The Moment\'s Allure

A/N: This was in response to a challenge on HPFF. The challenge was to write a one shot less that 1000 words that actually has a point :D and this is my entry. It is also the third installment of the series.






I don’t know why I allow him to do this to me. Each and every time, I falter at the look in his eyes, crumble at the feel of his hands. I am at his mercy.

A slave to his will.

I am no longer sure of what I want.

Is it him? Is it this?

I cannot remember a time when I have never wanted this. Never wanted him.

He presses me against the door as soon as I enter and close it behind me. His flat is completely dark, only faint grey light from the outside that peeks through the dirty windows casts light on the pieces of furniture, a well placed wand and empty bottles.

“What took you so long,” he rasps out, assaulting me with the intoxicating air of alcohol that always seems to linger on him as of late. His voice is so soft and husky and his hips are already pressed against mine. I want to fall into him right there and kiss him, but I always wait, until he initiates.

“I had to make an excuse to Alice about having to do a job for the order. She’s getting worried.”

He doesn’t even flinch like he normally does at the sound of her name, only increases the pressure to my shoulders for a moment. His hands slide down my arms slowly and pin my wrists.

This is not the first of these little rendezvous, and every time that one happens, I pray that it would not be the last. That he doesn’t have some life changing epiphany and realize that what we’re doing is messed up; that he doesn’t get what he truly wants and therefore discards the substitute.

Somehow, I would like tothink that the latter isn’t quite possible at the moment. Things are patchy. He tells me that he suspects he’s a traitor. He tells me that they are no longer friends, that he would never be friends with a turncoat like him.

So then does he use that same bloody voice when he’s talking about him? It’s been years and he still can’t properly disguise it. If he’s even trying to.

I hate him! I hate that he does this to me. He’s able to pull me away from my wife and child when ever he wants and I so willingly come. Disown me when I’m no longer needed, turn away and ignore me like the peeling wallpaper when I lay beside him, breathless.

Something is different tonight though. He’s just standing here with his head on my shoulder. He isn’t moving.

“Sirius…”

We’re practically the same height, so when he lifts his head, we’re nose to nose. Grey eyes hold me in place, scatter my thoughts and pull me in once again. His breath is warm and uneven against my mouth.

It’s at times like these, that I get caught up in the moment’s allure. Gentle touches like these, when I forget myself. Why I put him and us before my family. Times like this, when I know he’s lonely and needs someone. Needs me.

Its times like these, that keep me coming back above all else.

This arrogant, selfish, love-sick, beautiful man needs me.

He looks weak, not like his usual self, like he hasn’t slept for days. I feel a stab of pity towards him. If only he would let me help him. Save him. Love him.

I entangle or fingers and lead him over to the couch. He immediately curls up to me and rests his nose on my cheek. I realize that he just needs to be close to someone. Warmth. My poor star, fading away right before my eyes.

“Sirius.”

“Unhh,” he mumbles against my jacket.

“You smell like plums.”

He looks at me and laughs, causing me to smile. “Why do you always say things like that?”

“I don’t know, habit I guess.”

There is actually a sweet scent surrounding him, like plums.

I feel him shift.

“It’s one of the things I love about you though,” he says quietly, while resting his forehead on mine.

My hearts almost stops beating. Love ?

“I shouldn’t be here.”

Why did I say that?

“You always say that.”

“Are you glad… when I come, I mean?”

He doesn’t reply.

I knew it.

I hate him.

I should have known better. Sirius Black needs no one. Well, that’s not entirely true. He just doesn’t need me. Another figment of my deluded imagination I suppose.

I tilt my head to my left, denying him the contact he so craves, but I do not leave. I can feel him watching me, sense the scowl that is no doubt on his face from my defiance.

He only responds when I fight him.

I suppress a noise of surprise. In a split second, he grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head back. He then uses the leverage to climb up top of me and straddle my hips with his legs.

It feels like he’s going to tear my hair clean out from my skull and I close my eyes, preparing to be treated roughly. Seconds pass.

Nothing.

“If I didn’t want you, I wouldn’t have you,” comes his almost inaudible reply.

The grip on my hair loosens and I open my eyes in time to see the closest thing to an indulgent look on his face before he brings his lips to mine. It’s different from the hasty, heated ones we usually share.

I prefer this.

It reminds me of our first kiss, slow, tentative. His lips are supple and he bites softly on my lower lip, sending a surge of heat through that pools in the pit of my stomach. His hand holds my jaw up and with every little movement he makes, my body heats up from the exquisite friction.

I really do hate this man.

I hate that me makes me weak. Makes me want him. Love him.

Need him.

My poor, beautiful, ever elusive star.