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bitterrfruit · 1 month ago

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southpaw

boxer!Ghost x reader, ghost is lefthanded and i won't argue about this cw: dubcon - 18+ mdni So this was supposed to be one long fic but then i got carried away, here's part one of two. forgive me. [read on ao3 if you want]

You met Simon at the pub, on a Wednesday.

It had been an arduous day at work, and a long week, despite having only made it halfway through - and you were on a knife edge, exhausted and sour. It was visible at first sight of you, you wore it like a greasy, raggedy cloak when you leaned slump-shouldered over the bar.

He had drawn your attention like a magnet the moment you spotted him, the towering buzzed-blond behemoth standing alone at a tall table, a half-empty pint glass in his thick fist. You’d shoot furtive little glances in his direction, and each time they were caught.

Caught being the operative word - when you met his eye you were trapped there, forcibly hooked on him as he glowered at you like he was angry. His eyes were shadowed from where you were perched - requesting a gin and tonic, short - and you should have found that frightening. Instead the adrenaline in your belly fizzed like a pinger, a girlish buzz that made your hairs stand on end and your cunt all warm.

You would not have begrudged any male attention, in fact you were long starved of it; but you felt guilty, in a way, subjecting a man to the state you were in. Short-fused and frazzled, thin knitted scarf wrapped tight around your neck, autumn coat slipping from your drooping shoulder. You dug around in your bag for your wallet when the bartender handed you the card reader, scooping frantically through the piles of receipts and hairclips and loose tampons. Offered sheepish apologies to him; so sorry, it’s definitely in there. I’m a mess! Long day, sorry. So sorry. Sorry.

You jumped when you heard the thud of a light slap on the counter, the low huff of an exasperated man, sick and tired. Looking up from your bottomless satchel, you saw the tenner left beside the card reader, and the bartender nodded in thanks before taking it swiftly.

“No problem,” came the gruff voice from above you, implicitly chastising your lack of thanks when you tilted your head upward to blink at him.

He was pretty - your first thought - in a dirty, brutish sort of way. Heavy-browed and amber-eyed, with thick blond lashes and a deep golden stubble. He was adorned with freckles and little scars, slivers of pink and white, some fresh and some old. And when he smirked knowingly at your silence, a dimple pulled in his cheekbone, the crater of an injury once sustained.

He had just been to the gym, you could smell it on him; ripe and heady, a musk you should have been more repulsed by than you were. Instead you savoured it like some little animal, turned your head at the raw pheromones as though a doe sniffing out her stag during the rut. You could also tell as much from his gym gear, grey marled wife-beater under his unzipped black hoodie, stained with dried sweat, navy blue sport shorts that sat high on his hefty thighs and strained over their magnitude.

“You didn’t need to do that,” you said abashedly, giving him an awkward smile in the hopes of concealing your flustered embarrassment.

“I didn’t,” he agreed, and he leaned on the bar by his elbow to get a shred closer to your height. Through a haughty growl, he insisted, “You gonna thank me?”

His brazen arrogance should have put you off. You quickly got the sense he was well used to these encounters - a presumption that you’d be grateful for his interest, a raffish ease that reeked of habitual sex. You wouldn’t have called him well-practised, nothing about him was suave or carefully preened. No, instead, he was viciously masculine in a primal sort of way, rugged and unkempt around the edges. A cold gaze and a serrated smile. The kind of man that oozed testosterone and potent virility without needing to utter a word in his own favour. The unashamed lack of effort was bait in itself.

You might have dismissed him if it were a Saturday, and you had friends to discourage you and drunkenness to embolden you. But, worn-out and sober, you felt obliged to entertain the man that had paid for you. Besides, something about him gave you the impression his attention was non-negotiable.

And once you had thanked him as requested, soon followed a superficially understated conversation, though every word felt laden with some lude prescience. A simple question, then a simple answer, each delivered with more weight than the last. I’m a mechanic. Was in the army. This one’s from a scrap, got hit with a chair. From Manchester. Don’t normally come here on Wednesdays, maybe I should more often. No, not married. Yourself?

Minutes bled quickly to hours, and you didn’t spend a cent on your own alcohol. Soon you had migrated to a booth, and your sticky table became the graveyard of three gin and tonics, tired lime slices floating in the melted ice as you mindlessly prodded at them with a soggy straw. You ogled him shamelessly from the other side of the table, resting your tilted head in your palm, elbow extended on the wooden tabletop.

He was a gladiator. Broad shoulders, pure meat - every part of him was thick with muscle and padded with a warm layer of fat. Winter bulk. You imagined his mammoth arms would be soft and pillowy if you were to squish them with your hungry hands, but that they’d turn as solid as rock if he were to engage them more forcefully.

You asked him if he normally did this, went to pubs on weekdays to prey on bored working women and got them drunk so he could fuck them.

He shrugged, shook his head. “Don’t need to get ‘em drunk.”

His tone was cocksure but insincere, and you didn’t yet have a good enough read of him to determine whether or not he was joking. It wouldn’t have surprised you if he were something of a lothario, given how quickly you had been sucked into his orbit despite his astonishing apathy - and yet, something told you he was more of a prowling wolf than a peacock. The kind of man that sets his eyes on his quarry and is unsatisfied until he has her between his teeth. It made your heart shiver to imagine yourself that meal.

“Just me, then?” You bit back, thanking the bartender when he brought over a fourth gin for you and a third pint for the Mancunian.

He dropped his pint glass down hard after he took his hefty swig. “You’re putting up more of a fight than they usually do.”

“Fighting the inevitable, am I?” You teased, facetious but not entirely unserious.

“You tell me.” Is all he said.

When you checked the time and decided it was far past your bedtime, seeing four fuzzy hands on your watch, he offered to walk you home - never know who’s out this time o’ night. You decided to take him up on it, the plentiful alcohol pumping through your blood blurred your already dubious sense of self-preservation.

His vast hand travelled boldly down your back while you walked, and in a more sober state you would have told him off. Instead you giggled demurely, flicked his hand away half-heartedly just to test how quickly he’d put it back. And when he took an audacious and greedy handful of your ass you yipped at him, falsely agog, but you did nothing more to stop him. He grinned as he did it, sharp teeth, kneading your soft flesh as though evaluating how it felt in his thick fingers. Determining its adequacy.

Arriving at your door he stood behind you like a shadow, watching you key the lock and breathing down the back of your neck. Such a lecher, already so bold as to assume you’d welcome him inside, spread your legs for him after so little effort. When his hand slithered to your waist and took a presumptuous grip, so confident, you felt your fortitude begin to waver. Would it hurt?

But as you spun on your heel you blocked him out with your body in the frame, and gave him a sweet and hazy smile. A chaste kiss on the cheek.

“Not lettin’ me in?” He asked, a grumble, with just enough mirth for you to lower your hackles.

You traced along the jamb with your fingernail. “Maybe next time.”

A test, you drunkenly thought, for if he were really an unashamed cunthound you’d expect him to sulk, or to get grouchy, or to call you a fucking bitch for leading him on. Maybe, you wondered, he might dismiss your refusal entirely, shove you into the apartment with an angry paw and make you fulfil your unspoken proposal. Not much of a fight you could put up, if he were such a beast.

Instead, he merely gave you a rakish grin, and brushed your chin with his thumb. “Next time, then.”

Next time came unexpectedly on the Friday, shortly after you had come home from work; freshly showered and lotioned, you answered the knock on your door in only a blue towel wrapped around your torso. Confronted immediately by the gargantuan man on your doorstep, you stepped back in fright.

There were smudges of oil on his ruddy cheeks, grime embedded deep into the fibres of his black work jacket. With his fists in his pockets, a cigarette jutting out of his pursed lips, he sniffed brashly in the cold. “You busy?”

Your eyes scanned him shrewdly for a short moment before the memory came speeding back to you, flew across your face like a slap, and he gave you a fleeting smirk when he saw your eyes widen and your cheeks go red. The stranger from the pub remembered your address. Not something you considered as you stupidly welcomed him to walk you all the way home.

“I’m not inviting you in,” you murmured, adjusting your towel higher on your chest when you felt his gaze warm the cleavage it failed to conceal.

“Come out, then.”

His imperious persistence was another warning you should have heeded, bright red and clear as day. Not often a man so obstinate is worth pursuing. Better avoided. His resolute silence compelled you, though, made unspoken demands that you dared not refuse. He wasn’t asking, he was telling.

You didn’t recall his name until he reminded you, after you had already gotten yourself dressed and met him out the front of your apartment; Simon. You smothered your more rational counterpart with a pillow, shutting her up when she warned you about going out with the man that showed up uninvited on your doorstep - particularly this one, who had your intuition screaming at you so ferociously. Play stupid games.

He hadn’t planned a date, no prior effort had gone in beyond the sudden compulsion to come and try his luck.

“Didn’t want you to forget me,” is what he told you when you asked.

You went with him to get fried chicken - his choice, an option wasn’t given - and ate it together on a park bench. Unsophisticated and to the point, a din of crunching and sucking on toothpick bones, broken up occasionally by your coy laughter. He made no effort to conceal a potently authoritarian nature, one you had as yet only caught glimpses of, and you were ruefully drawn to it. Reared its head when he told you where to sit, how fast to walk, what not to talk about. When you had demurely requested a single small punnet of hot chips from the food truck, and he had snorted at you; “Don’t take the piss. More than that.”

You shared a cigarette with him, sat under the bare elm tree and observed the chipmunks that came to feed on the crumbs of fried batter. Talked about nothing until the sun had set and the frost began to settle.

After returning you home he quickly had you trapped against the front door of your flat, laving your flushed neck with his ravenous mouth, tongue under your jaw like he was tasting you. Palmed your cunt through your jeans with a thick hand, uncaring of passersby, and you let him persist, just for a little bit - selfishly, you thought, because you weren’t going to let him sink his cock into you yet.

It was simply an experiment, you told yourself. Some part of you was well aware of the fire you were playing with, warning you vociferously about what happened to the curious cat. And that you were - dangerously eager to know for how long he would pursue you if you abstained from presenting your cunt to him off the cuff. What might happen if you dangled your prizes in front of his nose and continued to withhold them.

His hand was so big, warm, strong like he might lift you up by it. He knew exactly where to press the heel of his palm to push a needy whine from your throat, right at the throbbing crux of your heat. If you had let him continue kneading you unfettered you’d have pathetically come inside your jeans before you had even taken him inside.

You clutched his wrist to thwart his efforts, flustered and out of breath. Sheepishly warned him; “I - I don’t put out until the third date.”

Not a conviction you’ve ever held firm on, but it has been a long while since the last time you had taken a man home. You were slightly fearful that the second you let him fuck you, he’d be satisfied and spent and move on to the next helpless woman at the pub who couldn’t find her wallet. And, in truth, you relished in starving him. Delighted in the appetite you could see swelling in his belly, frothing at his jaws when he glowered at you under dark lids.

He huffed mournfully, patience waning, as he removed his hand from between your legs with a purposeful swipe. Grumbled huskily, “You’re really testing my strength o’ character.”

You chuckled breathily as you fondled the door handle behind you, letting out a puff of relief when it gave way to you and you stumbled onto your back foot into the foyer. You could guess what he implied from his crude remark - barely a veiled threat, and yet you were only more eager to peer under the shroud.

“Mustn’t be very strong if you can’t wait a little longer,” you prodded, emboldened by the false safety of being indoors.

He nodded, gritting teeth as he adjusted his jacket. “You make it weak.”

Your throat nearly closed at that, the air suddenly warm and acrid. “Well, I hope you can hold strong till then.”

He let out a hoarse groan, rubbing his neck with stiff knuckles. Dints pulled in his temple as he clenched his jaw, exerted no effort to mask his frustrations.

“Wednesday count as date one?” He asked stiffly.

You pursed your lips as you thought of a response, conscious that if it were the first ‘date’ - in heavy quotes - he’d expect your cunt on the next. You would likely not have bemoaned that, given the thumping you felt already in the peak of your swollen bud, the slick that you felt soak into the gusset of your underwear after such moderate attention. But it was a bit of a game, now, wasn’t it? A creature within you, one whose nature was perhaps a cause for concern, wanted to see if he would crack. Wanted to know what he would do to you if he did.

“No,” you told him.

With a terse nod, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and left.

Date two came to pass on the Sunday, as presumptuously as the first, but he had at least sent you a text from an unsaved contact beforehand; picking you up in 10.

You didn’t recall giving him your number, but wistfully assumed you must have put it in his phone on the drunken night you met him.

With nothing better to do, you replied, what am I wearing?

Dress.

Following his blunt text like it were an instruction from your manager, you dug through your closet for a dress that would suffice - nothing too dressy, you didn’t want to expend too much effort - and nothing too provocative, lest you provoke him. Settled on something plain and black, dense cotton with a bit of flow and sat low on your neckline, but not too low. Once you were dressed you snapped a photo of yourself in your floor-length mirror, concealing your face with your phone, and sent it to him for his approval.

He replied after a few minutes; No stockings.

You frowned as you typed out your answer. It’s cold though.

He never followed up, and you took off the stockings.

When he arrived to pick you up in his black off-roader pickup and you hopped inside - he didn’t open the door for you - you immediately spotted a big purple welt protruding from his cheekbone, fresh and throbbing and speckled with broken capillaries. You asked him if it was the result of another ‘scrap’, so he called it, and he shook his head.

“Match last night,” he told you, before shrugging it off. Then joked - or, intended to joke; “You should see the other lad.”

“Match?” You asked him to clarify, perhaps stupidly, as he revved the rumbling engine of the four-wheeler and drove off like he was in a hurry.

The cab of his truck smelled like tobacco, and the redolence of old sweat embedded in his seat; from how often he’d hop in unshowered after working out, you guessed. There was a tired old Evian bottle in the cup-holder of the centre console, next to it a half-empty pack of cigarettes and a clear orange lighter. The passenger seat was stiff and dusty, you must have been one of very few people to have sat in it.

“Boxing,” he answered.

A boxer, you thought to yourself, eyes clinging to his bulky arm as it gripped and shoved the gearshift; forearm turning stiff as you had imagined it would, where it peeked out from the rolled sleeve of his black crewneck. Thick veins ran in webs under his skin. Tendons bulged in the back of his hand. Now that you looked more closely, you could see the bruises on his knuckles - some turned ochre yellow with age, others fresh and plum and looked tender to the touch. He’d have to have been a heavyweight, given the fucking size of him. Built like a bear, wide set and heavy and so comically tall that he looked too large for the cab of his own truck.

He took you out for dinner, a proper date, he called it - a hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant with four tables and a single waitress. Far more of a date than his last two attempts - you briefly considered counting this as date number one. He ordered himself two meals, an unsurprising quantity, and requested that both be as hot as the chef could make them.

You asked him about his boxing, and he said that he made some money from it but not quite enough to live on. That you probably wouldn’t have seen him on the telly, because he usually fought in the undercards and didn’t like the cameras.

Told you under his breath that he made more cash when the games were ‘under the table’. What that meant you weren’t certain, and he kept it thrillingly vague. “No gloves,” was how he explained it, “and no referee.” You told him that sounded illegal and he only gave you a shrug.

“Are you any good?” You asked with a kink in your brow.

He smirked at you, mouth full of rendang. “I’m alright.”

Something in his tone told you he was being humble. You felt a little giddy. “You ever knocked someone out?”

“Did last night,” he admitted indifferently.

You questioned him a little more. “Are you a violent person?”

He tilted his head either way as though considering his answer, shovelling a hunk of beef folded in naan into his mouth and chewing it thoughtfully. “Not all the time.”

A little shaken, you asked if you should be worried.

“I can be gentle,” is what he answered, with a lidded glare and the faintest smirk that flickered in his lips. You didn’t believe him.

After he paid for your meal - told you crudely to shut it when you offered to split the bill - he put you in his truck ostensibly to drive you back home. But when he missed the turn that he should have taken, you shuffled disquieted in your seat, lacking the bravery to mention it just yet. Perhaps he was simply taking an unfamiliar route.

He must have noticed your unease, because he turned his head to look down at you, but he did little to assuage your discomfort.

“Takin’ you to mine,” he declared bluntly, as though reminding you of a fact you already knew.

You blinked at him, felt the prickles of adrenaline creep down your neck like a nettle sting, an alert from your primal subconscious to a looming threat. “This is only the second date,” you diffidently reminded him.

“I know,” he said, through a toothy grin, apparently amused by your skittishness, “‘m not ready to let you go just yet.”

You nodded stiffly, chewing on the inside of your cheek and picking your nails in an anxious habit. You weren’t frightened of him - despite the awareness that you should be - if you truly were, you’d kick up much more of a fuss. But he was quite unreadable, purposefully so, and what could you possibly do if he decided he wasn’t interested in waiting any longer? Win stupid prizes.

“Don’t panic, love,” he asserted, reaching his burly arm over and taking hold of your knee, thigh dwarfed by his hand as he gave your meat a quick squeeze. “Not interested in takin’ what I haven’t earned.”

His terraced flat was modest and unadorned, a skinny three-storey house sandwiched between rows of similar boxes. Two windows per floor. A layer of tan stucco smeared over its brick. No garden, only some moss and a few sprouting weeds, and a wrought iron fence that lined the sidewalk out the front.

He pulled his pickup to a stop on the side of the road, killed the engine and barked an order at you as he opened the door, “Out y’get.”

The street was barren and dark, and every breath you let out echoed in the lifeless silence. Not even after nine in the evening and the neighbourhood seemed to be devoid of inhabitants, only one or two windows glowed from within - an indication of at least some life. You felt a chill as you stepped out onto the road, tightened your arms around your torso as you wandered bashfully behind him to his front step. He huffed impatiently as he jammed his keys in the lock, shoving and shimmying them loudly until the door reluctantly gave way to him.

He marched into the depths of his flat, swallowed by the darkness within - didn’t bother to turn on the light. You only saw which direction he had headed once a yellow light flickered on in a distant room down the hall. Shutting his front door behind you, leaving it unlocked, you quietly walked in the direction of the light.

His flat was painfully undecorated. Raw, messy with clutter and miscellaneous belongings, in stacks and piles, on tables and chairs. Torn open envelopes, old socks, misplaced boots. Jackets hung over the bannister and sweaters over the backs of his seats. You found yourself in an open kitchen and living room, bare save for the odd piece of secondhand furniture and empty bottles of beer dotted about the place.

You found him leaning into an open fridge, illuminated by its dim bluish light. “Can I getcha somethin’?”

“Um,” you pondered, failing to conceal your unwelcome nerves, a shiver in your voice. “No - thank you, I’m okay.”

He shrugged as he shut the fridge door with his elbow, a bottle of Carlsberg dwarfed in his hand. Stuck the top in his open mouth and popped off the cap with his teeth in a horrid crack, spat it aimlessly into the kitchen. “Suit yourself.”

He left you standing like a fool as he went to sit himself down on his sofa, landing in it with a gruff and satisfied sigh. Sunk into the cushions and spread his knees to make himself comfortable, big enough that he took up two seats of the three-seater. He reached for the remote and turned on the telly, volume low, but audibly some football game or other.

His eyes fastened on you, though - narrow and pointed as though you had been caught in his crosshairs. He tipped his beer into a jutted jaw, took a noisy and insouciant sip.

“All shy now?” He asked.

A defensive no caught in your throat and it emerged as a quiet hiccup. You wanted to smack yourself. “I just - I’m not sure why I’m here.”

He huffed testily. ”Want to go home, do you?”

You knew you should say yes. “No - no it’s not that. I’m - I’m okay.”

He cracked a grin, a flash of teeth before it vanished. “Do I make you that nervous?”

“I’m not nervous,” you retorted, voice higher-pitched than would otherwise be convincing.

“C’mere, then.” He gestured a lazy hitherto with three fingers, an edge in his glare.

Your feet were moving before you disputed. “What for.”

“Siddown,” he grunted.

Better judgement hammering at you, you hesitated before you obeyed, standing in front of him but just out of reach.

“What’re you so afraid of, sweethear’,” he asked richly, and you blinked at him before looking down at your hands.

“I’m not,” you insisted. “Just not - not really used to this sort of thing.”

“No?” He questioned with aplomb, pride oozing from him like crude oil. “Been a while, has it?”

You fawningly shrugged. “Guess so.”

“Am I taking you home, then?”

The second time he had offered it, though this time there was something discerning in his tone; cocksure yet challenging, a last call. Resolved, you sat down mousily in the cushion next to him. Shrivelled so that you took up as little space as possible, held your arms tight to your body.

You shook your head, steadfast. “No, that’s okay.”

He let slip a grin at your answer, canines sharp and catching the glint of the dim television in front of him. You thought he might hang his mammoth arm over your shoulder, or rest a hand on your thigh; might test the waters with a noncommittal touch to see how you reacted to his crossing of the boundary.

But he had no such subtlety nor restraint - instead he slipped his hand behind you and hooked you by the waist, hoisting you one-armed from your distant spot with the ease of picking up a house cat. You let out a sharp gasp as he plonked you on his left knee so that you straddled it, back firm against his side as he riveted you in place with his forearm.

You yelped as you were made to forcibly bestride his thigh, left tongue-tied in your shock and momentarily unable to utter a word of dispute. Heart set to panic, scarcely able to subdue your hurricane of thoughts, you exerted all effort wriggle out of his grip - bucked and twisted and pulled, all painfully futile.

His strength was unfathomable and frightening, the muscles of his only restraining arm hardly even tensed to hold you in place. It was easy for him. He briefly leaned to the side to dump his beer on the side table.

You barked; “Simon - let go of-”

Me was muffled by the right hand that swiftly sealed over your mouth, fingertips burrowing into your cheeks, the top of his hand tucked under your nose and barely allowed you to suck in a breath.

He shushed you quick and sharp, and you let out a defeated moan as you persisted in your attempts to writhe free. You clamped your legs closed around his thigh as if you might seal off your cunt from him, but he simply let out a breathy chuckle - lightly bounced his knee to remind you that he had you wedged open as he pleased, and the force beared down on your centre with each jolt had you squeaking like a mouse into his palm.

“Settle down,” he chided, stern-toned, you felt the coarse stubble of his jaw scrape down the side of your face as he craned his head beside yours. “Don’t you kick up a fuss now.”

His colossal paw raked up your thigh, hitching the forgiving fabric of your skirt along with it and leaving pointy gooseflesh in its wake.

Still you squirmed, but your defensive tenacity was rapidly fizzling away - doused with the sobering knowledge that you had made the very bed he was now forcing you to lie in.

“You knew what you were after when you came out, didn’t you,” he snarled, accusing, lifting the hem of your skirt up to your belly.

You shook your head as ferociously as he allowed you to, his suffocating hand stifling both your movement and your breathing. You whined into his clammy palm, hoping he’d be able to translate the sounds you made in place of words; not yet.

Whether or not he understood, he ignored you; his fingertips clawed over your mound, catching in the thin fabric of the plain underwear you wore under your dress - dug into the leg hole where the hem sat against your groin, before yanking it to the other side. He tugged at the elasticated cotton, shimmying the gusset so it was entirely out of his way; cunt bare and exposed, your vealy lips rubbed raw against the rough denim of his jeans.

“Like a cat in heat, eh?” He grumbled, feeding his imperious hand between your legs where they were held open by his titanic thigh. Jammed his thick fingers into your folds without hesitation, indifferent to your whimpering.

His solid nose buried under your ear, right into the underside of your jaw, and he took a deep and wolfish sniff. “Can fuckin’ smell it on you.”

You winced as he pressed the pads of two fingers against your twitching opening, not yet slick; nudging at the precipice as though hoping to milk you of your nectar - but he didn’t puncture you. Instead, he languidly dragged them back up to your timid bud where it was hidden under its hood, used your scant fluid to barely lubricate his incursion.

He bucked his knee, making you bounce into a better position for him. Began chafing circles with the tips of mean fingers, kneading out your clit with a steady pressure that made you sob into the palm of his restraining hand.

He was deft, knew how to make quick work of you - you felt your watery blood turn viscous and hot, it flooded down the middle of you as though spiralling an open drain. Pumped warm right into the centre of your bud and made it shudder and swell, twitched with hypersensitivity.

Morally, you spurned it, fought against it viciously - the man so arrogant and cruel as to forcibly pleasure you despite vehement protest. But your feeble body spoke far louder, betrayed you with its carnal appetite. Your acrid resistance turned to pudding under his abrasive hand.

No longer wrestling, your hips leaned into him, spine arching and curling, flesh so pathetically desperate for purchase that it begged implicitly in spite of your expressed dispute.

He sensed your blossoming acquiescence, heard your grunts and moans of defiance melt into high-pitched, needy whines; you felt his wrenching grip of you soften and a rough smile curl against your cheek.

“Tha’s it,” he purred, low voice thrummed directly into your skin. You could only mewl into his palm like a trapped animal, his hand growing wet against your mouth. “Tha’s what you were after, eh? All that whingeing.”

A wanton oh, fuck, was muted by his palm as he slowed and eased his pace, no longer toiling to subdue you. With two fingers flat against the crux of your folds, he ran them up and down your seam - uncovering your puffy clit with each upward stroke and making you flinch with the shock.

You tightened your legs around his thigh on reflex, curling your pelvis away from his touch as you grew so sensitive it began to burn - but your range of motion was sorely limited, and relief you could not find.

He removed his smothering hand from your mouth and smoothed it down your waist, finding the meat of your hip and taking a fastening grip. Anchored your pelvis still and held you down, exacerbating the pressure on your cunt; parting it like a butterfly and grinding his coarse denim against flushed lips, you felt your slick seep out of you and soak the fabric underneath it.

You rocked your head back against his collarbone, feeling its rigidity at the back of your skull, and your eyes fluttered shut; you felt his hot breathing on the side of your head, an airy chortle at your whimpering capitulation. He only slowed his infliction, gently grazing your yearning clit as though to tease it, to force you to debase yourself as you pleaded for his brutality.

“F-fuck-” You mewled, face flustered, skin febrile - you were suddenly so infuriatingly close, wracked by a surging current that shuddered into your core and made you spasm and shiver. The dawning heat was abruptly overpowering, and you leaned desperately into his hand to chase it. “Simon - Please - I-”

Every attempt you made to speak or complain was bitten off by an indulgent sob, weak and pleading cries, begging him to release you.

“Please, what?” He gloated deeply, you could hear his smug grin without having to see it. “Speak up.”

Your mind was frayed, and your tongue was fat and heavy in your mouth. You squeezed out your answer through a strained whine; “I’m - I’m going to-”

“Y’gonna come, are you?” He mocked, voice rumbling and cruel. Seemed to find immense satisfaction in your pathetic desperation.

He pressed down on your scalding clit and forced a pained cry from your throat when you failed to answer him.

“Y-yes,” you bawled, driven close to pitiful tears.

He pinched your plump and angry bud between his fingers and made you jolt, before he let out a chuckle, and his hand glided out from between your legs. Left glossy trails of your syrup up your mound, your belly, as he abandoned you.

An agonised groan lept from your chest as you buckled forward, wrecked with desperation, suddenly and brutally hollow.

“Taste o’ your own medicine, eh?” He crooned, haughty, he smacked the side of your thigh with two firm pats as if to reassure you. “I don’t put out easy, either.”

You only sobbed, deafened by the thunder of your throbbing blood in your ears, cunt still so ravenous you were rendered a slave to it. You were unconsciously grinding your cunt on his thigh, rocking your hips, hissing at the abrasion of the denim on your clit - but it was better than nothing.

“Look at you,” he snorted, leaning back on the sofa with his arms hung over the back, as if to enjoy the show. As he reached for his abandoned beer, he chided; “Fuckin’ needy slut, aren’t you?”

He glided a hand up your spine as you rode his leg like a little animal, and maybe you could finish yourself off like that, if you tried hard enough - but his claw settled at the back of your neck and took malicious hold. He yanked you back by it so that your head knocked against his shoulder, the angle he had you at starving your clit once more.

“‘Nuff o’ that, sweethear’,” he muttered into your temple. “You can wait, like me.”

You whimpered, the humiliation finally having caught up to you - it rained over you cold and bitter, and you suddenly wanted to run and hide.

He put both paws on your hips, then, and hoisted you up and off of him - dumped you into the sofa cushion beside him and you landed with a bounce.

You grunted bitterly, still panting. “You’re such a-” you breathed, twitching. “Prick.”

“Careful,” he grumbled, scolding you, and you sealed your lips.

After a short and breathless silence, you heard him chuckle to himself as he stuck his beer between his lips, swallowing a frothy sip as if he hadn’t just left you a wreck.

You glanced at him, to see what was so funny - and you saw him swipe his thigh with his thumb, a mortifying patch darkened by your slick, more than you had thought, soaked through.

“Fuckin’ mess you made,” he jeered, voice low and harsh as though distracted. He grunted out a tiresome sigh. “Gonna be tough to wait for date three, eh?”

You only nodded, mind blunt and blurry, suddenly remembering the rule you had set.

“What’ve you got in mind,” you puffed, shimmying your dress back over your thighs to regain some of your stolen decency.

He sucked his teeth, rocked his head as he took another sip of his Carlsberg.

“Come watch me fight,” he said.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod smut #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #simon ghost riley x reader #bitterfruit fics #bitten-fruit

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luveline · 2 years ago

Text

losers | remus lupin

“Please.”

“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?”

you find remus’ number on an abandoned motorbike. things snowball from there. [10k words]

fem!reader, fluff, first date, smut mdni, implied inexperienced!reader, almost rockstar!remus, mentioned that remus takes painkillers, muggle!au, early 2000’s au

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ There’s a motorbike outside of the cafe.

It’s huge. Too heavy for you to move. Technically, you hadn’t found it at all, it was left there in the dead of night a few days ago and hasn’t budged since. It’s illegally parked, a fact that your manager won't stop muttering about while she’s elbow deep in latte foam and coffee cakes.

“I’m getting the bastard thing towed,” she grumbles that morning. “Let the police deal with it.”

That seems rather harsh to you. It isn’t necessarily in the way, and it looks well loved. Perhaps whoever left it can’t remember where they left it, having stumbled home on inebriated footing after one too many at the pub across the street. You think about how much it must cost to get your stuff back after it’s been towed, and though you aren’t sure of the specifics, you know it can’t be cheap. So, when your manager falls into conversation with a regular and your break begins, you creep outside to do some investigating.

It’s a hulking thing made of more black than silver. There are stickers across the left side of the body, weathered and peeling, though one is newer than the others and immediately draws your eye.

A phone number.

If lost, please call.

You take your phone out of your pocket, a flip phone with one dangling charm in the shape of a star. You click each faded button slowly. You're scared to talk to someone you don’t know, but relieved to maybe save the day.

It goes for ages.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” you say, dropping your voice into its sweetest tones, though nerves make you too soft, and you worry you’re hard to hear. ��Hey, um, sorry to bother you. I work at The Mill, it’s a– a cafe in the city centre… Are you missing a bike, by any chance? A motorbike?”

“Oh, thank you. Yeah, it’s my friend’s. He can be… forgetful.” The voice that speaks is both smooth and gritty, impossibly, like whoever it is that’s talking smoked half a pack of cigarettes before he answered the phone. He clears his throat. “I hope it hasn’t been an imposition for you.”

“Actually, uh, my manager wants to have it towed. Like, now. I can try to fend her off but honestly she’s like, that physics law, um, unstoppable force? Uh,” ��you’re stuttering, making it worse, because his voice is surprisingly handsome and you’re an idiot through and through— “yeah, so could you come and get it?”

“Yes! Yeah, absolutely, we’re on our way. Thank you.”

“Sure. Of course.”

You hear something not meant for you, the tail end of, “Sirius, get up. You better call Marl and—”

Phone back in your pocket, you take a quick glance around the street before reaching out to run your finger over the cracked leather of the motorbike seat. You’ve never ridden one before. You’ve never wanted to. The level of fearlessness one needs for it isn’t one you possess.

You’re the opposite of fearless.

The sun hides behind a wave of clouds. Your skin chills near immediately, your prim slacks and apron a worthless defence against the cold. It’s an average day here, grey and quiet. Occasionally a couple will pass you, hand in hand as they traverse the worn pavement. You smile at an elderly man and his dog as they shuffle across the street and into the cafe. Your smile fades as you tune into the fierce tones of your manager, demanding to know where you’ve gone. If your absence is what distracts her from calling the police, so be it.

You’re considering getting your phone back out to play Snake when a passing car slows beside you. You straighten up and out, feeling your spine click in more places than it should as the passenger door opens and an insanely attractive man throws himself out of it.

“My angel!” he cries, heading straight for you.

You take a panicked step backward. The man dives for his motorbike. You flinch, mystified by his enthusiasm and his opposite appearance. Short sleeves reveal arms full of dark tattoos, with one side marred by a brutally long scar from his elbow to the back of a ring-laden hand. You tear your eyes from him as a second door closes across the street, and feel all the air rush from your chest as a second man approaches.

He’s very pretty. It might be redundant to say it to yourself, presented as you are with an undeniable truth, but you think it anyway. Sandy brown hair, pale skin, and in enough layers to make up for his friends lack thereof, the second man ignores any dramatics and meets you head on.

“Hi,” he says, holding out his hand, “you’re the one who called?”

Closer now, you can see the scars on his face. They stretch over the ridge of his nose and into his eyebrow. A smaller one tugs as he talks against his top lip.

You take his hand and shake it limply. “Yeah, that was me.”

If he’s concerned with your nervousness he doesn’t show it. His smile doesn’t move. “He wants to say thank you. He will, once he gets over himself.”

“Thank you!” the dark-haired man calls. “She’s my everything. I’ve been sick with worry.”

“Have you?” the man in front of you asks, his voice steady, almost intimidating in its impassiveness.

“Yes, Moons, I have been… not that you’d know.”

“Some of us have real problems,” Moons snips, though he quickly looks at you like he’s embarrassed. “Sorry. He brings out the worst in me.”

“You must be good friends.”

You don’t know why you say it. He only smiles.

“We must be.”

The first man stands up from checking over his motorbike and beams at you. You suspect it’s an expression that works in his favour more often than not. “What can I give you, doll?”

“No, nothing. Please. I’ll just be glad to hear the end of it.”

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, really."

Your manager calls your name, clear as day despite the thick pane of glass and brick walls separating you.

"That's you?" Moons asks.

"That's me. Sorry."

"No, don't be. Thanks so much for calling."

You nod hurriedly, throwing them both a 'nice to meet you, I'm sorry for leaving so fast' kind of smile and head back inside.

You take a sneaky look back when you're behind the counter again. They’ve turned their backs to you, Moons' friend ruffling his hair roughly. After a minute or two, Moons gets back in his car, and the motorbike pulls away like it was never there to begin with.

What sort of name is Moons? you ask yourself. It's a question that stays with you for a few days. You find yourself hoping you'll see him again, or that his friend's motorbike will turn up outside of the cafe for a few long days and give you an excuse to call him. His number stays unsaved in your recent calls menu for a while. Eventually, you forget about him altogether; the motorbike, the call, the gentle wave of his hair.

You're hard-pressed to forget his voice, though. There'd been something familiar about it.

"Nice highscore."

You jump hard and wince as the metallic taste of blood hits your taste buds. To make it worse, you slam your phone up into the counter it was hiding under in shock. It makes a fatal crunching sound.

You shove it into your pocket and look up. Standing there, in all his handsome weariness, is Moons, sans friend. He's wearing nice clothes, clean and clearly ironed. You're immediately aware of your ratty uniform and your unkempt hair.

"Shit," you say, which is so fucking embarrassing, honestly, you could fall through the floor and stay there, "Sorry. What can I get you?"

His eyebrows inch up his forehead. "What's the easiest thing to make?"

That's not a question you get often. "Uh, regular black coffee, or tea, or, the uh– the hot chocolate's not that hard. But you should order whatever you like, of course."

Moons smiles at you. You're starting to understand the nickname (assuming it is a nickname). He has this odd but enticing presence about him, like that awestruck feeling of looking up at night and seeing all the teeny tiny stars and the moonlight that comes down with them, bright and somewhat daunting.

"Sure you don't mind?"

"I'm paid not to mind."

"Can I get the biggest cup of tea you can make? Milk and two sugars, please."

"Absolutely." You sidestep to the register and click a bunch of the wrong buttons. You're unprofessionally flustered. "Uh, three sixty five?"

He passes you a five pound note. Your tip cup is for the more generous type, and he has no trouble dropping his palmful of change into it. He barely looks. You're expecting him to take a seat but he stays standing, one arm pressed to the counter, the other held up. He scratches behind his ear absentmindedly, as though he has nowhere else to be.

"Are you in a hurry?" you ask, confused.

He stays quiet for enough time to shit you up. You're tipping milk over your hand and hoping he hasn't seen it when he says, "No rush. I'm here to see you."

You look over your shoulder at him. You can't help it. "To see me."

"Yeah."

You spin back to his tea. The counter is covered in spills and sugar, cup tops and wooden stirrers. You take them all in with wide eyes. Nobody ever comes to see you. Not your friends, not family (unless they want something). Especially not boys you met once for two minutes.

"Is there something wrong?" you ask.

You clip the lid onto his big tea and wrap it in napkins so it doesn't burn his hands.

"Nothing's wrong," he says kindly. "I wanted to apologise. Your boss was upset with you. It was Sirius' fault. We owe you for it."

"You really don't have to say sorry. She wasn’t that mad. No harm, no foul."

You put his cup of tea down in front of him and try to smile like girls do in the movies. Soft doe eyes, not too bright, not too awkward. You give up after a second and feel it twist into something regrettable.

His long silence makes you squirm.

"A thank you, then.”

He offers you an envelope. You take it.

The paper is crisp and thick. Your fingers are clumsy, and it takes you too many seconds to fold the envelope's lip and pull out the card stock inside.

You look up in shock. "I can't–"

He's not there. You look to the door, catching what might've been his hand as he walks out of view.

He's left you two concert tickets. You don't go to concerts. You might have, when you were younger, and had friends to follow. As it stands he's given you two seated tickets for a show in the Pointer Arena not far from where you work, for a band you've never heard of. The price on each is a solid £20, which is way too much repayment for ringing a number from a sticker. Worse, you're not sure you have somebody who can use the second one.

You hope he'll come back for clarification alone, and a little to see him, but he doesn't, and soon the date on the ticket matches the date on your calendar and you're standing outside of the venue with no clue how to hold yourself.

You stand in line for a while. It's a very long line made up of mostly younger women. You listen for the calling of a reseller and spot a group of young girls trying to haggle with them, reluctantly leaving your place in line.

"Hi," you say quietly to the one furthest from the epicentre. "I'm sorry if this is weird. I have an extra ticket tonight, and I was wondering if you'd like it? I know it's seated, but maybe you could use it to get in and then, uh, not sit? Or just sit." You could writhe around on the ground in shame. You hold out the spare ticket. "If you want it."

"Are you kidding?"

"No, seriously."

She takes the ticket and you walk away before she can try and give it back to you. Whether she uses it or not, it's no longer your problem to deal with. The lady who'd been standing behind you lets you back in line, for which you're extremely grateful, and you shiver your way to the front with nerves churning your stomach.

You've imagined being turned away twenty times by the time they usher you through the doors. The air is buzzing with excitement, enough of it to ramp up your nerves, and you smile weakly at the people who pass you on the way up to the seating area you've been designated. The Pointer Arena is a smaller venue with much more standing than seating capacity available. The seats are at the sides and back of the second floor, looking down at the pit with a safety barrier in front.

You slide into your seat and peer down at the crowd as it fills up one ant of a person at a time. You can't distinguish one person from another after a while. It’s a moving sea of dark clothes.

It takes a long time for the opening act to come on. You're not having much fun. You'd tried to use the computer in the cafe to research the bands playing tonight but the dial up hadn't been working and your manager hates when you take long breaks, so you aren't sure you'll even enjoy yourself. You're not sure why you came here — is it sad, to come here alone? It looks sad, you think, pathetic, but it doesn't feel sad. You're not very good at talking, anyways. It's so difficult. Or maybe you just make it that way.

This is why you regret coming. Any time spent by yourself is time to think. You hate thinking, but it's all you seem to be able to do. Think and think and think. Your mind runs in the same circles. Things you've done, things you wish you did, things you want to do so badly it makes you feel sick. You can't stand it.

The crowd begins to rise in volume. Cheers echo against the atrium ceiling, and you push yourself to the edge of your seat to see what's making them all so excited.

The opening band. They're too far away to see clearly. First on stage is a man with brown skin and a head of black curls, a guitar swinging from his neck, the body barely held as he waves to the masses. Next comes a paler man with hair tied up in a bun who sits down behind the drum kit and doesn't move much after that. A girl practically sprints to centre stage, scooping up a waiting guitar (or bass?) and strumming down the body appreciatively. She has purple hair, bright and choppy, particularly abrasive against the alabaster white of her skin.

And last on stage… last on stage is Moons.

You move forward suddenly, smacking your face against the plexiglass barrier and biting your cheek for the second time in a week. Used to your mistreatment, the poorly healed skin wastes no time splitting, and the metallic taste of blood makes you cringe.

That's Moons. There are two huge screens either side of the stage that magnify him. First his hand on the microphone, a scar coiling up from his wrist to his thumb purple against his skin. Then his face. You wouldn't forget what he looks like so soon, not when you've half obsessed over him for days with could-be's because he'd wanted to see you and you have a bad habit of inventing future's with people you don't know, but even if you did it wouldn't matter. You've never met anyone else with three scars as he has across his face, taking centre stage.

You hadn't realised the tickets were to see his band. It makes sense, now, why your seat is in such a quiet area, and why the people sitting close by aren't firecracker happy at the sight of them. They must've received their tickets in the same way, gifts or thank yous for small favours.

Your mouth dries as they begin to play. It's not what you're expecting. Of course, you haven't really had time to expect anything, and yet you're shocked when they start to play a slow song. He doesn't really look like a rockstar, but a heartthrob? You can see it easily. The long lengths of his lashes, and the dark honey of his eyes. His smile, so small but somehow piercing.

His voice is careful. He doesn't sing anything impressive —there's no belting or high notes— but you still find yourself wringing your hands together, entranced by his confidence. He dances around the melodies and fills up every space he can find between the beat of the drums and the searing guitar riffs that follow.

They only play five songs. By the time they've finished you're feeling sick to your stomach, and you can't get your heart to calm down. You hadn't known a word of the lyrics, but you'd felt them.

They're good.

Like, too good to be openers for long.

The crowd echoes your sentiment. They clap and scream and wolf whistle. The noise vibrates in the depth of your stomach. The cheering doubles when the headlining band’s techies emerge. The lights go down. Equipment begins to roll out.

You scrounge through your purse for a lip balm and think about heading downstairs to the concession stands for an overpriced bottle of water to wash away the unfortunate tang of blood. It aches to pay, but if you don't soon you might get nauseous, and that would be a real disaster, throwing up here of all places.

You hear his voice before you see him. He's laughing, talking to somebody about the set.

"It was great!" compliments a feminine voice. "I don't know what you were so worried about, Remus, you're really great. And if you weren't, Marl would've saved the day anyways with her gorgeous showmanship."

"Thanks, baby," says a second voice. Marl.

"Thanks, Mary," Moons says.

What had Mary called him? Remus? Odd, not quite as strange as Moons.

You try not to tense as footsteps approach.

"Can I sit?" he asks.

You look up too fast. He's a little damp, the hair closest to his face curled with it, but he smells good as he sits down. He must've washed up.

"I– I've been calling you Moons in my head," you admit, not sure what to say.

He's intimidating. You don't imagine he knows it. He sits in the chair without any fanfare, setting his forearm on the rest between your two seats and turning his face to you completely, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, almost like he doesn't want to smile but can't help himself. His eyes are the slightest bit lidded, emphasising the brilliance (and unfairness) of his lashes, so thick and dark you wonder if he's wearing makeup.

"You can call me whatever you want to, but my name's Remus. I should've told you that before. I was… distracted."

He isn't being coy, you realise. He easily could be if he wanted to, but he was genuinely lost for words for a second.

"I didn't really tell you mine," you say, hoping to ease his gentle confusion.

He says your name like it's easy. Like he enjoys the sound of it. "Y/N. Do you like music?"

Is that a trick question? His eyes trace up to your eyebrows as they pinch together, but he doesn't amend his question. Not a trick, then.

"I like music,” you say.

"I realise it's brave to ask someone to come and see you on stage. And that I look like a tosser sometimes with the stage lights and makeup."

"No," you say quickly, "you don't. You looked just fine. You looked good. I bet it's hard getting on stage like that, and in front of this many people. And singing. You have a really nice voice."

His eyes soften. "Thank you. Do you wanna go get a drink with me? There's a bar. It's quiet."

Your elbow brushes against his long sleeve. "Yeah." You're not breathless enough to embarrass yourself, but it's a close call.

Remus leads you up and out of the seats. The venue is large in that it has just as many hallways and back rooms as it has places to watch the show. Remus’ warm hand catches your elbow, a friendly touch that guides you around the barrier and through a dimly lit hallway that takes you to the bar.

The bar overlooks the stage, but the sound of the band and the crowd is dampened severely, making for a sorely needed respite. VIP's mill around the room on plush leather sofas and cushy bar stools sipping from sweating glass bottles. Remus' hand moves up to your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze as a familiar face waves you over.

"Hey, it's you!"

You smile at Remus' motorbike friend. You're a hundred percent sure his name is Sirius, but you won't say it aloud in case you're wrong. Beside him sits the other man you'd seen on stage with them, the guitarist with brown skin and a head full of thick hair. You look between the three of them in secret shock, wondering if handsome attracts handsome or if it's just dumb luck that they ended up together.

"James, this is the babe that found Stacia," Sirius says.

James wrinkles his nose. "Hi," he says, in a voice that sounds deeply apologetic, years of it like the rings of a tree. "How are you?"

"I'm good. Um, and you?"

"I'm good! Thanks, I'm good, it's nice of you to come see us. Did you like the show?"

"Yeah, I did. I had no idea you guys were musicians."

He splits his attention between you and his jacket. He pulls a glasses case out of his pocket, clicks it open, and straightens out a pair of wire frames.

"Couldn't tell from our baby boy's general demeanour?" he asks. "Hey, that's better, I can see you now."

"Sirius is the youngest," Remus says.

"And the handsomest."

"No, Marl's clearly the handsome one," James says lightly.

Sirius takes the rebuttal in good jest and brandishes his drink toward you like a toast. "Want a beer?"

"I'm getting her one," Remus says, "come on, give me a minute here."

Everybody laughs. You laugh too, turning your face into your shoulder to smother the sound.

"Well, come and sit with us, make yourself comfortable," James says, moving his jacket off of the chair in front of you.

Remus makes a small, apprehensive sound. "Drinks first." He looks to you for confirmation. "Yeah. We'll be back."

You follow him to the bar. Your shoes, a pair of dirty converse you wish you'd swapped for heels or something sophisticated, squeal against the hardwood floor. How were you supposed to know you'd see him again tonight? In what world does stuff like this happen to scruffy waitresses? You're starting to think he might be somebody.

Not that it matters if he is or isn't.

But if he is… This is embarrassing, right? Not knowing who he is.

There must be a couple thousand people here tonight. Then again, his band were the opening act, so it doesn't necessarily mean they're all famous or anything.

"Hey," Remus says softly, stopping your thoughts cold. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Sorry. I've never been in here before, anywhere that's like it,” you say.

"Venues are all different but the bars don't change," he says. "What do you like?"

"I'm not a big drinker."

"That's okay. I just wanted an excuse to be alone with you." He doesn't even give you time to recover. "Truth is, I wanted to ask you out. But between shows I couldn't find time, and next week I'm in San Marino."

What you mean to say is, you wanted to ask me out? But instead, you choke, "You're going to Italy?"

Remus pushes a seat out for you, helping you up with a solid hand, and, while your fingers are still warm from his touch, he says, "San Marino isn't Italy. I didn't know that 'til a few months ago. But pretty much."

"What's in San Marino?"

"A wedding." He climbs into the seat next to you, smiling.

The tan colour of his long-sleeves contrasts his pale hands. Your eyes flash to his ring finger. Not his wedding.

Remus isn’t easy to talk to. It's not wholly his fault. He doesn't force conversation, leaving you awkwardly searching for something to say. You're not the best conversationalist either. He clearly doesn't mind it.

You're in the midst of a clumsy retelling of a shitty customer service moment when he tips his head to the left just a touch.

"Maybe we can go on an actual date when I'm home,” he says.

He says it like he's talking about the weather. You'd be worried he was messing with you, but then he smiles again, flicking his index finger against your wrist mildly. "You don't have to answer me now. Finish telling your story."

"It was pretty much finished. And– and I'd like to. Go on a real date. I've never been out of the country, so you'll have to forgive me if I want to know everything about San Marino."

He looks at your lips. Says, "Good," and doesn't give any indication that he's noticed how nervous you are. That is, until he covers your trembling hand with his and presses it flat to the bar.

"You're really pretty," he murmurs. He takes a moment, and he smiles. "Come with me? If I don't give Sirius some attention soon he'll start showing off."

—

James is starting to wonder if he should invite you to San Marino. He's not that stupid; it would be a huge pain if you were standing in the middle of all his wedding photos and you and Remus don't work out. But, while he's certainly and majorly jumping the gun, he has a suspicion he’ll be seeing you again.

James has never seen Remus like this before.

His friend is usually quiet, quipping every now and then perhaps at Sirius' insufferable antagonism but otherwise brooding. He hasn't seen him smile this much, ever.

James is under no illusions — he knows Remus loves him very much. He knows Remus is happy, and not always healthy but managing. He knows Remus is pleased with their lives and ecstatic to have their music take off. But he also knows Remus won't let himself have a good thing, not really. Maybe that's why he's asked you out now, when in a week they'll be in San Marino, and a week after that they'll be in Cardiff to officially start the new tour.

He knows Remus, sweetheart, kind hearted, miraculous Remus, tends to let people down. He's a stickler for asking people out and cancelling the day before. It's how it always goes. James will ask how the date went and Remus will shake his head and say, "it didn’t work out."

He knows Remus doesn't mean to hurt anybody. He just… can't get close.

But he's trying, with you. A glass of cordial in one hand, the other behind your chair, Remus tells you one of his more embarrassing stories about how he'd taken a bad fall and ended up in A&E with half of an eyebrow. He doesn't mention the painkillers that made him woozy.

You've relaxed considerably since sitting down. James would be happy to report that you're having a good time. You have your own drink in hand, and your eyes are bright, with a receding space between your face and Remus' as the story goes on. It's like watching two magnets fight to hold themselves apart.

Matter of time, James thinks to himself smugly.

—

Honesty is important. You admit to yourself that you and Remus aren't exactly a perfect match. Both quiet, both not quite social butterflies, your conversations had occasionally been stilted and slow, but you've only met twice. Things don't have to be perfect, and more than that — there's a spark there. A twinge of a possibility. He'd liked what little he knew about you enough to ask to see you again, and you'd like what little you knew about him in turn to say yes.

It doesn't have to be perfect, you insist to yourself, a bundle of nerves. Nothing does.

He looks pretty perfect. Base of his palm pressed to the brick wall of the cafe, hand angled down as his fingers grasp the neck of a bouquet whose flowers have been shedding petals onto the damp pavement below. He holds his other hand against his chest, clicking buttons on his phone.

You approach from the left and watch him play a game of Snake.

"You play Snake?" you ask.

"Doesn't everybody?" he asks back, his smile softening what might otherwise feel like a chastisement. He doesn't look up from his phone.

"Woah, how long have you been out here?" you ask, eyeing his weirdly long snake.

Remus guides the snake into a wall on purpose. It dies, his high score flashes across the screen, and he aims an apologetic look your way. "Sorry, that was rude." He doesn't try to hide that he's looking over your face. "Thanks for coming."

He leans in and kisses your cheek. Delighted warmth curls in your stomach, worse when he passes you the bouquet of flowers. They've mostly survived his poor treatment, and there's a lot of them. He's left the price tag on and you're not sure if he's noticed. You pretend not to see it.

"Thank you…” You look away from the flowers, all whites and reds and baby’s breath, to ogle him as subtly as you can manage. “Wow, you've caught the sun. Was it lovely in San Marino?"

"I'll tell you all about it over dinner,” he says. “I thought we'd walk, it's not far." He holds out his hand. You wipe your palm against your side before you take it, worried you'll have clammy hands. He must guess, because he says, "Don't be nervous."

"I am," you say hopelessly. "I've never been on a date before."

"This is your first date?"

You feel a hot flush coming on. "I– yeah. That's embarrassing, I shouldn't have told you that."

"No, it's a good thing. Now I know it has to be extra special."

"It doesn't," you say.

"I was hoping it would be." He pulls you down the pavement and further into the city centre toward the main high street. "San Marino. It was beautiful, and I took a couple of photos but I didn't have room on my phone. Well, I could've deleted Snake–"

"Why would you?" you joke, grinning.

He laughs, and squeezes your hand slightly. "Exactly. I have priorities. It's a long flight, and looking over the photos can only take up so much time. No, but it really was… it was beautiful. I'd never given much thought to a destination wedding. They make sense, right? It's the best day of your life, why would you have it here?"

He tilts his chin toward the grey sky. You look up with him, feeling the cold wind kiss the sides of your face and pull through your hair.

"Come on, Remus, it's not that bad. If it's sun you're after, you could just wait for British summer time. You know, the whole three days of it."

He laughs — you've made him laugh twice already. This is going okay. Laughing while looking at one another, a bouquet in one hand and his hand in the other, you feel that curl of delight begin to bloom. It fills your insides up, has you smiling until your eyelashes brush in the corners.

"It was James' wedding. Do you remember which one that was?"

He asks so kindly. You don't doubt for a second that he wouldn't care if you forgot. It's refreshing, even if it's something you'd expect.

"I remember. I didn't realise he was getting married."

"Don't ever say that in front of him, he'll put himself on the cross." He swings your hand as you turn a corner. The Italian restaurant you'd agreed on winks from a distance.

"He's devoted," you guess.

"He's insane. He was worse when we were younger. His girlfriend– his wife," he amends, "Lily, she's really something else. Warm and funny, but she's been keeping him on his toes for years. She has family in San Marino, hence the wedding."

You listen to him talk eagerly. His voice is as handsome as his face, and the more he says the less stilted he becomes. There had been a strained quality to it before (strained, or restrained? something he wasn't saying) that's all but disappeared.

"It was like a movie. White linen, sand, crying."

"Did you cry?" you ask, expecting a puffed up chest.

"So much. Too much, maybe. I was half of the best man."

"Half?"

"We had to share, me and Sirius. They've always been…" Remus slows his steps. "Am I being boring? I'm talking too much about me."

"We have time. I want to hear it. I'd like to hear it," you say.

James and Sirius are brothers. Remus sees your surprised look and doesn't condemn you for it. Sirius is unofficially adopted. The Potter's fostered him from ages thirteen until he aged out, and though they tried to adopt him, Sirius was reluctant. Remus doesn't get into the reasons beyond that, and you don't ask. You suspect he's only telling you about it to drive home how much the Potter's love Sirius. How much James does.

Remus had been Sirius' friend from their very first year of comprehensive school. Sirius moved in with the Potter's, and, adoring as they were, they let him have friends over whenever he liked. James, Sirius, and Remus spent the next decade together like that, hiding in Sirius' room. Best friends, entirely inseparable, and all fiercely protective of each other.

"They've always been like brothers."

"But not…"

He understands what you're worried to say. "I think it would've been weird… I had a candle burning for James. For a long time."

Your jaw drops a little. "And you just had to watch him have the most romantic wedding ever," you whisper sympathetically. You're joking: it's clear the candle isn't burning now.

"Told you I cried," he says. "No, but you've seen him. He's a supermodel. It's awful."

"Remus, I think you might be underestimating how handsome you are," you say. You bite your lip and look at his chin rather than his eyes.

He's generous. He gives your wrist a tug and chuckles warmly. "I'm glad you think so. Tonight might have been awkward, otherwise."

You duck together inside of the restaurant, hands falling apart as Remus gives his last name for the reservation. Lupin. Your face has a mind of its own.

"Charming, isn't it?"

"It is," you say emphatically, denying his sarcasm. "I've never heard anything like that. Lupine, like a fox?"

"Wolf."

A server shows you to your table and hands you two leather covered menus. Leather, not plastic, a sign that tonight is going to be classy. You've dressed for the occasion in a smart blouse and slacks, too terrified of wearing a dress. Remus seems to have done the same as you, reaching for smart but dodging the mark in a button down and a casual jacket. When he takes off his coat, he looks perfect. He fits right in.

"Could we get a glass?" he asks the server. "For the flowers? If it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all."

You run your hand across the silken tablecloth and the space between you both feels somehow smaller than when you'd been holding hands. Outside, you could let your gaze drift to the pavement, the fenced in trees, the couples that passed you by. Here, you're forced to watch one another.

It's not so bad. It's agonising.

"This is weird," you say. You flinch when you hear yourself. "Sorry, not that you're weird! I'm weird. I've never ever done this."

"No, I know," he says, almost murmuring, "it's okay."

"I just blurted out what I was thinking–"

"I know." He sits back in his chair. His head tilts down, his eyelashes kissing the skin above his brows as he fixes you with a look. It has the intended effect, tension easing from your rigid spine and tight shoulders. "This is weird. But it's still early. It could get weirder."

You like that he says it as if it's a good thing.

You order the same thing he does, and you don't turn down his offer to get a bottle of wine, though it feels too grown up. You keep forgetting you're an adult, and that your life isn't on hold. Things can happen to you at any time.

"I want to address the elephant in the room," he says.

Not promising. "Okay."

"Are we having dessert?" Remus leans forward on both forearms. Hair falls in his eyes. He's dressed nicely and he's handsome but there's something homespun about him, something golden. You can't help looking at him and thinking impossibly forward thoughts, cheesy waffle from the films. He's familiar. "Nobody ever wants to get dessert with me. It's actually a real issue for me."

"I'll get dessert with you." A smoother you with more confidence, who wore the dress and asked him to go to the Thai restaurant instead, would've said something more suave. We're having whatever you want, handsome.

Remus flips the menu to the very last page and reads the desserts aloud. For himself, it seems, half-muttered and apprehensive. "Chocolate cake from places like this will either be the nicest thing we've ever eaten or burnt in the microwave. And it's childish that I want chocolate cake. I should be spoon feeding you creme brulee. Or whipped cream and strawberries."

He tips his head back and rubs his eyes. It's a charade of feigned self loathing that makes you laugh.

"I'm a child," he laments, thumb and index finger pressed into his eyes. He checks to see if you're watching before doubling down.

"I like cake," you say, and you'd lie if you thought it was what he wanted to hear. Handsome, kind, and funny. Not to mention talented. He needs smart for the sweep.

Remus falls out of his dramatics. You mourn the loss, beggy a good look on him, but forget all about it when he slides his chair around the table to share the menu with you, your heads inclined as you read it together again. He smells woody. You hope he likes the jasmine of your perfume.

"It all sounds really nice," you confide, afraid to disturb the comfortable hush. "I haven't had gelato since I was a kid. Oh, did they have real gelato in San Marino?"

“They had a lot of stuff in San Marino… I want to hear about you.”

“What do you want to hear?”

The questions start and don’t stop. Where did you grow up? That’s the easy part. What did you study in school? Were you in sports? The art club? And what do you do now, when you aren’t working in the cafe? The more he asks, the easier it is to answer. He doesn’t slow when the waiter brings a glass for your bouquet, simply stands and places them inside with exceedingly gentle hands, smiling at you from between the stems. You eat slowly when the food arrives — you're busy talking.

It feels fucking amazing. To have someone want to know anything about you. And unless he’s an actor of the highest regard, he’s obviously enjoying your conversations, though they wilt and wane and wind around one another. You lose track of time and thread as the night goes on, distracted by the near unnoticeable asymmetry of his smile, and the way he laughs when you laugh, like an echo.

You get cake like he wanted. Triple fudge cake with buttercream thick but melting from the heat. It looks straight from the pages of a magazine, glossy and dusted with sugar powder, but he doesn’t seem to like it. He takes a couple of bites and leaves it alone. You don’t want to look greedy, so you do the same.

The date is suddenly over.

“Could I walk you home?” he asks, when you’ve both put your coats back on, and the damp roots of your flowers are leaving an imprint on your chest.

You nod rather than answer.

Things are good, not perfect. That’s what you keep thinking. There’s something he isn’t saying. Or, horrifyingly, something he doesn’t like about you. Still, the sky is velvet black and the air is crisp. Stars like needlepoints dot the air. Street lights work to hide them, casting a warm yellow glow over the pavements and your meandering shoes.

A brisk wind whips past you. You shiver and press your lips together hard, hands quick to rigidity. Remus looks at you sideways, and breaks the quiet. “Are you cold?”

“A little.” No point in lying when he can see you trembling.

“Do you want my coat?”

“No, no, it’s alright–“ You cut off as he steps in front of you, his hand vying for yours.

He tucks the flowers under his arm and sandwiches your fingers between his. He has short fingernails, and another scar down one pinky finger. How’d you get that one? you want to ask. How’d you get any of them?

His breath clouds the air. “I should’ve thought about the cold.”

“This is better,” you say. Than a warm taxi home. His thumbs brushing down the backs of your hands.

You walk to your flat building and hesitate at the foyer door. The potential for a kiss goodnight has flayed your thoughts. The image of his hands climbing your arms, holding you still, plays like a flickering film. You have no idea if he’s going to do it.

“How will you get home?” you ask quietly.

“I parked by the cafe, it isn’t far.”

“Oh…” The lights from your building paint him the faintest shade of pink. Your breath fogs out in front of you, as does his, and the warmth of walking will soon fade. “I–“

“Here,” he says, handing you the flowers again.

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

“Fits the recipient.”

It takes a second for you to get it. Oh, you think. You can hardly feel the cold now. Your heart hurts, and you’re begging him to want to take a step toward you. The silence goes for too long.

“I– I’d love to see you again,” you say. Love comes out funny. Maybe because you can feel his rejection coming.

“I won’t be here next week. Not for a long time. We’re touring properly, now.” He scratches the side of his face.

“Right. Right, of course you are. Um, good luck with that. And thank you for tonight, for dinner.” You wave your flowers weakly.

He looks at you. He takes a half step toward you. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“You really are pretty,” he says finally. “Goodnight.”

He smiles quick and turns quicker. You watch him walk a few steps but ultimately can’t face it, pushing into the foyer of your building with a hardset frown. Your hands shake, minute abstractions of the sharp rejection panging in your chest. Your ears roar and then go quiet. What did I do wrong? you think, shocked and upset and trying to rationalise. He doesn’t have to kiss you. He asked you out on a maybe, and now whatever question he had is answered.

The door creaks open. You spin on your heel, too wrapped up to think about hiding your expression. Remus stands in the doorway of the porch, his arm pressed to the glass panel, the other held out to you.

"Come here," he says quietly. It isn't a question, but he's asking.

You step into his reach, letting him pull you by the waist against his chest. He leans down until his nose glances against ýours, and he starts to say something. You push your chin up in your eagerness and he doesn't try again. He kisses you, once, contrite, and he pulls back and his hand clasps your arm tight as he ducks in for another. His lips are fast to lose the cold of the weather, but his tongue is a hot shock at the seam of your own.

You go weak in his arms. The flowers between you crunch and smother themselves. You can’t think about it. Your hands are numb. He takes over every one of your senses until you’re more kiss than thought, reciprocating his slow, deep searching. You run out of breath.

He eases you backward, cupping the side of your head in his big palm.

“I want to see you again,” he says hoarsely. “But I– I don’t know when I’ll be back.” His hand adjusts against your cheek, like he’s worried you’re slipping out of his hold. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I can wait,” you say.

“I couldn’t ask you to.”

You rub your buzzing lips together, each heaven of your chest marked by the crinkling sound of cellophane.

“Do you want to come upstairs?” you ask.

He strokes the edge of your mouth with his thumb. “Are you sure?”

You kiss him. You don’t know if this will work, any of it, the broad stroke or this one night, but you want him.

—

Remus doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows how to fuck somebody, that isn’t the problem. He doesn’t know what he’s doing with you. The same thing that made him walk away had pulled him right back in, had him skipping steps on the staircase up to your flat, drinking in the back of your head and roll of your shoulders as you’d made apologies for the mess inside.

He doesn’t feel like himself when he’s with you. He thinks of it like this — what he is, his pain, his wants, that’s all set in stone. Any change is an erosion, and little by little over the years he’s managed to whittle himself down into the smallest, cleanest version of himself. Then suddenly the band’s making money, people are listening to his voice on the radio in countries all over the world, and he can’t hide anymore. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to, after all. What else inspires a performer into the spotlight? The music, he thinks desperately, knowing it’s half a lie.

Isn’t it why he’d asked you to the show? Come and watch me sing. See me at my most impressive. My most curated.

And now he’s following you into your bedroom after one date, about to strip it all away.

“You didn’t have too much wine, did you?” he asks. You hadn’t really finished your first glass, but it won’t hurt to make sure.

You peel your jacket off and drop it over the back of a wide armchair. “I don’t think so. Did you?”

“No.” His head has never been this clear.

He thinks about what you said. This is your first date, and he’s not clueless enough to assume that never going on a date means never having sex, but he wants to be careful with you anyway. He wants this to last beyond a dinner date.

Which means he has to get out of his head.

Beyond all of his own mess, he really does think you're pretty. More than pretty. You’re beautiful, and your voice…

He wants to see what other sounds you make.

Remus gets his hands on you. Soft touches, his hands coasting from your elbows to your warming hands. He squeezes your fingers, leaning in for a quick kiss. He rests his nose against the skin beneath your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much?” he asks, a murmur of hot air.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go slowly.”

“Okay.” Your voice is barely audible.

He pulls away to make sure you’re alright, and is surprised to see a glassy sheen in your eyes. He holds your face in both hands and works your lips open against his, guiding you backwards into the plush of your poorly made bed. He’s all sweet touches and eager kisses, cautious not to hurt you, or let too much of his weight press against your soft torso. His kisses follow to the corner of your mouth, the tip of his nose tender against your cheek. “You’re so quiet,” he says. He isn’t complaining, but he wants to hear your voice.

“I’m a bit preoccupied.”

He laughs into your skin, kissing down to your jaw. “You’re right,” he says, revelling in the goosebumps that rise under his hands.

Your shaking inhales cleave a pit in his stomach. He mouths at the side of your neck, half-kisses, tiny warning nips before he thumbs open the first button of your shirt. He meanders, dropping a path crescent moon kisses into your front until the fabric of your bra gets in the way. The soft hill of your breast staggers to a halt beneath him. He can tell that you’re holding deliberately still.

Kisses. You need more kisses, an absolution from any lingering nervousness. Your hands thread into his hair gently, your fingers raking wavy strands behind his ears as you give in. You melt into your sheets, your legs parting from the pressure of his hips.

Your hands fall from his hair to needle between your two bodies and undo the rest of your buttons. The fabric falls aside, your chest and tummy his to catalogue. He drops his hand against your stomach, smoothing a line down to your slacks. His lips ache against yours as he asks, “Can I?”

“Please.”

He smiles at your daunted expression. “Can I take these off?” he asks you, his fingertip running under the edge of your underwear. “Please?” he teases.

Your skin is a furnace, hot hot hot everywhere he touches as you nod your permission and Remus undresses you, one piece of clothing at a time. Your trousers, your shirt. Your bra, your underwear. His fingers slip in his ardency as he tears out of his own button down.

Your thumb traces a scar.

He looks up from your chest, startled, but you aren’t giving him anything he doesn’t want. There’s no pity in your gaze, no curiosity, no sadness. Just lust, your trembling hands pulling his slacks down the lengths of his thighs.

He pulls the condom from his wallet in his pocket and lets it fall to the floor.

Remus hooks his hands under your arms and urges you back against the headboard, a pillow behind your head, your thighs tipping open as his hand runs down between them. He grabs at them greedily, handfuls of fat that have his mouth dry as a bone.

“Has anyone ever done this to you before?” he asks. He needs to know.

You squeeze your eyes closed and shake your head.

Fuck. “Hey, look at me,” he says, waiting for your eyes to meet before continuing. “I just want to make you feel good. If I don’t, you let me know.”

He waits for you to answer aloud. “I will,” you say, your hand behind his back and urging him forward. “Please.”

“What did I say?” he jokes gently, letting his weight bear down on you again.

He closes his eyes, his lips in what feels like a new home at the juncture of your neck. His hands skirt dangerously close to your heat.

He’s gentle. He rubs a sweeping line against your cunt with the front of his fingers, heart hammering fast as a mouse’s when he finds the little button of your clit. You shiver and shudder and squirm as he toys with you, your fingers steadfast against the plane of his back while he opens you up. His lips part in tandem, not nearly as kind as his hands. His teeth scratch against your throat.

Your soft moans move through him as he hickeys over your pulse, chasing each capering thud of blood. He winds you up. You’re snug around his fingers, fluttering, and he knows he’s probed something sweet when your breath catches and you whine.

“Was that alright?” he asks.

You nod, heavy headed, and lick your lips as he tears open the condom and eases it onto his cock, one measured roll at a time.

“Can you– I want you to–” You turn your face from him, the line of your jaw kissed by the lamplight outside, and the rest hidden.

He drags you down to lay flat on your back and holds himself over you, nudging his nose against yours until you lift your head. Face to face, he gives himself time to adore the shape and colour of your eyes, the side of his hand brushing along your cheek. “Do you think you’re ready?” he asks sincerely. The slickness between your legs is obvious, but he doesn’t want to blindside you. “It will feel…”

You nod, saving him the explanation. It will feel weird. Good, but foreign. “Will you kiss me again?” you ask feebly.

He can’t stop himself. He kisses your lips sore, his hand behind the crook of your knee pushing your leg up toward your stomach as he slides into the space he’s made there. He breaks the kiss to listen to your breathing as he pushes forward.

Remus hadn’t been lying — he wants it to feel good. He takes it slow, his thrusting almost languid as you get to grips with the feeling. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard, struggling to smother the moan that escapes him as he feels you clench around him. You gasp, your arms tightening around his waist, destroying any semblance of space between your sweat-damp bodies as you hold him tight. He murmurs praises in your ear, his forearms tucked beneath your shoulder blades, hands gripping your shoulders a touch too hard. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to somebody, can’t remember ever feeling so maddeningly lost, like he’s one good push from hurtling over the edge.

He kisses your cheek, calling you all the things he’d been too scared to say before. “Lovely girl,” he pants, “how’s that feel?” And, when you answer, “Yeah, you’re taking it so well, dove. Think you can take a little more?”

All that nervousness and desperation shrinks down to dust, and the smiling girl he’d been with at dinner comes to the forefront. There’s no mistaking it. You giggle something awful and turn your face into his, kissing him between sounds, dizzying him with the tender scratch of your nails down his back as he starts to move.

“There she is,” he says lightly, almost smirking. “Feel good?”

“Feels– oh,” —you shiver violently, filled all the way up— “feels good.”

Remus let’s his forehead fall to your chin, his eyes closed in pleasure, his cock to the hilt. Every move he makes evokes a near sinful sound from you, mewling, silvery whimpers and pleased little laughs when he angles his hips right. He’s a mess, desperate to cum from the second you touched him and running on stolen time as he presses you deep into your mattress. One of your hands flies backward into the pillows and scrunches up into a ball, the look on your face too tempting to ignore.

The first time you fuck someone — it’s never timed right. Remus knows he hasn’t quite figured you out, but he knows enough to get you where he wants you. He slides his hand between your bodies and your soft cunt to draw circles into your clit, entranced by your twitching lashes as the pleasure builds. You chase him with your hips, and he grabs your hand at the last second to stop you from covering your mouth, holding it above your head as you come apart.

He cooes at you. The sound you make — the breathless little cry that leaves you, your hips jutting up to meet him. He’s at your mercy, just like he said.

Remus fucks into the extra tightness, drawing your climax out for as long as he can. You’re smiling as you shove his arm away, a playful chastisement that wanes when you see the look on his face. “Are you close?” you ask, brushing a curled strand of hair from his eyes.

Close? Remus is fucked.

“You can go faster,” you say, “rougher, whatever you want.”

“Shit,” he hisses, leaning back.

His rutting hips slap the backs of your thighs. He squeezes your waist, his eyes fixed on your cunt as it pulls him in. One last wavering, “Oh, fuck,” from you is all it takes for Remus to lose it. White hot pleasure tightens his whole body, his abdomen aflame. You scramble to gather him back into your arms. You kiss him, swallowing his resulting string of moans.

He has to catch his breath afterward. You comb the hair back from his face, your eyes droopy with pleasure.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice stringy.

“Of course not.” You’re quickly losing your confidence. Remus hates it, but he understands. This vulnerability can only stretch so far.

“Let me clean you up,” he says.

“You look like you’re gonna fall over if you stand.”

He strokes your face with the back of his ring finger, his nail ghosting along the highest point of your cheek. “Funny,” he says dryly.

He gets confused in your bathroom, and you won’t let him towel you off, but when he lies down beside you with his boxers back in place you don’t push him away. You drop your face into his chest and curl up.

He drags the quilt over your naked back.

Was that okay? he wants to ask. “Sore?” he worries instead.

“Don’t think so.”

He chews his cheek. “You’re alright?”

You stir, looking up at him through your lashes. He thinks you’re the kind of pretty people might not always see. You’re clearly beautiful, but there’s something else to it. The way you move, maybe. The way your eyes smile before your lips can catch up.

“I’m fine. I’m good… Can I…”

He hums. “What?”

“Could I kiss you again?”

You speak so quietly, he hears the vibration in your throat more than the sound of your voice. It’s endearingly timid. He feels his attraction for you flare violently.

He wants to ask you to come with him to Cardiff. He knows he can’t. It’s yards too soon, but for a second he entertains the thought.

“Wait for me to come home,” he says. He’s still asking for more than he should. “I want to see you again. You can kiss me as much as you want, if you say you’ll wait.”

You nod immediately. Not a flicker of reluctance to be seen.

You lift your chin and kiss him. He tries to make it the kind of kiss worth waiting for.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging cos it helps more than you might think <3

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin smut #remus lupin x you #remus lupin x y/n #marauders era #remus x reader #remus x you #marauders #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin blurb #marauders x reader #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin fanfic #remus lupin fanfiction #the marauders

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izels-writing · 5 months ago

Text

s. black — how you get the girl [2/2]

Pairing: sirius black x fem!reader

Summary: sirius finally has an idea on how to get the girl.

Warnings: rushed (i forgot abt this until a few days ago), smoking (weed), use of the word slut (in a funny way), slight teen angst (funny), marlene may seem mean a bit here but she’s not she’s my baby yall i love her

PART ONE, PART TWO

"hey marls!" sirius black exclaimed happily as he ran toward the blonde. her friend, though he didn't know her, gave him a look and bid a goodbye to marlene as she walked off. sirius narrowed his eyes at her as she left, before looking at marlene happily.

marlene gave him a deadpan look, crossing her arms. "where's my magic tattoo gun sirius?"

sirius grinned, "don't worry your pretty head, marls, i'll give it back to you soon," he said casually.

he had no idea where he had left it in his room.

"cool, what do you want?" marlene asked.

sirius' jaw dropped, as he dramatically placed a hand over his heart. "you know, first year marls had much better manners...and root touch up,"

"sirius, you have five seconds—!" marlene exclaimed.

sirius quickly covered her mouth, pulling her into a more private corner in the corridor. "okay, okay! so you know how i'm in love with y/n?"

"yeah, me and the rest of hogwarts, what's your point?" marlene asked.

"why won't she date me?" sirius asked bluntly.

marlene scoffed. "oh no, no, no, no! i am not getting in the middle!" she tried to walk past sirius, but in sirius black fashion, he quickly followed and persisted with his questions. begged even.

"marlene, please! you're my only hope!" sirius exclaimed, ignoring the glares he was getting from the angry blonde.

marlene finally whipped around, looking around for any peering eyes or listening ears and grabbed sirius' hand, promptly pulling the tall boy into an empty classroom. the door shut behind them as she looked at sirius.

"fine! you really want to know why she won't date you?" marlene asked.

"yes, please," sirius begged.

marlene saw the genuine pleading in his eyes and softened her look and toning down her angry, snappy tone. she sighed, "she's scared,"

"of dating?" sirius questioned.

"no, you twit! she's scared of you!" marlene yelled.

sirius furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "why in merlin's beard would she be scared of me?"

"because you're a slut, sirius! you sleep with people and don't bother to hold a relationship, much less a conversation with them," marlene replied sincerely. "y/n needs more than that, she wants more than that—and it's clear she's not going to get it from you,"

"okay, first of all, that's an offensive word," sirius began. "secondly, i would give her whatever she asked. a relationship, a courtship, whatever in merlin's name she wants!"

"you mean it?" marlene asked. she seemed genuine this time, genuinely concerned and curious. she crossed her arms and stared at sirius—her blue eyes boring into his grey ones.

sirius nodded, seemingly getting shy as he said, "god, marls, i'd marry her if she wanted me to,"

marlene's eyes softened. she rubbed sirius' arm and smiled softly, grabbing his forearm. quickly, she linked arms with the boy.

"she's working a shift at hogsmeade for the evening, so we're going to my dorm and i will give you a crash course on everything you need to do to woo y/n, sound good?" marlene grinned.

sirius' face lit up and he hugged marlene tightly, despite her rule. "thank you, marls!"

"yeah, yeah, you get five more seconds of this hug before you lose your arms," marlene scoffed.

"right, forgot the marlene rule," sirius quickly backed off.

——

you sighed quietly, entering your dorm as you removed your apron and set it over your desk chair. marlene and dorcas sat on marlene's bed together, marlene painting her nails as dorcas flipped through a magazine.

"how'd it go today?" dorcas asked you kindly.

"as well as it can go, i really hate being a waitress," you sighed—sliding your shoes off with a laugh.

dorcas laughed. "i know, maybe we should all marry a rich man so he can take care of us for the rest of our lives,"

"hey, nice thing to say in front of your girlfriend," marlene scoffed playfully, swatting dorcas' ankle. dorcas grinned.

"don't worry, baby, you'd be my forever mistress and the one i'd marry after he's died—and i'll share my wealth with you," dorcas chuckled, moving over to kiss marlene's cheek.

you laughed. "hey, a wife and sugar mommy? i'll marry you if marls doesn't,"

marlene rolled her eyes playfully and sat up, finishing her last nail. "anyway, y/n, we're all hanging out tonight in the common room—want to join?"

you debated it, but frankly, you were genuinely in the mood to hang out with friends. "sure, what time?"

"in about an hour," marlene replied, glancing at her watch. "so, shower, and do all of your usual stuff, and we can head down. it's casual—i'm going in pajamas and dorcas is in sweats... our lily will be there, mary too, just the usual,"

you glanced at the clock you had hug in your shared room and nodded. "sounds good, i'll go ahead and shower now then," you replied.

——

if you could go back and time and smack marlene, you would.

when marlene had told you that the three of you were to hang out with friends in the common room, you were under the impression it was people you could be around.

sirius black was not apart of those people.

you two hadn't spoken for four days now, since the incident in the common room. granted, to normal people that wasn't a long time. but sirius spoke to you every. single. day. even if you blew him off. a part of you was starting to fear he had moved on.

and the other sensible part of you was kicking you in the head for even fearing it in the first place. because dear god, your feelings for him were more than confusing.

"so, lily, how do you feel about that herbology test?" marlene grinned. lily glared at her.

"oh, shove off, marls," lily grumbled. you raised your eyebrows at lily and grinned, "that bad, huh?"

"it was dreadful!" james added dramatically. lily nodded in agreement. "i mean, i swear she didn't teach half of that stuff,"

"why didn't you just ask y/n for help? she's very smart, especially in herbology." sirius asked sincerely. you paused. a compliment that didn't have to do with you looks or getting your attention?

you smiled at him slightly as he caught your eye and he returned the gesture. james shrugged and looked at lily before replying, "honestly, i didn't even think of that,"

lily smiled. "would you be willing to help us with next test? if i get another p, i swear i will spiral,"

you laughed. "of course, lils, just say when and i'm there,"

"well, what should we do? we've no classes tomorrow and i'm in the mood for some fun," mary asked with a grin.

remus reached into his school bag, which conveniently laid across one of the loveseats that wasn't being occupied. wordlessly, he pulled out a tube and shook it onto his hand, from it emerging a thick blunt.

"hell yes!" james grinned, smiling at the fact that lily giggled in agreement. he pulled out his own lighter.

"does anyone object? i was thinking we could smoke this and play truth or dare or something," remus suggested.

everyone muttered in agreement, and quickly, the smoking began.

being high was fun, in fact, you enjoyed it thoroughly. it calmed your mind and it helped that everyone around you was as giggly as you were. the only thing you didn't enjoy was how heightened everything was. more specifically, being aware how cold you were which suddenly tripled. you were easily cold, everyone knew, but when you were high—it was like being in the arctic for you.

you shivered quietly beside sirius as lily got dared to sing her favorite song backwards, which was already going all sorts of wrong because you all couldn't stop giggling. you curled up, bringing your knees to your chest as you attempted to rub your calves for heat. from beside you, sirius glanced at you. then, he looked at your more clearly.

"you alright?" he whispered to you, careful not to bring much attention to you. marlene said you didn't like attention, and now that he really thought about it, that bit was more obvious than he had realized.

"cold," you muttered, placing your cheek on your knees.

"oh...here," he whispered. he reached over the couch, as you had all descended to the floor to get in a perfect circle, and grabbed the blanket that was on the couch—wrapping it around you promptly. you looked at him slightly surprised. no sly comment? no attempt to wrap his arm around you? what had gotten into him?

"what?" he asked curiously.

"nothing, thank you," you smiled, nudging his arm with your blanket covered arm.

——

ever since that day, sirius hadn't been his usual self. and it had gotten more obvious. he'd been calmer, he hadn't had a girl at his arm in days, and he managed to keep a completely platonic tone and vibe with you. you knew you should be happy about it, relieved even, but you weren't. the only thing you were happy and over the moon about was the fact that he hadn't had a girl at his arm lately—but everything else? he just wasn't himself.

so, you did the only thing you could think of. go to his best friend in the entire world. not being you were concerned or anything like that...just curious.

you spotted james, sitting by a window, likely waiting for his next class. you glanced around subtly, making sure no one was about to witness the most humiliating thing you were ever going to do.

you sprinted over to james, sitting beside him, making him look up in surprise. nonetheless, he smiled and greeted you, "hey, y/n,"

you smiled back nervously. "hey james,"

he surveyed you. "you alright? you look nervous!"

"i'm not nervous, just out of breath," you chuckled, smoothing out your skirt.

he rolled his eyes playfully and grinned. "alright, what's going on then?"

you debated whether you really wanted to do this. on one hand, if you did, you would finally know what's going on with your ( for lack of a better word, you swear! ) friend but also be heavily ridiculed by said friend and your mutual friends. on the other hand, I'd you didn't ask, you would never figure out what's wrong with sirius and then you'd have to live with the idea that maybe sirius finally has stopped chasing you because he was tired of your rejection. was standing on your principle so important to you that you might've just given up a chance with someone you actually liked?

fuck it.

"what's going on with him?" you blurted sternly.

james raised an eyebrow at you. "him who?"

"sirius!" you breathed out. "why is he being so...i dunno...not himself?"

james smirked at you and gave you a knowing look. "is that a tone of concern i detect, y/n?" he said smugly.

"potter..." you warned.

"fine, forgive me for having some fun," james mumbled. "if you really want to know, why not just ask him?"

"because..." you said promptly.

"because...?" he questioned, searching for your eyes, looking confused.

"because i can't. you know why i can't. do you know or not?" you sighed.

he smiled at you. "honestly? not much, he told me marlene had given him lessons on how to win you over. he wanted your attention,"

you chuckled. "you're serious?"

with a completely serious tone, james replied, "oh no, i'm not—he is,"

you rolled your eyes and shoved his arm, before standing up. "so you're saying talk to marlene?" you asked.

james nodded. "she definitely knows more than i do,"

you nodded, "thanks, potter,"

turning on your heel, you started to walk off—trying to remember where marlene was for the afternoon.

"y/n!" james called out, a few feet from you.

you spun around, looking at james curiously.

he grinned knowingly. "he didn't need those lessons, did he?" he teased.

you chuckled. "no, he didn’t, you twat,"

then, you were off.

——

though you hadn't found marlene, you had seen dorcas who informed you where the bubbly blonde was. she had planned to meet up with sirius by the black lake for another lesson about you. whether to he flattered or a bit put off by how much matlene knew you, you weren't sure.

as you made your way down the hill, you walked quietly toward them, unsure how to approach them. you didn't want them to think you were angry, because really you weren't. it was sweet of them to care this much about you.

"marlene? sirius?" you said. marlene and sirius quickly scrambled up from their seats on the ground and turned to you.

"hey, y/n," sirius smiled.

"hi," you replied with a small smile.

"marlene, what's going on?" you asked the bubbly blonde.

"i'm giving sirius advice on how to get your attention, of course!" she grinned. sirius looked at her shocked and turned a bright shade of pink as he looked at you, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"but..." you trailed off.

"but what, y/n? spit it out! i mean come on, you hesitate so much!" marlene chuckled at you. you knew she was doing it on purpose, trying to make you angry. marlene knew you spoke your mind when you were frustrated. god damn it, she knew you well.

"i like him exactly how he is! why are you lying to him and advising him the wrong way?" you blurted, unable to stop yourself.

marlene smirked, looking knowingly between the two of you. "because it got your attention, didn't it?" she giggled. "i'm gonna go now,"

the blonde hardly gave either of you time to interject, because within a less than a minute, she was halfway on the way back to the castle. you closed your eyes and sighed quietly, trying to figure out the best way for the ground to swallow you whole.

"you fancy me?" sirius asked tentatively.

you supposed it was now or never.

"yeah," you muttered. "i do,"

"look, i fancy you. so much. but i also know you. i'm not just going to sit around and wait for you to get tired of me," you added sternly, stepping closer to him, as though it would really prove your tone. "i'm not just going to be another girl you throw away because you think it's fun, i'm worth much more than that and i—"

he pressed his lips to yours. they were soft and you felt like you could melt into the ground from the way he grabbed your face. you kissed him back softly.

"i know you're worth more than that. you are amazing and beautiful and smart, and i'd be lucky to be your boyfriend. which is what i want, if you'd let me," he mumbled to you.

you looked up at him. “promise not to make me regret this?”

“i swear my life to you,” sirius grinned.

you smiled. “i like the sound of that,”

bonus;

james tearily finished his speech before remus pushed him off the stage with a chuckle. james went to hug lily and their one year old harry, wiping his eyes subtly.

you and sirius laughed at him, appreciating the sweet sentiments he added about both of you in his best man speech. you looked at your now husband and leaned over, kissing him softly.

“now that everyone’s speeches are done,” remus smiled, “can we please cheer for mr. and mrs. black as they begin their first dance as newlyweds?”

you and sirius stood as the soft piano played, not caring a single hit that everyone had their attention on you two. you didn’t care as long as you were with him.

he wrapped his arms around your waist as you wrapped yours around his neck, smiling brightly at each other.

“do you know how amazing that is to hear? mrs. black,” he grinned to you. you chuckled.

“almost as great as getting to call you my husband,” you replied cheesily.

“i told you i wouldn’t make you regret it,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours.

“i never doubted it for a second,” you mumbled back, closing the gap between you two softly.

#sirius black #the marauders #marauders era #james potter #peter pettigrew #remus lupin #harry potter #lily evans #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you

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spawnofvulcan-knits · 2 months ago

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#yarn #crafts #knitting #knitblr #knitters of tumblr #wool #kauni #kauni yarn

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lulublack90 · 29 days ago

Text

Prompt 26 - Ignite

@jegulus-microfic October 26, Word count 537

Part 2 of Prompt 23 - Inspire

First part

It took Regulus a week to call him. James had almost given up hope. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the intense man who had ordered him still as he furiously drew his likeness. James got chills every time he thought about how those clever, elegant fingers had skimmed across the page and the way those hauntingly beautiful grey eyes raked over his entire being as they took in every flaw and attribute that was James, transferring it into his sketchpad. He’d felt something ignite inside him when their eyes had met, and he needed to see him again.

He invited Regulus to his favourite bistro. The food was good, and it wasn’t full of stuffy busybodies. He found a good table by the window and sat down to wait.

“Hey, gorgeous, how’s it going?” The beautiful sandy-haired girl said as she leaned against his table.

“Hey, Marls,” James grinned. Marlene was one of his friends from uni, and she worked part-time in the bistro, so he always got free cups of coffee when he came in. “It’s going well. In fact, I’m meeting someone here hopefully,” Marlene’s eyes widened with intrigue.

“Oooo is this the mystery stranger that forced you to pose with a peeled banana?!” James snorted.

“He’s not a stranger. I know his name.”

“No, don’t tell me, I need the mystery!” Marlene clamped her hands over her ears until James shut his mouth. “Anyway, what can I get you?”

“Just a coffee for now, ta. I’ll wait until Reg— He arrives.” Marlene disappeared to go get his drink and James waited.

Regulus was late. James kept checking his phone in case Regulus couldn’t find the place or was running late, but no messages had come through. He waited for nearly an hour before sighing and giving up. He didn’t feel like eating now, his stomach was all gurglely. He waved sadly at Marlene and walked out the door. He shoved his hands in his pockets and, with hunched shoulders, walked back towards his flat.

He passed an alleyway between two buildings and heard someone chastising themselves.

“Idiot, why can’t you just walk in there? You’re so late now. He won’t have hung around. Such an idiot!”

“Regulus?” James asked. The alleyway went silent.

“No,” Came a quiet, embarrassed voice. James walked into the gloomy passage and spotted the hunched figure behind one of the bins. He held out his hand, and after a moment's hesitation, Regulus took it.

“Come on, you can come back to my flat; I have cheese and bread. I’ll make you a sandwich,” He didn’t let go of the stuttering man's hand until they were nearing his flat. He slowed his steps. “Sorry, I’ve just realised I’ve basically dragged you back to my place. Er, you don’t have to come in if you don’t want to, I can walk you home or back to the bistro…” He was running out of things to say. How could he have been so forward with the obviously nervous man?

“I like cheese,” Regulus was still quite shy, none of the commanding artists shining through. James took his hand against him and led him up the steps and into the building.

Next part

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whorediaries-09 · 9 months ago

Note

this ain't for the valentines thing ur doing, but imagine all the marauders and marls, lily and dorcas going to a beach getaway and reader falling in love, fucking, and starting to date siri there? p.s this is just a thought, i'm not sure if u've seen the movie, but a plot bunny of tu jhoothi main makaar maybe??

i cannot watch a movie to save my fucking life 🙏🏽. i'm sorry if it's not what you wanted but i tried my best. (the only way i can apologize is by doing a desi reader.)

getaway car;

pairing- sirius black x desi!reader warning(s)- sexual tension, 18+ content, substances. (let me know if i should add more) a/n- finally wrote a desi reader.

the slut club

it was a perfect getaway. to escape your heavy work schedule, for a weekend vacation. the sound of the waves called you into a spectrum of pleasurable bliss. you could smell the salty scent of the waves as you neared the beach, your tires working on the gravel on the path. you envisioned peaceful scenarios, running by the beach, or soaking yourself into the calm trepidation of the waves, or licking away your favourite ice cream under the blazing rays of the sun.

moreover, you envisioned your best friend and her fiancé finally tying the knot, getting married. lily evans to lily potter, and james finally marrying his dream girl. it brought you an immense peace. the gps on your phone beeped, informing you you’d reached the hotel lily had booked for you. so, you pulled into the parking zone of the hotel.

you wanted nothing but to fall into the soft mattress of the hotel bed. it called your name, and after almost an 8-hour drive, you were certainly famished to say the least.

****

the hot water on your back had been a heavenly escape from the pain you’d been feeling. you smelled good, you felt good and fresh, and ready for bed. you were shuffling through your suitcase, trying to find your pyjamas before you heard a knock on the door. it wasn’t unexpected, but certainly a rather weird timing. you had ordered food before you had gone to soak yourself into the warmth of the bath.

you had wrapped yourself into a bathrobe before you’d gotten out, since the windows in your rooms were rather huge. and you absolutely did not have the energy to pull down the heavy curtains. you certainly didn’t want a sneak peek scenario with some creepy person, so you decided to cover yourself up with a bathrobe the hotel had provided.

tightening the rope around your waist, you opened the door. it wasn’t food service. instead, you were met by grey stormy eyes you’d been dreaming about in the bathroom. not in a very friendly way but he didn’t need to know that.

‘evans told me to check on you…you certainly look like you’ve made yourself comfortable,’ he smirked, his eyes gazing over your body. you knitted your eyebrows, cracking your knuckled behind your back.

‘don’t be an idiot. i drove for 8 hours straight up!’ you exclaimed. sirius grinned at you, and your heart panged in your chest. you wanted to wipe it off. by kissing or punching didn’t matter.

‘well you didn’t want to come with us,’

‘you know I had work.’ you dead panned.

‘pfft, doesn’t even matter,’ he walked into your room.

‘hey! privacy,’

‘i’m going to give you a massage. so you’ll put your clothes on…or not-‘

that earned him a fabric thrown at his face. unfortunately it was your underwear. you groaned as he picked it up, staring at the soft pink piece, with strawberries on it. he chuckled, seemingly amused.

‘are you going to wear that to the ceremony!’

‘sod off, doesn’t matter.’

‘it sure certainly does. eitherway you put on clothes and i give you a massage,’

you put your hands on your waist, trying to read through his act. he threw his hands in the air, silently claiming he was innocent. you were the guilty one you thought. you were the once accusing him of something. you were the one who had replayed your very dirty thoughts in the bathroom.

you still were unconvinced. it was a known fact that sirius black was a man who was walking sex. his charm and appeal could break through anything. but it didn’t mean anything. you weren’t his type, not likely. he liked fun-loving women and men, not a someone who didn’t have much of a life other than her computer and work. and he had his boundaries…he wouldn’t think of seducing you.

‘okay. i’ll put on my clothes. look away,’ you said, giving in.

‘killjoy,’ he mumbled, turning away his head.

*****

your back was splayed across the sheets of the bed. his hands roamed over your spine, putting pressure just on the right spots. it felt nice…but you certainly didn’t feel satiated. you shuffled minutely, trying to adjust yourself.

‘is something the matter?’ he asked, removing his hand from your back. you stared at him. you weren’t sure how to frame the answer without sounding like a creep, but you did it anyway.

‘i-um, will you put your hand through my clothes?’

sirius was quiet. awfully so. a subtle pink dusted his newly tanned skin, as he bit on his lip.

‘you sure?’

‘uh huh,’

he slid his hand through your t-shirt pressing on the massage points. the cold metal of his rings contrasted perfectly on your hot skin. his thumb jolted into a point on the nape of your neck. you bit your lip, breathing heavily as hotness simmered under your body. the goosebumps tickled your senses, letting out a soft moan at the relief you felt.

you were falling. falling into the natural tension aroused into the room. falling into the trap of your hormones. falling into the haze of lust and desire as he leaned closer, letting you a whiff of his cologne infused with the tobacco of his cigarettes.

his finger traced a throbbing nerve on your neck, as your mind hazed with his movement. he was so close to your face; you could see his pupils dilating every passing second. the lust of desire in his eyes grew every passing second, the grey clouds in his eyes fusing with the intense storm. you gulped as your shaky hands reached out to cradle his face, tracing his skin with your thumb. he leaned into your touch, falling closer to your face, his lips practically brushing with yours.

‘room service,’ the doorbell rang, startling the both of you. he slipped his hand out of your t-shirt, quickly leaning away from you. he jumped from the spot on your bed, putting on his shoes.

‘i- i should leave,’ he mumbled, opening the door and walking out, leaving your flustered and hot. you accepted the food, paying the man who’d broken the moment.

groaning, you pushed your face into the pillow.

****

it was a beautiful sight, the screaming oceans, the salty scent of waves. marlene and dorcas were sharing an ice cream, trying to be very calm about sharing saliva. dorcas had her book open, and marlene had her face covered with a ridiculous large hat. it was painful to see, and you wondered why they didn’t kiss already. it was peter, accompanied by remus, who voiced your thought aloud as he brought you an ice cream. you smiled,

‘thanks, pete, you’re a peach,’ the boy flushed exactly like the fruit.

‘and i’ve been wondering why they don’t kiss, already, too,’

‘i know! i looked into their horoscope, and it’s like, they’re a match made in heaven. it’s so painful to see, when they’re so obviously in love,’

‘they must be stupid or their skulls must be thick with the love they have for each other,’

‘you’re being mean,’ the tall lanky male interrupted. he was nibbling on a piece of toast smothered in jam.

‘it is what it is,’ you shrugged, peeling off the wrapper of the ice cream. you bit into it, and the flavour melted into your taste buds.

the sun shone down on the waves, burning up your skin. sirius thought you were ethereal. under the bask glow of the sun. your hair tousled with the playful wind. your skin was magnificent under the rays of the sun.

your tongue rolled on the dessert you held in your palm. he wondered how your tongue would feel upon his. the ice cream smeared upon your lips. he wanted to lick it off. it was a glowing, carnal desire which burned him from within. he wanted to succumb into the feel of your skin, the scent of your body wash, the sounds that left your pretty mouth.

so, he grabbed a bottle of sunscreen. he’d make you his, he decided. it was his mission now. the chase didn’t matter. his desire for you rooted deep within him. and he wanted you in every way possible. he craved for the feel of your skin again.

‘darlin’ you think you can put some sunscreen on me?’ he approached you. you looked at him through your sunglasses.

‘you owe me,’ he drawled. his mind wandered over to the ideas he had when he had you under him, breathing so heavy. how he wanted to rip off the t-shirt off you, stick his head between your thighs, and have you right then and there. how he wanted to taste you, consume you, make you his.

‘i do,’ you agreed. he smiled coyly, sitting on your deckchair. you sat behind him, splotching the cream on his back.

a charged silence settled between the both of you as neither of you spoke about the incident. you rubbed the cream on his back, letting yourself feel his skin underneath yours. you silently appreciated the tattoos inked on his skin. it made him appear more roguish, more charming than he already was.

you felt goosebumps on his skin as you moved to his chest, trailing down to his abs, and his happy trail. you felt his heartbeat pace as you rubbed on his pectorals. his breath heaved. he leaned back, unconsciously resting his head against your shoulder. the scent of the waves overwhelmed against the scent of his musk cologne.

he hid his face in the nape of your neck, holding your hand against his heart. his tongue prodded against your throbbing nerve. he moved his lips slowly against the skin, drawing out a hungry moan from you. you arched your hips slowly, as he slowly bit your skin.

‘you make such pretty sounds,’ he whispered. you nodded your head, slowly falling into a haze of lust again. heat pooled at your core and you bit your lip, as he slowly peppered kisses on your hot skin.

‘feel my heart? it’s all for you. all because of you,’ he says. he removed his face from your neck, nearing yours, his lips so close. the heat of the sun drawled on his tanned skin, and he smiled, almost capturing your lips with his.

he could’ve, if james didn’t throw a ball right at his chest.

‘i’m sorry pads!’ he screeched before he came running towards you and him. you scooted away from him, the instructions on the sunscreen bottle suddenly very interesting. james was oblivious to the situation.

‘kaisi ho? maza aa raha hain na yaha pe?’ he asked you. (how are you? you’re enjoying yourself here right?’)

‘shaadi tumhari ho rahi hain james, meri nahi. tum batao kaisa lag raha hain,’ (i’m not the one getting married, james. how are you feeling?’)

‘mujhe bohot… aise pyar vyar wali feeling aa rahi hain,’ he replied, throwing you a cheeky grin. (i’m feeling very lovey-dovey.)

you laughed. it wasn’t a real laugh, considering you were so close to kissing sirius. you groaned internally. the vacation didn’t even feel like a getaway to peace. it felt like a curse; now that you’d felt his lips on your skin. you didn’t think you’d be able to escape the curse.

the scent of burning s’mores filled the air. it escaped into scent of champagne and the platters of food and chatter. alice was sitting on frank’s lap, enjoying glass after glass of champagne. frank let out puffs of smoke through his lips, watching alice with a hypnotized look in his eyes. he was smitten with her, and it was disgustingly sweet. it was the same with marlene and dorcas.

marlene had decided to escape the presence of dorcas, and was now sitting beside you, roasting s’mores.

‘ugh, she’s so fine, i wanna have her babies,’ she rambled, like the raging woman she was. you wanted to slap the both of them in an aggressive nonaggressive way to get their shit together.

‘bitch, you don’t want me to slap you,’ you threatened, biting into a s’more.

‘you’re not very scary with chocolate running down your fingers,’

‘i might change my mind and slap you, marls,’

‘ouhh kinky, i like it,’

‘say that to dorcas,’

‘nahh’ you stared at her. for someone who peaked in high-school, she was very daft when it came to her feelings.

‘i’m going,’ you gave up, trying to convince her.

‘ay, don’t be gussa with me!’ (don’t be angry with me)

‘where’d you learn that!’

‘james,’ you sighed. ‘now give me some advice,’

‘okay how about, you go and kiss dorcas on her lips,’

‘fine, you’re not willing to give me some advice,’

‘then go ask peter or something,’ marlene groaned.

truth be told, you were tired of telling the either to just confess. it was excruciating. you didn’t mind speaking a thousand times through their thick if it got your friends together, but you were still flustered from the morning’s events.

as the trip came towards the end, you realized it was for your own good. the seed of desire for sirius only grew within you, and you hated yourself for it. but it didn’t matter. as long as you were away from him, you’d be able to stay away from him. now you just had to tolerate sirius in a tuxedo, and flee. you were a grown woman, you could do it…

‘hey,’ your train of thought process was interrupted by the very man you’d been thinking about.

‘can i have one?’ he seemed unfazed, as if he hadn’t spoken dirty to you in a beach full of people, leaving you flustered. you hated it. it was as if he was playing with you, getting your hormones build up, for you to jump his bones at any given moment.

you handed him one anyway. you finally looked at him. it was painful, how the flames lighted up his high cheekbones, highlighting his best features. his face was framed by his raven locks. his lips looked so supple, so kissable. you hated how your heart panged against your ribcage. his hand cradled your face, as he wiped off chocolate off your lips.

you’d much rather he lick it off. you hated the control he held over you. you wanted to punch him for making you feel that way. it was pure agony when he played with you. how he let you have a taste of himself, but never let you close enough to consume him. you hated it.

it was wrecking you from inside. you hated how he made you feel so much, yet leave you flustered, never succumbing into your desires. you hated it so much. you wanted to punch yourself for it.

sirius licked off the chocolate off his fingers, flexing his long, slender digits. he watched your eyes wander on his lips, how your throat sucked in a breath at his action. he liked how flustered you became, for someone so headstrong. so, just to play with you, he leaned closer to your face.

‘i'll always finish what i start,’

the way he said it had you clenching your thighs together.

*****

the ceremony was a blast. marlene had finally kissed dorcas. lily and james had finally exchanged their vows. the air was blooming with love and alcohol. the fireworks were beautiful, so where the pictures. remus had even managed to get one were marlene finally kissed dorcas.

it was a pleasant evening, the cool breeze flowing through the air. the music ran through your veins, and so did shared cigarettes and alcohol. while you weren’t much of a drinker or a smoker, it felt good to let go for once.

it felt like a refreshment. but the back of your mind always reeled back to your thoughts. the thoughts that told you this would end soon. it was momentary bliss after all. a temporary getaway where everyone would relax and be free from the clutches of their respective everyday routine.

‘hi, darling, what ya thinking?’ his voice like velvet. smooth and raspy it fell on your eardrums, pulling you out of your reverie. to add on, you were drunk. and flustered by the very person who was speaking to you.

‘i’m thinking if i can sneak a cute guy for a dance,’ you replied, smoothly. your lips puffed out smoke on his face, and you felt him grab your hand through the smoke. you saw the coy lopsided smile on his face as he grabbed the thin roll of intoxication between his fingers. there was something divine, and dark in his eyes as he put it between his lips, taking in a deep puff of your cigarette.

you imagine the smoke rolling onto his tastebuds, seeping through them, intoxicating them. you imagine it poisoning his lungs. your heart palpitates, your head falls into a haze as he leans in closer to your face. you feel the smoke cloud your eyesight. it’s immensely harsh, and the time seems to stop. it’s like there’s no one in the world but the both of you. hotness creeps into every inch of your body. you’re drained by it, as you fall into a spiral of lust blooming inside of you.

so, when he finally touches your lips with his, and rolls his tongues with yours, his teeth clashing with yours, you lose yourself into a haze of ecstasy. he tastes you like poison. he consumes your soul till you’re left with a meticulous heartbeat against your ribcage.

you don’t realize when you’re against the door of his room, or how you get there. you remember ravaging his lips, his touch hot against your skin. you remember how he bites your lip, drawing out blood on your tongues. the metallic taste floats and seeps like an intoxication.

your hands wrap around his neck , bringing him closer, as he stumbles, opening the door of the room. the clothes feel like a barrier against the feeling of lust he gets you high on. they’re off before the either of you know it.

so, you’re pushing his back against the mattress, straddling his waist, letting him penetrate you. he fits into you deliciously, stretching out your pulsing walls with a hot stretch that leaves you aching for more. his tip touches your g-spot perfectly, and you leave a guttural moan from the depths of your throat, rolling your hips as he gasps. his hands bruise over your hips, and you capture them, holding them above his head, trailing your lips against his neck, rolling your hips against his.

‘not so soon, love you’ve teased me for so long…’

he groans under you, pushing himself deeper into you, arching his hips. you gasp, as the trimmed edges of his pubic hair tease your clit. you knew what he wanted. it was a dangerous game, because you wanted exactly the same.

‘aise tarapte hue kinte sundar lagte ho,’ you tease, even though you know he doesn’t understand what you’re saying. (you look so pretty begging like that.) he whimpers, and you give in to his desire and touch. it’s pure heaven when you rock your hips, letting go of his hands. he wraps his hands around your waist, pulling you closer, thrusting himself into you.

the sound of skin slapping paired with moans and gasps fills the room. you finally cave into your fantasy, letting him take control. he bruises his fingernails into your skin, and you dig your nails into his back with each thrust. it’s intoxicating; the feeling of pleasure that overwhelms you.

your souls speak, intertwine as you lose yourself into the euphoria that simmers under your delirious need. your walls flutter around him, the coil in your stomach tight. he grips his teeth into your neck; feeling your heartbeat through your artery. he consumes you completely into his touch, lets out a deranged spirit within you when your eyes roll backwards, your toes curl and your thighs shake.

you’re wordless, breathless when you finally release, chanting his name stringed with profanities, his cock still in you, as he chases his own release. he presses a hot kiss on your forehead when you clench your walls, and whisper,

‘cum for me, sirius,’

a symphony of your name and moans fall into your ears like a cacaphony before he lets go into you. his hot seed spills into you, filling you up. he’s breathless, painting you with his kisses, marking spots on your neck.

‘i told you, i always finish what i start.’

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