bakerstreet | take it off

take it off

ＳＴＲＩＰＴＥＡＳＥ meme

Whether you're with a shy, innocent flower who's hesitant to show off their body, someone who wants to get you all fired up because they're contrary, or a sexpot with no qualms, you're about to get a show when they take their clothes off. Or maybe you just walked in on someone undressing. Whatever works. Play your cards right, and you may get to touch instead of just look.

Comment with your character, preference, and whether they're the one taking their clothes off or the one watching! Be sure to include as much information as you'd like and that makes you easier to tag - ie, is your character experienced in this? Are they intending to give a show? So on and so forth.
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[ Straightening even more in his chair as she approaches, he first gestures for her to sit in the chair opposite the desk, but it's the inkwell she reaches for first. He quirks a brow, looking up at her, though before he may speak again, she is on his desk.

The paper he had been grading is of no importance now, but he does manage to shift his chair back a fair bit from his desk. Some students were perhaps far more casual than others; he hadn't expected Pansy to be among them. ]

Ah, of course, Miss Parkinson, I do always prefer direct inquiries. Is it about the lesson, then? You did quite well on your essay, as always. [ And he may well try to shuffle some of the papers to another side of his desk. He doesn't want them to be put out of sorts, after all. ] I do have a chair you may sit in. I may nearly promise it will be more comfortable. Would you like tea or cocoa? I understand it's frigid out this evening.

No, thank you.

[Her eyes narrow a little as she watches him fuss with his papers; this might be harder than she anticipated. It's much easier to rile up Draco, but then again, Draco is a teenage boy and they are rather stupid. Clearly Professor Lupin will be a harder mouse to catch.]

This isn't about my essay. [She crosses her legs, perching her toes on the edge of his chair between his legs, resting her palms on the edge of his desk and leaning forward a little so her hair slides over her shoulders and her unbuttoned shirt — now that the school day is over, the uniform regulations have been loosened, and therefore so has her tie and the first three buttons of her blouse — gapes open.] And I'm perfectly comfortable here.

[Not quite, she'd be more comfortable in his lap, but baby steps.]

I'd like to shag you. Sir.

Then what can I --

[ It's difficult to ignore the way she places her feet on his chair, how she sits, hair falling over her, not to mention her uniform infraction. He turns his attention slowly from the papers on his desk to his student. He clears his throat. ]

A-ah, excuse me, Miss Parkinson?

[ Did he hear that correctly? He nudges his chair backwards a little bit more, as though to rise. ]

I think it would be best if you returned to your common room, hm? [ And if she hasn't already moved her feet, he pushes the chair back out of her reach to stand, already taking a step toward the door. ] I think it's best for now, and I'll see you in class on Monday, assignment prepared. Three pieces of parchment, remember.

[ He may see the exposed length of her thigh, even from where he stands, the drape of hair over her shoulders. In another lifetime, maybe he might have let his eye linger, but not now. ~~Not yet, anyway.~~]

[She hasn't moved her feet; in fact, Pansy had gone so far as to hook her toes under his chair and attempt to pull him closer, an attempt that had been thwarted when he so cruelly pushed away from the table and stood up.

At least his fluster means she struck a nerve.]

I don't think that would be best, not at all.

[She slides off his desk and curls her fingers around his wrist, quick as lightning, her grip surprisingly tight for such a petite girl. He's not going anywhere, not until she's absolutely certain he doesn't want to fuck her. One of the benefits of his height is that it takes no effort on her part to look up at him through her lashes, just as she knows it will take no effort on his part to look down her blouse. Just because she's not well-endowed doesn't mean she doesn't know how to put her best assets forward.] Don't you want to shag me?

[She doesn't do anything as crude as plaster herself to his side, but she does stand awfully close as she pouts at him.] I see the way you look at me. It's alright, Professor. I won't tell anyone.

[ The fact that she is so very unwilling to listen disturbs him in many ways. Of course he believes his students are innocent in some ways and terribly burdened in others, but he hadn't expected this. Not directed at him. ]

I think it would be, please. Leaving, that is.

[ He pauses, his wrist caught in her hand, and he turns to look at her, which is perhaps mistake number one. She's close -- too close. He can feel the warmth of her, and he dares not look down to her. He knows that's what she wants. He's not a complete fool, after all. ]

You shouldn't be asking me that. Go to your house commons, Pansy.

[ Strange, how he can feel his blood beginning to run a little hot. He must be dreaming, and rather crudely, because no one in many years has looked at him like she is -- no one has even shown the slightest interest. And he's content with that. He gives his hand a gentle tug. A pity his wand is at his desk. ]

I don't look at you in any way -- what in Merlin's name has gotten into you? I think perhaps Madame Pomfrey would be a better suit than the commons. Are you feverish?

[ Keep her talking, keep distance between them. Then he could get her out and be done with whatever any of this means. Poor girl has likely succumbed to a love potion or something similar -- he has seen it happen before, and in her house, it would not be unheard of. ]

So, please sit, I'll send a note to Poppy and that will have all of this settled, hm? Have a chocolate, there are some just there on the desk.

[She's not letting go of his wrist, no sir. Not when holding it like this means she gets to feel his pulse pick up, and she knows damn well it's not out of anger or disgust. She knows how that feels, and if he were angry or disgusted with her, he would have no problem looking down at her and sneering. No, Lupin is embarrassed, and potentially affected, and Pansy is going to press her advantage while she still has it.]

Shouldn't means nothing.

[Taking his hand, she pulls him in closer and presses his hand to the side of her neck, those long fingers of his pressing against her pulse so he can feel how it flutters too, his palm pressed solidly against her sternum since her blouse is pushed aside the way it is.]

Do I feel feverish to you?

[There is no distance between them, she won't allow it. And she is under no potion nor spell, this is all Pansy. Something he would know if he would actually look at her, see the brightness in her eyes that he should know quite well from the classroom. She's a clever girl, Pansy, and now she has turned all that cleverness towards finding a way to make what she wants come to pass. And what she wants is his hands under her skirt.]

I don't want chocolate. I want you.

[ She doesn't relent. In any battle, it would be a call and response, attack and deflect, but he's wholly unprepared here. The way she drags his hand against her neck, her skin, her sternum. The way her heart thrums under his palm and fingertips even though he tries to pull his hand away. ]

Shouldn't means a great deal of things, Miss Parkinson. Like this. Let me go.

[ He can't push her -- if she got hurt, he's not entirely sure how he would explain it, or what she would say. He tread a thin line working here as it is, and he wants desperately to prove to Dumbledore that he made the right choice by hiring him. Albus saved him when he went to school, and even now he saves him.

He looks down at her finally, where his palm rests on her skin, her hand over his, her eyes, too clear, too bright. Too very much like the student in his class.]

I apologize, then, I cannot give you what you want. [ His voice is hitched slightly, though be it from fear, the closeness, the warmth that spreads through him, his hand against her fluttering heart -- it's difficult to say. ] It is time you go.

[ She's right though, he's looked down now, to the angles of her face, thick lashes, the slope of neck and... ]

Now. The door isn't far.

[She pouts at him when he tells her to let go — no fun at all, he should be ashamed — but she does pointedly uncurl her fingers from around his wrist. She doesn't let him take his hand off her, though. No, that would be too easy. Instead she strokes her fingers along the lines of his hand, sliding along the tendons and between his knuckles, her fingers slotting between his to hold his hand exactly where she placed it. He's so very warm, it feels lovely against her skin.

Draco has poor circulation. Being touched by him is like being touched by a corpse.]

I promise I won't tell. Nobody will have to know.

[Of course, Pansy was oblivious to Lupin's...difficulties, or why this job is so important to him. If she knew, she might not attempt this — either from a desire to spare him being tossed out or from a dislike of his lycanthropy, who knows — but as she just assumes he's perfectly ordinary, she doesn't feel bad reaching for what she wants.

She licks her lips, sucking the lower one between her teeth.] I think you can. [The hitch in his voice is so obvious to her, and she can practically see her trap closing around him. Perfect.]

Your chair is closer. [His momentum seems to have left him, which is perfect for what Pansy wants to do next. Which is, of course, slide her free hand across his chest, letting herself grope him shamelessly, and use her new grip to push him back towards the chair he was only just sitting in, prowling after him like a jungle cat. When she has him where she wants him, she gives his chest a nice little shove, her lips curling in a satisfied smile when he falls back into his chair.

From there, it's easy to slide into his lap, her knees settling on the seat on either side of his hips.]

Please, sir? [She leans in to not quite nuzzle at the skin below his ear, breathing warmly down the line of his neck.] It would mean so much to me.

[ The trickling of her fingers over his skin scalds him, fine lines drawn across his hand and arm. Surely he's gone mad -- perhaps too many years of potions, too many nights of blood loss and pain have finally taken their toll.

It happens too quickly. Her hand sliding up his chest, his staggering backward to try and dip out of the touch, and her push. Even the very push leaves him breathless in a way he hadn't expected, falling back into the seat, too surprised to halt her straddling his lap.

... she is straddling his lap. ]

N-no... no, I can't.

[ Merlin, why aren't there spells for this type of evil. For sirens in human form? A spell that could quash any sense of desperate longing that may have taken root in him, living for years, festering. His wand is on the desk. Just there-- at the edge of a pile of essays. But distance and Pansy stand between him, a formidable gap to cross. ]

Please. [ Her breath on the patch of skin under his ear, along is neck, it's maddening and he closes his eyes tightly, scrubbing a hand over his face, the other pushing gently at her shoulder. Though with his voice ragged, a huskiness intertwining in the rich baritone, well. It may be difficult to tell what he's asking for, after all. ]

Edited 2015-01-09 04:57 (UTC)

[She doesn't kiss his neck, doesn't bite his ear, doesn't even murmur to him. But she does press herself close, finally plastering herself against him, chest to chest, her breasts practically spilling out of her shirt. Until she slides her hands between them and starts to undo the last remaining buttons keeping her modesty intact, and then they are spilling out of her shirt, nothing between them and his but the flimsy lace of her bra.]

Professor...

[The raggedness of his voice has an undeniable effect on her, or maybe it's just the power trip of reducing a man like Lupin to a quivering mess beneath her, as Pansy's voice has gotten huskier too. She puts it to good use, murmuring quietly to him into the negligible space between them now.]

Tell me you don't want me.

[She's not a rapist. If he truly, honestly, doesn't want her even the slightest bit, then she'll button up her blouse and leave him be. But if he does want her, well.

Then he won't mind her taking his hands and settling them on the skin of her waist, her shirt now hanging off her shoulders.]

[ What semblance of distance remained dissipates, her breasts against his chest, her hips straddling him, her weight both terrifying and exciting all at once. The very warmth of her alone is enough to set his hair on end. ]

Miss Parkinson, I...

[ Her shirt pools around her shoulders, his fingers placed on her waist. She is so very warm, reminding Remus just how real this is, how this is not some trick of potion or light. ]

I can't tell you that.

[ A wall comes crashing down somewhere, his fingers tremble both from restraint and concern, because he cannot deny the strange yearning that starts thrumming through his veins. This is a student, in his lap, in his own office. It isn't possible.

Of their own volition, his thumbs softly stroke the skin at her sides, hands hesitantly moving to her back, his touch too light and too timid. It's bad enough her shirt is off, that there's hardly but slivers of fabric between her bare chest and his. ]

This isn't wise. This isn't good, we shouldn't. [ Because saying it more and more out loud makes him feel better about the way his fingers curl against her skin, the way he speaks the words hoarsely, hot breath against the skin of her shoulder, as though hiding his face. What shame, that he could succumb to this. ]

[His hands feel enormous, spanning her waist like that, and the sensation has her sighing happily as his thumbs start to gently stroke her skin. It sends a shiver crawling up her spine, prompting her to curl her fingers at his shoulders, her fingertips digging into the muscle there beneath his shirt.]

I don't care.

[She turns her head and nuzzles at his temple with a gentleness that seems out of place, given how bold she's been all night, and certainly out of place with how she presses herself down against him, her hips shifting to slot perfectly against his.

It takes no time at all to shrug out of her blouse, letting it flutter to the floor and leaving her in just her bra with her tie hanging down between her breasts as her arms lift to circle around the surprising breadth of his shoulders.]

[ The bite of her nails through his shirt, the warmth of her under his hands. ]

You're sure there are no potions, no... no firewhiskey or...?

[ Because he needs to stop. The feeling of rolling down a hill with no stopping point only seems to grow more urgent as her hips settle easily against his, his arousal suddenly bearing so much weight, it draws a deep, surprised groan from within his throat.

How powerful he feels when she shivers under his touch, and it bolsters his confidence, strong fingers sliding up her back, even massaging the muscles, until he draws his attentions to her front, fingers tracing the skin around her tie, almost afraid to venture anywhere else until he finally palms both breasts, the touch tentative at first, until he swipes his thumbs in a delicate circle around her nipples. ]

This is madness. [ He's lucky enough to have any voice left in him, the way his throat goes dry, his heart races, heat surging southerly with every touch. How petite she is against him, how different she is to anyone else he's had in this way. ]

I... I need to stop. We can't do this. [ And if she permits, he may very well try to remove his hands from her altogether, shifting uncomfortably, though whether that is from the strain in his trousers or the situation, it's difficult to tell. ] Merlin... [ Because it's ridiculous how quickly he's turned nearly wanton to desire. ]

Edited 2015-01-09 06:12 (UTC)

I'm as sober as a judge, I promise.

[Oh, that groan that rumbles through him is delicious. Pansy bites her lip against a grin and clutches at his shoulders a little tighter, shifting her hips against him just the littlest bit to see if she can get him to do it again.

He finally seems to be getting on board with this plan, if the way his hands move against her spine is any indication, and Pansy arches into the strong press of his fingers like a cat being petted, a pleased noise catching in the back of her throat. That noise turns into an even more pleased hum when he finally palms her breasts — Pansy is very petite, which means her cup size isn't exactly large, and she refuses to wear something as gauche as a push-up bra; Lupin's hands engulf her breasts completely, and all that warmth through her bra feels incredible — and when he swipes his thumbs over her nipples, well. They pebble instantly under his touch, the thin lace of her bra doing nothing to hide her reactions, and she moans breathlessly in encouragement.

Her fingers attack the buttons of his own shirt, deciding that she doesn't want to be the only one getting naked here. Though that does have some appeal... Later. Right now she's a woman on a mission, and she will not be distracted.]

Shh. [She goes as far as to press her finger to his lips, stopping him from moaning about how wrong this is when clearly he wants it as much as she does. It's tiresome, and boring, and there are much better things he could be doing with his mouth. Things like kissing her.

Even perched in his lap, she's barely taller than him at all, and so she doesn't need to look down to kiss him, but that doesn't stop her from getting a good grip on his hair to tilt him to the angle she wants him so that when she does lower her lips to his, there's no awkward bumping of noses or clacking of teeth.

[ Her hips slide against his once more and it does not take much to elicit another groan, this one perhaps more gravelly, deep. It is unfair how she may command him like this, control him.

Her body molds into his hands, his fingers pausing in their ministrations to reach and unhook the clasp of her bra, needing to feel the heat of her flesh under his coarse palms, especially with the sounds she makes. Those delectable sounds that, had he any doubts about this before, washes those concerns away. He needs this. Shame can come later.

Remus' physique does not quite match that of others. His chest, marred with thick, roping scars and little nicks here and there, telltale signs of his life with lycanthropy, never an easy existence. He nearly cowers, because this would all change when she sees how damaged his skin his, how it does not quite add up with the quiet, intelligent professor she knows. ]

Pansy... [ Her name falls like a curse from his lips, her fingers in his hair like that, neck craned, his hands now massaging the whole of each bared breast, rolling the pebbled peak between his fingers. He meets her eyes, his eyes clouded and dark, and he welcomes her kiss, finally letting every reserve slip away.

She hasn't turned away in disgust, hasn't scoffed, and his hands leave her chest, sliding down along her back until he grips her ass fiercely, drawing her closer, needing the distance between them to disappear entirely again. ]

[The ease with which he unclasps her bra sends a shiver down her spine; such a little thing, really, but it's surprisingly attractive. Not to compare apples to oranges, but Draco always fumbles with her bra, and Pansy winds up taking it off herself when they have dutiful sex. She thinks the reason he's so bad with it is because he doesn't much want her, which is fair enough because she doesn't much want him. Not at all how she wants her professor. Draco doesn't light a fire in her veins, make her arch into the touch of his hand with a begging sort of whine.

She finally unbuttons his shirt and moves to shove it off his shoulders when she sees the scars roping across his chest. For a moment, her hands hesitate, shock seeming to stop her in her tracks, but then she resolutely pushes on and continues getting him undressed. She certainly hadn't expected to see scars like that on her mild-mannered professor, but the reason for his disfigurement is his own, and she's not going to bring it up.

It's not important right now.

She moans shamelessly when he breathes her name like this, his fingers plucking at her nipples sending lightning zinging through her, prompting her to clutch at him again, her fingers curling around the back of his neck as she pushes into his hands.

And down into his lap.] Oh, yes, Professor... [His hands are equally huge on her arse and she loves it, loves how easily he yanks her down against him, against the rather impressive bulge she can feel in his trousers. She's almost shamefully wet for him already, practically soaking through her panties, and she can't wait until he discovers it.]

[ Merlin he nearly loses himself right then when she moans his name, grips his neck and moves down against him. If she spoke like that at ever turn, he'd have to resign his position.

But that is wrong, of course. He shouldn't be doing this, be craving this attention, hungering for the way she looks at him, kisses him, writhes in his lap. He grips the globes of her arse tightly, uncaring that he should make the skirt ride up -- in fact, that may well be his intention. He had not paid enough attention to those well displayed legs before. ]

You are... [ What? There are so many words that want to come tumbling out of his mouth. His breath comes in quick bursts, cheeks flushed, brow slightly damp even now from the rush of pleasure that begins thrumming in his veins. He removes one hand from her bum, only to reach for the tie, curling the silken fabric around his fingers, tugging it (hopefully not too roughly) down, so that he may kiss her, teeth grazing her lips.

Maybe it's distraction enough, because he cannot hold himself back, what with the hand leaving her tie, mapping its way across her breasts and stomach, reaching under her skirt until he presses the heel of his hand firmly against her, surprised to find her already so wet as he rubs in slow, tantalizing circles, stroking fingers occasionally as well, never dipping past the damp fabric of her panties. Not yet, anyway, he has to gather some little courage for that, too. ]

[When he wraps her tie around his fist, Pansy's breath comes short in her lungs. Not because her tie is cutting into her throat, no, because it's so bloody hot to have him haul her in like that, she can barely stand it. She pants into the kiss, breathing open-mouthed against him, a high whine catching in the back of her throat when he grazes his teeth across her lips.

This was the best idea she's had all year.

And when his hand slides in between her thighs to press against her through the cotton and silk of her panties, well. She rocks her hips against the heel of his palm, shameless in how she chases her pleasure, her fingers gripping his hair tightly as she moans.]

Please.

[ The fact that he nearly turned this woman down is something he cannot fathom now, with her panting, open-mouthed kiss and the way she rocks into his hand.

Nothing but heat rushes through him, his mind clouded over by lust. The kiss turns into little open mouthed gasps that litter her skin with nips, kisses, hissed curses because the amount of strain this woman is inducing within him is maddening.

He doesn't want to move his hand, doesn't want to pause the way she rides down against his palm, but he does, fingers fumbling with the belt and zip of his trousers. However, spending time with his clothing is not an excuse to leave her unattended, that desperate, panting mouth, suckling along her skin, nipping at the skin of her breast before he welcomes her nipple into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the pebbled peak, taking as much of her sensitive skin in as he can between pants and rather frustrated moans because, well, why were trousers so damn difficult?

The belt loosens, and he manages the zip down enough and that relieves some little pressure. ] Please what? [ He murmurs this word in the tender place between breasts before he switches, daring to leave a small, red welt there, a tiny little claim to the space, though sure enough the fog would fall and he'd be having some twisted, strange dream instead. ]

Your answer, Miss Parkinson?

[ His voice has long since lost any of the gentle, smooth quality it had before, replaced instead by gravel and grit and want. His hands push under her skirt, lifting the fabric, hiking it over her thighs, nails dragging along the warm skin. ]

[Oh yes, this is perfect. She'd wanted to know if there was any fire under his boring, nice exterior, and now she's getting to see how hot he burns. The way he clutches at her, his mouth hot and wet against her skin, the way his teeth scrape against her, the way his fingers dig into her flesh, the low gravel of his voice... They all set her nerves alight, making her feel hot all over, a churning need in her belly that has her moving against him without thought, pure instinct driving her instead.

She whines a little when he lets go of her, but once she realizes what he's doing, she's immediately back on board, her own hands sliding down to help him — or just get in the way — as he tries to get out of his clothes.

Mewling as he sucks her nipple into his mouth, she barely has enough brain power left to slide her hand into the gaping fly of his trousers, curling her fingers around the hard swell of his cock and squeezing appreciatively. He's definitely more well-endowed than any of the boys she's been with, and there's a tiny part of her that's afraid he won't fit.

No, that's ridiculous.]

Please fuck me, sir.

[She'd be happy just to push her panties to the side and ride him here in his chair. Maybe if she gives him a little rub he'll get on board.]

[ His vision blurs with white hot heat when she grasps his cock, and for a moment he goes so still, desperately scraping at any remnant of control he has remaining. The sound, feel, smell, taste of her already overwhelming him, leaving him hot and choking for air.

All warning signals stop, every caution light failing and sputtering because all he can feel is the warmth of her hand around him, feel the surge of heat and arousal that surges southerly, causing him to harden under her touch. He isn't sure how she has him so strained, every muscle tight and trembling and so needful. ]

Very well.

[ He tears his mouth from her breasts, because there are far more urgent needs, of course. He cannot deny a student's request, nor the own throbbing pulse of his own want. Deftly working the fastening on her skirt, his hands grope her arse once more, though this time without the fabric of the skirt between, fingers easily pushing under the fabric of her panties to find skin, because he does not want layers, does not need anything between them but their breaths and touches and oh god what is her hand doing now? Moving?

That's all the fuel he needs. His fingers dig into the supple flesh of her bottom as he forces himself up, trousers sagging around his hips. The unmistakable clatter of papers, quills -- was that the shattering of the inkwell? -- clearing the space for her, since she so very much liked the view from there. And once she is seated, he shrugs off his trousers, his shorts, anything to remove one more unfortunate layer between them.

Maybe he should be gentler, maybe he should remove her skirt, work the knot of her tie or even her socks and shoes -- but instead, he reaches straight for the downy fabric of her panties, pulling them down, nails scraping along her skin. She won't be needing those for a bit, anyway. ]

[And to think, she had been so certain this couldn't get any better. Sure, his mouth no longer occupied with her breasts is a bummer, and his hands no longer stroking or rubbing also kind of sucks, but the smouldering heat in his eyes as he stares at her has goosebumps cropping up all down her arms, and Pansy barely has time to brace herself before he's grabbing at her and heaving up out of his chair, holding her aloft with one arm as he sweeps the other across his desk to make room.

Merlin's beard, she hadn't expected him to be this passionate, this is amazing.

She's more than eager to help him get her panties off, her hands fumbling alongside his to pull the obnoxious scrap of silky lace away from her body, and if she feels a few seams tear? Well. She can always replace them. She'd rip them to shreds if it meant getting him in between her legs any faster.

Perhaps she should find the image of him standing in front of her with his trousers down around his ankles comical, but she can't bring herself to laugh, not when he's staring at her like that, not when all her attention is focused on his thick cock, heavy and full with blood, jutting up between his thighs. She moans, spreading her legs shamelessly, reaching out for him in a wordless plea to just hurry up, already.]

[ There is something to be said about Remus' strength, after all. Perhaps he looked feeble, but years of dealing with his furry little problem has left him with a strange amount of strength, one of the traits he often tries to hide. A registered werewolf was as good as a dead werewolf, after all. It helps, too, that she's petite in comparison to him, her body easy to carry when he has such adrenaline coursing through him.

As he tosses her panties aside, uncaring as to where they land, he kicks his trousers away from his feet. Of course, all of this could look silly if he wasn't so very fixed on her, on every sound she makes, the rise and fall of her chest with each breath. He drags his hands along her thighs, hitching at the back of her knees to pull her closer to the edge of the desk. Sorry, Pansy, nothing will be exactly gentle just now, because a fire's begun to burn deep in his belly, one that needs sating. He settles between her legs, leaning over her, pressing another line of kisses down her throat, sternum, whispering the quiet words of a protection spell, though his wand is somewhere on the floor now.

He thinks he should make her wait, drive her to the brink merely by standing here, cock resting against her slick folds, unmoving. Where had these thoughts come from? These domineering, desperate thoughts that make him enjoy how she pleas silently with him. But he can't -- not with how hot she feels, how her legs part for him, and how every heartbeat can be felt as tremors, shaking him down to his very toes.

He rocks his hips forward, hands groping downward to grip her hips tightly as he plunges into the wet heat of her, enveloping him, that sends sharp points of electricity down his spine. He groans, though it may well sound like a rumbling growl, carefully angling his hips until he is in to the hilt, unmoving, fingernails digging, leaving half moons in her fair skin. ] Pansy.

[He manhandles her like he has every right to, and instead of it getting Pansy's back up — she is no man's possession, thank you, and if anyone thinks they can treat her roughly, she has no problem hexing them six ways from Sunday — all it does is make her more wanton, more needy. He grabs her by the backs of her knees and hauls her to the edge of his desk, forcing her to scramble to grab onto the edge so she won't overbalance, and all Pansy does is wrap her legs around him and pull him in closer, her hands shifting to clutch at his sides once she knows she won't fall over.

She vaguely hears him muttering a contraceptive spell, and she applauds his foresight, but she's been taking her potions religiously, and there's no need for him to worry about it. Still, she's not going to bother breaking away to tell him that, not when he's gone back to mouthing along her neck.

She's about to ask him to be careful, for he's much larger than she's used to and it's been months since she's forced herself to have sex with Draco, but then he's grabbing her hips and surging forward, and anything she may try to say gets lost in the wake of the gasp that rips out of her, her eyes flying open and her fingers clawing at his ribs.

It's more surprise than pain, thankfully, for Pansy is no virgin and she's been so turned on all evening, just thinking about this, but still. It takes her a moment to remember how to breathe, shuddering beneath him, her head tucked in against his shoulder as she catches her breath, but then she tightens her legs around him and digs her fingers into his sides again and gives him a little growl of her own.]

Move.

[ Remus won't let her fall, his hands sturdy against her legs, needing her so badly that he wouldn't dare allow anything to part them. And perhaps she isn't a virgin, it does not matter, as he buries himself deep within her, unable to move for all the pleasure it wraps him in.

Even she shudders, and the gasp he isn't sure is from pain or pleasure. He can't look at her just now, hands falling to brace himself on the desk, panting, enjoying the very heat of her. Her command jars him, startles him out of the golden haze of pleasure and he dips his head, nipping her shoulder sharply, the feel of her nails biting into his skin causing him to hiss lowly. The tiny bit of pain only serves to increase the hot buzzing under his skin.

He starts his movements slowly, a languid rhythm surging in and out of her that does not at all suit the frantic dance they've shared this evening. Every motion, every push of hips elicits a guttural moan that resonates deep in his chest. A hand slides into her hair, tangling fingers around locks, gripping as his pace picks up, the sound of their hips colliding alone enough to make him crazy. ]

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