Some smut and leaving
I'm getting sent away for the weekend to go placate a client, among other things. In the meanwhile, have a Remus ficlet. This is what happens when I listen-- or when I let my inner Remus listen-- to NIN's "Closer" on repeat.
While there are no names here, it's definitely Remus and I definitely wrote it with Hestia Jones in mind, a la jennymalfoy's portrayal from hmeade_station. You can read it however you want, but... that's what I had on my brain.
1,269 words, with a rating of hard R.
He wakes up needing her.
His head is pounding, his eyes hooded in deference to the light that pricks through his skull, his brain still a bit muddled, conflicted. His identity is one of duality in these moments, but his drive is singular. His need is focused.
He walks through the house on silent feet, the grace a quality that never quite goes away no matter what the moon’s phase. He takes deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth, steadying as he scents her. He turns unerringly in her direction, knowing where she is. She smells like water, like heat. She smells ready, and though he will never tell her this in his proper and right mind, she has smelled ready from the moment she started to quicken with the life they’ve made together.
The steam from her shower muffles his entrance and he smiles in a way that would frighten even him if he could see it. The mirror is fogged, however, and he never gets glimpse of the predatory smirk that twists his features, his hair hanging in his eyes as he places one hand to the wall next to the shower, taking just one more deep breath.
Soap and hot water, some fruity smell that frustrates and annoys him because-here is what he wants, the smell of a woman, his woman, the smell of her want, her need, her power. He can smell his own want as he sheds his clothes and his headache has not waned but intensified, pulsing in time with the cycles of his thoughts, scattered though they are.
One hand clenches in the material of the shower curtain, and he fights the urge to tear it from its moorings completely, exposing her to him and sending steam and water in an unheeded rush across the small, tiled room, but instead he gives himself a small opening and steps through it. She does not turn around and this pleases him. Her hands are in her hair, and it affords him a view of her skin from the nape of her neck to her heels.
She senses him as he moves closer, and before she can turn, he lunges, trapping her with a hand on either side of her, his mouth at her ear. “Hold still and be quiet,” he commands, his voice raspy with disuse. She shudders and nods slowly, but he is not looking. He is staring at the curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulder, and he runs his tongue from her shoulder up, tasting what he’s been smelling. He takes his hands from the wall to place on her water-slick breasts that have grown fuller over her pregnancy, the nipples darker and rounder in a way that makes him feel like devouring her.
He is not gentle, has no concept of how to be just now, but he is not rough-only possessive, unrelenting as he strokes and kneads her flesh. When she moves back against him, he moves away, taking his hands from her and stooping, his fingertips resting in the water that runs over the floor of the tub, water that would smell and taste of her if he splashed it up on his face. Instead, he goes to his knees and puts his palms flat on the floor, ducking his head to trace the tip of his tongue over her Achilles tendon, up her calf. He grazes his teeth over the back of her knee and kneels upright to steady her when her knees buckle.
She smells stronger now, her whole body moving restlessly in time with the pulse hammering in his head, and he presses his lips to the hollow at the small of her back where water pools before running down the cleft of her buttocks. He suckles for a moment, wanting to bring blood to the skin before continuing on his way, and she cries out. He likes the sound of it, primal and wordless and bouncing off the tiles, stopped by the steam. It is a mating call, though they have already mated, and he will take her again, will possess her again, will claim her in a few moments’ time.
He stands finally, resting hot and heavy between her thighs, his mouth seeking her skin, his tongue laving over the rise of her spine below the nape of her neck, his lips sliding over her neck and shoulder. Her hair clings to his face and goes unheeded as he takes one of her hands in his, guiding it over the slight swell of her stomach, the rise of it exciting him. He presses more insistently against her at the feel of her power, her ability to create, and guides the middle finger of her trembling hand to her sex, parting her to find her weakness.
She is wet in a way that is different from the hot water falling forgotten around them, and he moves her finger underneath his own, grunting into the skin of her neck, into her hair, watching gooseflesh rise despite the heat.
When her cries are at their loudest, he enters her from behind, the angle forcing her to bend a little. He keeps their fingers at the apex of her thighs, still stroking the knot of nerves beneath their fingertips. With his other hand, he rubs wet, slow circles on her stomach, everything now following his rhythm, insistent and instinctive.
He enters at the highest point of her first climax, and she surrounds him with a moan that sounds triumphant, her own possession, but he is not finished. His pace is already set for him by something as old as time, and the sounds they make together cover don’t quite cover the sound of flesh moving against flesh. He sucks water from the ends of her hair that brush against his mouth, his finger now forcing hers to double time as each thrust becomes firmer.
She peaks again, and he lets out a hoarse, victorious cry at making her helpless and making her his. His back bends, bowed to an almost impossible angle, his head thrown back, throat working as he pushes her back against him as closely as she’ll go, pouring himself into her in hot, fierce pumps. The water stings his eyes but he does not shut them, blinded anyway by the blood roaring in his ears.
He pulls her closer once the urgency has passed rather than pushing her away, stumbling backward until his back hits cool tile, still dry in places. His hands stroke where they have grasped only moments before, the pounding in his head abating, the insistence waning as his heart pounds madly in his chest.
He turns her finally, though the part of him that will now rule for the next twenty-eight days is chagrined at his behavior, mortified by his treatment of her. That part of him is reluctant to see the look in her eyes, but he forces himself to look at her anyway, to ensure she is all right.
She rises to her toes, her eyes steady on his, and kisses him firmly, softly. He waits for a moment but sees she will not give him words for reassurance-she merely kisses him again, and it is reassurance enough, or as much as he will allow himself. He pulls her into his arms, chest to chest, her tummy pressed against his, and his need has changed, has broadened.
He will fall asleep each night needing her, needing to love her, and full moon or no, he will wake wanting her.
While there are no names here, it's definitely Remus and I definitely wrote it with Hestia Jones in mind, a la jennymalfoy's portrayal from hmeade_station. You can read it however you want, but... that's what I had on my brain.
1,269 words, with a rating of hard R.
He wakes up needing her.
His head is pounding, his eyes hooded in deference to the light that pricks through his skull, his brain still a bit muddled, conflicted. His identity is one of duality in these moments, but his drive is singular. His need is focused.
He walks through the house on silent feet, the grace a quality that never quite goes away no matter what the moon’s phase. He takes deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth, steadying as he scents her. He turns unerringly in her direction, knowing where she is. She smells like water, like heat. She smells ready, and though he will never tell her this in his proper and right mind, she has smelled ready from the moment she started to quicken with the life they’ve made together.
The steam from her shower muffles his entrance and he smiles in a way that would frighten even him if he could see it. The mirror is fogged, however, and he never gets glimpse of the predatory smirk that twists his features, his hair hanging in his eyes as he places one hand to the wall next to the shower, taking just one more deep breath.
Soap and hot water, some fruity smell that frustrates and annoys him because-here is what he wants, the smell of a woman, his woman, the smell of her want, her need, her power. He can smell his own want as he sheds his clothes and his headache has not waned but intensified, pulsing in time with the cycles of his thoughts, scattered though they are.
One hand clenches in the material of the shower curtain, and he fights the urge to tear it from its moorings completely, exposing her to him and sending steam and water in an unheeded rush across the small, tiled room, but instead he gives himself a small opening and steps through it. She does not turn around and this pleases him. Her hands are in her hair, and it affords him a view of her skin from the nape of her neck to her heels.
She senses him as he moves closer, and before she can turn, he lunges, trapping her with a hand on either side of her, his mouth at her ear. “Hold still and be quiet,” he commands, his voice raspy with disuse. She shudders and nods slowly, but he is not looking. He is staring at the curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulder, and he runs his tongue from her shoulder up, tasting what he’s been smelling. He takes his hands from the wall to place on her water-slick breasts that have grown fuller over her pregnancy, the nipples darker and rounder in a way that makes him feel like devouring her.
He is not gentle, has no concept of how to be just now, but he is not rough-only possessive, unrelenting as he strokes and kneads her flesh. When she moves back against him, he moves away, taking his hands from her and stooping, his fingertips resting in the water that runs over the floor of the tub, water that would smell and taste of her if he splashed it up on his face. Instead, he goes to his knees and puts his palms flat on the floor, ducking his head to trace the tip of his tongue over her Achilles tendon, up her calf. He grazes his teeth over the back of her knee and kneels upright to steady her when her knees buckle.
She smells stronger now, her whole body moving restlessly in time with the pulse hammering in his head, and he presses his lips to the hollow at the small of her back where water pools before running down the cleft of her buttocks. He suckles for a moment, wanting to bring blood to the skin before continuing on his way, and she cries out. He likes the sound of it, primal and wordless and bouncing off the tiles, stopped by the steam. It is a mating call, though they have already mated, and he will take her again, will possess her again, will claim her in a few moments’ time.
He stands finally, resting hot and heavy between her thighs, his mouth seeking her skin, his tongue laving over the rise of her spine below the nape of her neck, his lips sliding over her neck and shoulder. Her hair clings to his face and goes unheeded as he takes one of her hands in his, guiding it over the slight swell of her stomach, the rise of it exciting him. He presses more insistently against her at the feel of her power, her ability to create, and guides the middle finger of her trembling hand to her sex, parting her to find her weakness.
She is wet in a way that is different from the hot water falling forgotten around them, and he moves her finger underneath his own, grunting into the skin of her neck, into her hair, watching gooseflesh rise despite the heat.
When her cries are at their loudest, he enters her from behind, the angle forcing her to bend a little. He keeps their fingers at the apex of her thighs, still stroking the knot of nerves beneath their fingertips. With his other hand, he rubs wet, slow circles on her stomach, everything now following his rhythm, insistent and instinctive.
He enters at the highest point of her first climax, and she surrounds him with a moan that sounds triumphant, her own possession, but he is not finished. His pace is already set for him by something as old as time, and the sounds they make together cover don’t quite cover the sound of flesh moving against flesh. He sucks water from the ends of her hair that brush against his mouth, his finger now forcing hers to double time as each thrust becomes firmer.
She peaks again, and he lets out a hoarse, victorious cry at making her helpless and making her his. His back bends, bowed to an almost impossible angle, his head thrown back, throat working as he pushes her back against him as closely as she’ll go, pouring himself into her in hot, fierce pumps. The water stings his eyes but he does not shut them, blinded anyway by the blood roaring in his ears.
He pulls her closer once the urgency has passed rather than pushing her away, stumbling backward until his back hits cool tile, still dry in places. His hands stroke where they have grasped only moments before, the pounding in his head abating, the insistence waning as his heart pounds madly in his chest.
He turns her finally, though the part of him that will now rule for the next twenty-eight days is chagrined at his behavior, mortified by his treatment of her. That part of him is reluctant to see the look in her eyes, but he forces himself to look at her anyway, to ensure she is all right.
She rises to her toes, her eyes steady on his, and kisses him firmly, softly. He waits for a moment but sees she will not give him words for reassurance-she merely kisses him again, and it is reassurance enough, or as much as he will allow himself. He pulls her into his arms, chest to chest, her tummy pressed against his, and his need has changed, has broadened.
He will fall asleep each night needing her, needing to love her, and full moon or no, he will wake wanting her.