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Remus Lupin doesn’t want attention.
Not with the way his leg drags slightly when he walks. Not with the white-pink ridges trailing up his left arm and disappearing beneath his chef’s coat. Not with the limp he hides behind stiff posture and sarcasm. And certainly not with the black-linen quiet of his little restaurant, Aconite, where the food does the talking and he doesn’t have to.
But then he shows up. Sirius Fucking Black.
Gorgeous. Loud. Punk-wrapped-in-prada chaos. Rumored talent scout for Rot//Nest Records, which books bands so heavy they warp gravity. The man walks into Aconite like he’s searching for trouble and finds it plated delicately in a roasted quail with crispy lotus root and yuzu compote. Sirius moans on the first bite, and Remus—watching from the pass—nearly drops a ramekin.
That should’ve been the end of it.
Except Sirius comes back. And again. And again. Posts Remus’s dishes on Instagram with captions like “I would marry this fennel foam” or “The lamb belly just rewired my entire nervous system.” One post is just a photo of the quail and the caption: “If I could fuck a dish, this would be it.”
Remus pretends he doesn’t notice. Pretends he isn’t secretly checking @SiriusSucks’ stories during prep. Pretends the ache in his leg is the only thing keeping him up at night.
Until one slow afternoon.
Remus is clocking out for his break, apron loose around his waist, when he walks behind Sirius’s table—he’s there again, of course, in a leather jacket and eyeliner, looking like sin in human form. And he says—to his friend, messy dark hair and circles under his eyes:
“This is so good, kissing the chef isn’t good enough. I need to go to the back of the kitchen and fuck him. I’d eat him the way I just ate that quail—slow, reverent, and probably on my knees.”
Remus freezes mid-step like a spooked animal.
Tray in hand. Face pale. Ears pink.
He knows Sirius sees him, because James—bless his socially adept heart—makes an expression like a man who just watched a nuclear bomb get armed.
Sirius whips around, expression going slack with horror and something else—lust, hope, hunger.
Remus meets his eyes, scarred fingers tightening on the tray.
Sirius swallows.
Remus says nothing. Just walks off stiffly into the back, breath caught in his throat.
———————
Sirius stares at the swinging kitchen door like it might open back up and decapitate him.
James sips his sparkling water with the composure of a man who’s just witnessed an accidental sex crime. “So. That was… a choice.”
“I didn’t know he was right there, James!” Sirius hisses, dragging a hand through his hair. “I thought he’d be—I don’t know!—not emerging like a scarred, tragic angel in that bloody apron looking like he just stepped out of...I don’t know, a romance novella.”
James bites back a grin. “He did look pretty good. Bit stunned. Bit wrecked. Like you hit him in the face with a wet poem.”
Sirius buries his head in his hands. “Do you think he’s going to ban me?”
James shrugs. “No idea. But if he serves you a single olive with passive aggressive foam on top, you’ll know.”
———————
A week later.
They come back. Of course they do.
James is cautious. Sirius, not so much. He walks in cocky but… quieter. Hair tied up. Less rings. Eyes searching. Like maybe if he sees Remus, he’ll be able to say the right thing this time. But he doesn’t see him.
Instead, the server smiles and sets down two menus. “Chef’s Tasting Menu. Specially curated tonight.”
Sirius’s brow furrows. “I didn’t order the tasting menu.”
The server just smiles and walks away.
Then the first course arrives.
A single bite: smoked oyster on a charred spoon. Next to it, a miniature sign.
“Appetizer: Wet and unhinged. Like certain patrons’ social media behavior.”
James chokes.
Sirius turns beet red.
“Is he—?” James starts.
“Oh, he is.” Sirius stares at the plate like it just slapped him. Then he eats it. And groans. Loud.
Course two: charred chili croquette so spicy it brings tears. A note tucked underneath the ceramic leaf it’s plated on:
“Tongue too sharp? Here’s a little heat to match it.”
Sirius is sweating. “I deserve this,” he mutters. “I want to die. I want him to step on me. And then feed me again.”
James fans him. “Mate, this is not a safe kink.”
Course three: something cold and beautiful. Cured hamachi with blood orange, edible flowers, elderberry wine gelée. A perfect balm after the burn.
This one comes with no note. But the plating is careful. Reverent. There’s something soft in it.
Sirius sits straighter.
By dessert, they’re both silent, reverent, struck dumb. A dark chocolate torte with sour cherry glaze and black sesame. It tastes like memory. Like longing. Like something tender and bruised.
When the check comes, there’s a folded napkin tucked into the receipt.
Sirius opens it with trembling fingers.
“If you really meant it—
Meet me out back after close. No cameras. No talking. Bring your tongue.”
Sirius stands up so fast his chair tips over.
James doesn’t even blink. “Go. Run. Godspeed.”
----------
Behind Aconite, 11:47pm, just after closing.
The alley is slick with rain. Grease-slick brick, bins lined neatly, the faint scent of citrus peel and smoke. The kitchen lights behind the frosted glass flicker off one by one.
Sirius waits.
He’s leaned against the wall in his stupid leather jacket, boots tapping nervously, exhaling a cloud in the humid air. He doesn’t have a plan. Just the ache in his chest and the taste of black sesame still on his tongue.
When the back door finally creaks open, Remus steps out, half in shadow.
His chef’s coat is open, sleeves rolled, apron gone. Scars visible in the dim yellow light, running along his arms like pale maps of survival. His hair’s tied back, but strands cling to his forehead with sweat and steam. He doesn’t say anything.
Sirius straightens up. “I meant it.”
Remus lifts an eyebrow.
Sirius swallows. “All of it. Every word. I didn’t say it to be funny. Or crude. I—God, I’ve been thinking about that quail for six days. About you. The way your food tastes like something holy. Like a proposition. I wanted to—fuck, I want you.”
Remus doesn’t move. “That was a filthy thing to say, Black.”
“Yeah,” Sirius breathes. “But I’m a filthy man.”
Remus steps forward, slow. Deliberate. His limp is slight but present, grounding him in his body like the weight of a blade.
He stops just inches away.
“You scared the shit out of me,” Remus murmurs. “I thought you were just another tourist with a hard-on for trauma scars and artisan garnishes.”
Sirius’s breath catches. “I’m not. I’m just—ruined. And honest. And I may have had too much elderberry mead that day. And very, very sorry if I made you feel like an exhibit.”
Remus eyes him, then tilts his head.
“You want me?” he asks.
Sirius nods like he’ll beg if he has to.
“Then kneel.”
The command hits him like a switchblade. Sirius lights up, grinning as he drops—fast, too fast. His knees smack the wet concrete hard enough to echo. Pain flares up his thigh and he nearly yelps, but bites it back, eyes tearing up. Sirius internally chastises himself, Smooth Sirius, that’ll impress Lupin.
He lifts his chin with a smirk, scrambling to distract from his awkwardness. “Thought you’d never ask. Want me to unzip your pants for you or just—?”
Remus’s hand curls into his hair and yanks—hard.
Sirius gasps. “Shit—”
And then Remus leans in and kisses him.
Hard. Brutal. Reverent. Like he’s burning the taste of smoke and citrus and anger into Sirius’s tongue. Sirius makes a shocked noise—hands caught mid-air, grabbing at Remus’s hips instead of his own belt.
When they part, Sirius is panting, eyes glassy. “That’s it?” he manages. “No blowjob? I got on my knees for a kiss?”
Remus licks his lips, breath still rough. “That’s the tax for vulgarity in my restaurant.”
Sirius lets his head fall back with a groan. “God, I love you.”
Remus chuckles low in his throat. “You don’t even know me.”
“Don’t have to,” Sirius mumbles. “I’ve tasted your soul. It was sous-vided and garnished and absolutely filthy.”
Remus snorts. “Get up, idiot, before your knees crack in half.”
Sirius winces as he does, clearly trying to hide just how bad the impact was. Remus notices. Of course he notices.
“You’re limping,” Remus says dryly, one brow raised.
Sirius shoots him a crooked grin. “Sympathy pain. Romantic, innit?”
Remus eyes him for a long beat, then murmurs, “I carry pain like it’s a possession of mine, not the other way round. Every day. I don’t do flings.”
“Good,” Sirius says, suddenly serious. “I don’t do things halfway.”
Remus steps closer again, just enough to whisper:
“Then come back tomorrow. Same time. Bring your appetite.”
He turns and walks back inside—without a glance back.
Sirius stays in the alley, slightly bruised, hard as hell, and grinning like he’s just won a war