Crap drabble. First Potterfic. Odd, slight WTFery. Maybe more? Set between GoF and OotP, at Grimmauld Place.
Warnings: sex between a sixteen-year-old witch and a thirtysomething wizard who was once her teacher.
It ocurred to Remus Lupin on the precipice of orgasm that this was not an exercise in poor taste, or a radical shift in priorities, but a surmounting glee. One that grew fat with the weeks rolling onto it, hallowing itself as a matter of great importance. He was sure of it, made sure of it, and abided by it when the clock struck so.
The head his hands were clapped to had the consistency of wool, the wily limberness of a snake's throat and soft indentations where he could dig his thumbs without worry. Only, he didn't. There were no reasons beside the obvious looming over him. A cure for mid-afternoon ennui and later perhaps a cup of tea. Discussion on things that didn't really bother him, tugging on the collar of his robes, opening a window and appreciating the dust on a lampshade later that evening, with his mind on a mouth and his hand on a shoulder to praise.
He was happy he wasn't picky; not at all. The just truth belied the exact contours of a wet hole, where he sank in and never wanted to come out. Feeling the scrape of her teeth against it, the angry flush it had in the prelude told him he might be unwary. But the soul-shake was true, and her nervous sensitivity whittled the path of most devotion.
She sat on the sink, with her teeth chattering, and asked him a question to unbutton his shirt to: "Do you think things will go smoothly, this war coming up?"
All things wise and wonderful crept from her sodden mouth; his adamant laissez-faire with the children's inquiries softened (although this was most definitely was a child's inquiry in the shape of a girl-woman's casual intonation). She blinked at him lucidly, the answer a certainty. He said, "Who knows?"
While they made love on the edge of the sink, he watched his nostrils dilate in the mirror. His dirty, unclipped fingernails bore into her softly slouching shoulder blades. She let out an airy sigh, almost drowsed against him. This was nearly it, time to have a great revelation and let himself drip onto the tiles. Whatever it was down there really shouldn't swallow his seed.
There it was, again.
He tucked his self-loathing away neatly with his member in his trousers. Hermione Granger arranged her shorts it such a way no one could see the blotchy rash creeping down her thighs. "See you at dinner, then," he waved her off lazily. So loomed the boredom, but there was no reason for her not to stay his scratching post.
Soon enough she would return to her books and castles.