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Drink and Be Merry

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It's a smoky goblin bar in a side street in Soho, all low wooden benches, sagging ceilings and dark drinks steaming from cheap metal goblets. River poses in the doorway to acknowledge the sudden silence and the suspicion in the beady eyes that watch her from the corners. Then she saunters to the bar, perches on a stool and signals the bartender.

“Ogdens Gold, neat.”

He slides the drink to her with a snigger, and she tosses him a coin. He bites it; doesn't give her change – it's that kind of goblin bar. She swirls the firewhiskey in the glass, watching the gold flames gleam in its dark depths, and looks along the bar to the only other human there. He's a brooding, lean-faced boy: leather jacket, dark glossy hair knotted behind his neck, a lazy sprawl. He catches her glance, and raises his glass with a slow smirk.

River grins back, showing her teeth, and downs her drink in one slow swoop, breathing steam out as she finishes and the teasing warmth of it spreads through her belly. Behind her, the normal noise of the bar starts up again: the slow resentful mutter of Gobbledegook, the click of dice against the rough wooden tables, the slow wheeze of a tango on the gramophone.

“Buy you another?”

Close up, he smells of leather and motor oil and that faint tang of something not entirely human that is the marker of a pureblood wizard in this century (and when in the century is she, she wonders idly, because Albus Dumbledore is a long-lived bastard and likes to keep his requests vague). She turns her head, and he's close enough that she can feel his breath on her cheek and see just how pretty his eyes are, under the sweep of dark lashes.

She doesn't lean away, but she does ask, “Are you even old enough to be buying?”

He flashes a quick wild grin, and shifts a little closer, his hip brushing hers. “Oh, I'm legal. That's no secret.” He leans in, and she's sure by now that he's the kind of boy, her kind of boy, who always runs faster towards trouble. His lips almost touching hers, he breathes, “Sirius Black.”

The warmth that has been spreading through her, whiskey and temptation, is suddenly laced with sadness. She knows roughly when she is now; knows who Albus has sent to meet her. He's always been her favourite of them all: the boy who ran away, the man in the prison cell, the rebel with too great a cause. Damn Albus for never asking a favour without providing a consolation prize.

Something of her thoughts must have shown, because suddenly he's pushing away, his chin raised and his eyes stormy.

She reaches out fast, catches his wrist, and says, because he's always been her favourite, “I'd like that drink, Mr Black,” and, then as the tension seeps out of him a little, she draws him back to her, her fingers stroking against the beating pulse in his wrist. He signals the bartender without looking away, and River slides her knee against his and smiles. The intense ones are always so delightful.

The drinks arrive and she sips without taking her eyes off his, pressing the glass against her lip for a moment to watch the steam blur and soften his lips. She's not drunk enough to be careless, but she's almost had enough to be reckless.

“So,” she says, with a smirk that invites him to share the joke. “What's a respectable boy like you doing in a dive like this?”

He laughs, quick and sharp, and his tongue darts out to trace the rim of his glaze, and he says, voice mocking, “Haven't you heard? I'm not respectable any more.”

She considers playing with him like this all night, but she's sure they're both here for a reason, and she's never been one for wasting time that could be better spent. She finishes her drink, letting the last drops of it linger, gleaming and hot, on her lips. Then she puts her empty glass down and slides her hand onto his thigh.

He breathes in sharply, and his legs shift open, but his eyes are sharp as he tells her, “If you know who I am, you know you can't seduce secrets out of me.”

“Oh, honey,” she says, (and why are there so many broken boys in her life?), “that's not what's happening here?” And then, to prove the point, she walks her fingers up his seam and leans in to breathe into his ear, “I'll be outside, if you're brave enough.”

She walks out slowly, letting her hips swing, and thinks she might have thirty seconds before he comes after her. It worked on Godric Gryffindor, after all, and a score of others since, and she's sure it'll work again. Wizards are terribly predictable.

He's there as soon as she's out of the door, hands on her shoulders and swinging her across the alleyway, into the porch of the shop opposite. She pulls him close and he winds his hands into her hair and kisses her, desperate and a little clumsy. She gentles the kiss, smoothing her hands under his jacket to the warm, sweat-dampened cotton of his t-shirt.

He starts to shrug the jacket off, but she breaks the kiss long enough to say, “Keep it on. I like the smell of leather,” and he chuckles against her throat, tongue sliding out to tease her. Humming approval, she walks them back across the porch until he's pressing her up against the windowsill, rough denim rasping between her stockinged thighs. It makes her sigh, and she pulls one of his hands down from where it's twisting in her hand and presses it to her breast.

He moans appreciation and kisses her again, rocking into the open cradle of her thighs, friction as hot as firewhiskey as he twists open the buttons of her blouse. His hand slips around her back, jerking her bra open and then he's cupping her breast, clever fingers teasing her nipple.

“Oh, that's just right,” she says to him, hooking a leg around his waist and pulling him closer, delighted when he surprises her by sliding his mouth down and fastening his lips around her nipple, gazing up at her with far from innocent eyes.

She throws her head back, lets out an honest groan of delight, and reaches down to tease his jeans open. He's not wearing anything underneath, and for a moment she remembers that he won't be young long enough to grow averse to chafing, but then she puts the thought aside to slide her hand down his warm length. He's got a nice cock, long and not too wide, and she lingers on soft, damp skin before she traces her fingers around the head, teasing gently as he tenses and groans.

He presses his face between her breasts, the hot pant of his breath quick and damp, and shoves her skirt up roughly, hand pushing under the lace of her pants, a pleased noise huffing out of him as his demanding fingers slide through wetness.

“Just there,” she tells him as he reaches her clit, rocking her hips up and humming as the pleasure buzzing through her suddenly sharpens. “If you'd do the honours, honey.”

He pulls his head up, and even in the dim light she can see the wet slickness of his lips as he fumbles his wand out with his free hand, long elegant fingers sliding into her. He murmurs the contraceptive spell in one long fluid roll of his tongue, and she feels the magic shiver up through her, a tingle which makes makes her close her eyes and purr. Wizards.

Then he's pulling her knickers off and lifting her legs a little higher and pushing into her. She opens her eyes to see him throw his head back, dark hair sticking to his cheeks. She has a moment to appreciate the sight before he begins to thrust in earnest and she throws her own head back and lifts herself up to meet him, caught in the pleasure rushing through her, the wet slap of their bodies meeting, the heat and hardness and thrill of him.

She's caught by surprise when his hips suddenly start to snap forwards, and he comes in a sudden hot rush that makes her mew with frustration as he sinks back. Then he's sliding out of her, and down to his knees, trembling hands braced on her thighs. She's about to drag him back up, damn him, when he nuzzles in against her, tongue swiping loosely at her dripping folds, sparks rushing through her in the passage of each slow swipe as he licks her clean and then settles in to suck at her clit, fingers swirling idly along the crease of her thigh.

She gives herself over to that clever tongue, her heart starting to race as her whole body thrills into that touch. She's so close, so very close, and when he pulls his mouth away she almost kicks him in the head.

But he's grinning as he rises back up to his feet, bouncing a little as she snarls and digs her fingers into his leather-clad shoulders to force him back down, back to-

And he fucks back into her in one thrust, hard again, and this, this, is why she likes younger men, she thinks dimly, as he starts to pound back in, and she's clawing at his back, her legs curling up as he scrapes his teeth against the side of her neck and she's choking out noises with every blaze of heat he slams into her, and- and- and-

He's still fucking her when she comes back to herself, shaking with the aftershocks of it, and she rides it out, holding onto him as the last echoes of her orgasm stretch out a little further with his thrusts. He's blind to everything but his body now, she can tell, his eyes wide and his mouth open and his fingers digging in to the curve of her arse.

When he comes this time, he shudders with it, and then collapses into her, arms locked around her, head against her shoulder, and she holds on, waiting for his breath to slow.

But he keeps shaking, wrapped around her, and she's so hazy from fucking that it takes her longer than she'd like to think, oh, poor boy. Poor doomed little hero, and run her hands gently through his hair and press reassuring kisses to his forehead as he clings and falls apart.

When he pulls away at last, she's recovered enough to pull her knickers up, smooth her skirt and refasten her blouse. He's not there yet, so she straightens his jacket for him, kisses the corner of his mouth and then leans back to smile at him.

He's looking a little wary now, as if she's about to ask for things he won't give, so she just rolls her eyes and says, with relish, “So, Sirius Black, what can I do for the Order of the Phoenix today?”

His eyes widen, and then he grins: quick, sharp appreciation. “Dr Song, I presume?”

“Not what you were expecting?” she asks archly, knowing perfectly well that Albus will only have described her as an old, very dear, friend.

He snickers, and leans in to murmur, “Ever wanted to break into Gringotts, Dr Song?”

“Been there, done that,” she says, with a sigh. So unoriginal, Albus.

“Shame,” says Sirius Black, hands sliding back up her skirt to trace circles on her damp crotch, “I've always wanted to fuck someone in one of those little carts.”

“Well, if it's such a long-held ambition,” she tells him, stealing a kiss from that pretty mouth. “Let's break a law or ten.”

It's going to be a night to remember.