horror movies & chill
word count: 2.6k
pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader
summary: eddie tries to scare you and gets more than he bargained for.
cw: SMUT - 18+ MINORS DNI. this is literally porn with a smidge of plot, sorry not sorry. mask kink, choking, degradation kink on the low (eddie calls reader slut/whore), fingering, unprotected piv, creampie
The TV screen lights up the dark living room, flashes of different colors streaking across the space. You sit on the couch, blanket draped over your lap as your knee bounces absentmindedly. Your boyfriend had wandered off to get something, and now you sit alone in suspense as the girl on screen figures out there’s a killer in her house. The movie goes eerily quiet, the lone heroine peering around her silent home. You know what’s coming next. You’ve seen enough horror movies to know that when it gets too quiet, a jump scare is right around the corner.
And yet.
You scream in unison with the girl on television, two hands gripping your shoulders from behind just as the fictional killer grabs his target. You spring up off of the couch, the blanket falling to the floor in a heap. You spin around, frantic, your body gone cold for a moment. Wicked laughter erupts in front of you as you get your bearings, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.
“God dammit, Eddie!” you shout, hand over your heart as you attempt to steady your breathing. “You absolute asshole!”
Eddie’s doubled over behind the couch, a cheap Halloween store Ghostface mask covering his head. He’s still laughing, trying to get words out and failing.
“Baby…” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice even though he’s trying to be serious. What a dick. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think I’d get you that good,” he says, walking towards you.
“You’re such a jerk sometimes,” you reply, but nevertheless you let him grab your arms, rubbing soothing patterns on the skin.
“I know. I am, baby, you’re right. That was mean,” he agrees, nodding his head beneath the black and white mask. You know he'd be giving you puppy-dog eyes if you could see him.
You can’t help but laugh, the initial panic leaving your body. You must’ve looked petrified, and you’re a little mad he scared you so badly.
“You’ll have to make it up to me,” you pout, crossing your arms over your chest.
Eddie’s head cocks to one side, sympathetic, playing it up for you. “Of course, sweetheart. And how do I do that?” he asks, stepping slightly closer to you.
He wants a genuine answer, but you find your breath hitching in your throat. Maybe it’s the way his fingers rub circles into your lower back. Maybe it’s the heat radiating from his body onto yours. Maybe it’s the sound of his labored breathing beneath that sweaty mask that's getting to you. You press your thighs together, suddenly feeling too hot for such a cold October day.
And Eddie can see, through the mesh eye cutouts, the way you bite your lip just slightly. He can see the way your lips part but no words come out, the way you tilt your hips closer to his. And he definitely feels the way your fingers hook into the belt-loops on his jeans, drawing him in.
“Oh my god. Are you into this right now?” he asks, voice dripping with his smug attitude. He’s grinning like the damn Cheshire Cat, if only you could see it.
You don’t answer right away, shifting on your feet. You look down, not sure if you have the gumption to tell your boyfriend the god damn Ghostface mask is turning you on right now. You were scared shitless mere minutes ago. But the way your heart pounds now is completely different to the way it had before.
“Shut up….” you mumble, your face growing incredibly warm.
“You are so fucking into this right now,” he says, laughing as he gets the last word out.
“Okay, if you’re gonna make fun-” you start, drawing your body away. Eddie doesn’t let you finish.
“Waitwaitwait,” he interrupts, pulling you back to him. “I just didn’t expect it, is all,” he reassures, his voice sounding muffled beneath the rubbery material.
You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, eagerly anticipating his next move. You can't quite bring yourself to act first.
He brings your body flush against his, two fingers gliding up one of your arms, sending chills down your spine. He leans his face close to your ear, his breathing audible. “I won’t judge if you like the mask, baby,” he purrs, his voice deeper now.
His other hand wraps around your waist, palm pressing into your lower back, pushing your crotch against his. You gasp, goosebumps perking up along your arms. Screams erupt from the movie, the final girl running free from her potential killer. It’s comedic, really, how you’re stood here ready to jump the killer’s bones.
Eddie’s hips roll, just slightly, but enough for you to feel the tent in his pants. You let out a shaky breath, your body seeking him out, wanting him to give you more of that friction.
“What is it, babe?” he taunts. “You want me?”
“Eddie…” is all you get out, a breathy little thing, your hands pressed to his chest.
And then he’s pressing you against the wall, hiking one of your legs around his waist, his crotch pressing against your needy core. One big hand comes to wrap around your throat, cold rings soothing the flames that lap at your skin. He squeezes, making you delightfully hazy, pinning you hard against the wall with his body.
“This what you want, baby? Want me to fucking ruin you?” he asks, voice akin to a growl, squeezing your throat yet again.
“P-please,” you mewl, desperate for more. You know you’re soaking through your panties, practically aching for him.
Something about not being able to see him drives you crazy. Relying on just his voice, trying to gauge his tone. You’re writhing beneath him, grinding yourself against him. He’s so hard it has to be painful, you can feel it even through the layer of denim covering his bottom half.
“Oh, she’s so desperate, huh? Pussy needs me, baby? God damn…” he rasps, and you throb for him.
His fingers dig into the meat of your thigh where he holds it, giving it a sharp squeeze. His other hand removes itself from your neck, tugging down the zipper on his jeans. You undo the button for him, just as eager to get his pants down as he is. His cock stands at attention beneath the fabric of his boxers, begging to be touched. He ignores it for the meantime, though, releasing his hold on your leg and letting you drop it. He makes quick work of sliding your leggings and panties down, fingers collecting the honey that drips from you.
Groaning, he brings his fingers to your mouth, prompting you to suck them. You oblige, mouth opening and enveloping his digits. Your tongue swipes over them, tasting yourself and coating them with saliva. And then they’re pulled from your lips, teasing your clit before slipping into your cunt. Your leg wraps around his waist once more, allowing for a better angle. He scissors those two fingers inside of you, his breathing heavy, sounding almost amplified from beneath the mask. Your hips buck forward, forcing his fingers deeper. One hand grips your side, pinning you back against the wall.
“Don’t be fuckin’ greedy, slut,” Eddie barks, words sending sparks right through you.
His fingers curl in a ‘come here’ motion, your body feeling boneless as you try to keep yourself upright. He laughs, a devious thing, clearly satisfied with how pliant you are for him. You can tell how wet you are from the slick sounds coming from every glide of his fingers, your body so desperately craving more of him. He adds a third finger, prying you open even farther with complete ease, grunting as he feels the way you tense around him.
“Eddie,” you gasp, “f-feels so good.”
“I know it does, baby, I know,” he coos, smirking to himself at the way your body writhes beyond your control. “Gonna let me fuck this pretty pussy, hm?”
“Yeah, oh god,” you cry, head tipping back as you moan to the ceiling, his fingers pressing so deep inside of you.
He moans despite himself, your cunt completely drenching his fingers. His cock twitches in his boxers, leaks and pleads for you. You’re a little blurry through the eyes of Ghostface, but he can still make out the way your face contorts in pleasure. He loves making you feel like this, loves having you in the palm of his hand.
“My filthy girl, so fuckin’ wet for me all because I put this mask on, is that it? Really gets you going, huh baby?”
He wanted you to like the mask, if he’s honest, and the fact that it’s working on you is driving him up a fucking wall. He needs to be inside of you, needs to fuck you hard and pump you full of his cum before he loses it.
Three fingers slide out of you, squelching slightly as you suddenly clench around nothing. He yanks his boxers down, merely a hindrance to him, his thick cock springing free. You whimper at the sight of it, chewing on your lip as you watch him wrap his hand around the shaft. He pumps himself a few times, lets his pre-cum drip over his fingers, and it makes you ache. You feel like your body is on fire, you need him so bad, white-hot flames licking up your thighs.
A few more pumps and then he’s releasing himself, hoisting you up so both of your legs tangle around him. He grips the meat of your ass, squeezing and kneading the flesh the best he can. He lines his cock up just right, your cunt glistening with your arousal. And you want to kiss him so bad, you want to feel your tongue against his and you want him to bite you, to suck bruises into your neck. The fact that you can’t almost makes you crazier, spurring you on more. You can only imagine what his face looks like as he sheathes himself inside of you, can only imagine those perfect parted lips as he sighs blissfully.
His cock pushes through your slick folds until you can feel his balls pressed against you, his thick length fully seated inside of you. It’s such an enticing stretch to fit him, your whole body vibrating with desire. He rocks himself in and out, in and out, letting you get used to his size. Your cunt has already soaked him in your cream, you can see it pooling where his body meets yours.
“Fuuuuuuck baby,” Eddie groans, panting beneath the warmth of the mask. “Such a needy whore for me, god damn. So fucking wet.”
You whine, canting your hips upwards ever so slightly, the tip of Eddie’s cock pressing so deep inside.
“She’s fuckin’ soaking me, angel. This pussy loves me, doesn’t she?” he says, thrusting into you harder now. He sets a quicker pace, holding your weight against the wall with complete ease.
“Eddie, Eddie,” you moan, waves of euphoria rippling through every inch of your body. He’s so deep and so big and so good.
Your nails dig into the skin of his back, clawing at him through his t-shirt as he fucks you like it’s his last opportunity. You can hear grunts and strained whines falling from his lips, breath coming out in spurts from exertion.
“Babe, fuck, can I take this thing off? Need my mouth on you baby,” he pants, hips snapping against yours and making you cry out.
“Yes, yes - fuck Eddie!” you moan, nearly screaming his name.
The mask is whipped off in one swift motion, Eddie’s unruly curls sticking out. His eyes are wild, pupils blown with sheer need, those perfect lips of his so pink and plump. His mouth is on you in an instant, kissing your lips, your jaw, his teeth biting at your neck. He sucks on the delicate skin, unforgiving as you hiss at the sensation. His warm tongue laves over the irritated area, soothing you and sending a shiver down your spine. You roll your hips, needing more from him, needing him in impossible ways.
“Fucking Christ, you’re so desperate for me,” he gets out through heavy breaths, his cock impaling you over and over. His cocky demeanor doesn’t waver, hands squeezing your ass, smirking when you whine at him.
Filthy noises fill the living room, wet smacks as your dripping pussy sucks Eddie back in for more more more. He glances down to where your bodies join, his dick shiny with your juices. Eyelashes flutter as he looks back up at you, pulling your face to his to kiss you harder. His greedy tongue roams your mouth, his lips demanding in the way they move with yours.
Eddie can tell you’re getting close by the way your eyes roll back into your skull, the way your pussy keeps squeezing him so tight. Your brows knit together as you focus on how good he feels, eyes pinching shut.
“Nuh-uh. Look at me, sweet girl,” Eddie instructs, fucking you faster. “Look at me when I’m making you feel so good.”
Your eyes open, big and glassy as they plead with him. You’re so ready to snap, your body overwhelmed with pleasure as Eddie abuses your cunt. Your fingers tangle in his hair - something you’d missed while he’d had the mask on - and tug, drawing a throaty groan from him. His balls are slapping against the skin of your ass with each rough thrust, fingers digging so hard into flesh you’re sure you’ll be sore tomorrow.
Those big brown eyes of his are incredibly dark, his lips parted as he watches you slowly unravel right before his eyes. You feel yourself about to tip over the edge, about to let go, and he can see it on your face.
“Gonna cum for me, dirty girl? Little slut’s gonna cum all over my fucking cock?” he taunts you, every single word sending bolts of electricity right to your core.
“Gonna cum so fucking hard, Eddie, oh my god,” you say breathlessly, eyes fluttering to a close as you reach your peak.
You’re delirious as you cum, your walls squeezing Eddie so fucking tight. Strings of curse words are falling from his lips as he chases his own release, drawing it closer and closer as you completely soak him. Movements get sloppy, not aided by the slippery mess you’ve created, and Eddie’s breaths grow staggered.
His cock pounds into you one, two, three more times before his hips stutter, hot ropes of cum filling you. You can just barely feel the way he twitches inside of you, every last drop of his release pouring out. Both of you settle finally, catching your breath as you come down from your highs. Eddie sets you down, your feet hitting the ground once more. Your legs feel like rubber, like you might crumple to the floor if it weren’t for the fact that he’s holding your waist and pulling you in to him.
You look down at the floor, the crumpled mask staring up at you, mouth gaping in a perpetual scream. You’re dizzy with realization of what's just happened.
“You’re fucking unreal,” he says finally, tilting your chin up so your eyes will meet his. “Where did that come from?”
“I don’t know…” you admit, cheeks growing hot. “Something about that damn mask,” you smirk at him, getting a waggle of his eyebrows in response.
“I can go to the store right now and get more… who do you want next? Michael Myers? Jason?” Eddie jokes, smiling when you scoff at him.
“Just make sure to keep the Ghostface one around, okay?” your shy request has him grinning, his tongue running over his teeth.
“Oh, you’ll be seeing more of him for sure.”
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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.”
“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?”
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
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Operational Log from the Government Institute for Ghost Supervision (G.I.G.S.):
AGENTS: “ImpulseSV”, “Skizzleman”, “Grian”, “GoodTimesWithScar”
SUPERVISOR: [Redacted]
[Impulse has submitted a request for ‘$2000’ for reason ‘Van’]
SUPERVISOR: Hi boys. Pleasure to be working with you. Can you give a better reason than ‘van’ for why you need two fucking thousand American dollars?
IMPULSE: Oh, sorry sir. We just need to replace some things in the van.
GRIAN: By which he means everything in the van.
SUPERVISOR: You lost ALL YOUR EQUIPMENT?
IMPULSE: You’re new, aren’t you, sir. Have you…met Scar?
SUPERVISOR: I have your personnel files. What does this have to do with Scar?
GRIAN: Oh, you’ll find out.
IMPULSE: Our last supervisor just sort of, uh, approved things. I’ve got receipts.
SKIZZ: We’re at the school, guys! Stop chatting and get in there!
IMPULSE: Gotta go!
[crackle]
GRIAN: Okay, so Scar, Impulse and Skizz are in the building. So far we’ve got the power turned on but no clues. There’s a spooky sort of bonfire in the main hall. Got skulls on it.
SCAR: I lit the bonfire!
GRIAN: Breaking news, Scar has lit the bonfire.
SUPERVISOR: Why did you light the bonfire!? You could draw the attention of a ghost!
GRIAN: Yeah, Skizz, why did you let Scar set something on fire? Pretty irresponsible.
SKIZZ: [noise of incoherent outrage] You try stopping him, buddy.
GRIAN: Can’t, I’m in the van. [further noise of outrage from Skizz]. Impulse is reporting EMF Level 5—didn’t anyone set up cameras? What kind of team doesn’t set up cameras? We’ve got a new supervisor to impress.
SUPERVISOR: Cameras should not be set up during a mission! You should have set them up in the daytime!
IMPULSE: We could use some cameras.
SKIZZ: GRIAN, YOU GET IN HERE, BUDDY.
GRIAN: Okay, okay, fine! I’ll get the cameras.
SUPERVISOR: Why are you risking the whole team in the building at the same—
[Scar has submitted request for ‘$5’ for reason ‘glowsticks’]
SUPERVISOR: Why on god’s green earth do you need glowsticks!?
SKIZZ: Scar, those don’t do anything.
SCAR: They keeps you safe from ghosts!
SKIZZ: What, because they’re too cool for raves?
SCAR: I want glowsticks or I’m resigning.
SUPERVISOR: You can’t resign in the middle of mission!
IMPULSE: Haunt! Everyone quiet!
SUPERVISOR: Wait, a real haunt? That’s highly dangerous! Get out!
[crackle]
IMPULSE: False alarm, that noise was Skizz and Scar frying hot dogs.
[Scar has submitted request for ‘$1’ for reason ‘needs salt’]
SUPERVISOR: Not approved! You’re not supposed to fry hotdogs on an eldritch bonfire!
SKIZZ: We were hungry!
GRIAN: Wait, you guys have hotdogs in there? I’m coming in.
IMPULSE: Oh, wait—wait—yep, there’s the haunt.
[crackle]
GRIAN: Well, Scar’s dead.
SUPERVISOR: Oh god! What!
IMPULSE: I was wondering why they didn’t get attacked. Just a slow ghost, I guess.
SUPERVISOR: An agent is dead and you’re joking!?
GRIAN: Oh, he’ll be fine.
SKIZZ: I got some tarot cards here.
SUPERVISOR: Don’t touch the cursed items! Find your colleague’s body!
[crackle]
SCAR: I hate all of you. You left me to die.
SUPERVISOR: What? Just a goddamn minute. That was a joke? Agent Scar is alive?
IMPULSE: Scar, buddy, cheer up.
SCAR: Grian shut a door in my face!
SUPERVISOR: One agent impeded another’s investigation?
SCAR: Yeah! I was impuded!
GRIAN: What! How is this my fault! A ghost was coming at me and I shut a door!
SCAR: And killed me!
GRIAN: That sounds like a you problem.
SCAR: Sir, I want to file a complaint. About Grian.
SUPERVISOR: Well, put in a placeholder and we’ll—
[Scar has submitted file ‘grain Complaint’]
[Grian has submitted file ‘Grian’s Official Resignation Letter’]
SUPERVISOR: Boys, this sounds like it’s gotten heated, let’s take it offline. Agent Scar, we’ll look into this later. Agent Grian, put your resignation on hold.
IMPULSE: They do this a lot.
SKIZZ: It’s affection. You love each other.
SCAR: I love Grian not murdering me.
GRIAN: I love Scar saving me some hot dogs. Oh wait, he didn’t.
SKIZZ: C’mon, fellas, where’s this ghost?
IMPULSE: We gotta use some of these cursed items.
GRIAN: I vote Scar looks in the haunted mirror. Anyone else want to volunteer? No? See, vote carried.
[Scar has submitted file ‘Im Resigning’]
[Grian has submitted file ‘I’m Resigning HARDER’]
[Scar has submitted file ‘No your not’]
[Last 3 requests have been denied]
SUPERVISOR: How on earth do you work with them?
[Grian has submitted file ‘Turbo Resignation Letter’]
IMPULSE: Oh, me and Skizz have got a knack for it, sir. You just have to let them work it out. Or shut one of them up for the ghost to get.
[Last 1 request has been denied]
SUPERVISOR: Boys, this is sounding like a really dangerous situation and I think you should get out of there. I’m calling a retreat.
SKIZZ: Gimme the mirror, I’ll try saying the ghost’s name.
SUPERVISOR: Did you hear me? Is this thing on? Saying the name is EXPLICITLY the one thing that is unsafe to do on missions!
GRIAN: Huh. Maybe we should have read the manual.
SKIZZ: Just let me do it, sir, we get results.
SUPERVISOR: Are you four always like this?
IMPULSE: Oh, no. Usually these missions go much worse.
SUPERVISOR: No! No, nobody is looking in any cursed mirrors! I have eighty successful mission supervisions under my belt—
SCAR: Sounds uncomfortable.
SUPERVISOR: Our department has a clean record of no agent deaths—
GRIAN: Oh damn, I knew I should have submitted our reports.
SUPERVISOR: And I—What reports?
IMPULSE: Don’t tell him about the reports!
SUPERVISOR: Is this data right? You haven’t sent in a report in… five YEARS?
GRIAN: One thing and another, you know.
SUPERVISOR: No! Enough! You are the WORST team I have ever worked with and every practice you have is UNSAFE and I bet one of you is looking in the cursed mirror RIGHT NOW—
[crackle]
[crackle]
GRIAN: Scar’s dead again.
SUPERVISOR: [calming breath] Okay, you lot clearly have your jokes, like last time, but I need you to know that’s not funny.
GRIAN: I can get a picture of how he ragdolled. His head’s on backwards. It’s hilarious.
[Grian has submitted photo file lol.jpg]
SUPERVISOR: … That … that is a man who has been killed by a malevolent spirit! That spirit is deadly!
SKIZZ: Funny, the ones they send us on are always deadly.
IMPULSE: Get him back to the van.
SUPERVISOR: LEAVE IMMEDIATELY! I AM CALLING AN AMBULANCE!
IMPULSE: You don’t need to do that—
GRIAN: Hey! Dots! I just saw dots!
SKIZZ: Yes! Mark off dots!
IMPULSE: Sweet, we’ve got it! It’s a White Lady! Let’s go, guys!
SUPERVISOR: Is anyone listening? Is anyone listening to me?
[crackle]
SUPERVISOR: Come in. Come in.
SUPERVISOR: I know you’re driving back. Answer your goddamn radio.
SCAR: Well, hello there.
SUPERVISOR: This is very serious. I have to report Agent Scar’s death—Agent Scar? Is that you?
SCAR: The one, the only!
SUPERVISOR: You were dead!
SCAR: Oh, yeah, but then they brought me into the van and we left.
SUPERVISOR: How—what—
SCAR: I dunno, ask Impulse! I’m usually dead by this point.
SUPERVISOR: Agent Impulse! How!
IMPULSE: Me and Skizz have been doing this a long time, sir. Guess we’ve just got a knack.
SUPERVISOR: A knack for—a knack for—I’m going to get a drink.
SCAR: Toast our great success. Hey, hey, Grian, that’s my hot dog. I died for that hot dog!
GRIAN: You weren’t looking! Finder’s keepers!
IMPULSE: Careful of the wheel, guys, careful of the wheel—
SUPERVISOR: I’m never working with your team again!
SKIZZ: Yeah? I get ya, buddy. See you next week.
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