Monsters, Livid With Desire
It isn't supposed to happen this way. It isn't supposed to happen at all, actually. Of course, Sirius thinks, most of his life can be summed up that way, so why should this be any different?
He hasn't looked at a woman in years, and he's never been particularly fond of redheads, but she's not quite a woman yet (girl-child blossoming into sweet, curved woman-flesh and sparking, knowing eyes, long limbs and swaying hips), and no one's looked at him that way in years, not even Remus.
He can see himself in Remus's eyes, and the love, the love is there, but the hot greed of desire, the predator's aching want is gone, drowned in loss, regret and the stability of adulthood.
He can see himself in the mirror, which he's spelled to silence, because the mocking from his own lips is enough. He sees himself, gaunt and haunted, wasted flesh under sickly skin, but he remembers being young and strong and beautiful.
And sometimes, over the summer, Ginny looks at him as though he still is, and it takes his breath away.
Months later, she curls up the chair as they wait for news of Arthur and stares at him occasionally, and he shakes his head to clear it, because he can't be seeing what he thinks he's seeing in her eyes.
Two nights later, she curls up in his lap, smelling of sleep and worry and soft, secret girl things that stir him in ways they shouldn't. He thinks perhaps he's had too much firewhisky.
"I can't sleep," she murmurs into the curve of his neck, her hair falling loose over his arm, which is wrapped around her shoulders.
"I know the feeling," he answers, stroking her hair gently, feeling her relax against him. He rests his chin on her head, and shifts slightly in the chair, trying to hide his body's reaction to a lapful of warm, soft girl. Sirius never sleeps on the nights Remus is away, their bed empty and cold and too big for one person.
She laughs, soft puffs of air on his suddenly overheated skin, and wiggles. She looks up at him and he realizes she knows exactly what she's doing.
He begins moving his hands more purposefully up and down her back, her body hot against the pads of his fingers, through the thin material of her nightgown.
She holds his gaze, challenging him, and Sirius Black has never backed down from a challenge. He wonders how far she'll let it go before she stops him, or if she'll brazen it out. She curls her hands around his jaw, presses her mouth to his without hesitation, and steals his breath, eyes still open and watching him.
He deepens the kiss, thrusting his tongue into her willing mouth, and she moans, one hand slipping around his neck, the other tangling in his hair. She shifts her body, straddling him, and he can feel the damp heat between her legs against his erection through the thin cotton of her knickers and his boxers.
"Ginny, what--" he asks, his breathing ragged, when he breaks the kiss.
"Shh," she says, her lips against his. "It'll help us sleep. Make the nightmares go away."
Which is true, but that doesn't make it right. She's young enough to be his daughter and--
She rolls her hips and thought is forgotten in the desperate pleasure of the moment, the heat and want rushing through him, that he sees mirrored in her heavy-lidded eyes. She wants him, and that drives all other concerns away.
They move together, gasping, "oh, oh, oh," in the silence of the sleeping house, and he can feel it uncoiling in his belly like a snake, urgent and ecstatic, rushing out of him as he thrusts, coming wet and sticky inside his pajamas.
Ginny stops moving, her whole body taut with need, chest heaving with effort, and he slips a hand between them, pushing aside the wet crotch of her knickers to slide his fingers along her slick, hot flesh. She gasps as if she's drowning, and Sirius hopes she is, hopes it rises up and chokes her, even as he finds her clit and rubs it roughly with his thumb, two fingers pushing inside her tight heat.
"Fuck," she growls, throwing her head back and grinding down against his hand, sweat gleaming on her fair skin. She's beautiful and dangerous in the darkness of the kitchen, and he almost forgets who she is, forgets she's anything more than someone who wants this from him, as he edges toward sated sleep, still high on the lingering thrill of doing something he knows is wrong and getting away with it.
She clenches around his fingers and shudders, digging her nails into his shoulders as she rides the orgasm out. She slumps against him, still breathing heavily, and rests her head in the hollow of his neck.
He feels her fall asleep, her body a dead weight on his lap, and he manages to carry her up to her room and slip her into bed without waking anyone. He stares down at her for a moment, red hair spilling across the white pillows, her face slack and young, so dreadfully young in the dim light.
When he is in his own bed, the bed he shares with Remus, cold and empty and too big for one person, he cleans himself and curls up as Padfoot, too shaken now to sleep.
She smiles at him in the morning, bright and full of cheer -- her father is alive and Christmas is coming. She looks so happy, so innocent, he almost convinces himself it was a dream. A particularly lurid dream, but a dream nonetheless.
Until she brushes past him on her way out of the kitchen, fingers trailing surreptitiously over his crotch, hidden by her body.
He chokes, earning a concerned look from Molly, and mutters something about the tea being too hot before he flees to Buckbeak's room, where no one will follow.
He paces the bedroom that night, unwilling to chance the kitchen again, because he's never resisted a dare in his life, never wanted to, and Ginny Weasley is nothing but a dare, a chance to say "fuck you" to everything and everyone, and he's not going to do it again. He's not.
His hand moves almost unconsciously to his already hard cock when he thinks about her. He pushes his boxers off and sits naked on the edge of the bed. He blows out the candles because he can't bear to look at himself anymore, worn and thin, a shadow of the man he used to be.
He's just settled into a good rhythm, eyes closed, bottom lip caught between his teeth, when the bedroom door swings open and cool air rushes in.
"You're back early," he says breathlessly, smiling and waiting for Remus to close the door and touch him.
He hears the door shut, and leans back on his hands, eyes still closed, face raised for a kiss.
But the mouth that covers his isn't Remus's, nor is the hand that curls around his cock, warm and soft, too small and fine-boned.
"Oh, fuck," he groans in dismay mingled with pleasure, eyes flying open. "Ginny."
She smiles at him. Her lips are red and full and would look perfect wrapped around his prick. As if she can read his mind, she slips to her knees between his thighs, long hair like silk brushing his skin, making him shiver.
He swallows hard and pulls her up. "Ginny, we can't--"
"But you want to," she says, running her thumb along the head of his cock. "And I want to."
Holding his gaze, looking far older and more experienced than her years, she straddles him, her knees on either side of his thighs. Beneath her nightgown she's naked, and she radiates heat. She sinks down onto his cock, hot, wet and tight, and he knows she's not lying, knows she wants him. And God help him, he wants her.
She crosses her arms, grasps the hem of her nightgown, and pulls it over her head, revealing small, high breasts tipped with sweet, ripe nipples that make his mouth water. He slides his hands up the soft skin of her back, hoping and dreading that he's the first man to touch her like this.
He'll never be able to look Molly or Arthur (or Remus) in the eye again.
Ginny tightens around him, demanding his attention, and begins to move. His hands look large and dark and foreign on her skin, so he closes his eyes, lets himself get lost in sensation -- the wet heat of Ginny's cunt, the sweat-dampened sheets beneath his thighs, the salt-sweet savor of girlflesh on his tongue. He tastes the curve of her breast before licking at one peaked nipple, circling it with his tongue and then sucking it into his mouth.
She moans, sliding her fingers through his hair, urging him on, still riding him with agonizing slowness. He kisses her neck and shoulders, fair and flushed and dusted with freckles.
He can't think and he's glad of it, because when he opens his eyes, she's utterly breathtaking, her body undulating like a snake, her hair swaying like tongues of flame flickering in the wind, breasts bouncing as she quickens her pace.
Sirius pulls her face down to his so he can kiss her, tongue thrusting into her mouth in counterpoint to his cock thrusting into her cunt. He slides a hand between them. He'll be damned if he comes before her this time. He believes he's damned anyway.
She gasps into his mouth, and he breathes her in, heat youth desire need, feeling her body clench around him, pulling him in even deeper as she climaxes, shuddering, in his arms, and dragging him with her in blinding bursts of white-hot pleasure.
He holds her close as they tremble and fall back to earth, feeling the strength in her delicate bones. She nuzzles at his neck, licking and kissing him sleepily, and he's tempted to let her stay, until reality forces itself in upon him, and once again, he realizes what he's done.
He lifts her off him, scrambles for his wand to clean them both up, and she reaches out to push his sweaty hair behind his ear. He flinches from the touch, but she doesn't seem to notice, and mimics the gesture with her own hair.
"You look like Tom in this light," she murmurs, smiling, and leaves before Sirius can respond.
'Who the fuck is Tom?' he thinks. Then it hits him that she was fucking this bloke Tom, not him, and it doesn't matter that it was his tongue in her mouth and his cock in her cunt. Anger, fierce and hot, pounds through him. He sinks back down onto the bed and buries his face in his hands, which stink of her and him and the two of them together. His stomach turns; he takes a scalding shower and scrubs until his skin is red and blotchy. He swears he won't believe the look in her eyes, won't fall for the lie again.