Disclaimer: Not JK Rowling, not even a little bit – so full credit to her for anything you recognise.
There be sex.
Author's Note: Originally written for rt challenge on Live Journal, for the prompts: scandal, and some lyrics from Enjoy The Silence by Depeche Mode . Feedback always appreciated ;)
The floorboards creak under her feet, shattering the silence of his room. He's glad, but he hadn't expected her to come, and wonders why she's here, if she wants to talk, which he doesn't think he'll be able to bear because he's not sure what he'll say.
Regardless, he shifts to face her and forces a smile to let her see that he's awake.
Until now, werewolf has been a vague, intangible thing somewhere in their relationship, but now the issue's been forced by The Daily Prophet and he's really not sure how things will play out. He hasn't talked about it much; on the one hand, he didn't want to come across as some old woman griping about his condition, and on the other he thinks he really was just afraid that if she knew the reality of his situation she wouldn't want him anymore.
She slips out of her clothes and tosses them into a rough pile on the carpet before sliding in next to him and pulling the sheet up to her chin, which reassures him a bit because people don't normally break hearts naked. "I see you're famous," she says, jerking her head towards the newspaper that's still sprawled across the desk.
He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. "Notorious is the word, I believe," he replies. She lets out a soft, exasperated breath and shuffles closer, her hand snaking over his stomach, down towards where his pyjama bottoms are loosely tied. He shivers at her touch, but meets her eye in question, and in answer she shifts closer and presses kisses to his shoulder, then his chest.
He can't say he anticipated this reaction to him being outed as a werewolf and splashed all over the front of the newspaper, but he can't say he doesn't like it. Her fingers move in lazy circles, and he forms words while he still can. "What are you doing?"
"Seducing you, I hope," she murmurs, shifting on top of him and nibbling his neck.
"Well if you're famous, you'll need a groupie, won't you?" she says, and as she traces a pattern across his collarbone with her lips and his hands find her hips he wants to laugh.
But he doesn't, because the way she's moving is really no laughing matter, and when she purrs against his neck that she's been thinking about him – this – all day, he slides his hands up over her body until he can take her face in them, and pulls her closer for a kiss. She's an amazing kisser. Her lips are soft, warm, and inviting, somehow, and his insides cave. Every time he kisses her she makes him feel as excited as a schoolboy doing it for the first time.
Her hands slip between them and she fumbles with the knot on his pyjamas, finally gets it undone and shifts so she can push them down. Before long, he's utterly lost, lost in her, the way she feels around him and beneath his hands, the way her eyelids flutter shut and her fingers tighten on his stomach when he moves the way he knows she likes.
She's not an eloquent person, never has been, but she doesn't need to be because her body's saying everything he needs to hear. For her, nothing's changed. She wants him as much as she always has, and Remus thinks that if he didn't have other things on his mind, he really would laugh, because he wasted so much time today worrying about what she'd think, say, having half conversations in his head – when for her the scandal in the paper was nothing more than an irritating aside and the chance for her to jokingly change her title from girlfriend to groupie.
And as she collapses against him and he wraps his arms around her, he realises that having someone who thinks what he is doesn't matter is all he's ever really wanted, and here she is, in his arms.