan, and because she should know better than to encourage me. Unbetaed like an unbetaed thing, plus mild spoilers for HBP.

False Imprisonment

::

a.

Sirius is standing in Remus' flat, and it feels like something out of a dream.

He'd known Sirius was coming; Dumbledore had owled ahead, but after so many years and all the things he'd believed to be true, it's still nothing short of surreal.

Sirius' hair is clean now and clipped short, and his face has filled out a bit since that night in the Shrieking Shack. His teeth are white against his skin, tanned from months in the South Pacific, and he seems to glow, seems to light up Remus' dingy, gray flat.

"Padfoot," Remus says finally, because it's the best he can do.

"If you'd rather," Sirius replies. "I'm shedding my winter coat, though. I'll only get hair all over."

Remus laughs, and it feels good to laugh with Sirius again, feels good to be near Sirius again. His eyes still have a slightly haunted look, but they are no longer empty and wild, and he seems happy, healthy, seems willing to forgive and forget.

They slip into silence, which is just short of companionable, and Remus feels a pang of guilt that he cannot find something to say to a man he's loved nearly all his life.

"Can I get you anything?" Remus says quickly, because they are words. "Food? Tea? I won't make promises, but I might have some coffee--"

"I'm fine, Moony," Sirius replies.

"Well, come in, at least," Remus says, gesturing Sirius away from the door. Their shoulders brush as Sirius passes, and Remus shivers. "How about some clothes, then?"

"What's wrong with my clothes?" Sirius asks, looking down at himself.

Remus smiles. Sirius is wearing a shirt strewn with brightly coloured birds of paradise and a pair of shorts that look suspiciously like bathers.

"Nothing, if you're in Ibiza," Remus replies.

Shaking his head, Sirius produces his wand, putting himself in a black t-shirt and jeans with a disinterested wave.

"Better?"

"Much," Remus admits. "Those shorts were giving me a headache," he adds, which makes Sirius snort. "Are you sure you won't have tea?"

"If it will make you feel better," Sirius says.

Remus nods and heads for the side of his flat that passes as his kitchen, because it will, because it's something to do. Sirius hovers while he works, and it's unnerving, the way Remus is so aware of him, the way his body reacts to Sirius' proximity, even after all these years. His hands shake, spilling the water, fumbling uselessly with the teabags.

"Here, let me," Sirius says.

He leans in to Remus, their hips bumping and their fingers brushing, and Remus sucks in a sharp breath, the teapot slipping from his fingers and clattering on the sideboard.

Sirius rescues the teapot, but sets it aside, destroying the pretense of tea, and turns Remus to face him.

"I'm going to kiss you," Sirius says quietly. "And you're going to let me."

"Am I?"

"Yes," Sirius replies firmly. "Because I haven't been able to kiss you for fourteen years."

Remus immediately forms a hundred reasons why that is a bad idea, but Sirius moves in, eyes dark as his head dips, and Remus forgets every single one.

It's clumsy and unspeakably awkward, eagerness and desperation battling with unfamiliarity and nerves. But Remus' body responds, awakened by the feel of Sirius' lips and tongue, by the knowledge that it's Sirius after all these years, and he wraps his arms around Sirius, pulling him close.

Sirius smells almost the same as he used to, soap and sweat and skin and the slightest hint of dog. But underneath it, there's something darker and dirtier, something like cold stone and damp places and invisible voices screaming at the moon.

Remus doesn't like it, because it's different, because it's wrong, but it jolts something inside him, brings something dangerous and frightening to life that Remus can't quite control.

He lowers Sirius to the floor, yanking at his clothes, smoothing his hands over skin he hasn't touched in longer than he cares to think about. Sirius arches into him, apparently unconcerned about Remus' sudden loss of tentativeness, and his hands tug at Remus' shirt and fumble desperately at his flies.

They move against each other as gracelessly as they first kissed, hands grasping and pulling, fingers slipping clumsily over sweat-slick cocks. Sirius murmurs Remus' name over and over, his head tossed back against the balding carpet, and Remus' kisses and licks at his neck, flicking his tongue over skin grazed by his teeth.

Remus can smell it again, dark and dangerous, and he buries his nose in the curve of Sirius' shoulder as Sirius comes, inhaling something he knows is just shy of death and decay. He can taste it on Sirius' skin, taste it in Sirius' mouth, and he kisses Sirius when he comes, his tongue probing and searching for more.

b.

The Leaky Cauldron is nearly empty when Remus walks in, save for Tom, the wizened old bartender, and what looks like Mundungus Fletcher asleep at a table in the far corner.

"Back again?" Tom asks, when Remus sits down at the bar.

"Yeah," Remus says noncommittally, dropping money on the counter with a clink.

Remus has been to the Leaky Cauldron three nights in a row, every night since the boy has been released. Each night he's waited, drinking more Butterbeer than he can afford, and each night he's had no results.

"You and your lady friend out of sorts?" Tom asks, sliding Remus a Butterbeer.

"No," Remus says. "She's been working late, with the--" he trails off, waving his hand vaguely.

"Right," Tom says, nodding. "She's Ministry, isn't she?"

"Yes," Remus agrees.

"Hectic 'round there, I imagine," Tom says.

Remus nods, taking a pull of his Butterbeer. The door opens and Remus' eyes dart to it hopefully, but it's not who he is looking for. He wonders if he is in for another long night of waiting, wonders if he'd have better luck if he visited the boy at his job.

The door opens again, and Remus sighs with relief.

"Stan!" Tom shouts, waving with the towel in his hand. "Good to see you, lad. Good to see you."

Stan smiles, a blush spreading across his spotty face, and approaches the bar. His purple uniform his bright and jarring in the Leaky Cauldron's drab interior, and his peaked cap is askew on his head.

"They let you out, then?" Tom asks, pouring a shot of Firewhisky.

"Course 'ey did," Stan says. He swallows the shot in one go, pulling a face, and sets the glass on the bar with a thunk. "Didn't 'ave nuffink on me. I told 'em I wossnt no Death Eater."

"We told them, too, when they came 'round asking questions," Tom says, shaking his head. "I guess they just weren't in the mood to listen." He retrieves Stan's glass and pours him another. "Did you have trouble getting your job back?"

"Nope," Stan says, preening a bit. "'Ey knew I wossnt no Death Eater. 'Ey got some girl t' replace me while I woss gone, but 'ey let 'er go when I got out. She's a right Squib 'nyhow."

"That's good to hear, Stan," Tom says, smiling. "I'm glad it all came right. You off, then?"

"Nah," Stan says. "We're runnin' for 'nother 'our or so. Jess been slow, like, wot with... you know."

"Oh, I know," Tom grumbles. "Can't get a customer to save my soul anymore, except Remus here."

"I'd best be gettin' back," Stan says, rising. He fishes around in his pocket, but Tom waves him off.

"It's on me tonight, Stan," Tom says. "You're a good kid, and you've brought me a lot of customers over the years."

Stan blushes again, ducking his head, mumbling thanks as he starts for the door. Remus waits for a moment, while Stan walks outside and Tom wanders away, then follows.

"Stan, can I have a word?" Remus says, as soon as he gets outside.

Stan, halfway inside the bus, turns around and smiles.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus," he starts, stretching his words in an attempt to be clear. "Emergency transport for--"

"I don't need a ride," Remus says. "I need to talk to you."

"About wot?"

"If you don't mind," Remus says, gesturing him away from the bus. "I'd rather not be overheard."

He ducks into an alley behind the Leaky Cauldron, casting a spell around the area that will ward off eavesdropping, and after a moment, Stan follows.

"Wot's this 'bout?" Stan asks, eyeing Remus suspiciously.

"I work for a special organization," Remus starts. He curls his fingers around his wand, in case the conversation goes pear-shaped and a quick Obliviate is in order. "We're fighting against You-Know-Who."

"You from the Ministry?" Stan asks warily, taking a step back. "I've done 'nswered 'eir questions, and I've got nuffink more t' say."

"No, not the Ministry," Remus says, in a tone he hopes is soothing. "The Ministry doesn't know about us, and I doubt they'd approve if they did."

"Right," Stan says, brightening. "Go on, then."

"Like I said, we're a special organization fighting against You-Know-Who," Remus says. "And we need you."

Stan smiles briefly, but it slips, and he raised an eyebrow.

"Wot you want someone like me for?" Stan asks, tucking a lank strand of hair behind his ear. "I'm not much good with spells 'nd that."

"I'm sure you're doing yourself a disservice," Remus says, though he knows Stan is probably telling the truth. From what Mad-Eye and Kingsley had told him, Stan had dropped out of Hogwarts after scraping less than a handful of OWLs. "And honestly, that's not what we need from you."

"Wot do you need?"

"You're in a position to get us very important information," Remus says. "You see many people every day, and you can tell us where they're going, who they're with, and what they talk about."

"A spy, like," Stan says.

"Yes," Remus says."

Stan studies him for a bit, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully. Slowly, he smiles, and nods his head.

"I'll do it," Stan says.

"Wonderful," Remus says. "We'll be meeting here, Friday evening," he adds, holding out a scrap of paper. "You'll need to burn that once you've memorised it."

"Right," Stan says.

He leans in, reaching for the paper in Remus hand, and Remus freezes. Stan smells of Firewhisky, and of someone who needs a shower after a long day at work, but underneath it, he smells like Sirius did after he got out of Azkaban, dark and musty and not quite right.

Remus is immediately hard, his cock pressing painfully against his flies, even though he has no idea why. Stan is not attractive; he's greasy and spotty and he looks nothing like Sirius, nothing like Tonks, but Remus' body is awake and alive and wanting, and he catches Stan by the wrist.

"Thank you. You'll be a great help," Remus murmurs. "Can I buy you another drink?"

"I shouldn't," Stan says slowly, his eyes widening. "I might be 'aving t' get back t' work."

Remus nods, unable to find any words, but he doesn't let go of Stan's wrist. His thumb brushes over the skin peeking out from under the purple sleeve of his uniform, and Stan takes a quick breath.

"I could stay 'ere for a bit," Stan offers. "Until someone calls for the bus."

Remus growls quietly and pulls Stan closer, his other hand slipping around the back of Stan's neck.

"You sure 'bout this, Mister?" Stan asks, uncertain.

"It's Remus," Remus replies, "and you should stop talking now."

Stan opens his mouth, but Remus cuts him off with a kiss, his tongue sneaking inside, and he wonders if he'll taste it on Stan the same way he tasted it on Sirius. He does taste it, dark and dirty and foul, and it makes him harder still, makes him want something he can't quite name.

He turns them around, pressing Stan against the wall, and Stan moans quietly, his cock as hard as Remus' against Remus' hip. Remus pulls away from Stan's mouth, kissing along his jaw and neck, and he can smell it again, deadly and dangerous and wrong.

Remus wants to get his hand inside Stan's trousers, wants Stan's hand inside his trousers, but he's too desperate, too needy, and he doesn't think either of them will last that long. Stan's body is already tense, straining as he rocks his hips against Remus' body.

Stan's head drops forward, his hair clouding around Remus' face, and Remus can smell it there, too, stronger and dirtier. It makes something inside him break, something inside him rush and race, and he comes, growling, grinding himself hard against Stan's hip.

The horror sets in almost immediately; Tonks is waiting for him back at his flat and he's in an alley rutting like an animal with someone even younger than she is. Remus only feels worse when Stan comes, shaking against him, his soft gasp cutting through Remus like a knife.

c.

The Order's new hideout is in the south of England, in an area that was once called the Summer Country. It's boggy and bleak with a mist that continually lingers in the air, and it's so far behind God's back that Apparating straight there leaves a person half-dead for the rest of the day.

The house itself is an improvement over Grimmauld Place. It's a large cottage, airy and bright, with windows that actually open and portraits on the wall that are blessedly silent.

Remus is on a couch in the sitting room, right in front of the fire, with a book and a cup of tea and Tonks curled up at his side. Her hair is a deep, midnight blue today, and it's formed in a mop of curls instead of the usual spikes.

He has a hard time understanding what she sees in him, why she still wants to be with him after all the careful, rational arguments he'd given her. But he's learned over the last couple of months that she's a lot like Sirius in that; she only listens to reason when it suits her and she doesn't let a thing go once she's set her mind to it.

There is a creak at the front door, which startles him, and just as he gets off the couch, Stan is standing in the sitting room. Remus stares at him for a moment, confused, because the meeting doesn't start for another hour, but then he remembers in his haste to get away that night he'd never given Stan a time.

"Come in, Stan," Remus manages. "Tonks, this is Stan. He's going to be joining the Order."

"Wotcher, Stan," Tonks says, smiling. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

Stan nods, ducking his head, and starts for the couch. He passes by Remus a bit too close, brushing him deliberately, and Remus tries to ignore it, but he can't, because he can smell it.

"Tonks," Remus says slowly, his eyes sliding between her and Stan. "I was wondering if you could do me a favour."

FIN