New chapter time to lift spirits on this rainy Sunday (at least it's been raining non-stop where I am at!)

In today's episode : THE DATE.

The Taste of your Fear

Chapter 4

November 16th 2001, 7:14 pm

You insisted we share a glass of wine first before leaving. You said you wanted us to chat and get to know each other a bit more, away from prying eyes in whatever activity I have planned for us. My eyes are glued to your face, I think you can tell. I want to remember every little detail, no matter how insignificant. I want to know how your facial muscles move when you speak, or when you smile. I want to be able to tell why you scrunch your cute nose, or what exactly makes you run a hand in your hair. I want to learn all your little expressions and quirks by heart, all these things that never show on any of the newspaper covers. I want to unravel you until you are standing bare in front of me – body and soul – until I know everything there is to know about you.

You're beautiful, so beautiful, and you don't even know it. The way your cheeks turn a delicate rosy shade whenever you catch me looking at you makes my heart skip a beat. But then your beautiful brown eyes – they are like a bottomless pool of honey – find mine and you give me this small smile that makes my heart stutter in my chest even more. I am so close to just asking you to forgo dinner completely and fuck you right where we are sat in your sitting room, so I can have you all for myself, mark you with my reverent kisses, my teeth, my come. But I must resist. If this is all real, and it might very well not be, I don't want to fuck it up. On the odd chance, you are giving me a true shot at this, I want to do it right. I want to woo you and ruin all other men for you.

I am still sure this is a set-up. Why else would you ask me to stay at yours for a drink when we could have gone for food already? You must be trying to gain some time, setting your trap like a meticulous spider spinning its web, keeping me right here until the Aurors arrive. I can't find it in myself to care. Right now, all that matters is watching you as you move your hands animatedly whilst you explain to me what you spend five days a week doing in your office at the Ministry. There is so much passion and fire contained in your little self, that I can't help but look at you in total awe.

I always knew, since you bested us at the Department of Mysteries, and then in that café, that you were exceptional. Would you believe me if I came clean about my real identity and told you I never wanted to hurt a single hair on your head? No… no. I don't think you will. If you don't already know who I am, I expect you would fear me. Hate me. And feel no remorse whatsoever for locking me up behind bars for the rest of my life. I've done terrible things. I am well aware. But it was war, and I gave as good as I got.

You've asked me a question, I think. You are looking at me expectantly. I'm making a fool of myself again. Gods, why is it so hard to focus when you are around? You ask me again. You want to know since when I've been living in England, and why England of all places. I'm half tempted to say that Russia doesn't have a Hermione Granger, but all that would do is scare you off, and I can't afford to be cheesy so soon. I can't be honest and tell you I am hiding in plain sight, as this is the last place the DMLE would think me to be. At this point I think they are only keeping the wanted posters up in the odd chance I'm still in the country, but they probably believe me to be miles away, most likely sunbathing on a forever-sunny island.

Instead, I tell you what I believe you want to hear, that I've come to England as a young man and fell in love with the place and the people. And once I became an established businessman, I picked it as my go-to place for my various work dealings. That I intended to move here sooner but the war made me stay away, but as soon as the threat was neutralised, I jumped on the occasion.

You drink my words as I tell you half-truths about my supposed life back in Russia, I tell you that I miss it, sometimes, but that everyone who would make me visit has left this world. I tell you I was an only child, whose parents were so proud that they sang my praise to everyone who wanted to hear it. I tell you they loved me deeply and unconditionally and knew I would accomplish great things, but they left the world prematurely and never got to see me grow into the man I am today. Your eyes get cloudy with tears as I talk about my grandparents, about how they raised me and supported me those last couple of years of my boyhood when I suddenly found myself to be an orphan.

I refuse to tell you that my father beat me until I excelled at things, that his expectations of me were so high they were unattainable. I don't tell you that my mother was also a victim of his violent outbursts and how she would shield me from him every time. I don't tell you that I'm the one who killed my father, something I had in common with my old master. I don't tell you that I never regretted that first murder, that I got high on the kill because he had just beaten my little brother until he took his last breath. I don't tell you that my mother's grief was so great that she took her own life. That is my only regret.

My voice does get thick with emotion as I talk about my grandparents. I don't tell you that my babushka is still alive and well, but I know it's only a matter of time before she joins her husband on their next adventure together.

Your hand finds mine as it's resting on my thigh, and you squeeze it tight in a way I never want to forget. Your small, warm little hand brings me the comfort I did not know I needed, and although you did not hear the unsaid, it comforts me just the same.

November 16th 2001, 8:41 pm

We were meant to be out the door nearly two hours ago. One glass of wine turned into a whole bottle and a good portion of a second one. The dinner reservation can be forgotten, but I refuse to make this evening go to waste. So, I usher you towards the door and help you put on your coat. This close, I can smell your shampoo. It smells faintly of jasmine and something else I can't place, and it's as enthralling as you have been all evening. It takes everything from me not to lean in closer and smell you like some feral dog.

Your cheeks are now permanently pink, I blame the wine this time, although I like to think I have caused some of it. We walk outside, and ever the gentleman I offer you my arm for you to hold while I Apparate us to our next destination. You look at me expectantly, as we stand so close together on a cool November night. I don't want the moment to end. I try to convey that by giving you a genuine smile, one I hope would tell you all you need to know about the way I feel about you.

We reappear miles away from your home in a darkened alley in central London. I explain that I initially had dinner reservations at a muggle restaurant that served Russian dishes, but it was too late now to make it on time. Instead, I take you to a tiny Chinese place that does takeaway, and I observe you as you meticulously study the menu. You frown with indecisiveness, and it makes me want to run a finger along your brow. I'm so captivated by you that I forget to look at the menu myself, and when the cashier asks us what we would like, I order the same thing you have, whatever that was.

Food in hand, we go back into the alley, and I offer you my arm once again. I would much rather push you against the wall and snog you senseless but now is not the time. I take you to Primrose Hill, where we take a short walk to an unobstructed view of the city skyline. Your eyes shine bright with the faraway city lights, and I've got half a mind to get on one knee and ask you to be mine.

I transfigure my handkerchief into a thick and comfortable blanket, and I very nearly puff out my chest as you compliment my magic. I help you sit down and cast a warming charm around you. You blush again. Maybe you're not used to people fussing over you. In truth, I could do this for the rest of my life and never tire. You are easy to take care of.

We eat our respective chicken curry in between animated conversations about life, magic, and politics. You are even more interesting than I ever thought you to be. Your mind is brilliant, and I understand then why you had such a pivotal role in the war. If the Dark Lord had you on his side, he would have squashed the Light and taken over the world in record time. But you would never have. You are good. So good. A beacon of light.

November 17th 2001, 12:52 am

You stifle a yawn and I look at my watch. Time has run away from us again. This evening spent in your company felt like it passed in the blink of an eye. I am now fully under your spell, and all I want to do is slip into your mind and find out how you feel about me. I would not use Legilimency on you, though. I could, easily. But if you found out I did it, you would probably never speak to me again.

I offer to take you back home. You start saying you can find your way back just fine, subtly telling me that there will be no sex on the first date. But I insist, I tell you I would much rather see you walk through your front door with my own eyes, make sure you are safe and sound or I would just worry myself sick. You seem hesitant at first, but you see the sincerity in my eyes. You agree. Maybe not sex, but at least a kiss?

I help you up and transfigure back my handkerchief, vanish the remnants of our dinner, and offer you my arm again. You grab my hand instead. My cock twitches at the touch, you might as well have cupped my balls. Your hand feels so small. It's so feminine and soft and fits perfectly into mine. I realise then, I could never go a day without you again. I will not rest until I have you for myself. My plans… did not initially include you. But now it is clear to me, I need you in my life, and I will not be content being your acquaintance or friend.

We arrive in your darkened driveway with a soft pop. It breaks my heart to do so, but I let go of your hand, and motion for you to go inside. You tell me you had a good time, and I tell you so did I. I ask if you want to do this again sometime, and you blush ferociously as you say that yes, you would love that. You call me Alexei, and it felt like a knife getting twisted in my heart. How I wish those same pink lips said 'Antonin' instead.

I don't realise until it's nearly too late, but you've gotten on your tiptoes, and you kiss my right cheek, right on one of the dimples that have taken permanent residency on my face since I got to spend the evening with you. I close my eyes and savour the second of your lips on my skin. Your mouth lingers a breath away from my cheek. My eyes bore into yours. I think I said the words 'May I?', but your nod is all I needed. My lips find yours. The kiss is gentle. Your lips are soft. I take my time. I want you to remember this. I want it to be the best kiss in your life. I want you to talk about it to our children and grandchildren. You grant me access, and ever so gently, my tongue tastes yours. You meet me halfway. You should praise me for the restraint I show now, that I only just caress your cheek with my thumb instead of grabbing your hair and claiming your lips savagely. No. This kiss is supposed to be tender, slow, and romantic. And that's exactly how it is, how it feels. I feel all consumed by your inviting mouth and teasing tongue. I can feel my cock straining against my jeans, and I'm a hairbreadth away from finishing in my pants like some horny teenager. Your warm breath sends shivers down my spine, and your soft moans and gasps travel straight to my groin.

Someone behind us shouts something, and suddenly you are stiff and frozen in fear. Your eyes are wide, and a gasp escapes your swollen lips. I turn around just in time to see a man pointing a wand at me. I push you behind me and quick as lightning I cast a protego. Whomever this asshole is, he is about to pay for interrupting the best day of my life.

He is wearing Auror robes. Then another one appears.

I guess this was a trap after all.

Oops, hihi. Seems like our favourite bad boy might've found himself in a bit of a pickle!