A/N: It was truly time for a new one shot! I hope you like it.
Need
It had been the summer before fifth year when he kissed her first.
It had also been the summer before fifth year when he stole something of hers that he could never give back to her.
But she didn't mind.
She always said that she didn't mind.
But they were both too young.
Both too childish.
Both too reckless.
Both too out-of-it to realise what it meant.
He'd been angry. Murderous. Because he'd received a letter that he wished he'd never opened. He knew he should've just set it on fire the moment he recognised his mother's handwriting.
But he had let himself hope. Hope that it was a letter asking him to come back home. To not spend the entire summer away from his family and with his best friend, instead.
He'd let himself hope that it was his mother apologising for the things that she'd said.
For everything she'd made him feel.
For never forgiving him for being a Gryffindor.
But it had been a stupid hope. A childish hope. A reckless hope.
He could almost see the pride in her writing.
Bellatrix has joined the Right Cause.
She'd written it proudly. But her next lines were clearly written with distaste, and it was like he could feel it. Like he could hear her.
How she sneered when she talked to him, how she looked down on him and how she always longed to smack him. How she wished he was different.
She always did the yelling, his mother. Never his father. His father wouldn't even look at him. What a disgrace. His son, never would live up to his name.
So he'd been angry. Depressed. Devastated. Hurt.
He could only see red and feel his eyes water and his fingers went numb, numb enough for him to not feel the glass he was grasping, grasping so hard until it gave up and splintered.
He had been bleeding too, apparently, when she came to him.
Why was she always there?
He'd wondered about it to himself.
Because she'd grown up next to James.
Been friends, before he was, with James.
Liked to spend her summers there, with James.
Her parents looked at her as a part of their family and she'd stay with them, with James.
Forcing him to spend time with her, when all he wanted was just alone time, with James.
It wasn't that he hated her. He just couldn't stand her.
She was cocky and snarky and an utter smartass and always had a witty comeback ready and she would fight him about everything and she'd always have to win.
She was tall and she was slim and she had delicious curves, even at the age of only fifteen he didn't want to have to resist her.
Her hair almost reached her waist, falling from her head in crazy waves down her back, asking him to twist his fingers in them and feel the softness between his fingers.
Her eyes were ocean blue, compelling him to get lost in them.
But she hadn't been cocky or snarky or amused when she found him.
Sitting by himself in the Potter's kitchen, broken glass, bleeding hand and a torn up letter on the table in front of him.
She'd been frantic. Terrified. Caring. Uncertain. Worried.
"Sirius-" she'd breathed out. His name sounding like a worried sigh, breathy and unsteady as she had knelt beside him, wincing slightly when her knees came in contact with either the cold floor or the broken glass - he never asked. "What's happened?"
She hadn't asked 'are you okay', like he'd expected her to.
'Are you okay' was the question everyone always started out with.
But Marlene McKinnon had known everything wasn't okay and that it was a dimwitted idea to ask. So she cut right to the chase. As always.
He hadn't answered.
He'd just stared at her, eyes trailing from the top of her head, following her hair down her shoulders (carefully avoiding her face), gaping at the way her tank top stretched over her chest and didn't cover the bottom of her stomach, where the white skin was visible until it was met by bright red fabric - Gryffindor shorts, of course. Her thighs seemed tanner than her stomach, even when she was crouching with only her knees visible to him, he could see how long her legs were, how thin they were and how utterly perfect.
Nothing about her screamed 'I'm a Black!', because she wasn't.
She was a McKinnon.
Maybe a pureblood, but not brainwashed with pureblood ignorance.
Not dark haired like the long line of the noble house of the Black.
Not sporting the dark eyes - faded grey, black as coal, stormy.
Blonde, blue eyed and perfect.
"Sirius?" she'd said his name again, after his long silence.
Her voice was uneven, unsteady and she even looked slightly scared.
His eyes found her face.
Big round blue eyes, gazing into his.
Red full lips, slightly parted.
Dyed brown eyebrows, furrowed.
And then he'd kissed her.
His bloody fingers entangling in her hair to pull her closer to him, forcing her to get up from her knees and fall into him.
Tugging her upwards, he wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him, letting them both fall backwards and her body had followed him, placing itself on top of him and her thin fingers pressed agains his face when his tongue demanded access to her mouth, which she granted with a low moan.
He kissed her roughly.
He kissed her until all thoughts about his family had been wiped from his mind. Forgotten, while the kiss lasted.
He breathed in her scent and let himself get lost in everything Marlene.
He kissed her until he forgot his own last name.
He kissed her until he no longer felt anything but the need for her.
He didn't even realise he'd started to remove her clothing until he could feel her burning hot skin against his fingers and feel her hands on his own, while she struggled to remove his shirt.
It wasn't until it was over and their breathing had steadied again that he thought about what they'd done.
What he'd done.
Finding it almost humorous that this was James's couch.
In James' house.
And that he was likely to kill them both.
He'd looked down, finding her eyes staring straight at him and she'd looked away.
And that's when he fully progressed what he'd done.
He hadn't said anything, but she seemed to sense his discomfort (or maybe she felt it too) because she sprung to her feet quickly after she had looked away and started looking for her clothes on the floor.
He hadn't known what to say, so he just stayed there, placed awkwardly on the couch - the place she had occupied empty and out of place.
He had only opened his mouth, but no words formed, when she had spoken.
"It's okay." she'd said, slipping the last item of clothing on and smiling at him softly.
It was so unlike her that he was left to wonder if he'd broken her.
"I don't mind." it was the first time she'd say that to him, but not the last.
He'd looked up at her, he had been too shameful to meet her eye earlier but now he did.
They still reflected the still sea in the morning perfectly, her hair was still as golden as it had been before, her lips were still as red and full. She seemed the same.
But he knew she wasn't.
Neither of them was.
Because that was just their first of many times, and he'd continue to do this to her. And sometimes, he'd actually feel like he was doing something utterly wrong.
But she'd never tell him to stop.
She'd even come back for more.
Because she didn't mind.
And though she'd never say it aloud, and if she did he wouldn't accept it to be true.
But, he needed it.
He needed her.
They might have even needed each other.
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