A/N: Firstly, I'd like to thank everyone who has been remarkably patient with me over the past couple of years. Things have been...hectic.
Secondly, I'm hoping to do a lot more writing over the course of the next few months & yes, this includes updating Playing the Players, Interviewing Casanova & Gli Amanti Immortali.
Thirdly, I would like to thank two very important people: the lovely CVFarrow, who has been there to answer a lot of fanfic & non-fanfic related questions over the years on Twitter-Thank You!
And to Amy, who constantly reminds me that, no matter what, I shouldn't ever give up.
She-Wolf
Hermione Granger tried very hard not to tug the hem of her obscenely short dress as she stepped into the smoky Muggle pub. She stifled a cough and wondered if she was possibly making the wrong decision with all of this nonsense. 'Probably,' was the response her rather logical brain replied, 'But you're here now, aren't you? Might as well.'
She sometimes wondered at the ineffectual nature of her moral conscience.
Taking a deep breath and throwing her shoulders back, Hermione approached the bar, sliding as gracefully as possible upon one of the stools. She shot the bartender what she hoped was a winning smile. She would definitely need some liquid courage for this experiment. In response, the bartender—an older, beefy mountain of a man—merely nodded, indicating that he would be with her in a moment and he wasn't going to stand for any of those manipulative feminine wiles, thank you very much.
'Damn Ginny,' Hermione thought as she tried to stop herself from examining the worn wood of the bar top. 'Damn me and my own bloody curiosity.'
It had all started the week prior, when Hermione had met Ginny for their monthly girls' night. Hermione had been understandably nervous, having had a not-quite-so-amicable break-up with Ginny's stubborn arse of a brother a fortnight earlier. Ginny, however, had quickly put her at ease, saying that she understood that Ron was a colossal wanker and that she had really always expected Hermione to do better.
More than a bit relieved, the pair went on to drink far more than was wise and ended up on the discussion—as most drunk young women in their twenties did—of sex. Uncomfortable though it was to hear Ginny wax poetic about the bedroom skills of a man Hermione considered a brother, the bushy-haired brunette did find it oddly refreshing. She wasn't used to having a frank conversation about sex with someone who actually knew a bit about it, she herself being woefully lacking in any practical experience aside from those rather awkward moments she and Ron shared.
So being the academic that she was—and her inebriation casting aside any type of inhibition or prudishness she may have otherwise exhibited—Hermione decided to gain as much information as possible. And Ginny, being the friend that she was—and her own inebriation casting aside any type of inhibition or hesitance she may have otherwise exhibited—went along with gusto.
The next morning, after several moments of hard introspection into her life choices instigated by the presence of a tone-deaf symphony of percussion instruments inside her head, Hermione pondered what she remembered of the conversation the night before. Sex, to her, had never been particularly enjoyable. She was fully capable of achieving physical pleasure on her own, but when it came to adding another person to the mix, she had long since been afraid that perhaps there was something wrong with her.
Ginny, however, had made her rethink this possibility.
She knew picking up a stranger for meaningless sex was an extreme sort of experiment, but Hermione also knew herself well enough to know that there were underlying psychological issues at play. The destruction of her relationship with Ron hadn't solely been his inability to recognize her as an equal, intellectual partner within their relationship—though admittedly, it had been the main sticking point. No, Hermione knew that her own lack of commitment to the idea of the relationship had been just as big a sticking point, even if Ron wasn't emotionally mature enough to pick up on it. She simply wasn't keen on the idea of a relationship. Full stop.
At least, not until she was able to find someone able to satisfy her intellectually, emotionally, and physically, which seemed like a rather tall order indeed.
Hermione was three sips into her glass of Chardonnay when the seat next to her was filled by a broad, handsome man in a three-piece business suit. He had a lopsided smile and smelled of expensive cologne, expensive Scotch, and a hint of sweat. 'City boy,' her inner Sherlock-ian deduced. 'Well, I suppose one's standards must start somewhere.'
"Hello there, gorgeous," the man said with all of the bravado of a man who spent his days gambling with other people's money. "My name is Anderson Reed and I was so mesmerized by how stunning your legs look in that dress that I simply had to come over to see the rest of you. And I'm not disappointed. What's your name, love?"
'Charming,' she thought sarcastically. She briefly toyed with the idea of telling him to shove off, but he was good-looking enough that—providing he didn't say or do anything too horrifying—she was fairly certain she could overlook a few character flaws. So she responded, "Hermione."
"Lovely. You got a surname to go along with that, darling?"
She arched an eyebrow out of habit then said, "None of consequence."
He smiled that lopsided smile of his and gave a little nod, leaning back a bit, "Playing hard to get, are we? Alright. Let me buy you a drink and see if I can't weasel some more information out of you, eh?"
Hermione found it much easier than she initially thought to play this mating dance game. She quickly discovered that men—or at least, this man—seemed encouraged by a bit of cool banter and passive-aggressive dodging mixed in with accidentally-on-purpose touching and shy smiles under batted eyelashes. 'Easy, but exhausting,' her inner voice said. 'At what point do you drop the pretence?'
After another glass of wine and a preternaturally dull anecdote regarding a spectacularly mundane financial trade in oil futures, Hermione was getting ready to just kiss the man and take him home with her. 'If only to shut him up for a few moments,' she thought. She was reaching her saturation point for arrogance which, considering she spent a lot of time with both Sirius Black and the Weasley twins, was an impressive feat. She still found her companion attractive, but she was starting to understand something wise her mother had once said:
"Remember, 'Mione," Mrs. Granger had muttered while the two had been indulging in a sappy American romantic comedy film. "Sex is all well and good, but you still need to talk to them in the morning."
At the time, the comment had been an indictment of the character on the screen, but Hermione understood the broader sentiment.
Just as Hermione was about to move the conversation in a slightly less financially-motivated direction, she felt a large, warm hand on her shoulder and a familiar, deep raspy voice that said, "'Mione?"
Over a decade of friendship, and Remus Lupin still possessed the ability to render Hermione Granger completely and utterly inept.
She felt flushed as she slowly turned to look at her former professor, friend, and predominant star of every sexual fantasy she had ever entertained. His eyes—intelligent grey that slowly turned to liquid gold when the full moon approached—met hers. They conveyed a warm concern that she wished she hadn't seen. She didn't like knowing that he only had paternal thoughts toward her, especially when her own were the farthest from familial that they could possibly be. But there he was, looking at her as if she were something to protect; something delicate and innocent.
It was like a switch had flipped at that look. There she was, sitting in a positively indecent dress looking every bit the nubile young twenty-something, and all he could do was worry about her modesty? 'We'll be having none of that, thank you,' clipped her inner voice. If he was looking for her to be the awkward, asexual know-it-all he had met her third year of school, he had another thing coming.
"Hello, Remus," she said with a sly smile, glad for the first time that she had taken such pains with her make-up. Her eyes were smoky, highlighting the green flecks within the hazel. Her lashes were long and brushed her cheek; her peaches-and-cream complexion flawless; her hair loose and wavy, and her lips were painted a deep red to accentuate their full pouting potential. All of this she used to her full advantage, giving Remus the full power of it. "Fancy meeting you here."
For a moment, Hermione thought Remus looked rather like a goldfish, his jaw hanging slack and his eyes comically wide. But in an instant, his eyes narrowed; his lips curved into a slow, coy smile and his eyebrow quirked ever-so-slightly. It was a masterful transformation and for the first time in the entire history of their relationship, she fully appreciated just why he was one of the Marauders.
Then he seized her around the waist, hoisted her to her feet, and kissed her.
'Well, this is unexpected,' her mind mused.
'Oh, do shut up,' responded another, darker voice; a voice with low tones that were almost growly. Then her body responded, lips moving with his instinctually and appreciating, with every passing moment, the dichotomy that was solely Remus. The light and shade of him; the harshness and softness; the divisiveness within him that grabbed her, kissed her, and still maintained some sense of propriety in that very public space.
The visage of dignity and the promise of debauchery; the perfect combination she hadn't realized she had wanted until the moment she had it.
"Oi! Mate! Shove off!" suddenly came the furious voice of her drinking companion, accompanied by a pair of hands yanking her away. Hermione swung around and glared at the offender, eyes flashing honeyed rage. She was fairly certain her teeth were bared a little, which would have been somewhat ridiculous if it wasn't also moderately terrifying. The City boy jumped back and Hermione caught part of her reflection in the scared blue of his eyes.
She looked almost feral.
Taken aback, Hermione turned back to Remus, who had not released her. He smiled broadly, his canines showing more than she had ever seen of him. She wondered for an insane moment if it was the full moon, but she trusted Remus not to saunter into a Muggle pub on that particular night. It was, of course, the height of bad manners to go about eating people and Remus was nothing if not refined.
'There's also the whole legality issue,' said her inner voice, 'But let's not be bothering about that, now, shall we?'
"Remus," she breathed, pushing away her voice of reason as well as all the other voices that occasionally drifted through her head. "Take me home."
Three strides and one rather breathless side-along apparition later, Hermione felt herself pinned against a wall with a voracious werewolf pressed against her. Remus nuzzled her cheek, inhaling deeply as his lips grazed the curve of her mouth. She couldn't help but smile. It was all happening so quickly and her heart was slamming against her chest, but in that moment she would not have stopped for anything.
Strong hands lifted her into the air and she was flying, landing on a soft mattress amidst dishevelled damask sheets. Her dress was hiked up her thighs and the thin straps slid down her shoulders; she was certain she looked the very picture of wicked temptation. Remus's eyes slid over her, appreciating every inch of flesh. It was a look she had spent years wishing for, and there it was. She wasn't about to question it.
Apparently, Remus wasn't much of a talker when it came to amorous activities, and Hermione was sort of fine with that. As he moved toward her—his movements almost predatory—she felt her own animalistic instincts kick in. She felt a growl escape her throat and he responded with one of his own, his voice rougher and deeper than she had ever heard it before.
Then, he was upon her.
She would remember later that she had borrowed the dress from Ginny, and should therefore have taken better care of it. In that moment, however, as Remus ripped it from her body Hermione could not have cared less about decorum. His mouth was warm upon hers, their tongues duelling for dominance as his large hands slid over her bare skin.
Her hands travelled over his shirt, ripping it off his body in a similar manner to his behaviour with her dress. He grinned, seemingly pleased. She ran her fingertips over his well-sculpted chest; a patchwork of silvery-white scars. She caressed them all, wishing that her fingers were her tongue so she could taste him. If his lips were anything to go by, the rest of him would taste equally as delicious.
Teeth nipped at her neck and she groaned, throwing her head back as Remus dipped lower. She gasped as he took a nipple between his lips, gently tugging and groaning when the action wrought a deep moan from her. Repeating the action on the other breast, Hermione's hands gripped his hair, raking her nails over his scalp. He bit down just slightly, drawing her attention back to him, before moving down her stomach.
She had never experienced sex quite this way before. The sexual chemistry sparking between them was one thing, but the intensity and pull she felt roiled untamed within her. She needed him. She needed what he could provide for her. And as those big, strong hands removed the last scrap of clothing she wore, she knew she needed it now.
"Remus," she gasped as his tongue slowly lapped at the pulsing button between her legs, "Please."
Leisurely, the infuriating man kissed and nipped back up her body, his hands supporting his weight above her the entire time. But she was done with superficial pleasantries. Almost scratching her nails down his stomach, she made quick work of his trousers, pushing them down and enjoying the view immensely as he kicked them off.
Their eyes met, and honey melted into gold.
She gasped as he slid within her body. Their bodies were practically humming with the electricity of the union. She writhed, eyes slamming shut as he gave a soft groan in her ear, both of them completely still. It was as if they had been moulded for the sole purpose of sex, they fit so well.
When they started moving—for they both moved as if this dance had been one they had practiced for years—Hermione felt her nerves shoot spasms of pleasure through her skin, sparking off her fingertips as she gripped Remus's back. She arched, baring her neck to him while their hips rolled in perfect synchronization. She gave small moans, all the while the electrical current raced through her, growing more and more and more intense.
His breathing was heavy next to her ear as she clung to him, one hand gripping his hair while the other raked down his body, clutching his arse desperately. The electricity raced faster, pooling at a point just below her stomach. She could feel every ridge, every pulse of him inside her, stoking the sparks that flew through her veins like lava. He was taking her to a place she had never been before; an Oz-ian landscape for her senses.
She didn't resist. Instead, she embraced it, and exploded in sensation.
The ecstasy was unparalleled. She lost all concepts of time and space; even her own name was foreign to her in that moment of bright, indescribable nirvana. She trembled madly, his name a holy chant upon her lips and just as she regained a moment of realization, he exploded within her, joining her in paradise before they collapsed in a heap of exhausted, sweaty limbs.
Hermione stared at the ceiling as she caught her breath, the completeness of her actions coming to her in blinding clarity. She was too tired to be embarrassed, though she was confident that particular emotion would soon rear its head. Remus lay still in her arms, his breathing slowing steadily. She savoured the feeling, wondering which one of them would be the first to speak.
"Please tell me we can do this forever."
'Well, what do you know?' Her infuriating inner voice had returned along with the rest of her faculties. 'He wants to do it again.'
'So do I,' said the darker voice, though she sounded every bit as tired and satisfied as Hermione felt.
"You…you really want to?" she said nervously, feeling somewhat self-conscious about her wanton behaviour and his uncharacteristically lascivious response to it.
He glanced down at her with a small smile. "I know you. Your head is going a mile a minute trying to explain this. Don't bother, my dear. What happened tonight was instinctual. There is no explanation for it; not really, anyway." He leaned his forehead against hers. "Something inside you called to me tonight. I could not deny it. Not that I would have wanted to," he added.
She frowned slightly. "But I don't understand—"
He cut her off with a sweet, lingering kiss before pulling back. "You've got a she-wolf in you, 'Mione. My little alpha female." He kissed her nose. "I should have known. You can be infuriatingly independent."
She quirked an eyebrow. "Infuriatingly independent?"
He smiled. "Yes."
She grinned, feeling something rise within her at the thought of putting that independent mind to better use. Like conjuring up some rather intimate battles for alpha supremacy.
She was certain he wouldn't complain.
As usual, this is unbeta'd.
I hope you enjoyed it.
Please don't be a twat about it if you didn't.
Have a nice day! :)