Partridge-in-a-pear-tree - All-year Christmas

He isn’t used to this. 

Most knights — if they have the gall (or status) to do so — approaches the princesses for their favour: beside him, Andromeda is already bestowing roses onto knights in shining, polished-until-reflective armour, Narcissa sniffs as she deigns to drop a flower onto the hands of one smarmy Lucius Malfoy, and Bellatrix glares at anyone who attempts to approach her, her kohl-lined eyes daring prospective suitors to just try her. 

A normal sight in a joust. Or it would be, if not for the tall knight in dull silvery armour kneeling in front of Prince Sirius Black’s chair, asking for a rose of good luck. 

His thoughts go faint. He’s simultaneously aware of everything and aware of nothing. Walburga and Orion’s faces burn with scandal. Regulus whispers an “oh my god”. The princesses, and the surrounding lords, beacons of colourful wealth amidst the silk-bannered good-natured cheer that festooned the arena, turn to stare. He senses doubt, incredulity, scandal, at the knight’s temerity, to seek a rose of good favour in unpolished, ragged armour, not revealing his face, not to a princess, but to a prince. A man. Heir to the throne. 

Temerity indeed. 

And yet the world mutes to a quiet, unremarkable buzz. The knight in front of him feels so very solid. So real. Through the gaps of his armour, chocolate eyes stare back at him, pools of rich brown (he picks out gold flecks in them like shimmery pepper) with intent written across every inch of the face he glimpses bits of through the face-mask. These eyes are staring at him, only. 

“Give me your favour, my prince,” the knight repeats patiently, gazing intently into his eyes. Brown on pale blue. Oh yes. Temerity. 

“Are you serious,” he mumbles faintly, letting the sentence trail off without a note of questioning. 

Now the knight’s eyes sparkle with mirth; the intent wavers to allow laughter in. Sirius’ breath catches. “No,” he says. “You are.” 

A joke on his name. Sirius allows the proud, haughty rule of his mouth to melt into a faint grin. Temerity indeed. Charming in a way it shouldn’t be. Nearby Regulus mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “Jesus Christ”. 

Sirius decides this knight is fascinating. Slowly, staring straight into purposeful brown eyes, he untangles the tight seams holding his mouth into his usual hauteur, letting it loosen into a warm smile. He plucks a rose from Andromeda’s bouquet (he sees her smile) and slowly, very gently, ghosts his lips over the petals. A kiss of good luck. Prince Sirius’ favour. The corners of the knight’s eyes crinkle in endearment(?) and warm mirth. He presses the rose into the knight’s outstretched palms and truly allows his smile to grow wide. 

“Good luck,” he murmurs. 

“Thank you, my prince,” the knight answers in kind. 

His mind is hazy. The world is quiet, like the knight has draped a veil over the noise and chatter. “Wait,” he says, feeling slightly foolish. (The thought shocks him. Sirius Black, feeling foolish? The world has indeed gone to shreds. The temerity of this knight to have caused this. Goodness.) “What’s your name?” 

The knight’s eyes no longer crinkle in mirth — it’s more direct. Sultry. Sly, perhaps. “If I win,” he says, “you get to find out.” 

Sirius stares at him, stunned. 

The knight whisks back into the jostling crowd of competitors, framed in a whirl of colour and noise. 

The quiet shatters and his world descends into chaos. 

“That disgraceful knight—”

“His temerity—”

“Approaching a prince!” 

“Is he a homosexual?” 

“How dare he—”

“What were you thinking, honestly, giving him your favour—”

“And kissing the rose too?!” 

“My goodness, Sirius—”

Regulus stares at him, green-grey eyes shining with something only siblings truly ever understand. A silent question. Are you sure you want to risk your heart for that guy? 

He stares back. Thinking about that guy makes his heart buzz, and the world mute. His lips curve merrily, jauntily, but his eyes are just as intent as the knight’s. Yes, he answers silently. Yes. 

~~~

As it happens, the knight wins. 

Sirius lets out a breathless laugh as his family shakes their heads in disbelief. He knows how crazy it must look; an unnamed, unknown knight in hardly shining armour defeats the greatest warriors of the country? Novel. What temerity. He isn’t surprised, though. The purposeful gaze of the knight was one of utter intent and victory. 

The knight raises a fist in victory, and tilts his head just so to meet Sirius’ eyes. He takes off his helmet. 

Sirius’ breath catches for the hundredth time today. 

Absolutely enchanting chestnut curls, tumbling gently to the neck and cheekbones, draping around those gold-flecked chocolate eyes. They look soft to touch, like velvet. Rich coffee skin, blanketing sharp cheekbones, a strong, square jaw, a straight and defiant nose. Scars that make him look devilishly charming streak across his nose bridge, his chin, his left cheek. Lips that look so pink, so full, wavering slightly with each puff of breath he takes. 

Those lips smirk. 

The knight — the very handsome knight that’s causing his heartbeats to hummingbird in Sirius’ chest — strides towards him, his good luck rose in hand. He stops directly in front of him, brings the red rose to those enrapturing lips, and delivers a kiss to the petals, directly above where Sirius kissed. 

(He hears Walburga sniff in disdain and cannot find it within himself to care.) 

The knight looks back down on him, eyes sparkling with not only mirth, with joy and with promise. “Thank you for your favour, my prince,” he says, and without the mask of armour his voice is deep, rich, edged with an absolutely sexy gravel, reminiscent of hot chocolate drunk on a cold rainy day. Sirius is entranced, and he feels his cheeks pinken. “My name is Remus Lupin.”  

Fantasy AU where prince Sirius and his family attend a joust and a knight comes out in dull grey armour and people have no idea who he is but he goes straight to Sirius to hand him a rose for his luck in the tournament and when the knight wins he takes off his helmet to bow to the prince and it’s Remus

“Those poor boys”

“She deserves to be punished too.”

“I’m not saying I support rape, but-”

“Sorry to say - she deserved it.”

“She put herself in harm’s way”

“But if she was fingered, then that’s not rape.”

“She ruined their lives.”

chillin on a Saturday night

googledocs you are getting awfully uppity for something that can’t differentiate between “its” and “it’s” correctly

vi’s new theme song!