Memebijin wolfstar supremacy

[chdarling]

ok so I am probably going to disappear from tumblr again for another long stretch of time, as I've come to recognize that the dopamine rush of social media is not so good for maintaining the quiet, focused headspace I need to do the actual writing...but before I go, I thought I'd toss a bone (get it) to my long-suffering wolfstar shippers.

don't say I never give you anything ;)

Excerpt from The Last Enemy: Marauders End

“Everyone thinks of me as either this…this posh, poncy, pure-blood prick—”

“Nice alliteration.”

“—or this arse who just wants to pick a fight at every opportunity.” “Or both,” said Remus. “Or both,” agreed Sirius. “But that’s not what I want to be. That’s not what I want to do.” “What do you want to do?” Sirius sprawled back on the couch, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling as he contemplated this question. “I want…I want to make things. Things that matter, you know? Things that last. Like the map.” “Right…and your mirrors, and your motorbike.” “Yeah.” Sirius took a long, pensive drag on the cigarette and exhaled a plume of curling smoke. “And music.” Remus cast a curious glance at his friend. “Been making much of your own?” “A bit.” “Really? Will you play some for me?” “Fuck no.” “Oh, come on.” “It’s all shit. I don’t know what I’m doing.” “I don’t buy that for a second,” said Remus. “I doubt if anything you’ve ever done is shit. In fact, I bet when you actually shit, the toilet says thank you.” “Fuck off,” said Sirius, but he looked somewhat mollified. Emboldened, Remus carried on. “Come on, I want to hear. One song?”  Sirius considered him for an unbearably long moment. The ash from his cigarette tipped onto the carpet, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Fine,” he said at last, stubbing out the cigarette. “But if you laugh, I’ll fucking hex you.” “I won’t laugh.” Sirius glared.  “I won’t. Cross my heart.” “Hmph.” Sirius downed the last slug of whiskey from his glass, reached for his guitar and slung it onto his lap. “Bat bogies,” he threatened as he fiddled with the tuners. “Big ones.” Remus mimed drawing an x over his heart.  With a sigh, Sirius gave the guitar a few exploratory strums and adjusted the tuners once more. Then, eyes still firmly on the guitar, he said: “Right. I started this one last year, but I’m still working on it. It’s called, ‘Son of a Bitch.’” Remus snorted into his drink, then quickly composed himself. “That wasn’t a laugh.” But Sirius just gave him a rueful half-grin. “All right, well, the title’s a work in progress.” “Go on.” Sirius shot him one last glance then turned his attention to his fingers on the fretboard and started to strum. Remus couldn’t quite suppress a smile as he watched his friend slip into the song, eyes drifting off into the distance as his nimble fingers danced upon the strings, coaxing out a melody — soft at first, but quickly growing stronger, more sure of itself…He was so spellbound watching this negotiation with the instrument that it almost took him by surprise when Sirius began to sing:

I was born a pure-blood son of a bitch A first-born bait-and-switch, chokin’ on my silver spoon With a black eye

Remus jolted slightly, staring at his friend in astonishment. He’d heard Sirius sing before, of course — an endless litany of birthday ditties, vulgar Christmas carols, The Ballad of Carter-Myles — but this was different. This was…raw. Intimate. Intolerably seductive.

Found a new road racin' through the deep wood Swear I'm up to no good, dreamin’ of a new moon And sayin’ goodbye

His voice was not exactly what one would call smooth or melodious — he was no Stubby Boardman — but it was deeply captivating all the same. Remus found himself thinking of a dog’s low, husky growl. He let his eyes roam over Sirius’s features as he sang — the faint furrow in his brow, the soft line of his lips, the long, dark lashes that framed those distant eyes. He listened, entranced, as Sirius’s words snaked from verse to chorus:

Then they said I was a new man, they said I was a stranger A plot without a plan, a hopeless flirt with danger Takin’ the low road, wherever it goes I’ll tell you where that is, whenever I know

Just don’t— Don’t give up on me, I know I fucked it all up But I’ll go on tryin’… Just don’t give up on me, I said I’d be a better man I wasn’t lyin’ I wasn’t lyin’…

Remus froze. Was this…was this song for him?

A noose of golden thread They said blood finds a way, but which way's which? You son of a bitch, yeah, I'm a son of a bitch, but…

His mind drifted back to a sunlit day at King’s Cross, well over a year ago…and the words Sirius had offered him in parting after that awful term, the words that had haunted him for months to follow…

Just don’t give up on me, I said I’d be a better man I wasn’t lyin’ And I'm still tryin' I swear I'm tryin'…

“I haven’t written the final verse yet.” “What?” Remus blinked back to the present, suddenly startled to find that the music had stopped and Sirius’s gaze — once lost in his own faraway world — had returned and was now set firmly on him. “I don’t know how the song ends.” There was a long pause as both boys considered this. In the silence, Remus recognized that something miraculous had just happened: Sirius had let his guard down. He never did that, but somehow, without really meaning to, Remus had managed to crack through his hard outer shell and expose the softness he’d always suspected lurked underneath. So this is what Sirius had been doing all those summer days holed up on his own... “I told you it was shit,” Sirius muttered. “It’s not shit,” said Remus quickly. “I’m just…surprised. I never knew you were a poet.” Sirius gave a disgusted snort. “I’m not a fucking poet.” “That wasn't an insult, Padfoot.” “Forget it.” Sirius shoved the guitar away. “It’s not poetry, it’s just a stupid song.” Remus bit back a sigh. He could almost see Sirius’s outer shell hardening once more. “I liked it,” he said. “I hope you finish it.” “Probably won’t.” “That’d be a shame. I’d like to know how it ends.” Sirius’s stormy eyes flickered up to meet Remus’s own, and with the faintest intake of breath, Remus knew that it was hopeless: all his desperate pretending, his self-deluding restraint, the violent quelling of nearly seven years of butterflies…none of it mattered when Sirius looked him in the eye. He was lost.

----------------------

....ok bye!!!!!

[memebijin-love]

Desde que lo leí no puedo dejar de pensar en este fragmento.. Diox.. creo que si se besan en este volumen, no voy a sobrevivir a él.... 😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈🌈

[sunny-therapy]

[memebijin-love]

Me, everyday PRAYING and waiting for TLE3..

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[memebijin-love]

Asi estoy esperando el #TLE3 de @chdarling ... ARGHHH !😭😭😭😭

[forgetful-nerd]

Spelling mistakes? I guarantee neither of us saw those at 3:00 AM Monday Morning.

[incorrectly-mischievous]

lily: *teaching james how to drive* okay, you’re driving when, suddenly, peter and remus show up in the middle of the road. quick, what do you hit?

james: hmm. that’s a tough one, but i’m gonna have to say peter. i don’t think i could ever hurt remus

lily:

lily: the brakes. you hit the brakes

[memebijin-love]

Hahahhahahahaha

[wallflowerofhufflepuffhouse]

Forget || Wolfstar Word count: 1,057

@wolfstarmicrofic @lilldrknesss @ineffablelyqueerwolfstarshipper

Remus Lupin forgets things.

Not the important things—never those. He remembers dates, passwords, obscure footnotes from books he hasn’t touched in decades. He remembers the exact tone of Sirius’s laugh when it’s real versus when it’s performative. He remembers how many steps it takes from the bedroom to the kitchen in the dark.

But the small things slip.

Where he left his glasses. Whether he already fed the cat. If he took the kettle off the stove or only thought about doing it.

Sirius notices before Remus does.

At first, he assumes it’s stress. They’re older now. Life has weight. Some forgetfulness is expected. Sirius makes jokes about it, gentle ones, the kind meant to cushion rather than poke.

“Professor Lupin,” he’ll say, handing Remus his wand, “you dropped this again. Honestly, I worry.”

Remus laughs, because Sirius expects him to. Because laughter is easier than admitting the quiet panic that sometimes flickers when his mind comes up empty.

The forgetting isn’t dramatic. It doesn’t arrive all at once. It drips in.

Remus forgets the name of the shop they’ve been going to for years. Forgets a conversation they definitely had—Sirius is sure of it, because he remembers being annoyed. Forgets what he was about to say mid-sentence and trails off, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” Remus says too often.

Sirius hates that part most.

One evening, Remus stands in the doorway of their bedroom, frowning faintly.

“Did we… move the wardrobe?” he asks.

Sirius looks up from tying his boots. “No.”

Remus nods slowly. “Right. That’s what I thought.”

He doesn’t sound convinced.

That night, Sirius lies awake listening to Remus breathe, counting it without meaning to. In. Out. In. Out. Like a spell he’s afraid to break.

The forgetting has edges. Sharp ones. It snags on Remus’s old habits—his tendency to blame himself first, to assume fault where there might only be chance.

“I’m just tired,” Remus insists, when Sirius finally brings it up. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s something,” Sirius says gently. “It doesn’t have to be terrible to be something.”

Remus looks at him for a long moment, eyes tired but steady. “I don’t want to be… difficult.”

Sirius’s chest tightens. “You’re not.”

“I don’t want you to have to—”

“Remus.” Sirius takes his hands, grounding them both. “You don’t get to decide what I’m willing to do.”

Remus exhales, shaky. “I don’t want to forget you.”

The words land hard and quiet.

Sirius presses his forehead to Remus’s. “You couldn’t forget me if you tried.”

That makes Remus smile, just barely. “I have tried,” he says. “You’re rather difficult to misplace.”

They don’t name it. Not properly. There’s a doctor, eventually. Conversations with too many pauses. Words like progressive and monitoring and we’ll see.

Forget is a gentle word for it. It sounds like something you can choose.

Remus forgets the ends of things first. The last line of a poem. The conclusion of an anecdote. Sirius learns to fill them in without making it obvious.

He forgets where he put his notes. Sirius starts putting them back in the same place every time.

Remus forgets what day it is. Sirius writes it on the fridge in big, looping letters.

They build a life designed to catch what falls.

Some days are better than others. Some days Remus is sharp as ever, teasing Sirius over breakfast, correcting his pronunciation of obscure French authors. On those days, Sirius pretends not to notice the relief humming through his bones.

Other days, Remus stares at a book he’s read a hundred times and frowns like it’s written in a foreign language.

“I know this,” he murmurs.

“I know,” Sirius says.

Remus presses his fingers to his temple. “I hate this.”

Sirius sits beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “I know.”

“I don’t want to be someone you have to remember for.”

Sirius turns, eyes fierce. “You are not a burden.”

Remus flinches anyway. Old instincts die hard.

That night, Remus forgets Sirius’s middle name.

He knows instantly that he’s lost it. He feels the gap where it should be, like a missing tooth. Panic blooms fast and sharp.

“Hey,” Sirius says softly, catching his expression. “What’s wrong?”

Remus opens his mouth. Closes it.

Sirius’s heart stutters.

“…Remus?”

“I—” Remus swallows. “I know you. I know you. I just—there’s a word. I can’t—”

Sirius doesn’t let him spiral. He takes Remus’s face in his hands, steady and warm.

“It’s Orion,” he says. “Sirius Orion Black. Named after a constellation and an ego problem.”

Remus lets out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Sirius says. “That one’s my fault anyway.”

Remus laughs weakly, tears in his eyes. “You always did hate it.”

“Desperately.”

They hold each other for a long time after that. Sirius’s arms are a constant. A promise.

The forgetting continues. Slowly. Unevenly. Cruel in its unpredictability.

But there are things Remus never forgets.

He never forgets the way Sirius smells—leather and soap and something indefinably him. He never forgets the sound of Sirius’s footsteps, the weight of him in the bed, the way he says “Moony” like it’s a secret.

He never forgets that he is loved.

One morning, Sirius wakes to find Remus already up, standing at the window, sunlight catching in his hair.

“Morning,” Sirius says.

Remus turns. Smiles. “Morning.”

There’s a pause. Sirius’s chest tightens, bracing.

Then Remus says, softly, “I know you.”

Sirius crosses the room in three strides and pulls him close, burying his face in Remus’s shoulder.

“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I know.”

Later, much later, when the forgetting takes more than it gives, Sirius becomes the keeper of their shared history.

He tells Remus stories. About school. About the war. About the day they finally stopped pretending.

Remus listens, eyes bright, like it’s new every time.

Sometimes he says, “That sounds like us.”

Sirius smiles. “It is.”

On a quiet evening, Remus looks at him suddenly and asks, “Have I ever loved you?”

Sirius’s throat tightens.

“Yes,” he says. “You do. You still do.”

Remus considers this, then nods. “Good.”

He reaches for Sirius’s hand, grip firm.

“I might forget things,” Remus says. “But don’t let me forget that.”

Sirius squeezes back. “Never.”

And if Remus forgets everything else—names, places, years—Sirius will remember for both of them.

That’s the promise.

That’s the love.

That’s the thing that does not disappear.

[dirklp]

burn each other with love

[deerly-departed]

Matchday

[outromoonyy]

"Lift your arm," Remus ordered, his voice brooking no argument.

Sirius hissed as he complied, wincing as his shirt pulled against the fresh, ugly purple bruise on his ribs. "Gentle, Moony. I'm fragile."

"You're reckless," Remus corrected, dipping his fingers into the tin of bruise paste. "You shouldn't have tried that dive."

He pressed his cool fingers against the hot skin of Sirius's side. Sirius sucked in a sharp breath, his stomach muscles contracting under Remus’s hand.

"Too cold?" Remus paused, his hand hovering over the injury.

"No," Sirius breathed out, his eyes locked on Remus’s face, dark and unreadable. "Don't stop."

Remus resumed the slow, firm circles, working the salve in. He could feel the thrum of Sirius’s heart under his palm. I was frantic, bird-like, beating against his ribs.

"Your heart is racing," Remus murmured, keeping his eyes on his work to avoid looking at Sirius.

"It tends to do that," Sirius said, his voice dropping an octave, rough and quiet.

Remus finally looked up. They were inches apart. "When you're injured?"

"No," Sirius swallowed, his gaze dropping to Remus's mouth, then back up to his eyes. "When you touch me."

Remus’s hand froze on Sirius’s ribs. The air in the room seemed to vanish.

"Oh," Remus whispered.

"Yeah," Sirius leaned in, just a fraction. "Oh."

[justjensenanddean]

Jensen Ackles | Inside of You Podcast with Michael Rosenbaum  [x]

[outromoonyy]

"I need your hand," Sirius demanded, flopping onto the rug where Remus was reading.

"Why?" Remus asked, not looking up.

"Divination homework," Sirius lied smoothly. "Trelawney wants us to map the life line of a 'close companion' to predict their tragic demise. Come on, give me the paw."

Remus sighed, extended his left hand, and went back to reading.

Sirius took Remus’s hand in both of his. He didn't look at the palm lines. Instead, he began slowly tracing the veins on the back of Remus’s hand with his thumb, massaging the knuckles, and running his fingers lightly over the scars on Remus’s wrist.

"Hmm," Sirius hummed gravely. "Very interesting."

"Do I die young?" Remus asked dryly, turning a page with his free hand.

"No," Sirius whispered, lacing their fingers together and resting his chin on their joined hands. "But the lines here suggest you need to pay more attention to the handsome dog animagus currently worshipping your phalanges."

Remus looked down. Sirius was looking up through his lashes, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"That's not palmistry, Sirius."

"It’s an advanced technique. Tactile divination."

"You made that up."

"And yet," Sirius squeezed his hand, "you aren't pulling away."

James, who actually took Divination, looked over from his chart. "We're studying tea leaves this month, Pete. We haven't done palmistry since third year."

"Does Remus know that?" Peter asked.

James looked at Remus, who was watching Sirius play with his fingers with a soft, affectionate expression. "I think Remus knows exactly what's happening."

[memebijin-love]

¡ 2500 «Me gusta»!

[outromoonyy]

Muggle AU where Remus has one secret, perfect study spot. It’s a single armchair in the university library, hidden behind the 18th-century poetry stacks, right by a window that gets the afternoon sun. It's the only place he can get any real reading done.

He gets there after a long class, already dreaming of the quiet.

And there's someone in his chair.

It's Sirius Black. He's not even studying. He's got his legs slung over the arm, headphones on, eyes closed as he enthusiastically air-drums to whatever is blasting in his ears

Remus, clearing his throat: "Excuse me."

Sirius pulls one headphone off: "Hm?"

Remus, gesturing awkwardly: "That's... that's my chair."

Sirius, looking around the empty, cavernous library full of hundreds of other chairs: "This one? This specific, lumpy, faded green one? It has your name on it?"

Remus, flushing: "No, but I... I sit here. Every day."

Sirius, who absolutely knows who Remus is and has maybe been waiting for him: "Oh, so it's a thing? I like things. Tell you what. You can have it... if you can beat me at rock, paper, scissors. Best two out of three."

Remus, staring: "I have a 15-page paper due tomorrow."

Sirius, holding up a fist, grinning: "Then you'd better hope you win. On three..."

Remus lets out an aggravated sigh. This is the last thing he has time for. "Fine. Whatever. Just... let's get this over with."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," Sirius murmurs, his eyes not leaving Remus's. "One... two... three!"

Remus, on autopilot, throws Paper.

Sirius throws Scissors. "One-nil, Lupin."

Remus freezes. "...How do you know my name?"

Sirius just taps the spine of the thick textbook Remus is holding. "It's on your checkout card, on the inside cover. I saw it yesterday. Now, focus. Two out of three. One... two... three!"

Remus is completely flustered now. Yesterday? He throws Rock without thinking.

Sirius, in a move of pure, unadulterated arrogance, throws Paper, his hand lazily covering Remus's fist. "One-all. High stakes, now. Winner takes the chair..."

He leans forward, dropping his voice. "Loser buys the winner coffee."

Remus's stomach does a complete, inconvenient flip. "I... that's not..."

"One... two... three!" Sirius calls out, sharp and bright.

They both throw Scissors.

"A tie," Remus says, a little breathless.

"We go again," Sirius says, his grin widening. He doesn't look away. "One... two... three!"

They both throw Rock.

"Again."

"One... two... three!"

They both throw Paper.

"Okay, this is officially absurd," Remus says. "We're never going to finish."

"I don't know," Sirius replies, and his grin is still there, but it's lost all its sharp, teasing edges. It's something... softer. "I think I could do this all day."

"What? Waste time?"

"Look at you," Sirius corrects.

"You—" Remus hesitates. What the fuck? "You're doing this on purpose."

Sirius, leaning back: "Maybe."

Remus: "You don't even want the chair, do you?"

Sirius: "God no. It’s uncomfortable and makes weird sounds. But it’s the only place I know I can find you every Tuesday and Thursday at exactly 4 PM."

Remus, blinking: "You... know my schedule?"

Sirius: "I also know you chew on the end of that pen when you’re stuck on a paragraph. And that you look really good in that oversized grey sweater you wore last week. The one with the hole in the cuff."

Remus, turning a very bright shade of red: "Oh."

"I’ve been trying to come over here for a month," Sirius admits. "I stood by the biography section for twenty minutes last week just trying to think of an opening line."

Remus stares at him, baffled. "But you are... well, you. You don’t have trouble talking to people."

"I have trouble talking to you," Sirius says simply. "So I figured holding your spot hostage seemed like a better plan than staring at the back of your head for another semester."

He stands up, slinging his leather jacket over his shoulder with practiced ease. He looks at Remus, waiting.

"So, I forfeit," Sirius announces, voice loud enough to make the librarian glare at him. "Rock, paper, scissors, surrender. I lose."

Remus, blinking: "So?"

Sirius: "So, the loser buys coffee. That was the deal."

Remus looks around the library. The librarian is definitely glaring at them now. "I can't go. I have to work."

"You can't work here," Sirius points out, gesturing to the room. "We’ve already been shushed twice. If we stay, they’re going to kick us out anyway. Better to leave with dignity."

"I wouldn't be getting kicked out if someone hadn't started a rock-paper-scissors tournament in the poetry section."

"Details," Sirius waves a hand dismissively. "Come on. The cafe down the street has big tables. And outlets for your laptop. And me."

Remus stares at him, but he can't hide his smile as he finally closes his textbook: "One hour. And I'm bringing my notes."

"Bring the whole library if you want," Sirius says. "Just come with me."

"Fine. You're ridiculous."

"I just know what I want." Sirius grins. "Let's go."

Remus, walking towards the exit: "I take mine with two sugars."

"I know," Sirius says, holding the door open. "I memorized that too."

[outromoonyy]

​"I don't need a nursemaid, Sirius," Remus growled, batting Sirius’s hands away. He was sitting on the edge of his bed the morning after a full moon, looking pale and exhausted, trying to pull his socks on with trembling hands. "I can dress myself. I’m not an invalid."

​"You're shaking," Sirius pointed out gently, hovering nearby.

​"I'm fine!" Remus snapped, frustration leaking into his voice. He yanked at the sock, winced in pain, and threw it on the floor. "Just... leave me alone. Go to breakfast."

​Sirius didn't leave. He didn't argue. He just knelt on the floor in front of Remus.

​"Sirius, get up," Remus sighed, trying to sound authoritative but sounding weak. "This is ridiculous."

​Sirius ignored him. He picked up the wool sock. He took Remus’s scarred foot in his hand; hands that were usually manic and fidgety, now steady and incredibly gentle. He warmed Remus's cold foot between his palms for a moment, then carefully slid the sock on, avoiding every bruise.

​Then, before letting go, Sirius pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of Remus’s ankle.

​Remus stopped breathing. The angry tension drained out of his body instantly. He stared down at the top of Sirius’s dark head, his mouth opening and closing without sound.

​"Other foot?" Sirius asked, looking up with a soft smile.

​"Yeah," Remus whispered, his voice cracking. "Other foot."

[outromoonyy]

Hc that Sirius thought he was addicted to the challenge of making Remus laugh.

Remus is the serious one, the Prefect. Making him crack a smile is a victory. It’s a game.

"I just like winning," Sirius tells James. "Watch this. I bet I can get him to snort milk out of his nose."

He spends years tripping over things, doing impressions, and being a general nuisance just to see the corner of Remus’s mouth twitch.

One quiet Sunday, Sirius makes a terrible, not-even-funny pun. It’s awful. But Remus throws his head back and laughs. That deep, genuine, unguarded sound that crinkles his eyes and shows his teeth. Sirius stares. The world stops. He doesn't feel like a winner. He feels like he’s been punched in the gut with sunshine.

Remus’s laughter fades into a soft, lingering smile. He catches Sirius staring.

"What?" Remus asks, self-consciously touching his face. "Do I have milk on my nose?"

"No," Sirius lies, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He looks away, terrified that his face is giving everything away. "No, you're just... really loud. Do it again."

[outromoonyy]

Sirius didn’t really understood why people liked cuddling and being touchy until fourth Year.

In the House of Black, touch was either formal or painful. He thought people hanging off each other in the common room looked desperate and clingy.

Then, after a particularly bad detention, Sirius flops face-first onto Remus’s bed. He intends to just groan and leave, but Remus is reading there. Instead of pushing him off, Remus just shifts his leg to make room and absentmindedly rests his hand on the back of Sirius’s neck. The heat from Remus’s palm seeps into Sirius’s spine. His brain goes quiet. The tension he’s carried in his shoulders since he was eleven evaporates. He realizes he isn't clingy, he is starving.

"You're heavy, Padfoot," Remus mumbles, turning a page. "Move."

"No," Sirius mumbles into the duvet, closing his eyes. "If you move your hand, I will bite you."

Remus doesn't move his hand for hours.