#fourmoonys asks

You use the glow of your phone to find your way downstairs, your house keys, make your way to the door and unlock it. James is sprawled out on the grass of your front garden, phone comically close to his face as he squints at the words he's typing. Drunk. Absolutely obliterated, clearly. You'll give Sirius shit for it, tomorrow, you think, as you let an exasperated laugh tumble from your lips.

James whips his head around at the noise, scrambles like a puppy to stand and bound his way over to you. He tramples some of the flowers planted around the borders of the grass and you fight a wince. He's on you in seconds, warmth radiating from him despite having been out in the cold for god knows how long. His arms are strong and steady, even though he reeks of beer, as he pulls you into them, lips firmly planted on the top of your head.

You try to peek over his shoulder for any sign of who dropped him off, but the street is empty, desolate, and you decide he must've walked from the pub.

Sleep still clings to the edges of your eyes as James pushes you back - uncoordinated and a little roughly, but you don't mind - and holds your face in his warm hands. "Hi, lovely girl." His voice is sweet and brimming with excitement at the sight of you and your heart swells.

"What on earth are you doing here, James?" You ask, though your words are kind and laced with amusement.

Your boyfriend only grins like the cat who got the cream, like he can't wait to tell you all about his adventure, until his eyes snag on your pyjamas. Technically, his pyjamas. His old juniors rugby top from secondary school and his boxer shorts, left abandoned by him last week when he'd slept in for breakfast with his mum and left in a hurry, a kiss placed to your cheek and the promise of being home for dinner. It had felt so domestic you'd had to talk yourself down from overflowing excitement for hours.

"Woah." James breathes, eyes wide.

You'd known he wouldn't mind you wearing his clothes, even if a little embarrassment at the idea had clung to your skin as you slipped them on before bed. But you hadn't expected him to feel like that about it.

"Easy tiger, you're three sheets to the wind." You chide softly, using the distraction to usher him into the hallway.

You close and lock the door behind him, place the keys in the bowl beside the door. James finds you in the darkness, hands soft against the fabric of his clothes on your body. You don't have to see him to know he's smiling that coy smile he gets whenever he seems to remember he has you.

"Am not." He mumbles, as if your statement has just now caught up with him.

You laugh, take his hand to lead him towards your bedroom. He follows quietly and without protest, but frowns when you flip on the overhead light and place him on the edge of your bed.

"What happened to Sirius' epic boys night on the town?" You ask, hands on his face as you crowd the in between of his legs.

His hands come to rest against the backs of your thighs, grip firm but soothing. He smiles, head lolling to the side, "Well," He sighs, as if buckling in for some wild tale of beasts slaughtered and mountains climbed, all just to get to you, "Sirius and Remus got drunk, like really, really drunk, and touchy and they were kissing and it made me realise how much I wanted to kiss you. So I left, and I came here for a quick kiss."

"A quick kiss?" You ask, eyebrow raised.

James just smiles, nodding dutifully, like it makes the most sense in the world. "Yeah, I gotta go back. They don't know I left."

You let out a long, suffering sigh, reaching for your phone beside James. "You can't just leave and not tell anyone where you're going."

"If they even realise I'm gone, they'll know where I am. With you." James shrugs.

"How do you reckon?"

"Where else would I be?" He asks, so serious and determined, so sure of himself that it makes your breath catch in your throat.

You can't help but smile, sweet and saccharine, glowing all over as you lean down to press your lips to James'.

"You're sweet."

James wrinkles his noise, grip tightening on your thighs as he pulls you down to him, falling backwards with a gentle thud. You catch yourself before your head collides with his nose and James grins, childish and playful, "You're sweet, too."

"Thanks, Jamie."

He presses his lips to yours, again, simple and warm. He knows he's in no condition for anything else, simply tucks you into his side and tries to get you to fall asleep with him, right there in the middle of the bed, on top of the blankets.

His voice sends jolts like pure electricity down your spine. He and the boys had smoked, too, before taking the chocolate. The lazy tilt to his voice reverberates through you until you feel yourself throbbing. "Yeah, all good." You bite out.

You're the furthest thing from all good, in actuality. Sure, you've thought about screwing James before. In passing. He's your roommate, it only takes walking into the bathroom at an inopportune time to supply a weeks worth of seedy dreams that leave you feeling guilty, after. But this is different. You're genuinely concerned that if you don't get James out of your line of sight, now, you're going to proposition him and then you're going to have to move out and never show face again.

Fuck Sirius and his chocolate.

James doesn't say anything for a while. You're not sure if he believes you, by the way his eyes flick over every now and then. His gaze is burning hot, your limbs screaming out for you to move. Everything is too much; the ache, the throbbing, the wetness you can feel pressing against your panties. It only intensifies when, finally, James reaches out. Slowly, softly, fingers encircling the skin of your ankle. He holds for a while, draws lazy circles against the bone until you're practically writhing in your seat. You don'd doubt for a second that he can't hear your shallow breathing, that he doesn't know exactly what he's doing.

Or, maybe, he doesn't. Maybe he's as worked up as you and needs the touch like you do.

The desire grows, the burning grows, angry and unavoidable until you feel the welling of tears in your eyes. It should be embarrassing, should be absolutely mortifying to be crying from James' touch. A touch he gives you so often and never means anything. A touch that usually soothes you.

His eyes flick over once more, catch the tears that slip freely down your cheeks, even as your eyes focus solely on the television. James calls on you, his face soft and filled with pity. He beckons you towards him with a tug on your ankle and you go. No questions. Because it's all too much and you just need it to end.

"Hey," James shushes, ushering you to sit in his lap, warm hands cupping your head as his thumb swipes at your tears. "Whats wrong, angel?"

"It's too much, Jamie." Your voice is weak, shaky. You feel pathetic and needy and the feeling of James' strong thighs underneath you aren't helping.

He brushes the hair from your face gently, runs the pads of his fingers down your bare arms, the skin of your thighs. You shiver under his touch, eyes closing. "Okay, okay," James' voice comes barely above a placating whisper, "I'm gonna make it better, angel. Okay?"

You whine, falling face first into his shoulder, "Please."

He doesn't say anything else as he cants his hips upward. You feel the warmth of his skin against your thighs as he pulls his pyjama bottoms down, the hardness of him when he settles you both back down. The chocolate has clearly affected him, too. It feels better to know, less overwhelming that you're not having some kind of terrible reaction to it.

You clench around nothing at the mere idea of his cock against your thigh. James can't seem to help the way he bucks a few times against your skin, breaths shallow and throaty. His hands on your ass cheeks encourage you up onto your knees, your face still buried in the warmth of his shoulder. You do as he urges, practically scream when you feel James run his head along your soaked slit.

"Shh," James coos, "It's okay. You're okay."

He urges you down his cock slowly, the pressure like nothing you've ever felt before. It keeps going and going until you feel so full you can't breathe, can't move, can't do anything but fist the material of James' sleep shirt and moan brokenly into his shoulder. When you're at the hilt, James' hips cant upwards, the feeling like being hit with a blast of lightening straight from the sky. You cry out, lifting James' shirt until your hands slip underneath, warm skin meeting the blunt edges of your nails. James groans when they dig in.

You try to move your hips, breaths evening out now that the worst of your need is gone. You feel satiated, pacified. You feel stuffed full and deliriously happy. James stops you from moving, though, hands firmly fisted in the material of your sleep shorts. "Just stay like this a minute." He murmurs.

You nod, allow yourself to relax fully into him. He lifts your shirt over your head, exposes your overheated skin to the cool air and you sigh. His own shirt follows a minute later, your nipples brushing against his chest. It sends jolts through your entire body, simultaneously flatlines your heart and brings it back to life. You moan and whine, feel your own wetness seeping between you both as James runs the pads of his fingers up and down the plane of your back.

You're not sure how long you lie like that, lost in the fullness of him, the static of his touch. It feels like seconds and hours, and when the credits of whatever movie start to roll, James ushers you out of his shoulder. The shift makes you both whine, James' grip tightening on your ass. "You doing okay?" He asks.

His face is so earnest, even in his own pleasure. Gentle hazel eyes that meet yours with so much respect and care. His glasses are slanted on his face and you reach up to fix them, hands trembling. "Never better." You tell him, honestly.

James smiles softly, "How do you want it?"

You clench around him at the question, breathy sounds coming from you. James' hands reach up until he's holding one of your tits in each hand, thumb nail grazing your nipples with each pass. It's dizzying, maddening. "Fuck," You tilt your head back, can't help the tiny lift and drop of your hips that has James squeezing your tits and groaning, "Hard, Jamie. Please."

He doesn't waste any time. James pulls you forwards, taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Uses his free hand to hold your hips in place as he snaps up and into you. The scream that leaves your throat is animalistic, it's pleasure-filled and filthy, like the wet sounds of skin meeting skin that fill the living room as James sets a relentless pace.

The drag of him against your walls is overstimulating, mixed with the chocolate. His thrusts are harsh and deep, his teeth clenched firmly against your nipple. "Fuck, James, I'm gonna come." You grit out, breathy and half moaned.

James releases your nipple, burrows you closer to his shoulder and focusses all his attention on thrusting. It's hard and animalistic and messy and loud and when he hits that one, perfect spot, he has you screaming into the pillows of the couch. You feel yourself gushing until your sleep shorts are soaked, are far too gone to notice fully when James flips you, pulls the sleep shorts down your legs and removes his own pyjama bottoms.

"You okay?" He asks, hands running a soothing path up your legs.

He waits for your nod, your promise that you've never, ever, been better, before he turns you onto your stomach, pulls your hips until you're face down on the couch.

His tongue licks the slick from your centre, a guttural sob escaping you at the feeling of him. It's a sex crazed daze when he slams back into you, hands bruising on your hips. It's deeper, fuller, from this angle and you feel like you might combust. It's deliciously perfect, the mix of want and need from the chocolate, and the way that James slams against your ass cheeks over and over and over.

His cock drags against your walls, squeezing and teasing until he's a moaning mess against your back. He leans over you, warm and body rock solid, pressing you into the couch. Your head tilts sideways to meet him, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, body jutting against yours. Desperate hands grab at the side of your face, prying your mouth open until his fingers can slip inside. He presses harsh against your tongue, cock jamming against every part of you that needs him most and your body seizes again, clenching and gushing all over James as you light on fire. It's euphoric, and James doesn't stop. Fingers slick with your spit, James pulls back, pulls your hips impossibly higher and reaches around until he has two fingers drawing tight circles on your clit.

You see stars, crying and moaning and babbling nonsense and James keeps going. His fingers draw tight circles, his cock slams into every inch of you and suddenly it all doesn't feel enough.

"More, Jamie. Need more." You pant, gripping senselessly at the couch cushions.

James presses a kiss to your tail bone, slows his pace, "So greedy. You've already came three times and you want more?"

You whine, limbs mush when James pulls out and turns you to face him. Your legs wrap around his back on instinct, pulling him closer and he goes. His head juts against your clit, heavy and sensual.

"Please, Jamie."

James has never not given you whatever you wanted and so he complies, thrusts forward so slowly you think you might implode. His hand grips the back of your thigh, pushes until it's resting firmly on his shoulder before pulling almost all the way out. You both watch as he slides slowly back in, revelling in the way your cunt pulls all of him in, swallows him whole. You whine, hips canting upwards and James smiles. "So, so needy."

He slams in and out in one quick motion, steals the very breath from your lungs. Your back arches, the burn of your thigh a delightful pain. James is somehow more relentless, like this, fast and hard and bruising as he meets every single spot you need him to. He uses his free hand to press firmly against your clit, messy and with barely any rhythm but its maddening, still.

It all feels too much, like this. The beads of sweat that fall from him and onto you, his groans and his relentless pace. The feeling of his muscles against you, the darkness of his eyes. It sends you spiralling once again, louder and harder than before, clenching around James until you're trembling uncontrollably.

He lets go of your thigh, falls until he's on top of you, hips jutting once, twice, more, until he's spilling into you. Hot and warm and by the load. He doesn't stop spilling for what feels like forever, the warm spurts a welcomed comfort. It's dirty and hot and you never want to leave this moment.

You lift your hands to trail across James' back and he shudders, pressing kisses to the skin of your tits, tongue darting out to take claim of a nipple that has you whining. "Two minutes. I need two minutes and then I'm going to lick my cum out of you," James whispers, teeth nipping at the skin of your tit, his hips cant upwards and you whine, legs widening so you can feel the slip of his seed down your ass cheeks, "Every last drop. And then we're going to do that again."

You press against him, needy and uncaring. "Please."

You feel his grin, feel the twitch of his cock, still inside you as it starts to ready itself. "And then I'm going to call Sirius and tell him how well his chocolate works."

You hum softly, scoot closer to James on the sofa until you're practically in his lap. James likes touch, he likes the connection, the intimacy, the weight of your body on top of his. You're happy to indulge him, the flowers that your boyfriend brings about your rib cage blossoming as his arm wraps around your middle, hoists you fully onto his lap. "What does he expect, you know? Half of his team graduated out, last year. He only has a couple of you guys left and the rest are freshmen." You try to justify James, but it seems the reminder only further sours his mood.

"Yeah, try telling him that. He thinks everyone is just born to be in the NHL, that these guys should already be up to standard, that they don't need the same exact training and coaching that we got." James' voice is thick with coiling tension, even if his muscles seem to be relaxing under you.

You smooth the baby hairs under your fingers, tilting your head until his eyes meet yours, "You're their captain, baby," You smile, "I bet they'd listen to it a lot better coming from you. They like you, look up to you. You be their coach if coach isn't going to step up."

Your boyfriend smiles, the sun peeking through storm clouds. A glimpse of your Jamie. He leans forwards, lips soft and gentle as he presses them to yours. He hums into the kiss, hands squeezing your hips. "Thanks."

"Anytime, handsome."

"How was your day?" James asks, feet stretching out to sit atop the coffee table.

You'd scold him if you weren't so busy quelling the beating of your heart. Any kiss from James sends you reeling, has done since the first time in freshman year. You don't think you'll ever get over the fact that he's your boyfriend. That he loves you as you love him, that you'll grow old and grey together. It never quite feels real.

"Good. Productive. We have a project due for McGonagall's class on Wednesday so I just worked on that most of the day." You don't feel the need to mention that you pointedly worked alone on your half of the project, but James frowns at your words and you know he's going to ask.

"You worked alone?"

"Yeah." You should probably say more, but James has a shorter fuse than Sirius does in general when it comes to you and you don't feel like unleashing all two hundred pounds of ice-hockey muscle onto the arrogant asshole who won't leave you alone.

James' thumb rubs steady circles into the fat of your thigh, his brows hooked upward in the middle a blatant sign of his confusion, "Your group have left you to do all the work?"

"No," You shake your head, "It was just easier to do my part on my own."

James doesn't say anything, but it's clear that he's waiting for you to go on. You sigh through your nose, head falling to rest on your boyfriend's shoulder, "One of the guys in my group has been hitting on me pretty regularly."

"What?" James asks around a swallow, voice hoarse. His muscles tense under you, his thumb pausing it's soothing measures on your thigh.

You shrug, "He keeps saying how he'd treat me right, how a 'pretty girl like me' deserves better. It's all bullshit, so I chose to work myself and just send the rest of the group my sections."

"Right."

It's odd, the way your body reacts to a single word as though it were a slap in the face. Your stomach sinks because you realise James isn't angry. He isn't itching to pound the guy's face into the ground and he isn't insisting you allow him to fix the problem, himself. You remove your head from James' shoulder, find him pale faced and distant. He looks lost, nauseous. "Jamie?"

James shrugs, eyes cold, "What?"

"'Right.'? That's all you have to say to that? What's wrong?" You ask, drawing further away the colder the look in James' eyes gets.

"What would you like me to say? That he might be right?" There's a clipped edge to your boyfriend's voice that you've never heard before, that jolts your body into fight or flight mode quicker than you'd care to admit.

You remove yourself from James' lap, confusion evident on your face as you settle to face him on the coffee table. His feet meet the ground with a thud as he moves to stand. Your hand flies out, a firm grip on his knee that begs him not to move. James gives you a sad look as he complies, fidgets with the draw strings on his jogging bottoms. "You think he has a point?" You ask.

James nods, lips pursed, eyes avoiding yours so evidently it angers you.

"Why?"

Your boyfriend shrugs again, tips his head back and lets out a groan, "You know at the end of this year I'm going to be drafted, right? I'm going to have to move across the country, probably, I won't have a choice in the matter and neither will you."

"We've had this argument before, James. I'm going wherever you go. I don't care where it is! It could be fucking Antartica and I'd still go." Your voice sounds less stern than you'd intended, but James softens slightly at your words.

"But you shouldn't have to just pick up your life and move because of me. You deserve someone who can give you stability and all of their time. I can't." James leans forwards until his elbows are resting on his knees, his face so close to yours you can feel his breaths.

It's an age-old argument, one you and James used to have often in the beginning. Before you knew that you wanted James in your life forever, back when he was trying to push you away with everything he had because he didn't want to risk falling in love with you and having to leave you, one day. The argument lessened the longer you were together, decisions made. You'd made up your mind the day James told you he loved you that you'd follow him anywhere, that you'd give up anything and everything to just be with him.

"I don't want anyone else. I don't care where we are in this world, James. I want you. That's all." You reach for him, thumbs swiping under his eyes in steady motions.

He takes a breath, closes his eyes under your touch. "I can't help but feel I'm asking you to sacrifice more than I'm worth."

And that just won't do. You clamber back onto his lap, legs on either side of his hips and chase his eyes. They're dark in the dim light of the living room, a deep brown filled with fear. "You're worth everything, Jamie. Everything." You tell him. And you mean it.

James swallows, nods. His arms wrap around you, pull you to him until he's falling back into the softness of the couch. "I love you." He tells you, vulnerable as you've ever heard him.

Flowers bloom all along the crevices of your rib cage, pull taught until you're so overflowing with love and happiness that all you can think to do is kiss him. He chases your lips when you pull back, a smile toying at the corner of his mouth. "I love you too, Jamie."

"So you're not gonna leave me for that guy in your Psych class?" He asks, a twinkle in his eye that lets you know he's kidding.

His left hand cups the back of your thigh, fingers slipping between the left and right. It's an innocent touch, but heat floods your body all the same as your fingers wrap around his rubber phone case and you heave your body back on top of his. He grumbles when the phone starts to ring again, rubs an apologetic hand up and down the back of your thigh which has you forcing your face into the crease of his neck and shoulder to hide the bright red of your cheeks.

He rests his head atop yours as he answers the phone.

Sirius' voice booms through the speaker, though it's too muffled to make out what he's saying. James answers whatever it is with a tired sounding "Not tonight, mate."

There's more muffled talking, a couple of voices added into the mix and you assume that Sirius is in the local pub. Your heart sinks a little when you realise he's likely inviting James out, and you don't have the heart to tell him you'd rather stay inside the cozy confines of his flat, half asleep in the dim evening light. You don't want to seem controlling or toxic, so you lie still, control your breathing, don't react to whatever is coming down the line from Sirius' end.

James chuckles lightly, his free hand rubbing soothing circles into the small of your back, hand warm against your skin where it's worked it's way under your - his - rugby jumper. "Yeah, yeah, she's here." James' hand squeezes the pudge of your hip at the mention of you.

You tilt your head up in interest and James smiles down at you, warmly, presses his lips to the crown of your head as Sirius screeches down the phone.

"No. No, Sirius, she doesn't want to spend her only day off in the pub listening to you lot." James speaks with humour in his voice, but you can see the hint of frustration that's in his eyes.

You frown, wonder if he's frustrated because he feels he has to pick between you and his friends. You love his friends, you get on well with them, but he's right, you can't think of anything worse on your only day off than going to the pub. "You should go." You whisper, urging James by attempting to climb off of him.

His arm wraps tight around your waist, brows furrowed as he looks down at you and shakes his head, "No." He mouths.

Then, "No. Sirius. No. Mate, you're smashed, have Moony take you home."

James laughs at whatever Sirius says in retort, and then the two are saying their goodbyes. James tosses his phone onto the coffee table after he switches it to silent mode.

"You should go. This is your only day off, as well. Go see your friends. We can do a quick dinner or something tomorrow." You try to urge him again.

James' immediate response is to hold you tighter to him, as though you may actually be trying to escape him. "I'd rather spend my time here. With you." He shrugs, like it's nothing.

Your heart does a little stutter at his words, but your brain catches up and you sigh, "Jamie, it's okay. If you want to go, you should."

His brows hook upward at the middle when he furrows them, his eyes searching yours, "Why is it so hard for you to believe I'd rather be here with you?"

You try not to flinch at his words, try not to think about all the boys before who've put a myriad of things above you. It's fine, really. You've grown accustomed to settling for the dregs, the stolen moments. James is worth the heavy feeling it leaves in your chest to be second best. Simply because when you're with him, the world melts away.

Feigning indifference, you shrug against him, "Because all we're doing is laying here in the dark, half asleep. Wouldn't you rather be out with your friends having a laugh?"

"Would you?" James counters, and it seems like he genuinely wants to know your answer, like he thinks, foolishly, so foolishly, you'd rather be anywhere else. That you wish you were doing more.

Doing nothing with James forever sounds like the best thing you've ever heard. "No. Not at all. I love this. But I know you. You're a social butterfly." You speak softly, cautious of the conversation turning into a row.

You have too many experiences with conversations like the one you're having now being turned into a row.

James nods, "I love this, too. And you're right, I like to be social, but sometimes that drains me. I've spent all week being social, spent all week missing you, and I'm drained. All I wanted to do all week was see you, spend time with you. I couldn't think of anything worse than going to the pub, right now."

His hands are as assuring as his words, trailing a path of warmth and comfort across the planes of your back, your thighs, your hips. It's surreal, the assertiveness he speaks with, the way he makes sure you know he means every word. Your stomach flutters with the idea of him missing you as much as you missed him. It's weird, to feel validated, to feel content and sure.

"I just don't want your friends to think you're picking me over them, or something." You mumble, head dropping back into the space between his shoulder and neck.

James hums, "I am though. Not in a bad way. I just," He pauses, like he's searching for the words, "I'm sure about this, you know? Sure about you, about us. You mean a lot to me, and I'm all in. You come above everything else because, for me, that's the only way it'll work."

You feel rather silly for the tears that spring their way to your eyes, and begin to leak without your consent against James' neck. He must feel them, because he tuts, using his hands to pry your face away from the skin, thumbs swiping softly at the fallen tears. He looks at you so gently you might start sobbing. Relief washes over you in waves, and you realise you hadn't even been aware how worried you were that you felt more for James than he did for you.

"Why are you crying, sweet girl?" He whispers, pressing a kiss to each of your tear stained cheeks.

You loose a breath, "I've never been someones first choice before."

That visibly upsets James, who takes it upon himself to right this wrong, stave off your tears by pressing kisses all over your face between murmured promises.

"I'd pick you in this life," a kiss to your nose, "the next," a kiss to your forehead, "the one after that," a kiss to your chin, "and in every universe."

He finishes with a kiss to your lips, soft and deep, his hands steady on the line of your jaw. You whine a little, pushing further into him until he's chuckling into your mouth.

"I'd pick you, too," You say into his mouth.

James smiles, bright as anything you've ever seen, "Thank God for that, lovie."

You hum a mild agreement, pulling yourself up onto the worktop so you're facing James. He likes the company whenever he's cooking. You like the domesticity, the routine, spending time with him whilst completing a task, talking about your day, your friends. It's nice, to be so comfortable with the person you love.

"Did you write down the instructions as he was giving you them? Or are you going from memory?" You ask James apprehensively.

He doesn't reply at first, too occupied with throwing a load of raw potatoes into the pot. They drop to the bottom of the pot with a sickening thud, water splashing over the sides. James winces as a droplet catches the side of his arm and turns to you with a weary look, "From memory. He was going too fast and the landline was crackly."

There's no saving the soup now, so you allow James to continue his ministrations. You'll pretend it's even better than Remus'. Anything for James. Anything to see him smile.

"He said he hopes you're feeling better soon, by the way. Sirius, too." James adds, face dangerously close to the open flame of the gas cooker as he adjusts the heat.

You blanch. You'd mentioned feeling poorly to James yesterday morning, a little tired, a little sick, stiff, the normal beginnings of a cold. The soup makes sense, now. "You asked Remus for his soup recipe because I mentioned feeling a little poorly once?"

James nods, shrugs like it's no big deal.

You've never felt this kind of love before, the kind of care and consideration James has.

"Jamie, I'm not poorly." Your voice is a little unsteady.

You'd wanted to wait, tell him when you'd figured out how you felt about it yourself. Wanted to be sure whether this was something you wanted, something James would want. You know he's a good man, a good person with a massive heart, but you've not been together for as long as you'd have liked, you're not married, there's a list of things that could make James run for the hills and you wouldn't blame him.

But you know him. You know James Potter. He's never ran from anything.

"Well it's too late for that, I've already made the ruddy soup, now." James teases, poking the pudge of your thigh with the tip of the wooden spoon.

"James," You try to garner his full attention, away from the burning vegetable water, "I wasn't poorly."

He frowns, probably trying to pin together the phrase with the way you're acting and comes up with nothing, so he says nothing.

"I'm pregnant."

James doesn't say anything for a minute. You can't read him. Eyes wide, jaw slack, eyebrows lost in the messy tuft of his fringe. Just when you think the silence might choke you, the fire alarm sounds, loud and abrasive. It kick starts your boyfriend's brain and he grabs the nearest tea towel, motioning for you to stay put, and wafts the smoke away from the detector.

After, in the silence that follows, he leans over the kitchen sink and opens the window, turns off the stove.

"When did you find out?" He asks, voice unwaveringly calm.

Your heart slams against your rib cage, scared and begging you to run, "This morning."

James nods, "How do you feel?"

"Nauseous. Confused. Scared."

James softens, crosses the distance between you. His hands are soft on your face when he slots between your legs, eyes swimming with emotion. He smells faintly like OXO stock cubes and his normal cologne as he rests his forehead against yours and heaves a deep breath. "You wanna do this?"

"Only if you do." You answer truthfully.

"I love you, you know that?" His voice comes out hoarse, and you realise he's holding back tears.

Tears spring to your eyes, too, when you nod, "I know."

"There's no one else I'd rather do it with."

Relief washes over you like a bucket of cold water, bringing the air back to your lungs, life back to your heart. You're laughing into the kiss that James presses to your lips, giddy and excited. He presses two gentle pecks there, after, and one to your forehead.

"Holy shit I'm gonna be a Dad." He sounds awed, in disbelief.

You laugh, "Yeah. You are."

"And you're gonna be a Mum."

"That's generally how it works, babe." You say placatingly, thumbs swiping over his rounded cheeks, holding his face in place. His smile is like the sun, bright and blinding. You feel warm all over just looking at it.

"I need to phone Sirius." James announces, turning on his heel to make for the landline.

You shouldn't be surprised, not when Sirius is an extension of your boyfriend's being. So, you simply wait until you can hear James ramming his fingers against the telephone, and dump a couple more stock cubes into the soup.

So instead, he pretends to read his textbook on astro-physics, everything he's supposed to be revising going straight over his head, while stealing glances at you two tables over. You're in your own world, furiously typing into your laptop, stopping every now and then to take a sip of the comically large coffee beside you. It's midterm season, your large coffee is warranted in Remus' humble opinion. Not that you're even aware he's in solidarity of it. James would probably have some boring medical fact about coffee stunting growth and hormones or some load of bollocks similar, but he doesn't care.

Every now and then, you'll pout at your laptop screen, tilting your head to the side like whatever is on your screen has personally offended you. It makes Remus' heart slam against his rib cage in a totally annoying, embarrassing way he wishes he could make soft. He's not a creep. Really, he's not. He knows you. Somewhat. You've met a couple times when you've been chatting to Marlene - who shares a Comms class with you - either in the library or at the pub on the occasional Friday you make an appearance with your friends. It's not like he's having these weird feelings about a stranger. Well. A complete stranger. But there's just something so startling about how kissable your lips are, so soft looking and pink, and adorable in the way your head tilts like that of a confused puppy.

Your attention leaves the screen in front of you in an instant as if you can feel Remus' pining from ten feet away, eyes scanning your surroundings, and when your eyes meet his, Remus chokes on thin air. Thin fucking air. He's so shocked you've caught him, so shocked you're actually a real person he can make eye contact with and not a figment of his imagination, that he chokes, eyes widening, and looks back down to the text book in front of him. He resigns to the awful feeling of humiliation creeping up his neck, accepts the fate of his crimson red cheeks.

"Subtle." Sirius comments, a sickening smirk that Remus just knows means he's been caught graces the former Black Heir's lips and he'd rather like to kick the two back legs out from under best friend's chair now, thanks.

Even though he knows he's been caught, Remus schools his features, because he's actually very capable of that when it comes to his friends, and returns to his book, flipping the page with what he hopes is nonchalance and shrugs, "Dunno what you're on about."

Sirius scoffs obnoxiously, just like Remus knew he would, and returns his chair back to four legs with haste, arms planted on the table in front of him and a look on his face that reads 'I hate to break it to you, but you're the most obvious bloke on the planet'. "Mate, just go over and put us all out of our misery. It's painful."

"It is, mate." James mumbles agreeably, still very much engrossed in the battering of his keyboard. It's a wonder he hasn't broken the thing, Remus thinks.

Remus rolls his eyes. If only it were that simple. How could anything be that simple when you're so infuriatingly beautiful Remus doesn't think he could get two words in to a conversation with you without making a royal twat of himself.

"You make it sound so simple, Pads, truly." Remus drawls sarcastically, eyes still downcast on the book in front of him.

He hasn't read and actually processed a single sentence since he caught sight of you on arrival. He's well and truly fucked.

Sirius scrubs his hands up and down his face like Remus' hesitance is physically paining him, "C'mon, Moony. They didn't call you the Casanova of Gryffindor House for nothing, mate."

It's Remus' turn to scoff, now. He was hardly a Casanova. Just a nice bloke who girls happened to be attracted to. But that was a private boarding school where girls had no access to the outside world apart from the odd weekend at the school's nearest village. You live in a world with people disposable at your fingertips. Coffee shop baristas, classmates, the people on the commute to your classes, there's an endless opportunity for you to meet someone of interest. And how is Remus supposed to compete with that?

"Not happening. I'll suffer in silence, thanks." Remus tells Sirius, a tight lipped smile about his face that he hopes Sirius will read as the end of the conversation.

Clearly, Sirius is no better at social cues now than when Remus first met him, because his friend rolls his eyes and returns to leaning back on his chair, legs once again kicked up onto the desk, muddy boots falling on a piece of paper Remus knows he'll probably have to rewrite, now. "All I'm saying is what do you have to lose? You ask her out she says no, you go back to staring at her like a right creep from two desks over, or," He makes a flourishing movement with his hands, ever the one for dramatics, "She says yes, you bang, fall in love, get married, have kids, etcetera, etcetera."

Sirius' smile is triumphant, like he truly believes he's some sort of genius and Remus can't help the way his lips tick up in amusement. Maybe he has a point, but anxiety still claws at Remus' chest.

"He's got a point, mate," James has pushed his laptop away from himself, his circular glasses balancing haphazardly on his forehead as he rubs tiredly at his face, "Even if he didn't, I'm still begging you to go over there just to get him," he jabs a finger at Sirius, who preens proudly, "to shut up so I can get this paper finished."

Remus sighs, mulls it over in his head, an endless list of outcomes, variables, it's what his scientist mind is programmed to think like. But he gives Sirius a look, finds his best friend staring at him earnestly, and he realises that Sirius doesn't actually see it as a big joke. He truly thinks Remus should do it.

"Fine." Remus bites, taking a breath and pushing himself out of his seat.

Sirius pumps his fists in the air so violently his chair wobbles, but Remus doesn't look back. If he does, he might turn around and give up, go back to staring from afar. God, maybe he is a creep.

You're so engrossed in whatever you're working on, you don't realise Remus hovering at the seat across from you. When you do, you jump a little, and Remus opens his mouth to apologise, but you're already speaking, a wide smile gracing your lips, features completely taken over by the kindness in your eyes - you recognise him, "Remus, right? You're friends with Marls."

Remus nods, swallows the thickness in his throat. He doesn't trust himself to talk, just yet, so he's grateful when you nod your head to the seat across from you, welcoming him to sit. You half close the lid of your laptop, offering him your full attention and wait patiently for him to talk.

"How are your midterms going, by the way?" You ask when Remus finds himself unable to start a conversation.

You don't seem put off by his apparent silence, more than happy to carry the conversation if he needs. He's grateful, because your direct question has given him a reason to speak, a boundary of the things he can say. He's not worried about shouting just how beautiful he finds you for the entire campus library to hear when he has a strict criteria of answers he can give. Well. He's less worried. It's still not impossible.

"Uh, alright, thanks. You're taking Art History, right? Hows that going?" He hopes he's not misheard Marlene's brief introduction, and he knows he hasn't when you preen at his remembrance.

You nod enthusiastically, hair bouncing over your shoulders with the movement, "Yeah! It's currently kicking my arse, but I'll pull through. I imagine it's not as hard as," you pause, brows furrowing for half a second before Remus sees a lightbulb go off behind your eyes, your smile returning, along with the smooth plane of your forehead, crease gone, "Astro-physics, right?"

Remus tries not to think about the way his entire stomach knots up and threatens to give out over the fact you know what his degree is. There's every chance Marlene has told you, like she told him your degree, but he can't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, you'd asked about him. Instead, he smiles dutifully, even though he can feel his somewhat calm and collected exterior melting away, "Yeah, astro-physics. But I imagine they're equally challenging in different ways."

You seem to like that answer, following along and nodding amicably to show you're listening, "I suppose you're right. Although, I think you could explain it to me like a five year old, and I'd still be lost."

Remus laughs. Not at you, but at the perplexed expression on your face as you imagine such a scenario. You shake your head out, giving him your full attention again. You're so lovely. So sweet and nice and Remus feels like he might actually have a shot, if your kindness and patience so far is anything to go on.

"If it makes you feel any better, I couldn't tell you squat about the Mona Lisa." Remus shrugs.

It's your turn to laugh, your head tilting back ever so slightly as it rocks through you. The sound is like music to Remus' ears. He decides then and there he'll do anything, forever, to get you to make that sound again. He commits it to memory, allows it to warm his chest, potential heart attack be damned.

"You're cute, Remus Lupin." You're amused as you say it, eyes shining with a kind of fondness Remus allows to steal his breath.

He thinks maybe you don't mean to say it, at first, but when your gaze holds his, confident and teasing Remus knows. He just. He knows. You're into him, too. Maybe not as deep as he's into you, but the interest is there and that's all Remus cares about.

"A few of us are going to the pub in a few for some drinks, Marlene will be there. Did you maybe want to join us?" Remus asks, an uncomfortable heat in his cheeks even though he knows you're likely to say yes.

He chuckles when you pretend to think it over, pout twisting into an amused grin when you go to speak, "Sure, Remus. I'd love to."

Remus feels like he's won some sort of gold medal, maybe the lottery. He's not sure. But what he does know is that his blood is thrumming through his veins in a way it never has before with pure elation. You're grinning ear to ear, already beginning to pack up your things. He waits patiently while you do, following your lead in standing up. You round the table, closer to him, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

"Remus?" You ask, stepping into his space and he can smell your perfume, your shampoo, so sweet he thinks he's going to pass out.

"Yeah?" He asks.

"I only have one condition."

He arches an eyebrow, urges you to go on.

"Next time, it's just us two. A proper date." You smile sweetly, completely unaware of the affect your sultry voice has on Remus' already weak knees.

His breath catches in his throat as you look up at him, your tiny hand encircling his wrist oh so carefully.

"Yeah?" His voice is gravelly, lips threatening to turn up in a wicked grin, "I'm sure we can make that happen."

Just like that, you step out of Remus' space, hand dropping his wrist and your teasing smile falling back into your soft, kind grin, "Great. I'm all yours for the rest of the night, Remus."

Remus almost groans as he leads you back over to Sirius and James, who are grinning like cheshire cats as they pack up their belongings to follow suit with you and Remus. He's met his match, he thinks. You're well and truly going to be the end of him.

"Wait, you want me to do it?" You yell after him.

Sirius makes noise everywhere he goes. He's loud and abrasive, jagged around the edges. He loves so loud that it only makes sense his entire personality is the same. There's thumps and grumbles as he bumps into things all the way along the hall, the tell tale sounds of the stool scraping along your freshly painted hallway. "Well who else would do it?" Sirius rounds the corner, flashes his teeth in a wide grin that he knows will make you fold.

"What makes you think I'm qualified?"

Sirius shrugs, "The fact that I'm one hundred percent not. You're good at everything, sweetness."

He knows flattery works like a charm, especially when he pairs it with his best flirty eyes. You sigh, reaching for the box and unravelling all of the corresponding pieces. It's high tech, incredibly high tech. Sirius fidgets on the stool as you watch a video on your phone, lips curled between your teeth in concentration.

It takes a while to get the hang of, and you're sure you'll get better in time. Sirius softens and relaxes as much as he ever allows himself to as your fingers work through his hair, as you brush and comb and dry it. He hums and sighs and even closes his eyes. It's peaceful and intimate and it allows you to come to a startling realisation that Sirius has never asked you to do his hair for him before.

He's not prissy about his hair. He'll let anyone touch it. He actually begs for people to play with his hair. But he's never outright asked you to fix it up for him, prefers to get it sitting perfect by himself because he believes it to be his best asset. You'd have to disagree with him on that. His eyes never fail to amaze you, nor his smile.

"All done." Your voice seems to pull him out of a daydream.

His eyes open and he smiles wide, turning in the stool in an instant until he can take your hands in his. "Bad news, sweetheart, you're going to have to do this every day." He informs you, standing until his hands can reach your hips.

He pulls you into him, a little roughly, but catches you with his own body, lips ducking down to press to your forehead. You resist the urge to tell him you'd be happy to do his hair every day, if only to feel the intimacy and pride of being the one person he trusts to style his hair.

"Such a travesty." You feign indifference, lips pressed to his collar bone where it peeks out of his shirt.

Sirius shivers at the contact. "Easy, sweetness. I know my hair is super hot and stuff, but we have dinner reservations with James and Remus. They'll get pissy if we cancel to have sex."

"Again." He adds after a second.

You scoff, pushing your boyfriend away whilst he barks with laughter. Heat creeps up your neck as you exit the bathroom, ignoring Sirius' shouts down the hallway that he could make an exception for a quickie.

"Thanks, baby!" He calls a moment later.

The man comes to a gradual stop, resting his hands on his knees and bowing his head to catch his breath when he's in front of you. You smile kindly, still scratching the dog's ears. Padfoot isn't complaining. The man looks up, a weak sort of smile about his face and you notice that it pulls a scar above his top lip taught. He has a number of them on his face that you can see. One running across the bridge of his nose, under his right eye, and another along his left jaw. They make him no less beautiful, by any means. He's handsome. Pretty. Gorgeous.

It's actually kind of intimidating.

His hair falls in soft curls across his forehead, where you can see the tail end of another scar cutting through his eyebrow, and it's a dirty, sort of sandy blonde that brings out the hazel in his eyes. He's tall and lanky, and the oversized woollen jumper he's wearing hangs from his frame in a way that suggests it wasn't bought for him. He's staring at his dog with such distain you wonder if this is a regular occurrence.

"You," He looks at the dog, eyes narrowed, and then seems to remember himself, "I'm so sorry. He's usually better behaved."

The way he talks, looking at Padfoot, and the way Padfoot reacts, lifting his head in a manner that bleeds defiance, anyone might think the two are actually capable of holding a proper conversation. You smile, amused at the situation, "He's okay. Seems like him and Nova have become fast friends."

Your own dog, a brown, little spaniel puppy, is sitting between Padfoot's front legs happily. As if he can understand, Padfoot drops his head on top of Nova's and almost crushes her with the sheer weight. The man laughs, seemingly resigned to his fate with his mischievous dog.

"Right. Well, again, sorry." He looks entirely bashful, cheeks a beautiful shade of pink.

"No problem, honestly." You wave him off.

The man turns to go back whatever way he came, calling out for Padfoot who remains defiantly still. He calls after him again, growing slightly frustrated, before resigning to his fate when Padfoot circles you once, twice, and then entices Nova into walking slightly ahead along with him. You smile at how tiny she looks compared to the massive black dog, weaving playfully in and out of his feet as they go. He doesn't seem to mind.

"I suppose he's not ready to part with her, yet." He chuckles, holding his hand out towards the two dogs in a gesture - shall we?

You chuckle lightly, "Apparently not."

You tell him your name, and he tells you that his is Remus. It's a nice name, uncommon, you suppose. But so is his accent. Welsh, maybe? It's definitely got a twinge of something. It's endearing. You walk together through the park, along the trail, letting Nova and Padfoot lead the way. Padfoot keeps Nova out of trouble, leading her away from the other leash-less dogs that the four of you pass. There's multiple strange looks from the people you pass, clearly fascinated with Nova and Padfoot and their ridiculous size difference.

"How old is he?" You ask, nodding your head towards Padfoot, who's nosing Nova back onto the dirt path instead of allowing her to run head first into the surrounding forrest.

He's incredibly smart.

"Uhm," Remus falters, lets out a breath you assume is a laugh intended for himself, some sort of inside joke, likely, "He's twenty one."

"Oh, so he's three?" You ask, brows furrowed in confusion.

Remus hums, amused, "Something like that."

"How old is Nova?"

"Eleven months. She's still a little shit sometimes, won't take to her recall training for love nor money." You tell him.

Remus nods along, listening amicably, a smile on his face, "Bit like that bugger then?"

You share a laugh, kind eyes and appled cheeks, shoulders brushing as you walk together. Remus is nice. He's tall and handsome and he's genuinely interested in holding a conversation, despite the fact that it's your dogs who have forced you along together.

"So, what do you do for a living?" Remus asks as you round a corner, passing a couple of determined hikers heading towards the hillier trails.

You both offer them passing smiles, and one comments on how cute your dogs are. You and Remus thank them both, looking fondly at Padfoot and Nova who are happily trotting along in front, sniffing and exploring.

"I work in a little art museum out by the marina. It's quiet and cozy. What about you?"

"I own a book shop with my mate Sirius," Remus tells you, "Quiet and cozy."

You giggle at the repetition of your answer, the car park that signals the end of the trail coming in to view. The sight drops like a lead balloon in your stomach. It's strange, the feeling you get of not having wanted the trail to end, to spend more time talking to Remus. He seems to feel the same way, because he takes a deep breath, teeth sliding over his bottom lip when he notices the carpark, too.

"Did you," He falters, unsure, so you offer him an assuring smile, hope that the look in your eyes tells him you're going to say yes.

He grins back, nodding as if you've passed a silent message between you, "Did you maybe want to get coffee, sometime? Or dinner? Maybe another walk?"

"Yes, Remus. I'd like that." You nod.

Remus looks chuffed, eyes bright and twinkly, cheeks rounded with the force of his smile. He still manages to look entirely too handsome even when he's bashful as he pulls out his phone and hands it to you, a contact form already waiting. You put your number in, your name, too, and hand it back to him.

"I'll text you?" He asks.

You nod, "Text me."

Remus whistles for Padfoot, who actually complies this time, as you bend down to reattach Nova's leash. You say your goodbyes, promise to talk soon, and then go your separate ways to your car.

You're smiling to yourself the entire time you clip Nova into place, talking animatedly to her about how well behaved she was with Padfoot and you almost miss it when you shut the door, look up and notice the car Remus got into just moments ago is driving past. Your brain tells you to put your hand up and wave, but he hasn't seen you, he's too busy talking - or yelling, it looks like - at the fully grown man in his passenger seat.

He's gone a second later, pulling out of the car park as you stand there, dazed, mouth opening and closing like some sort of fish.