(no subject)
Title - Stages of Love
Author - Joely
Rating - R
Prompt - #30, ‘The soul of this man is in his clothes’ and #23, ‘Love is no big truth, driven by our genes, we are simple selfish beings’
Summary - Stages of a relationship… and you know which one it is!
Author’s Note - This format has been done before, in every fandom I’ve ever known. I don’t know if there’s already a fic like this for R/T, but eh, I decided to write one. Any comments or concrit always loved.
I
New Shoes.
Nobody would ever say that attraction had anything to do with buying new shoes. Flowers, yes, chocolates, certainly, books, perhaps… but shoes are such everyday objects, such staple parts of your wardrobe and so normal, so unnoticed.
And yet she notices them on him, as he holds out his hand to her and she shakes it and smiles at him. His are curled at the toe and ancient but well polished and obviously re-soled a few times. The laces are a slightly different colour, too.
He catches her looking and he frowns and explains away their age with a short tale about a good pair of shoes being a part of your soul. It’s a romantic sort of thing to say to a complete stranger, she thinks, but she still finds herself smiling at the entertainment of that thought and at the sparkle in his brown eyes.
When she knows this man a little better, she thinks, she will buy him new shoes. There is nothing remotely odd about that, she tells herself.
II
Attraction is a subtle visitor with many graded levels. Nymphadora Tonks learned that lesson long ago when she looked upon Anton Kuznetsov from Durmstrang and felt a hot flush bloom along her cheeks and her stomach turn its first ever somersault as he looked back at her.
But the actual experience of it… She is aware of the variations in intensity and how different things can ignite different fires. Stolen glances, sideways looks… the foreplay and flirtation is the greatest part, she sometimes thinks; it’s the anticipation and the breathing in before the fall.
Across the table, Remus Lupin is trying not to look as if he’s just been caught staring, but the brief flush in his cheeks is telling her all she needs to know. She fixes him with a sidelong glance and smiles and the flush grows.
III
Mistletoe at Christmas. Grimmauld Place decorated with the finest sprigs from the seller at the market and everyone is laughing. Mulled wine and cherry brandy, mince pies and nuts and raisins; it’s all so blessedly perfect she barely wants to think that it will surely end.
It doesn’t take much to make her feel light-headed and, after all, Sirius’s been filling her glass a little more frequently than decorum should suggest. She wonders what he’s up to, but works it out when he ‘accidentally’ bumps her into Remus, standing near the fireplace. He’s been there aloof all night, ignoring the party and the merry-making, being almost rude she’s thought on one or two occasions.
Her clumsiness makes him spill his wine down his bottle-green jumper, a red blotch that spreads and stains and she tries immediately to clean it up, patting and pressing with tissues from her pocket. He urges her to stop, insisting finally that she does by grasping both her wrists and stilling them. Her eyes fly up to his and she realises that he’s going to kiss her barely a moment before he does so.
His lips are light and anxious, and she finds herself wondering how long he has been thinking of doing this. He tells her even though she doesn’t speak the words aloud, with a sigh and a gentle assertion that he’s been thinking about her all night.
The door opens and Sirius barges in, then corrects himself with a loud ‘oops’ and wanders back out. She imagines she can almost hear him laughing as his footsteps fade along the corridor.
IV
It’s all she can do not to cry out when he shifts his weight over her and dips low. There are people in the other room and she is insanely aware that the twins are probably listening at the door with their bloody extendable ears, but here, and now, she’s losing that thing that is coherent thought. And he’s moving and she can feel him. And, oh… now it’s kind of difficult to think of anything to say and any sound to make. His face is a picture of utter concentration and she’s trying hard not to push him. She doesn’t want to scare him, because she knows he’s easily scared.
But right now he seems quite determined, and so she sighs and pushes her hips into his, whispering his name. A small curse of oblivion follows and she realises dimly that it is not hers. She feels that familiar pulse inside her and then he goes utterly limp, spent and breathing like a man denied water and shade. She reaches up and touches him again. He shivers and she is reminded of a butterfly caught in a spider web.
V
There are moments when hope is sometimes all you have left. When the idea of being with someone becomes a desire so intense you can’t imagine what it was like before you were with them. Nymphadora Tonks wakes from a light sleep the morning after the Christmas party aware of whom she should find sleeping next to her. But the bed is empty and the room is deserted. She finds him downstairs at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of tea and eating toast. He seems tired and old in his striped pyjamas and she wonders how long he has been up and thinking.
She greets him with a smile and an expression of concern and he looks up and returns it. “I’m sorry…” he says, and his voice is small.
“Sorry for what?” she finds herself asking, deliberately cheerful, deliberately calm. She sees the panic in his eyes before he realises it himself and turns away, not wanting to see it.
“I took advantage of you. I have taken advantage of you and I’m sorry…”
She can feel herself frowning and frozen. “Taken advantage of me? What are you talking about? I know I was drunk, but, Remus… what do you think I am?”
She watches his Adam’s apple bob and rise in his throat and his eyes fall to his mug of tea. “You don’t want me…” he murmurs.
Grabbing a chair she pulls herself up next to him and grasps his arms firmly. His eyes meet hers and there’s a strange darkness to them she has never seen before; he looks practically vulnerable and that is something entirely foreign. Remus Lupin, she thinks, spread out before her like a soldier defeated by his conscience.
“I want you,” she tells him.
VI
Skin after a transformation is sensitive, she discovers, and then wishes she hadn’t discovered it as he winces away from her touch and his face smarts with pain. She tries to comfort him but he is quick to reassure her, to murmur that he is used to it. She thinks how sad it is that he can say such words in honesty.
And so she curls up against him and lays her head on his shoulder and listens to his breathing, so shallow and peppered by rattles. He is amazing, she knows, and not just for his resilience. That he can lie here now, after spending all night in another form and stir in her emotions so frantic and rooted... She treasures his presence and the warmth of his soul. She will never understand how he touches her like this.
VII
She wonders if she’s pushing too far by bringing up this topic of conversation. But she brings it up anyway and then regrets it straight away. Of course he would’ve answered that way; what right did she have to be assuming that this was the direction he was planning their relationship in?
The engagement ring glimmers in its satin silken box, its colours silver and blue and sparkling white and she regards it carefully. It represents every part of love that she’s ever been fascinated by; the temptation and the commitment to refuse it from other parts. It was why she read romance novels when she was sixteen, and why she kissed Charlie Weasley, just to see if it was right.
She’s spent too long being proud and strong, she knows; too long trying to be an independent woman. Dependence is what she wants now, and with this man, despite what he might tell her. He thinks he understands her and that is the terrible truth, that it could be misplaced perception and a certainty in unworthiness that could rip from her everything she’s ever wanted.
She wonders if she would have read those romance novels if they’d had these kind of hurdles.
VIII
She’s always believed that sex was the final destination; the end result of every passionate kiss or shedding of clothes. But she discovers that there’s more to it than that, especially with this man and especially when this man sees her as he does.
He reads her poetry and makes love to her on the bank of a river. He watches her sleep and then rouses her with kisses. He takes her hand in his and leads her upstairs with sparkling intent in his eyes. He touches her foot underneath the table and catches her gaze. He bites her neck and leaves light teeth marks on her skin. He tastes the tea she has just drunk when he grabs her and pushes her against the wall and presses himself into her.
Now, she knows there is more to sex than the meeting of bodies, and is quite certain of it. But the greatest assertion of all, the most passionate execution of it comes one stormy night in April when he stands in front of her and takes a stunner for her.
When she nurses him that night and soothes his aches with potions and light-fingered touches, she tells him she loves him.
IX
He has a favourite spot he likes to visit and narrates his passage there like a writer telling an unwritten tale. Just beneath her arm when it’s lifted above her head, and she knows that what he loves about it is the skin and the softness and the sighs that it induces in her. He tells her so and she smiles at his romance. This is living, she thinks with glorious delight, as he sinks inside her and kisses that spot and she feels his breath against her skin, so familiar and yet so new.
X
She thinks she’s known love before, but it’s something she’s often said without being completely sure. It’s half of four and less than three; it’s more than the sum of its parts and certainly more than the investment. She lies awake and counts the freckles on his arm and thinks that, hell, if this is love then love is bigger than she had ever imagined.
Her stomach turns a somersault as he stirs in his sleep and curls a little closer to her. She doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring, but she’s certain of one thing… perhaps more certain than she’s ever been of anything… Tomorrow will not be without him, no matter what he chooses to say or argue. This is for her. This is love, and she knows it.
The End.
Author - Joely
Rating - R
Prompt - #30, ‘The soul of this man is in his clothes’ and #23, ‘Love is no big truth, driven by our genes, we are simple selfish beings’
Summary - Stages of a relationship… and you know which one it is!
Author’s Note - This format has been done before, in every fandom I’ve ever known. I don’t know if there’s already a fic like this for R/T, but eh, I decided to write one. Any comments or concrit always loved.
I
New Shoes.
Nobody would ever say that attraction had anything to do with buying new shoes. Flowers, yes, chocolates, certainly, books, perhaps… but shoes are such everyday objects, such staple parts of your wardrobe and so normal, so unnoticed.
And yet she notices them on him, as he holds out his hand to her and she shakes it and smiles at him. His are curled at the toe and ancient but well polished and obviously re-soled a few times. The laces are a slightly different colour, too.
He catches her looking and he frowns and explains away their age with a short tale about a good pair of shoes being a part of your soul. It’s a romantic sort of thing to say to a complete stranger, she thinks, but she still finds herself smiling at the entertainment of that thought and at the sparkle in his brown eyes.
When she knows this man a little better, she thinks, she will buy him new shoes. There is nothing remotely odd about that, she tells herself.
II
Attraction is a subtle visitor with many graded levels. Nymphadora Tonks learned that lesson long ago when she looked upon Anton Kuznetsov from Durmstrang and felt a hot flush bloom along her cheeks and her stomach turn its first ever somersault as he looked back at her.
But the actual experience of it… She is aware of the variations in intensity and how different things can ignite different fires. Stolen glances, sideways looks… the foreplay and flirtation is the greatest part, she sometimes thinks; it’s the anticipation and the breathing in before the fall.
Across the table, Remus Lupin is trying not to look as if he’s just been caught staring, but the brief flush in his cheeks is telling her all she needs to know. She fixes him with a sidelong glance and smiles and the flush grows.
III
Mistletoe at Christmas. Grimmauld Place decorated with the finest sprigs from the seller at the market and everyone is laughing. Mulled wine and cherry brandy, mince pies and nuts and raisins; it’s all so blessedly perfect she barely wants to think that it will surely end.
It doesn’t take much to make her feel light-headed and, after all, Sirius’s been filling her glass a little more frequently than decorum should suggest. She wonders what he’s up to, but works it out when he ‘accidentally’ bumps her into Remus, standing near the fireplace. He’s been there aloof all night, ignoring the party and the merry-making, being almost rude she’s thought on one or two occasions.
Her clumsiness makes him spill his wine down his bottle-green jumper, a red blotch that spreads and stains and she tries immediately to clean it up, patting and pressing with tissues from her pocket. He urges her to stop, insisting finally that she does by grasping both her wrists and stilling them. Her eyes fly up to his and she realises that he’s going to kiss her barely a moment before he does so.
His lips are light and anxious, and she finds herself wondering how long he has been thinking of doing this. He tells her even though she doesn’t speak the words aloud, with a sigh and a gentle assertion that he’s been thinking about her all night.
The door opens and Sirius barges in, then corrects himself with a loud ‘oops’ and wanders back out. She imagines she can almost hear him laughing as his footsteps fade along the corridor.
IV
It’s all she can do not to cry out when he shifts his weight over her and dips low. There are people in the other room and she is insanely aware that the twins are probably listening at the door with their bloody extendable ears, but here, and now, she’s losing that thing that is coherent thought. And he’s moving and she can feel him. And, oh… now it’s kind of difficult to think of anything to say and any sound to make. His face is a picture of utter concentration and she’s trying hard not to push him. She doesn’t want to scare him, because she knows he’s easily scared.
But right now he seems quite determined, and so she sighs and pushes her hips into his, whispering his name. A small curse of oblivion follows and she realises dimly that it is not hers. She feels that familiar pulse inside her and then he goes utterly limp, spent and breathing like a man denied water and shade. She reaches up and touches him again. He shivers and she is reminded of a butterfly caught in a spider web.
V
There are moments when hope is sometimes all you have left. When the idea of being with someone becomes a desire so intense you can’t imagine what it was like before you were with them. Nymphadora Tonks wakes from a light sleep the morning after the Christmas party aware of whom she should find sleeping next to her. But the bed is empty and the room is deserted. She finds him downstairs at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of tea and eating toast. He seems tired and old in his striped pyjamas and she wonders how long he has been up and thinking.
She greets him with a smile and an expression of concern and he looks up and returns it. “I’m sorry…” he says, and his voice is small.
“Sorry for what?” she finds herself asking, deliberately cheerful, deliberately calm. She sees the panic in his eyes before he realises it himself and turns away, not wanting to see it.
“I took advantage of you. I have taken advantage of you and I’m sorry…”
She can feel herself frowning and frozen. “Taken advantage of me? What are you talking about? I know I was drunk, but, Remus… what do you think I am?”
She watches his Adam’s apple bob and rise in his throat and his eyes fall to his mug of tea. “You don’t want me…” he murmurs.
Grabbing a chair she pulls herself up next to him and grasps his arms firmly. His eyes meet hers and there’s a strange darkness to them she has never seen before; he looks practically vulnerable and that is something entirely foreign. Remus Lupin, she thinks, spread out before her like a soldier defeated by his conscience.
“I want you,” she tells him.
VI
Skin after a transformation is sensitive, she discovers, and then wishes she hadn’t discovered it as he winces away from her touch and his face smarts with pain. She tries to comfort him but he is quick to reassure her, to murmur that he is used to it. She thinks how sad it is that he can say such words in honesty.
And so she curls up against him and lays her head on his shoulder and listens to his breathing, so shallow and peppered by rattles. He is amazing, she knows, and not just for his resilience. That he can lie here now, after spending all night in another form and stir in her emotions so frantic and rooted... She treasures his presence and the warmth of his soul. She will never understand how he touches her like this.
VII
She wonders if she’s pushing too far by bringing up this topic of conversation. But she brings it up anyway and then regrets it straight away. Of course he would’ve answered that way; what right did she have to be assuming that this was the direction he was planning their relationship in?
The engagement ring glimmers in its satin silken box, its colours silver and blue and sparkling white and she regards it carefully. It represents every part of love that she’s ever been fascinated by; the temptation and the commitment to refuse it from other parts. It was why she read romance novels when she was sixteen, and why she kissed Charlie Weasley, just to see if it was right.
She’s spent too long being proud and strong, she knows; too long trying to be an independent woman. Dependence is what she wants now, and with this man, despite what he might tell her. He thinks he understands her and that is the terrible truth, that it could be misplaced perception and a certainty in unworthiness that could rip from her everything she’s ever wanted.
She wonders if she would have read those romance novels if they’d had these kind of hurdles.
VIII
She’s always believed that sex was the final destination; the end result of every passionate kiss or shedding of clothes. But she discovers that there’s more to it than that, especially with this man and especially when this man sees her as he does.
He reads her poetry and makes love to her on the bank of a river. He watches her sleep and then rouses her with kisses. He takes her hand in his and leads her upstairs with sparkling intent in his eyes. He touches her foot underneath the table and catches her gaze. He bites her neck and leaves light teeth marks on her skin. He tastes the tea she has just drunk when he grabs her and pushes her against the wall and presses himself into her.
Now, she knows there is more to sex than the meeting of bodies, and is quite certain of it. But the greatest assertion of all, the most passionate execution of it comes one stormy night in April when he stands in front of her and takes a stunner for her.
When she nurses him that night and soothes his aches with potions and light-fingered touches, she tells him she loves him.
IX
He has a favourite spot he likes to visit and narrates his passage there like a writer telling an unwritten tale. Just beneath her arm when it’s lifted above her head, and she knows that what he loves about it is the skin and the softness and the sighs that it induces in her. He tells her so and she smiles at his romance. This is living, she thinks with glorious delight, as he sinks inside her and kisses that spot and she feels his breath against her skin, so familiar and yet so new.
X
She thinks she’s known love before, but it’s something she’s often said without being completely sure. It’s half of four and less than three; it’s more than the sum of its parts and certainly more than the investment. She lies awake and counts the freckles on his arm and thinks that, hell, if this is love then love is bigger than she had ever imagined.
Her stomach turns a somersault as he stirs in his sleep and curls a little closer to her. She doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring, but she’s certain of one thing… perhaps more certain than she’s ever been of anything… Tomorrow will not be without him, no matter what he chooses to say or argue. This is for her. This is love, and she knows it.
The End.