The Gryffindor common room is warm and cracking with the smell of woodsmoke. The man that is Sirius Black is sprawled on the thick rug closest to the fire, high and handsy, unceremoniously feeling you up under your sweater as you kiss. He tastes like weed and peppermint and smells like something so distinctly heady and Black it’s intoxicating in and of itself. Sirius kisses like he’s begging to forget. That’s what you’ve heard a variation of from every other girl who’s had the pleasure of his sexual company. His hands and his mouth move as though he wished it would all be over already just to bask in the minutes of dumb hazy pleasure afterward. This should bother you, you think vaguely, but it was hard to think at all around him.