S I R I U S

"i am become a blade." sirius orion black // order member.

[scrius-blog]

rcmus‌:

     time.  9 February, dawn      place.   Remus and Sirius’ house, south Godric’s Hollow           ( @scrius )

It wasn’t the first full moon he’d spent alone, since the war began. There hadn’t been many, but there had been enough, nights where James had been busy, nights when Peter had been on missions, nights when Sirius had been preoccupied. Usually, at least one of them had tried to be with him, but with Peter gone and James having Harry to take care of and Sirius all wrapped up in himself, there had been a few. And so it hadn’t been a deliberate decision, to go alone, this time– he hadn’t made the conscious choice to be alone, had just left a bit early the afternoon before to run to the shops and pick a few things up before apparating north to the abandoned barn where he planned to spend it. 

Still, he can feel the difference in his bones; he always can. Every muscle and joint in his body hurts, as he makes his way back from the edge of the village towards home, half-limping, one fist clenched around the bag he carries with him. He would have liked to lie there in the damp hay for a few hours more until the worst of the pain had passed and his body remembered how to feel human again, but he knew it was safest to get back before the sunrise, just in case. 

He slips into the house, quiet as he can, pressing the door shut behind him with the softest of clicks– it’s so early, anyone sane would still be asleep and he’s hoping to keep it that way, collapse into bed and sleep for a few hours until he feels less like he’s been hit by a lorry. He rests his head against the door for a minute, for good measure, trying to gather his energy to make it up the stairs. 

It isn’t fair of him to feel the annoyance right now, to feel angry that Remus was gone. Realistically he knows that Remus is the one suffering, that Remus is the one in living hell and insurmountable pain. The full moon is always such an awful night, a thing that Sirius has very rarely missed. Once or twice, in recent times. Missing it comes with a guilt that Sirius can’t shake, even if the help they provide is minimal. 

He’d planned on going with Remus for this one, had spent hours waiting before he realised that Remus was already gone. Found himself shamed and devastated by the fact that he wasn’t sure exactly where Remus was spending this one. He’d apparated briefly to the shrieking shack, just to check it, but he knew that Remus hadn’t been back there in years. 

There was nothing he could do in the end but wait, let worry claw at his stomach like a feral werewolf was living inside of him and not Remus. Worry is the dominant emotion, but anger mixes in at the fact that Remus didn’t even think to tell him he was going. He could be anywhere, could be hurting, and its killing Sirius to think it. 

He finds that he can’t sleep, can’t force himself to do anything but sit on the couch and think. The click of the door closing behind someone almost makes him jump out of his skin, but its a long second before he can pull himself to his feet. 

There’s no movement in the hall, and his voice comes out halting, shamefully shaky in the dim light of the early morning. 

     “Remus?”

[scrius-blog]

rcmus‌:

The weight of Sirius’ head on his chest, sudden and surprising, is grounding, somehow. Makes him stop thinking about the vigil and the village and everything in between. Makes him stop thinking about Sirius fucking off to try kill Rodolphus Lestrange and nearly getting himself killed in the process. Makes the churning in his stomach stop, for a moment, for long enough for him to think: oh, right, this is why I haven’t given up on him yet. 

Maybe it’s naive, maybe he’s clinging on too tightly to something that can never again be as good as it once was. But even still, he tangles his fingers into Sirius’ long hair at the nape of his neck, runs a thumb along the sharp edge of Sirius’ jaw, closes his eyes and lets out a long, contented sigh. It’s hard to remember, really, what love feels like in the midst of so much grief, but he can at least identify comfort. Even if he can feel the energy coiled in Sirius like a spring about to snap back, even if he can hear that Sirius isn’t saying everything he wants to. It smells like tobacco and firewhiskey and the pine-y cologne that Sirius always wears, and he can trace the sharp plans of Sirius’ face with his eyes closed and remember every single detail. 

     ‘It’s not my fault you sound like a pod of Norwegian Ridgebacks every time you try put the kettle on,’ he replies, light, teasing, lighter than he feels but he isn’t entirely faking it. There’s something calming about the idea that they might joke back and forth with one another again, like they hadn’t lost so damn much. A part of him wants that: to pretend, for the night. To take Sirius in his arms and kiss him until neither of them is thinking about a dead man anymore. 

Instead, he leans down, presses a kiss to Sirius’ hair, takes in the familiar scent of him.

     ‘Can wake me up if you’re bringing me breakfast in bed, you know. I wouldn’t dare complain about that.’

The soft sigh coming from Remus does something to his chest, melts something, turns him to jelly. It’s a feeling that makes him remember being fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, head over heels and willing to do anything to make Remus love him, maybe willing to do anything to make Remus give up on him. Something, anything, to balance himself out. 

     “That’s mean, Remus.” He sighs out, a lightness creeping into his own voice. “We both know I’m the most graceful of all of us.” And for a moment, his own words almost send him to panic stations. All of us, he’d said. Meaning four, when they’d been whittled down to two. But right now, he forces it down again. He can panic and rage about that later, when Remus isn’t here beside him, safe and sound if not a little sloshed. When Remus isn’t pressing kisses to his hair, an action that has always made Sirius feel more safe than anything else, that has always made him pliant and willing to relax in another mans arms. 

    “Breakfast, then. I’ll bring you breakfast. But don’t complain when I burn the toast, my fragile self esteem can’t take that after you’ve implied that I’m as loud as more than one dragon.” 

[scrius-blog]

amortal-sybil‌:

The broadcast had hit Sybill like a bucket of ice water to the face. All of the warmth, all of the affection that she had soaked in, that had left her feeling so aglow, was long gone now. All that remained was the harsh reality around them - an overcrowded graveyard, a small band of hurting souls that didn’t know how to go on together, and an uncertain war that looked more unwinnable by the day. The figure in her periphery storming away wasn’t the first, nor was it the only to leave the premises in those silent minutes following the broadcast, but Sybill found herself following it instead of any others. In the back of her mind, she knew exactly why she was doing it, but it wasn’t like her. She wasn’t confrontational, nor was she comforting. Every moment of every day she reminded herself and others around her that she wasn’t a soldier and she wasn’t a friend - that she didn’t belong. Arabella was the first and maybe the only one to make her feel like she did. But it was all a lie.

The ill-maintained bar could never be as welcoming as the pub everyone was supposed to gather post-vigil, but in light of recent events, it seemed far more fitting. What it lacked in warmth, it made up for in shadows and solitude. Sometimes, that was all one needed. Light, in times like this, was far too oppressive - baring your very soul when all you wanted was to curl inside yourself and think.

It wasn’t until she had pushed open the door that she was reminded of one very simple, cold, fact: few people welcomed her company, and when they did, it was so often for the wrong reasons. Sybill wouldn’t blame the man at the bar for lashing out at her - for demanding that she leave. But if he were to warm up to her in an attempt get her to make some prediction based on the broadcast? If he expected her to have some vision right then and there?

Fear froze her in place until his words cut through the ice. Even then, her heart was racing as she tiptoed towards the bar, the smell of an aged whiskey making her yearn for a bit of numbness. She could indulge without losing control of her sight, right? She hadn’t allowed herself to dive too deep into her craft since November. Since she had awoken that first morning and saw what power her sight had over other people, she’d been too afraid to see. It was in November that she had conceded that her father may have been right - that she was cursed. But it wasn’t because of her, she argued as she took a seat near the young man. She couldn’t be blamed for the actions of others. She had the vision, she made the prophecy, sure, but it had been others who had reacted to it. They had decided that murder was the only way forward.

Silently, Sybill reached over the counter for an empty glass and ran her shawl over the surface, both inside and out to make sure it was clean enough for her liking. It wasn’t until she took the bottle from his side and poured herself a generous glass that she even allowed herself to breathe since opening the door. It was with a long sigh that she brought the glass to face-height, and, gazing at the amber liquid inside, muttered a quiet cheers “To Glenda, for always being able to keep things lively, then.”

Once he sees who’s entering, he fixes his gaze back down at his glass, refilling it as he lets her make her decision. He never knew what to think about Sybill. When Sirius thought about things like divination and seers, it was usually for a lark. He’d taken the class all the way to NEWTS, managed an outstanding, and been a favoured student. He’d liked it, but not in a way that meant he really thought it had much weight. He didn’t think he ever saw the truth in things. 

With Sybill, maybe, things had weight. 

Sirius snorts at her words, gives a roll of his eyes, but raises his own glass at the same time. He knocks the whiskey back, satisfied with it. 

     “To Glenda.” He agrees. God, Glenda. God, this day, that broadcast, her words in his head. “S’good timing.” He allows himself to say, with a small nod of his head. “I was just starting to get bored, and we all know how dangerous that is for everybody elses health.” 

[scrius-blog]

xenosechoes‌:

The night air felt different now, an electricity flowing through it that had not been there before the surprise broadcast. So many voices in their ears, all so loud, begging to be the one that they listened to, followed, many more clearly recognizable than usual, as if the sudden realization that they had helped cause such a wondrous moment by summoning the Viriblnets was strangely clarifying, even as a nearly oppressive mode settled on the shoulders of many of the others. Xenophilius was certain that they would not be able to find sleep, even with the aid of Pandora’s warm embrace and her immaculate potions.

Inspiration was at the tip of their tongue, ready to spill forward to the first person who was still enough for long enough to listen. The others, of course, seemed preoccupied, which Pandora had explained most certainly had to do with the content of the message, but there was so much beyond that in their mind. They had collected one of their dozens of notebooks, and had allowed the whispers to consume their thoughts intentionally, for once. So many words, so clearly, as they wandered through the village, less in search of anything in particular, and more to see where they would be lead. And it was a surprise, indeed, that the echoes drew them here, but the word was clear in their mind. They had to wonder if perhaps this was where the Viriblnets had taken shelter after their work and that was why. A voice rang out, though, drawing them from their thoughts even before they could consider where the creatures may be hiding in the old bar, telling them perhaps it was for another reason they were called just here.

“Ah, thank you. In, tonight, I think. I’ve been led here for a moment of inspiration, it seems,” Xeno explained, wandering in, and taking a seat unprompted several down from Sirius. They pulled their notebook out of their worn overcoat, turning to a page of scribbles, and took the ink pen from behind their ear, settling in. “I must admit, it has been a long time indeed since I’ve known the pleasant burn of whiskey. Will the bartender accept a few hand-rolled cigarettes for a shot? Laced with charmed lavender for an added calm.”

Xeno always brought an aura into a room with them, something that either threw Sirius off or got him even more on his game. If he had to pick a person to disturb his quiet, Xeno would be at the top of the list. At least they were interesting, at least they were a little delightful, at least they had the aura of something as broken as Sirius felt. Completely off his rocker, but in the best possible way, sometimes making Sirius feel like Alice all the way through the looking glass. 

“What can I say? I’m an extremely inspirational sight. I can’t blame you.” It comes out with a baffled shadow of a smile, and the moment the mention of whiskey passes from their lips, Sirius is already half way off his own stool. If he’s going to play bartender, he’s going to do it right. And the thought settles with a distant ache in his chest, like he hadn’t realised he’d missed working so much. It was such an ordinary thing, and it seemed so far away in the past. It could have been a hundred years since the last time Sirius got up and walked in to work at the Leaky Cauldron, since he bantered with Tom, since he flirted with anyone who would listen, sometimes for fun and sometimes just to watch Remus do that cute little wrinkly thing with his forehead. 

He huffs out a laugh as he reaches for the bottle, “Buddy, for a gift like that, you can have two.” He says, setting out two glasses for Xeno and two for himself. Maybe it’s a bad idea, but he thinks he has enough restraint not to go completely off the rails tonight. “God knows I could use some calm.” 

The first shot burns on the way down, not quite like firewhiskey does, but still satisfying enough for him. When he settles it down, he looks Xeno over once more. And then he leans on the bar, across the bar, finger tapping at the very edge of their notebook. “Wanna share any bright ideas with me, hot shot? You know I love it when you talk shop, really gets me going.” 

[scrius-blog]

rcmus‌:

Maybe it’s that Sirius is still soft from sleep, or maybe it’s that there’s too much going on in his head for his face to disguise it all, but Remus can see that he’s not saying everything he wants to. That there’s a tension behind the smile, there, that’s become all too common in the past few months. Maybe it’s hypocritical of him to feel hurt by that: there are things he isn’t saying either, things he doesn’t know how to. But it still stings, makes the smile and the gesture feel almost false, somehow.

He pulls away, lays back. There’s a churning kind of feeling in his stomach, now, one that has nothing to do with the alcohol and has everything to do with the fact that – with everything else on his mind – he’s been trying not to think about Sirius as another thing to worry about. Bad enough that he’d nearly gotten himself killed once already; Remus hasn’t got the energy to waste worrying he’ll do it again. 

The tension in his body releases, a little, now that he’s laying down, and he reaches a hand up to rub at the knot that’s been building in one shoulder. ‘Honestly, I think I deserve to sleep for a week, after this.’

All he can do for a couple of moments too long is lay there, stare up at the ceiling of their room, shrouded in darkness. Honestly, he wants to stay there forever. Still and quiet, waste away. And then another part of him wants to get up and move right now, now that he’s awake, now that his feelings have all been shaken around again.

He expects Remus to just close his eyes, to drift away in the sullen silence that seems to follow them around like so many baby ducklings. But he doesn’t. but he talks, and maybe it sparks something somewhere in Sirius. So he turns, movements quick and full of the energy that’s creeping back into his bones. 

He opens his mouth, words almost finding a way out and then freezing short. So he shuts it again. So he shifts more, moves to nudge Remus’ hand out of the way and rest his head on the other mans chest. “I’ll make sure not to wake you up in the morning then. You always hate that, don’t you? Me clanking around like I know what i’m doing in that kitchen of ours.” It isn’t what he means to say. He means it to be something like ‘just tell me how you’re feeling’, means it to be an admission of his own, something honest. He can’t stomach honesty anymore, so he settles for something that isn’t an argument, something fond enough for it to make him feel like they’ve gone backwards in time by a couple of years, if only for a moment. 

[scrius-blog]

💀& ✨

💀Is there someone your character distrusts following Glenda’s warning?

Sirius hasn’t really had the time to think about distrusting anybody. That wasn’t the part of the warning that got stuck in his head, that wasn’t the part that echoed through him at every passing moment. Maybe if he stopped and really thought about it, he might be worried, but as it stands at this moment, he trusts everyone as much as he can. 

✨ What does your character think about the possibility of a second Order headquarters?

answered here! 

[scrius-blog]

✨ What does your character think about the possibility of a second Order headquarters?

Hopeful isn’t the right word for it, but maybe its the closest descriptor that would work. For the first time in a long while now, Sirius feels like something might go right, the world might not be a lost cause after all. Somewhere out there, some of their friends might be alive. Somewhere out there, there might be more people willing to fight. Part of him wonders if he’d be better suited to this second headquarters, if they might be more like him –– ready to fight, ready to leap into danger, ready to win this war instead of burying their heads in the sand. 

[c3rvida3]

Stevie Nicks really knew what was up when she said, “And I’ve been afraid of changing because I’ve built my life around you.”

[scrius-blog]

rcmus‌:

He has to bite it back, the reply that springs into his throat unbidden. That’s rich, coming from you of all people. As if Sirius didn’t drink more than half the bloody Order on a good night, as if Sirius wasn’t the bloody sovereign of making terrible excuses, of refusing to take care of himself. It made Remus want to drink himself sick, just to make Sirius clean up the mess– but he wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. Responsible to his core; he’d had a glass of water downstairs, had a potion ready for the morning just in case. There was too much at stake here to let a bad decision or a worse hangover get the better of him for even a moment. Especially with what had happened at the vigil. 

He wants to say something. Wants to say, fine, you know what’s bothering me? Wants to say don’t you dare run off looking for this other bloody safehouse, Sirius Black. Wants to say who needs a fucking secret keeper when everyone’s just going to up and leave anyway, hm? Wants to. Won’t. Even drunk, it’s a line he won’t cross.

Instead he leans into Sirius’ touch, a little. Leans over to kiss him, out of habit. Lets himself relax into it, because even if he feels like Sirius is a wave, slipping out of his fingers the very second he manages to feel like he’s holding on, well, he’s here, right now, and that’s more than can be said for sometimes.

     ‘I’m alright. Just… need some sleep, yeah? Too much to do, in the morning.’

It’s a conscious decision to let himself melt into the kiss, just a little bit. He always has, when it comes to Remus. Best way to shut him up, everyone always said. And if he was less charitable, he’d think that was what Remus was really trying to do. Just shut him up before he could say anything stupid that might result in both of them drifting back off to sleep in sullen silence. 

He has the quip on the tip of his tongue regardless. Yeah, so much to do inside our little bubble. But he swallows it down, lets it pass, lets it sink like a heavy weight down to the bottom of his stomach. He wants to talk about this feeling in his chest, about the possibilities floating through the air suddenly. But he swallows the wanting down too, and fixes Remus with as soft a look as he can manage. Strokes his fingers over the wrinkle in Remus’ forehead, soft as a whisper. 

      “Mhm. Sleep is a good idea. Don’t get up too early though.” A sliver of a smile, an almost version of what he used to do. “You’ve got some catching up to do on that front, if you ask me.” 

[hollowedrpg]

POST-VIGIL ASKS —

📻 What part of Glenda’s message piqued your character’s interest the most? 

✨ What does your character think about the possibility of a second Order headquarters?

💀Is there someone your character distrusts following Glenda’s warning?

💔 Who was your character thinking of before the last part of Glenda’s message cut off?

🌸 Was your character able to find any closure as a result of the vigil? 

[scrius-blog]

rcmus‌:

He leans against the dresser, pushed up against the wall, to stabilize himself as he pulls his boots off, one at a time, the crusted mud on the bottoms falling to the carpet as he drops them to the ground at his feet, pushes them round the edge of the dresser so no one will trip over them when they get up in the morning, as close to cleaning up as he can get himself to manage, for the moment. 

     ‘Just getting my mind– Clearing the… air–’

His coat already abandoned downstairs, he doesn’t bother with his trousers, just pulls his shirt and jumper over his head in one motion as he makes his way towards the bed, dropping the tangled mess of fabric at the foot of the bed to sort out later. Drops himself onto the edge of the bed, lets out a sigh before turning to look at Sirius. He doesn’t want to get into it, right now; he’s tired, finally, in a way he thinks means he might actually be able to fall asleep if he’s lucky, and he doesn’t want to push his luck because Sirius has something to say about what he’s been drinking or where he’s been running off to without telling anybody. 

      ‘Fresh air, ‘s all. Look, I’m sorry I woke you.’

It’s a bullshit explanation, Sirius thinks to himself. But then again. he’s never been the best at those himself. Maybe he should try to be less of a hypocrite, but he can’t make a decision on that one way or another through the thin veil of worry and annoyance. 

He can feel the frosted glass between them, when Remus looks at him. That’s the big problem. The way Sirius feels about so much of the world these days. It’s why he keeps his face stoic, why he doesn’t betray any emotions and doesn’t let out a frustrated breath. We used to be better at talking about things. The thought comes, followed by a defensive. We used to have less to talk about. He used to be able to count the things he didn’t tell Remus on one hand, but now he wouldn’t even know where to begin listing out the things he hadn’t said. 

     “Yeah, a fuck-ton of fresh air, it seems like.” He sighs it, softening it with a hand rubbing in a light circle on Remus’ shoulder. “Hope you drank some water on the way up, thats all.” 

[scrius-blog]

    time. January 25, 10pm.     place. The Old Bar           ( open )

The old bar in Godric’s Hollow was perhaps his favourite place in the world right now –– it had always been his belief that the best way to sooth a hurt or drown your sorrows was in a pub. He had plenty of sorrows haunting him these days, and he’d rather they all choked with water in their lungs than plague him. If he allowed himself to dwell on it for too long he would start picturing Marlene next to him, start thinking about James’ laughter and his strong hand on Sirius’ shoulder. It was better they stayed quiet, at the back of his mind. 

The vigil shook something loose in him, so the bar was where he went, creaky door swinging closed behind him as he settles himself into a seat at the sticky and well worn counter. He helps himself to the bottle of whiskey, settles it by his arm after he pours himself a glass. Maybe its stealing, but maybe he doesn’t particularly care about that. Scratching with his thumb on the wood, he dwells on the words that have been echoing through his head. Part of him had wanted to run out of town at the first moment, start an epic quest of Arthurian proportions. Young Lord Black and the hunt for allies of all shapes and sizes. But he had things here that he couldn’t just run away from, things he couldn’t stomach leaving behind. Or, perhaps, things he knew would blame him with furious anger if he actually did start running away from this. 

The creak of the wooden step leading up to the door draws his attention from his musings, and then the creak of the door itself. His voice is almost bland as he calls out, not wanting them to be surprised by the occupied room. “Bar’s open.” He says. “In or out, your choice mate.” 

[scrius-blog]

rcmus‌:

     time. January 26, 3:15am      place. Sirius and Remus’ house           ( @scrius )

He tries to be quiet, as he sneaks back into the house, in through the front door and up the creaking back stairs, slipping into the bedroom at the top of the staircase to the bed he and Sirius have been sharing since they made the move to the village. He’s gotten good at being quiet, knowing where the boards creak under his feet and where to step to keep them from doing it, knowing where each turn in the hallway is – he’s become skilled in sneaking back into bed after his middle of the night walks without rousing Sirius from sleep.

It’s just, he’s normally doing it a touch more sober than this.

After the vigil, after everything, he hadn’t known what else to do to get his mind off of things except to take a bottle of firewhiskey along with him on his walk. And so, if he forgot to skip the loose stair on his way up, if he bumped a shoulder into corner before their doorway as he made his way up, well– it’s not that he didn’t notice; it’s not for want of trying. 

But by the time he slowly pushes the door to their room open, he can tell Sirius is half-awake already and well on his way to trying to sit up.

     ‘Soz, hey, shh– it’s just me, go back to sleep.’

He’s bleary eyed, more than half asleep. The vigil had wiped him out in ways he didn’t expect, feelings flooding back into a soul that wasn’t quite ready for them, his view of their place in the world challenged. Sirius is exhausted, but the noise on the stairs puts him instantly on the defensive. They’re in a war zone, almost, and Remus doesn’t usually forget the creaky step, and definitely doesn’t usually bump carelessly into things. It didn’t seem like Remus was ever careless about anything. 

So his heart is thunderbird fast, hand already reaching for his wand when the bedroom door creaks open slowly. But he abandons his attempt to grab his wand when the familiar voice washes over him, a breath escaping his chest. “Fab, not an axe murderer then. I’ll put this heart attack on hold for the mo’.” 

As he sits up fully, propping himself up with his arms, he takes the second to squint at Remus through the dark. He can smell the firewhiskey from all the way across the room, nose wrinkling. And people said he drank too much. “Where the hell have you been, anyway? Its the middle of the night.” 

[midsommars-deactivated20201109]

[xberrywritesx-deactivated201701]

mikkeljensen:

Samuel Larsen in Recovery (2016)

[hollowedrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, WREN! — You’ve been accepted for the role of Sirius Black. Not only do you fully understand Sirius as character, but the added section of your app where you talk about Sirius’ relationship with other people really showed me you understand how he fits into this group. I also loved how you included how Sirius reacted at the vigil. It was a nice little addition that showed you’re excited and ready to plot within this group (and a giant punch to the gut omg.)

Thank you so much for applying. Please create your account and send in the link, track the right tags, and follow everyone on the follow list. Welcome to Hollowed Souls!

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