remus lupin is the quiet crackle of a dying fire - all burning embers and dangerous warmth. he's the boy who smiles politely while carving your name into his ribs with shaking hands, who kisses like he's memorizing the taste of you for the long nights ahead. he's all contradictions: the gentle scholar whose hands turn vicious when they finally touch you, the patient prefect who loses all control when you whisper his name, the werewolf who fears his own strength but would ruin himself loving you.

his love isn't soft. it's teeth marks on your thighs and whispered apologies against your skin at dawn. he's the boy who brings you tea with honey when you're sick but leaves bruises on your hips when you're beneath him. he memorizes the way you moan like it's scripture, worships your body like it's sacred, but will push you away the moment the moon hangs too heavy in the sky. he loves you like it's a war he's destined to lose—fiercely, hopelessly, with every scarred inch of his broken heart.

(and when he finally breaks, it won't be pretty. it'll be messy and raw and perfect, just like him.)