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The decision started before any stroking of fingers or flirtatious glances that were detectable by James despite the booming music and blaring lights in the nightclub. Certainly, it went further back then getting ready for the evening. It was even made before agreeing with Marlene’s suggestion of going clubbing after Alice’s official “birthday,” with all the niceties and the intricately decorated cake and the neatly gift-wrapped presents. If you were being honest, the decision was made the moment you bought the dress you were wearing that night. Even on the mannequin it was short and tight; Remus’ suggestion of you trying it on was a joke more than a serious suggestion. But then Sirius—you, Sirius and Remus went shopping together monthly—started dating you lightly and behind laughter, so you ripped a hanger off the rack and stormed into the nearest dressing room to try it on.

It was just as tight and short on you as it was on the mannequin, so much so you almost didn’t come out when Remus asked to see. You probably wouldn’t even have left the dressing room if it weren’t for Sirius’ begging becoming embarrassing and unbearable.

Knowing Sirius and Remus would rake their eyes up and down your frame didn’t make your cheeks any less red when it happened. However, not knowing Remus would say, “I’d fuck you if I weren’t gay,” didn’t make your cheeks any less red when it happened, either.

“Remus,” you hissed, glancing over at Sirius worriedly. But your eyes weren’t met with any underlying of jealousy—you knew Sirius too well for him to hide it from you—but rather a think smirk and a nod. You almost would have preferred anger more than Sirius agreeing with his boyfriend about wanting to fuck you if they weren’t already doing so to one another.

And then the idea emerged verbally for the first time out of Sirius’ mouth: “You know, I bet you can use this dress to tease our Jamie quite a bit.”

It was so devious that only Sirius could have come up with it, so devious that you felt guilty while buying the dress regardless of the check out lady continuously telling you how popular it was. “It’s not for that, Sirius,” you sneered when you noticed him eyeing the shopping bag for the twentieth time. But there must have been a weakness in your voice you couldn’t cover over: Sirius just winked at you in response, causing you to flush in defeat.

Your voice had to have the same weakness in it the night of Alice’s party, too; Sirius and Remus exchanged a look when you entered Alice’s living room changed from your pressed shirt and rolled-up jeans into your dress accusatory enough to cause you to shout, “It’s not that, I swear!” An exclamation that was proven false seconds later when you turned your head to find James standing in the kitchen, mouth moving in conversation with Marlene but eyes completely on you. If it weren’t for the lapse in your words, the strike of pride that ran through you seeing James so obviously interested in the promiscuity of your outfit was more than enough to expose that you were lying.

Because Sirius was right. Because you had thought the exact same thing before even putting the dress on. You just didn’t know if you could ever live down the embarrassment of trying on a dress like that in front of friends like those. Though Sirius’ begging to see you in it was a good enough alibi for trying it on, you were correct in your assumption of unparalleled embarrassment when purchasing it later and wearing it now.

But James’ eyes followed you as you moved across the room, and that was enough.

Your heels were too high to be natural and too slim to be supportive. Not wanting to seem too eager, you slipped them on carefully, making sure your legs were appropriately crossed during the whole endeavor, for half of teasing is knowing you have something to hide.

James had never understood that concept before. His genuinity was one of the things you loved most about him, one of the things that made him so refreshing to be around. Whereas other guys at Hogwarts flaunted themselves with a cool and reserved indifference, as if expecting whoever they were trying to impress to not realize they were trying to impress them, James’ intentions were always relentlessly—and probably accidentally—obvious. James told you once girls of his past were not impressed by this, had felt too abruptly approached, making your jaw drop. “It’s not cocky, it’s endearing,” you’d reassure him, turning his self-assured speech into incoherent mumbling (which was, though you’d never admit it, even more endearing).

Though the translucence of the self-assuredness of his actions allowed for the witty playfulness that passed between the two of you, so casual now you barely had to think before a lighthearted jab left your mouth, it did restrict one thing: James was helpless when it came to teasing outside of the bedroom. His honesty got the better of him; while his words and actions were textbook definition teasing, James couldn’t leave behind his hallmark obviousness. But to tease is to be innocent amongst committing the crime, acting as if nothing at all is happening even though your hands are in private parts doing private things in public places and you know exactly what it’s doing. And maybe he could use his charm to brush past Dumbledore when getting reprimanded or McGonagall when coming home past curfew, but he couldn’t quite stomach the forced indifference necessary to not expose his intentions to you.

So, the moment you bought the dress, you knew you were taking matters into your own hands.

“Well you look like you’re ready to destroy some men's’ egos,” Peter said, sitting down next to you. Considering the casualness of his dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves and black jeans, you couldn’t necessarily reciprocate the comment (even though James was wearing almost the same thing, only his shirt was maroon and unbuttoned to reveal the white t-shirt underneath, and you were having as much difficulty keeping your eyes off of James as he was looking at anything except you).

Not meaning it fully, you glared at Peter. “You make me sound like I’m the devil.”

“Well, you are a murderer,” he countered, making you roll your eyes and go back to tucking in the strap of your heel. “I mean, have you seen James? I don’t think he’s breathed since you walked in. Give it a few more minutes and he’ll be gone.”

“Please don’t joke about my boyfriend dying at my expense, Peter. I love him very much.”

“So you’re saying this is a totally normal thing for you to wear to a club?” You could feel how accusatory his glance was despite the fact you were still looking at your shoes; so, when you glanced up at his face, the tautness of his lips and sternness of eyes were no surprise.

You gave him a watery smile. “I’ve never been to a club.”

“Still. You’re not fooling any of us.”

“I know,” you breathed, standing up again now that your shoes were more than strapped around your ankles. “But the only person I need to fool is James.”

“You’re going to Hell,” Peter called after you as you began walking towards James, who was doing an unexpectedly poor job at seeming unbothered by your outfit.

“Then I’ll meet you there!” Your voice was rough there, accusatory; it automatically switched tone the minute you met James, becoming intentionally soft and wistful through much effort. It was almost as light as the brush of your fingertips against his arm, which James nearly toppled into.

Marlene gave you a playful once-over before whistling. “Be careful, James. I could always take Y/N from you when you’re not looking.”

“Yeah, right.” James had tried to scoff it, you knew, but he was too breathless to do so. It took an insane amount of effort to swallow down the sly smile you wanted to give; you had to focus all of your energy on giving James a concerned look with wide eyes full of worry.

Comfortingly, you stroked his arm more obviously up and down while asking, “Are you alright, James?” with the same softness of your greeting.

“‘Course,” he responded with a smile so thin it barely counted as one and once again you had to hold back yours.

But you weren’t letting James go that easily: if Peter was correct in where you were going to end up, you wanted to at least have as much fun as possible while your time on Earth lasted. So you gazed longingly at James’ skin while saying, “You’re looking a little pale,” before turning your head to Marlene and asking her if she thought the same. She nodded, probably because she didn’t trust herself to speak (having already figured out what was going on, she was biting her lip, struggling to not let a smirk break across her face).

“I mean, look at this,” you continued, adjusting your body slightly so you could face James at an angle while dipping your hand between his chest and the top seam of his t-shirt. Though your demand was focused at Marlene, you felt James’ eyes following your hand as well, as well as the shallowness of his breathing. “His skin is almost the same color as his shirt!” you wailed, feigning concern.

“Maybe you two should just head home,” Marlene suggested, voice raspy from holding back laughter.

For the first time, you looked deeply into James’ eyes, asking him silently if he wanted to do that, unaware if he knew what going home actually went and letting that lack of reciprocation help aid the necessary innocence in your glance.

“No, no,” James finally answered, shaking his head rapidly. “I couldn’t miss Alice’s birthday and seeing Remus attempt to dance.”

“Hey!” Remus yelled from somewhere else in the room.

“Well let’s head out then; it’s already getting pretty late,” Marlene said. “Hey, everyone, we’re heading out now!” She grabbed her bag and your’s from the coat rack before opening the door. “After you,” she said and winked. It took you a moment to catch on—you originally thought she was just winking because of the situation in general—but then you remembered James’ body being ever so slightly behind yours, so sped a few steps up slightly as you walked through the door so he had a perfect view of your ass.

That was truly your only lapse of the evening; all of your other actions were meticulously planned out and effortlessly executed. The way you forced a topple in your heels while walking on the sidewalk so you had an excuse to plaster James’ hands on your waist to help steady you. The “accidental” spilling of your drink so you could do the cliche drop at the waist to clean it up. The way you pulled James into you, making his head duck down into your chest to answer your question of if the perfume you were wearing—one he got you for your birthday last year—was still able to be detected amongst the smell of alcohol and sweat that permeated the club. The way you brushed your lips ever so slightly against his ear to whisper in it, “I think you look cute,” after Sirius gave him shit for “dressing down” from what he was wearing earlier. The way you used having too much to drink (even though you had secretly passed most of your alcohol to Remus) as an excuse to lean into James at every possible moment, to slide your hands between his thighs at the bar booth you guys found without being outwardly reprimanded.

“Y/N,” he hissed at you while you faked a drunken giggle.

“What?” Instead of an answer with his voice, your question was responded with James’ eyes, which glanced quickly down at where your hand rested then back up to your face. “Just keeping myself steady. You’re sitting too close for me to put my hand on the seat, the seat… thingy…cushion!”

It was planned perfectly: when James looked to his right hoping to slide over slightly, he was met with Peter’s frame, which was squeezed too closely between him and Remus on Peter’s right to be able to budge. The excuse was formed; your hand stayed.

“At least keep it lower to my knees,” James begged with the slightest hint of a grumble. You weren’t sure what he was frustrated with: himself, the fact that the booths at this club weren’t big enough to fit five people on one bench with room to breathe, or you.

Automatically, you obliged, but allowed your torso to fall forwards as your hand slid towards his knee. Quickly, James grabbed your hands under the table and forced you back up, breathing rapidly. “You alright, Y/N?”

“Definitely,” you said, nodding. “I just wanted to show you I’m good at listening to instructions.”

James looked back down at his lap—most likely to hide a blush, you reasoned—making the “fuck,” he whispered almost inaudible to you. But he didn’t make another attempt to move your hands.

You did, though, and maybe too brazenly; considering the straightforwardness of the intention of what you had said, barriers between obvious and oblivious were as hazy as ever. Of course, the way you had said it—mouth smiling proudly as if there was nothing to be ashamed of; eyes not containing the slightest glimmer of suggestiveness—was innocent, but the words were enough to send you to Hell, as Peter suggested. But that didn’t make you stop. Breaking that barrier, crossing that line, those were the next steps to torture. And by torture you meant variating between sliding the heel of your hand and one finger across James’ inner thigh, going up and down and up and down, watching his fingers coil into a fist and lips part in small puffs of breath all of the while.

James’ hand only had the capability of unfurling for one thing: a mug of beer Sirius was sliding over to him. As he tipped it up to take a sip, you ungraciously let your fingers drift from their normal path, going to rest on the zipper of his jeans.

Within milliseconds James was choking on the beer.

To skirt assumptions—even though everyone knew what kind of game you were playing except James—you quickly brought that same hand up to his shoulder, asking, “Are you alright, James?” He nodded while coughing, lowering the mug to the table all the while. Though your focus was only on him, you couldn’t not feel the smug looks being sent your way from everyone else at the table.

“That’s not even a Lager,” Peter criticized. He then took a long chug of his beer, which was, knowing Peter’s order by heart, a Lager. Chuckles filled the space across the table in response.

“Well excuse me, Wormy, but I think I’m coming down with something so even this is a bit strong,” James shot back. Peter raised his arms quickly in a faux surrender.

But not everyone sodded off so quickly: “A little tense, aren’t we, James?” Sirius teased, earning him a light smack on the back by Remus’ hand—which was draped across his shoulders previously—and a glare from James.

“Well I’m getting shit for coughing even though I just wanted to come out and have a good time with my mates to celebrate Alice’s birthday, so excuse me for being upset,” James said. “In fact, I think my meds are wearing off, so it’s time I get back.” Then, he turned his glance to you. Even though you had been in the club all night, your vision having adjusted to the dimness hours ago, James’ eyes seemed darker than usual. “Coming, Y/N?”

You outstretched your hand before verbally responding, which James took as the approval you meant by it. Therefore, as he pulled himself off of the bench, you went with him, allowing the momentum to crash your bodies together ever so slightly, landing your lips near his ear, in which you whispered, “I’ll always come for you.” Loosing his balance slightly, James almost landed back on the seat he began in. But with gusto he kept upright, pulling you away from the table without looking back, leaving you to turn your head and say goodbye to your friends when they were still in earshot.

The walking—or more like stomping, in James’ part—continued until you were outside of the club, in the same nearby alley you apparated into previously that night. He still wouldn’t look at you, so you said, “You know, I don’t think it’s very nice that you didn’t say bye to our friends,” resulting in the attention you sought after as he pulled your arm towards him while turning around, leaving the two of you nearly pressed up against one another.

“I don’t think it’s very nice that you decided tease me in front of them,” he spat back.

You took a small step back so James could see it when you put your hands on your hips. “So you did know I was teasing?”

“Merlin, of course.” James’ hand was running through the front of his hair, fingers lacing between curls. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Then why’d you let me do it for so long?”

James’ glance met the sidewalk automatically, his hand sliding further back to rub his neck nervously. “Just… you know… I mean, I didn’t want to call attention… didn’t want…”

“You liked it,” you smiled. It wasn’t even smug or sly or self-assured; for a moment, as James pulled you from your friends, you were worried you would be brought outside to be genuinely yelled at due to discomfort based on something more than just being turned on. Not only did James register your teasing as what it was, but he enjoyed it. For the first time that night, the pride you felt was without any traces of sadism.

James scoffed, eyes still avoiding yours. “Of course; I’d be an idiot not to. You, in that—I mean, you look amazing tonight—saying the things you were saying, touching me… it makes me want to try it out for myself.”

“Teasing?” you questioned, earning a nod from James. “You’ve tried it before. And—I mean this with all the love and adoration in the world—it didn’t go well.”

“Maybe it will be different this time.”

James’ eyes finally met yours; therefore, you were able to narrow yours into a glance of challenge as you asked, “How so?”

“Because,” he said, taking a step towards you, “You will have earned it this time.” Then, without a question or affirmation, he grabbed your hand and apparated both of you into his bedroom, lit only by the glimmers of starlight pooling in from uncurtained windows.

Half of teasing is acting like you have something to hide, and James had never understood that concept before. His genuinity was one of the things you loved most about him, one of the things that made him so refreshing to be around. Whereas other guys at Hogwarts flaunted themselves with a cool and reserved indifference, as if expecting whoever they were trying to impress to not realize they were trying to impress them, James’ intentions were always relentlessly—and probably accidentally—obvious. Him telling you he was teasing you before doing so was an example of such. But he wasn’t even teasing: the first thing James did when you arrived in his bedroom was push you onto his bed and kiss you like his lips were a weapon and yours were a target. Propped up on all fours top you, it didn’t seem like there was enough lack to turn into yearning to constitute this as teasing.

A few minutes into it, James pulled up, lips full and parted to make way for his panting breath. You watched him as his breathing steadied alongside your’s (James had a habit of biting your bottom lip in ways that left you gasping). After his breathing was no longer audible, he said something too himself too quietly to be discernable, then leaned in once more.

And maybe the entire point was to show you everything than give you a fraction; if that was James’ intent, you had to give the award for best tease of the night to him already, even though he was minutes in and you were hours out. Because the kiss he gave you next was so light you instinctively craned your neck upwards, causing him to pull back. There was enough smugness on his face for both sides of this war combined.

You began to sit up but he pushed you down gently, enough that you could have fought back if you wanted to but you didn’t, you didn’t. Wasn’t this one of the signs of victory, this mutual reciprocation? Your chance to lay back and feel the specific origin point of every ripple of arousal and deal with it? That and the swelling of those ripples to full waves that submerge you entirely? Isn’t this what you asked for?

James took your hands in one of his, lifted them up over your head, and pressed both against the mattress firmly. He kissed you lightly once more; barely a kiss, more of a brush than anything, before asking, his lips still against yours’, “Is this okay?” as if knowing what questions you had been asking yourself.

Unsure of if you could formulate the correct sounds to mean, “yes,” you nodded, and that was enough. James kept your hands in place and his body placed above yours’ with just enough airspace that no matter how high you thrust your hips up, your body never got the friction it was beginning to crave. You’d whisper his name to him against his lips, a silent plead for something more than hips met by air and lips met by a barely extinguishable press of another pair, but he never obliged.

“Please, James,” you whispered, letting your head fall back, tired of keeping it upright for the kisses-not-kisses. Even though it was just as feathery, the touch of his lips against your now-exposed neck made you shiver and repeat, more fervently this time, “Please.”

“What?” he asked behind a smirk so strong you could hear it dripping in his voice. “What are you asking me for?”

“Anything.” At the same time it was an oversimplification, it wasn’t: you literally would have found anything other than what he was doing at the moment forceful enough to leave you trembling.

James finally let his hips dip down, just slightly, just enough to hear the breathy moan you made in response, before lifting them back up. “Do you want that?”

“Yes,” you groaned. It was loud before it got swallowed into James’ mouth; out of nowhere he leaned down and kissed you again with the same fire from before. His tongue was a flame and your bones must have been wax as you melted under the sensation.

“How about that?” he asked as he pulled back. You nodded, too breathless to use words. The response sent him into laughter. “Which one, then?”

“Anything,” you responded, more sternly this time. “Both,” you suggested, more apprehensively.

James sat back on his heels. His head was tilted, as if in thought, as if the decision hadn’t already been made. “Seems like a tall order from someone who teased me all night. But rightfully slutty.” For a moment, he paused, looking down at your eyes, his dark and unusually stern yet wide in curiosity. It took you too long to register the fact that he was acting for permission; you realized he must have not noticed the small lift of your hips when he accused you of being a slut.

“Call me that again.” You didn’t mean it to be as erotic as it was, but James moaned at your request.

“Fuck,” he groaned, finally caving in and pressing his body and mouth against yours without hesitation. Your legs and lungs faltered underneath the roll of his hips, the force of his kiss. Then, out of nowhere (but if it was, you weren’t sure: by this point, James had repeated the motion a few times) James leapt off of you back into the original position, pressing your hands down more brutal than before. “Was that enough?”

“More,” you panted.

He tisked his tongue, shook his head. “Nope. You don’t get to call the shots here. Sluts get what they are given and don’t complain. Understood?” When you merely nodded in response, James lowered his face and voice, saying, “Answer me when I talk to you.” You weren’t sure if it was the rasp he had developed or the proximity of his breath to your ear, but you trembled visibly.

“I understand,” you responded after your body had absorbed the shiver.

“Good,” James said, leaning down and kissing your lips lightly. “That was good. And do you know what good girls deserve?”

“Rewards?” you mused.

James smiled. “Exactly.”

But your brows were furrowed as James began adjusting his position, moving back slightly to begin taking off your pants. “I thought I was a slut,” you said.

You didn’t think it was possible, but James’ smile became even more sinful. “You can be a slut and a good girl.” Then, he lifted your dress up your legs, following with removing your panties with one elegant and strong motion before climbing back up your legs, parting them, and saying with his mouth close enough to your inner thighs you could feel his breath against your clit, “You can be my slut and my good girl. My good little slut.”

You didn’t need the swipe of his tongue across your folds to make you whimper; his words were far enough.

They echoed across the room, not leaving your ears, mixing with the sounds of your moans, the “fuck”’s, the, “yes”’s, the “James”’s, the incomprehensible mashing up of all three when you couldn’t decide what you wanted to say but knew you had to keep making some sort of noise. But nothing you sounded was even half as erotic as James’ moans directly into your heat, making you lift your hips up again and again even though his hands were pressing down on them and keeping them in place, because sluts get what they are given and don’t complain. They don’t complain even when their boyfriend swipes his tongue against their clit so lightly it’s just enough to spark desire but not fulfill it, even when he pulls back and exhales onto their pussy to make them want more even though they know they can’t ask.

So somewhere along the lines with your hands clutching and clawing at bedsheets—James had made it very clear: to become “good” you weren’t to direct him with your hands— you found yourself panting James’ name and his name alone, because that was the closest you could get to asking that was allowed. Perhaps he thought you were egging him on; after hearing your breathlessness, James would begin eating you out with slightly more force for a handful of seconds, then released back again as if recovering for the temporary lapse in not teasing you, in letting your words get the better of him. Though you assumed he thought this was a mistake, the somewhat accidental shift in speeds left you a trembling mess each time he’d slow down after a period of recklessness.

The change in pacing messed with your body’s ability to anticipate what was coming next, including the rise to orgasm you barely caught, choking out to James, “I’m gonna… I’m gonna.”

Then, he stopped.

Your body undulated under the lack of sensation, trying to find something to help you ride out your orgasm. But James was faster still, pressing all of his weight through his hands which were still on your hips, thus restricting you from moving as you needed to. Against its will, your body swallowed down the ebbs of its pleasure.

Before you could complain, James spoke from above you. “Do you really think you’ve earned that?” he asked, head tilting. You swore in that moment that he invented smugness.

“No?” you offered. You weren’t used to this; typically, sex between you and James involved equal effort, arousal, and playing fields. Just like his lapse in letting your voice fuel his thunder, doubt from inexperience in this filled your response.

James seemed to know where he was going, though. “And why not?”

“Because I’m a slut?” you offered once more.

James laughed and it didn’t fit the space, was too genuine and full-bodied and full of warmth, not heat. “That’s not false,” he snickered, and you blushed for the first time that evening, seeing him come back to himself for but a moment. “I have another question: how long did you tease me for?”

Your heart sank. “All night.”

The grin returned. Even though it didn’t fit his normal personality, the way you guys were used to having sex, it still sent chills through you for a reason you couldn’t quite explain.

“So, Y/N,” James cooed, “What makes you think I’m not going to do the same?”

You wanted to argue that your teasing was different, that though it was long and outstretched, ruthless in its timeline, it wasn’t ruthless in its execution. That the most you had done to James was rub him over his jeans, which was relatively mild (especially considering Sirius and Remus were sitting across the table, who you knew from stories had done a lot worse in a lot more exposure). But something in you allowed the complaint to die. You assumed it was the same part of you that was, unabashedly, loving this. The part that didn’t care that you didn’t just come, the part that got close to doing so because James was calling you a slut, the part of you that wanted to be one.

So you let James continue, continue by inserting his fingers inside of you, one by one, torturously slow. He spent so much time on the first, moving it in and out so lightly it barely constituted as a thrust. And he must have realized that what he was doing previously with eating you out—that variation in tempo—was what got you so close to the edge, because he started doing it with his fingers, too. The deliberateness of the repetition made you wonder if he had known what he was doing all along. The pleasure of the repetition restricted you the physical ability to form the question coherently; all you could find the words for was screaming out praise for James.

“There, yes, there.” Your back was arched impossibly high from the lack of ability to thrust your hips.

“You like my fingers in your tight hole?” James growled. All you could do was nod and shiver. “So much of a slut that this gets you off? You don’t even need my dick.”

Once again, you wanted to argue, but the combination of James’ words and actions and a well-timed press of his thumb against your clit caused your body to do exactly what James had expected. Yet again, within the span of less than ten minutes, your body convulsed and was ready to come.

Unfortunately, yet again, within the span of less than ten minutes, James pulled back right before you were going to release.

Your head was spinning in the best way possible, your body aching but wonderfully so. “God, James…” you moaned, unsure if it was a complaint, a thanks, or somewhere in between the two.

“What, you think you earned it?” James accused. “You haven’t even sucked my dick yet.”

“Fuck.”

James readjusted so he was supporting his body over yours again. It was the first time you had seen his whole face at once for a while. Even though, as he so graciously explained, you hadn’t touched him yet, his eyes were still dark and his lips swollen and slightly parted. The sight made you groan lowly.

“What?” James asked, leaning down further, so he was talking up against your lips again. “Does that get you off? The thought of sucking my dick? Are you such a slut for being full you’ll come from that, too?”

A whimper was your only reply. James’ breath travelled across your face and rested against your ear, making you shiver.

“Are you gonna beg for it, slut? Beg for my cock in your mouth?”

Teeth bit down on the shell of your ear as you moaned out, “Please.”

“Please what?”

You had no idea where the words came from, but they left your parted mouth as naturally as anything else you had ever said. “Please fill my mouth with your thick cock. I need it. Please let me be a good slut for you and suck your dick.”

“Shit,” James swore, unbuttoning his pants without further hesitation. He undressed in a whirlwind, making you realize for the first time that he wasn’t naked. You would have felt guilty if the dick that sprang out of his briefs wasn’t as hard as it was regardless of not being touched. Or if he didn’t have his dick in your mouth within seconds, his thighs spread over your face in a position you had never been in before, but you found favoritism in within seconds from the way you could see James’ thighs tremble and his face scrunch in the makings of moans.

After a few minutes, James leaned his body forwards slightly, pressing his hands against the headboard of his bed to begin fucking your mouth more earnestly. “Fuck, Y/N. Fuck, fucking shit, your mouth is so tight. Feels so good. Such a good slut for me.” As a response you moaned onto his cock.

“Shit, I want to fuck you now. Wanna make you feel good.” James said, pulling out of your mouth. “But you’ve got to earn it still.”

“How?” you asked. For the first time, the question wasn’t full of wonderment, but desperation, a readiness to do whatever required for James.

As if catching on to the tone shift, James’ mouth curved into a cheeky grin. “Well, I rode you, so now, you ride me.”

Unceremoniously, James plopped down from above you to besides you, shimmying down so his head rested comfortably on the pillows. As you climbed on top of him, he wordlessly summoned a condom and some lube, spreading both across his cock. Therefore, as you lowered yourself down, you thought he was ready; the, “Wait!” he yelled out proved otherwise. Obediently, you paused exactly in place, causing James to snicker.

“You can sit down on my lap,” he offered with a startling amount of gentleness. You did, so confused you weren’t aroused by the hardness of his cock finally being near your pussy. Without warning and with similar carefulness, James began lifting your dress off of your body, followed by unhooking the bra underneath. Both ended up thrown on the floor by the bedside.

James let his hands trail around your breasts, cupping them, flicking nipples a bit, ghosting over skin so gently you couldn’t help but arch into it. Whenever you did, of course, James retracted as a silent form of reprimand. That didn’t stop him from breathlessly whispering, “You’re so fucking gorgeous, you know that?”

“James…” you barely whispered.

“I mean it. Such a goddamned hot slut. You have no idea how much I want you right now.”

Then, with more urgency and a roll of the hips, “James!”

“You want it?” James asked again, even though he knew the answer, clarifying what “it” was with a strong thrust of his hips, even though you knew what it meant. Compliantly, you nodded. “Earn it, then.”

Taking his dick in your hand, you rose up, align it with your hole, and sank down slowly. James hissed at the sensation; you whimpered, unable to find the air in your lungs to make a stronger sound. Somehow, withholding, waiting, earning, it had all made the initial entrance more pleasing than ever.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” James moaned, tipping his head back and running his hands through his hair. Even though it didn’t take you long to bottom out—James’ fingering had done its job—you assumed from the look of it that James wouldn’t have cared either way.

Just like James did with his dick in your mouth, you placed your palms against the headboard to maintain balance as you began pushing up and down, up and down, sliding atop his dick with your tight hole, rolling your hips all the while. James was a gasping, blabbering, eyes-screwed-shut mess underneath you. And the sight, while it turned you on because it was James who was moaning and anything he did in the bedroom held far too much power over you, also spurred you on because you were doing what he asked for. You were earning it, being good for him. You moaned and sped up at the thought, making James shout again from beneath you.

Soon enough, James started meeting your thrusts. Your own head fell back from the sensation of being fucked so deeply, so well. From James’ hisses from below, the way he grabbed your hips at one point forcing you to take it, his praises of, “such a good slut for me,” that you somehow never got tired of.

Too far in ecstasy, you hadn’t found yourself able to speak until you felt your orgasm coming. Now, not of out of habitual warning, but instead the want to verify permission, you announced, “James, I’m close.”

James flipped you over without warning. Now on top, he hovered over you like before, thrusting into you mercilessly, leaving you to arch your back and wail incoherently. Then, he shot one hand onto your clit, pressing down on it at the same exact time as saying, “Be a good slut and come for me.”

The orgasm was so overpowering and idyllic you didn’t even remember James pulling out of you. When you opened your eyes again, body finally somewhat settled down, his fingers were looped loosely around his cock, beads of his own cum around them and your stomach.

After considering the aftermath, you looked up at James, whose glance were already on your face. His hair was lopsided, his bottom lip scraped from a bite mark, his forehead dotted with sweat: all signs of a good fuck. Except his eyes, which bore into yours with the darkness of uncertainty.

His breathing was still labored as he asked, “Are you alright? Did I go too far?” The way he rushed the words together did little to help his state of breathlessness.

“It was incredible, James,” you admitted confidently, despite yourself; you didn’t want your embarrassment at enjoying it to be misconstrued as at not enjoying it at all.

Even though James sigh in response was full of relief, his words continued to be apologetic. “I didn’t mean that, you know,” he said, glancing at anything that wasn’t your face. “You’re not a slut. I don’t… I don’t think you’re one.”

“James.” You clutched his arm with your hand, drawing his attention towards you. “James, I know you didn’t mean it seriously. It was in context. And don’t worry. I liked it.”

The smile that broke across James’ face was, for the first time that evening, not one of pride or smugness, but rather shyness. His cheeks tinged red as he rubbed the back of his neck. “You really liked it?” he asked.

“That was like, one of the most intense orgasms of my life. So yes, I think I enjoyed myself.”

“Thank Merlin,” James sighed, finally looking over at you. “Because, if I’m being honest Y/N, I thought that was really hot.”

“So I don’t have to apologize for teasing you all night?” you smirked.

James laughed before kissing you lightly on the forehead. “No, love, I think you already more than made up for that.”