My latest attempt at a one-shot. Written as a distraction from my History homework. :) Let me know what you think- this is a very different layout than I have previously used. Enjoy!
Outside, it is dark. Outside, the moon is full. Outside, your world has changed.
But inside-
One night a month, only one- the night when your husband is not himself, the night when you are left alone to wait in suffocating silence for the sun to rise and for him to return to your bed- one night a month, you meet, and you love each other as much as you can in those few hours.
You try not to think of Remus, trapped in his room, crying out in agony as he tears at his own flesh. You don't think of him, because your nails are digging into someone else's flesh- hard muscles that distract you from the loneliness and the shame that comes with marrying a werewolf.
You bury your fingers in hair that is not his- long, dark hair that is nothing like the graying strands that you see every other day. You kiss lips that are rough and passionate- so different from your husband's tender, loving caresses. You cry out in pleasure as strong, calloused hands stroke your skin and explore your body- hands that have known pain, and hard work, and suffering. Hands that have caressed the skin of God knows how many other women- but you don't care, because one night a month, only one- he is yours and yours alone.
How many years have you been doing this? You can't remember. You don't speak of it, you don't acknowledge it, you don't think about it on any other day but this one. Your eyes may meet across the room , your hands may brush each other as you walk side by side, but not a word is said. When you come home in the mornings, just as the sun is rising in all of its crimson glory, you know that Remus knows. He smells him on you. And yet, he ignores it, refusing to meet your eyes, refusing to argue- choosing instead to ignore your monthly trysts with his best friend. How else would your marriage survive? You know you are all he has- he won't leave you. He won't challenge him, won't demand to have what is rightfully his- because even after all of these years, you know that he still loves him as a brother. Even after all of these years, he is a fool.
Your meetings are rough, quick, and frenzied. Hot, wet kisses and moans of pleasure are mingled with the sharp pain of broken skin, the taste of blood on his lips- or on yours? He is not gentle. You keep him waiting, every month, refusing to acknowledge him on any other day but this one. It drives him mad. You know it does- but you insist on keeping the status quo. Why fix what isn't broken? You've met for years- struggling out of your clothes in the dark, holding him tightly as he moves above you, crying out his name into the night. He feels so fucking good. His skin is white as alabaster, his eyes are silver as the moon. His voice is deep and sensual as he groans and pants into your shoulder. You struggle beneath him- if only to make him hold you down more firmly, to bite you harder, to fuck you harder. God, he feels so good.
Your husband never takes you like this- rough and vicious, as if passion has overcome his senses. He is too afraid of the wolf within him, too frightened to release the animalistic side of himself. Instead, he loves you tenderly, but devotedly. You do not expect fidelity or dedication on the other's part- it simply is not in his makeup. How could you know that he spends every night remembering the feel of your warmth in his arms, the sound of his name on your lips? How could you know that he, in fact, is just as in love with you as your husband is?
Tonight, he pushes you against the wall of his bedroom, lifting you so that you can wrap your legs around his hard body. He pins your arms above your head with one hand, using the other for balance as he enters you in one slow, agonizing movement. You rest your head on his shoulder as he thrusts into you roughly, stifling your screams of pleasure as you bite down on his shoulder. You taste blood, and he hisses- in pain or pleasure, you'll never know. He throws you onto the floor, mounting you roughly from behind and pulling your head back by your hair. You close your eyes and lean into him, gasping as his hips pound into you. He is panting with exertion, but he won't stop any time soon. When he is close to his orgasm, he pulls away and resumes biting, scratching, tearing at your skin as you writhe on the floor and scream his name in a desperate plea for more. Finally, he gives in, entering you again and resuming that rough, unforgiving rhythm that he had before. He does this several times, until you are both almost crying from pure need. When you both reach your release, he cries out your name, and you gasp his into the darkness.
When it is over, he falls asleep beside you, one arm draped across your battered and bruised body, as if to protect you- but you know that he will soon wake and will have you begging for your orgasm again. The cycle will repeat itself, over and over, until the sun rises and you leave to go home- to go to your husband. He sits on the bed and pleads with his eyes for you to stay- but he knows better than to ask.
Sex with Sirius is a haze of pleasure and pain. You can't distinguish between the two any longer. You don't have to. Bruises and blood cause just as much of a heady high as your orgasm does. The smell of sweat and sex clings to your skin for hours after you part. Your husband's nostrils flare every time you enter the room after the full moon- he knows that scent, knows exactly where you have been. And yet, he allows it- if only for one reason.
You don't meet him on any other night of the month but this one.