healing touch
'between certainties and doubts' installment & part of the mean!remus agenda, aka a moment from a terrifyingly convoluted teenage situationship between remus lupin and an unidentified Hogwarts student (x fem!reader) wc: 2k a/n: there’s a lot of him that needs healing, but remus has got to start somewhere. MDNI! this is very much touchy-feely smut, protected p in v, cockwarming… feel free to send requests for them!
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It’s the sound of the front door rattling off the hinges that wakes Remus from his nap on the couch. Rain is pouring down in heavy sheets outside—falling against the downspout like strikes of lightning.
And then you’re coming through the threshold of his house in a vision of white light, backlit with the sounds of roaring thunder. He rubs at his eyes slowly to see a much better ending to the romcom he fell asleep to earlier. Toeing off your rainboots and shaking your umbrella off in the foyer, you see he’s nestled against his mother’s throw pillows with the TV casting a glow over his tired face—the only light in the dark room.
“Hey,” you coo, shuffling onto the worn carpet that looks like it’s seen better days. Rainwater drips down your face and he blinks up at you because for a moment he finds himself worried that you’re a dream he’s about to wake up from.
“You’re soaked, lovie,” he slurs, voice scratchy with sleep, “Told you not to come up here in this weather.” But still, he tugs at the denim that’s stuck to your body like a coat of paint, the damp seeping through the new cracks in his skin that’s bandaged poorly. It hurts to touch you, but he doesn’t falter, not even for a second.
“It was barely a ten minute walk up the hill, Rem. Wanted to see you,” you mutter, caging your legs over him, afraid of being too much for him to hold onto in his moment of respite, “your mum feeling better? She upstairs?”
He pulls you onto his lap in an effort to warm you up.
“At work. Been too long without you,” he mumbles, nuzzling into your touch when you brush his hair out of his eyes.
“It was only three days, baby. Care for a cuddle?”
You press soft kisses along his jaw until his lips chase after yours, lazy but with intention. He mutters against your lips incoherently, half sleep and half desire, “Want more than a cuddle, lovely girl.”
You gasp, pretending to be scandalized, then laughing at the grin that grows on Remus’s face, “But I’m all wet!”
“N’that the point?”
You smack his face lightly and he closes his eyes and massages your hips, trying to memorize every bump and curve. Remus opens them again when you start to stand up.
“Gonna change. I’m stealing your clothes.”
“Gonna take ‘em off anyway, silly thing,” he smiles, throwing an arm over his eyes at the flash of lightning that comes through the window. He hears you scoff, and then you’re on your feet, slinging your bag over your shoulder and walk off. Remus listens to you move through his house like it’s your own. His mind wanders in the short moments that you’re gone—the sound of a jar hitting the kitchen table, soft pads of your feet going up the stairs, and the creak of his bedroom door. The familiarity you have with his home is as close as it gets to the real thing, he thinks.
And without meaning to, he basks in it, just for a short while.
Trying not to doze off, his brain spirals into thoughts of you—how this…thing would be if it were anymore real than this. The idea is fleeting, but like chasing smoke it comes and goes, without his permission. All he can do is lay there and take the blow. Blinking at the shifting weight on the couch, you’ve come back down the steps in a ratty t-shirt of his and not much else. He smiles, looking surprised even though he was already expecting you.
Remus groans as you settle upon his lap and every bone in his body is aching right now---but he won't dare push you away. He'll gladly carry the weight, and he does, his fingers grasping as much skin of yours that he can—thumbing through the softest parts of your thighs and traveling up past the seat of your underwear, squeezing the flesh of your ass and tugging you where he aches most, now hard and filled with the need for you to kiss him better.
“So now you’re awake, huh?”
“S’like being brought back to life. C’mere,” the sound of his voice comes out muffled as he’s plopped his face between your clothed tits and takes a deep breath of you through worn cotton.
“You sure about this?”
A small foil wrapper is dangling between your fingertips like a prize, swinging in his view like a pendulum of pent up desire—he kisses the hand that holds it, and then nods, “Think it might cure me, actually.” There’s a mischievous grin on your boy’s face now—revitalized just by having you here and your heart skips an extra beat.
Looking at him closely, there’s a new scratch on his cheek about the size of your palm. When you graze it, he grimaces.
“What happened here?”
Remus is already pushing down his joggers and shrugs his shoulders like it doesn’t matter to him anymore. His cock is standing upright, a single bead of precum leaking onto the shaft and trailing down the vein that covers it. There’s much more interest in how heavy it feels resting against your stomach and the idea of fitting so snugly within you is on the forefront of his mind.
“Nicked myself with mum’s garden shears. Tried to fix the trellis out back while she was sick,” Remus mutters. His thick lashes hide the green of his eyes that look anywhere other than your face right now, bandaged hands scrunching up the shirt that adorns your body, to focus on now instead of his few days without you.
“And this?”
Your hips are moving slowly over his cock, moisture from your underwear slicking up the sides and he shudders, eyes fluttering back open when you grasp his chin. Your other hand is holding his poorly bandaged one, pressing soft lips against his injured skin.
“Uh…Had a…” he swallows dryly, “duel against a carrot for the stew a few nights ago. Got me good.”
“Who won?”
The deadpan expression he gives you is your answer, and he reaches around to smack your ass.
“Clumsy boy. Must’ve been a nightmare growing up.”
Remus laughs stiffly, only remembering how to breathe after he feels your fingers roll the condom onto his cock. Your movements are languid like falling sand in an hourglass. Pulling your panties aside, your eyes lock onto his, shifting slowly like you have all the time in the world—everything else doesn’t matter when you’re here. Not the full moon, not the uncertain future; he has you in his hold and Remus doesn’t feel so empty for once. Sinking onto him, neither do you—the friction beckons him to fill you up in the way that only he can, in the way that only he has.
You are his.
This is a fact that neither of you want to admit, for very different reasons—but as you begin to rock back and forth on his length, bucking your hips to feel all of him, it feels like an unspoken agreement. It doesn’t need words, though if you could find them, they come out in hushed sighs and tender touches. A caress of your breast, and you leaning down to let him cage yourself against his chest. You kiss it through his shirt, damp with sweat as he hugs you close.
His heartbeat pulses under the touch of your lips. This isn’t lust anymore, this is…
“My love…my lovely girl…” he gasps, finding the strength to plant his feet onto the couch cushion that is swallowing you both the more you move.
“Rem…mmh! Yes!”
He’s thrusting up into your sopping hole, the squelch proving to be music to his ears. You’re gripping onto his biceps, leaving marks of your own on his skin, the ones left by the moon long forgotten.
“So good to me…Want to be with you all the time.”
Remus is needier than usual, more candid in the way the words slip off his tongue. You groan into his neck, hips stuttering over his and the discord of your efforts—the feeling of you both crashing into that crest has your eyes rolling to the back of your head.
“You like it when I take care of you?”
The words come out in a whine, sending shockwaves to his brain and he can’t do anything but hang on to the base of your scalp to see your face. He can’t do without looking at you anymore—can’t forget you now that he has you. There’s a white hot sensation that runs through his core the more he buries himself into you, and it almost feels like he could walk to the ends of the earth despite it being a day after the full moon.
Remus would do anything—especially since you feel this good.
“That’s my girl, that’s it…” he huffs, rubbing your back as you convulse. Your pussy tightens dramatically as you come down from the high; watching your pleasure makes him spill into the condom with a final groan.
Life resumes again when you open your eyes and push up on his chest.
“Feel better?”
The both of you start laughing like this is normal—perhaps for the both of you it is. Propping yourself onto your knees, you almost topple back onto him when he doesn’t let go of your waist.
“Wait…” he whispers, closing his eyes. Birds chirp outside the window and you notice the rain finally stopped. “You okay? Too much?”
It’s inexplicable to him how happy he’s been since you came into his life this summer and much more confusing to him that you haven’t left. Here you are, sat on his softening cock, and still looking at him with such care that can’t be labelled. It’d be a dishonor to you if he gets it wrong, he thinks, and this can’t last forever, but for now…
“Stay a bit longer.”
His hands press down on your back so you can lay on his chest, and with it comes a kiss that fills you with something much deeper than how he is now. You want to hold onto this and everything that comes with Remus Lupin for as long as you can.
Later, Mrs. Lupin opens the door to see you both asleep on the couch and tucked under a blanket. The sound of an opening window makes you stir.
“Sorry to wake you dear, want to stay for dinner?”
Nodding sleepily, you get up from the couch with a smile. She recognizes her son’s joggers tied tight around your hips and the t shirt he got from when she dragged him to volunteer at church.
“Glad you’re feeling better! Left some tiger balm on the kitchen table for you to not feel sore,” you say through a yawn. Squeezing you into a hug, she tosses a throw pillow at her son, who groans and rubs at his eyes. When you’re in the bathroom, they speak in hushed tones.
“Remus John, I swear to God if you get her pregnant—”
“Mam! No, not—” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “We’re…safe.” The look of relief on the older woman’s face is her response. Turning to pull ingredients from the fridge, she continues, “Is she your girlfriend now?”
Her son shrugs, taking a seat at the kitchen table, “Something like that. Probably a bad idea,” he mumbles. Hope hits him with a towel, the thwack against his arm making him wince, “And why is that? I like her for you!” The sound of the toilet flushing down the hall makes them pause, and Remus’s fists clench uncomfortably. The reality is that he doesn’t have to say anything for his mother to understand, and there’s a weight in the silence that follows.
Remus grabs the tin of salve you left on the table and opens it with care. There’s a lot of him that needs healing.
He has to start somewhere.
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