Love (or Something Like It)Author: gracereneCharacters/Pairings:
Harry/Sirius, past Sirius/JamesRating:
underage (Harry is 15), takes place over the Christmas hols in OotP, frottage, wanking, shared bed, angst, interglutealWord Count:
Sirius shouldn't be doing this, but how could he say no to Harry? How could he deny what they both wanted? Author's Notes:
Thanks to capitu
for looking this over!
Hands and heat, sweat and skin, pleasure burning through him, as sweet and smooth as Ogden's finest."Faster, Sirius. Oh, fuck, right there. Again, Again."
Sirius rocked faster into the body molded against his own. James, of course, it was always James. Sirius would know his best mate anywhere, with his messy black hair, clean, woodsy smell, and smooth tanned skin. The pleasure mounted as Sirius thrust into him, as tight and hot as the first time they'd done this the summer before sixth year. Usually, though, Sirius liked to take James on his back, so he could watch James's face as he lost himself in pleasure. A strange prickle of unease cracked through his euphoria.
The fissures of anxiety grew wider as he tried to adjust and alter their positions so he could look into James's eyes. No matter how he moved, they always seemed to end up on their sides, Sirius curled around James's back as the familiar Gryffindor red curtains of Sirius's dormitory bed shrouded them in heavy darkness.
Sirius looked down at their hands, twined together in front of James's unseeable face, hoping to ground himself in the familiar comfort of James's bony fingers, but even they seemed...off. Their hands should be the same size, but where James's were smooth and unblemished, Sirius's fingers were thick and covered with scars and a thorny black tattoo. A discordant chime went off inside his head, dissipating the foggy cloud of lust. When had he gotten a tattoo?
Sirius blinked awake, the vestiges of his dream clinging to his mind like a particularly sticky cobweb. It was a familiar dream, him and James, more memory than fantasy, really. Perhaps it was his mind's way of allowing him to relive in sleep what he'd vowed to put behind him while awake. He'd been dreaming about James a lot the past few days—ever since the start of the Christmas hols—and it didn't take a genius to figure out why. The sweet and terrible intensity of the dreams had Sirius dreading and looking forward to bed in equal measure. It had been far too long since he'd touched anybody the way he touched James in his dreams, but it made waking up alone all the harder.
Speaking of hard, his prick still throbbed with frustrated desire, urging Sirius to continue rutting against the rounded firmness nestled against his groin. He listened to his sleepy, lust-addled brain, moving his hips into that pleasing pressure until a low moan—not his own—shocked him still.
His heart pounded as, now fully awake, Sirius began to take in the details that his half-dreaming consciousness hadn't remembered. One major detail. Harry.
It had been late last night when Harry had snuck into his room, shaking and sweating and half-terrified with the aftershocks of a brutal nightmare. He'd just wanted to talk, and Sirius had been more than happy to provide some clearly needed comfort. The incident with Arthur and Nagini had rattled Harry, and though he'd undoubtedly saved Arthur's life, Harry was a smart boy; he wasn't oblivious to the implications of what he'd seen or how
he'd seen it. Sirius would be lying if he said he wasn't just as frightened of what the future had in store for his godson,James's son
, but what Harry needed was love and support and a good night's sleep. Sirius had offered his own bed in an effort to keep the nightmares at bay, and Harry had gratefully accepted.
It was no wonder his dream of James had felt so real, so tangible that night. He was in bed with his best mate's son, with a bright, lovely boy that reminded Sirius so much of James that his chest sometimes ached with it. Harry was funny and brave and mischievous, and he looked at Sirius the way James used to, like Sirius mattered, like he was important. Loved.
He'd loved James and he loved James's son, and he knew the two things were different, but sometimes they got a little mixed up in his brain. Azkaban had fucked with his head, messed with his mind, and he knew that he didn't see things the way other people did anymore, didn't feel or think things the way he should. Sirius would ruffle Harry's hair and feel a rush of paternal pride, and then Harry would give him a broad, conspiratorial grin, and Sirius would wonder if his lips were as soft as they looked. It was dirty and wrong and confusing, but just because Sirius's head was a fucked-up place, it didn't mean anybody else had to know about it.
Which was why, even though every cell in his body was urging him to press closer, to rub his stiff erection over his godson's pert behind, Sirius knew it was a line he couldn't cross. Shouldn't cross. Harry hadn't made a peep since the identifying moan, and Sirius hoped he was still asleep, that Sirius hadn't ruined things beyond repair. Slowly, Sirius unclenched his hand from where it had been squeezing Harry's slim hip, but before he had a chance to slip away, a hand darted out and grabbed his wrist. Despite the terrifying unknown of the situation, Sirius's couldn't help the flash of pride at Harry's Seeker's reflexes.
"Please," Harry whispered, his voice low and cracking in the darkness. He sounded so desperate and vulnerable. It made Sirius's heart clench and his groin throb.
Harry tugged Sirius's hand back over his hip. "Please don't stop. I want—" Harry arched back against him, just a little, just enough to send wild shivers dancing across Sirius's skin.
His chest felt tight, his throat dry. A great and powerful yearning echoed through him, a desperate shout in a voluminous cavern. His hands shook. "I don't think—I mean, we shouldn't—It's just...I'm your—"
Harry's entire body trembled beneath his palm. "Just this. Please? I want to feel—"
And Sirius knew all about that, about wanting to feel, anything, everything. Pain, anger, joy, lust—anything was better than the creeping numb, the debilitating apathy sapping the life from his dying cells, from the marrow of his old bones. He didn't want that for Harry, didn't want him to drown in choking darkness.
He squeezed the hard jut of Harry's hip in what he hoped was a comforting manner, and ignored the small part of his mind that told him this was wrong as he began to move. Sirius thought it was probably telling that his prick was as hard as ever, straining at the fabric of his pants as he rocked his hips against the plush curve of Harry's arse.
Harry moaned—tiny, quiet, but no less devastating—as he buried his head in Sirius's pillow. His hips kept moving in small, almost unconscious twitches back against Sirius, and though Harry was quiet, he couldn't entirely hold back the breathy exhalations and shuddering pants. It made Sirius want more, made him want to pin Harry down and take everything from him, but Sirius held his primal instincts in check. It was just his mind, trying to fuck things up again, demanding more than Sirius had a right to take.
Even this, relatively chaste as it was, was crossing a line. Sirius shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be dragging the firm, hot length of himself over Harry's yielding body. But how could he say no to Harry? How could he deny what they both wanted? What Harry needed. And it was fine, it was okay, hardly anything at all compared to what Sirius's body wanted from the boy. They weren't even touching skin to skin, though Sirius could feel the soft valley of Harry's cleft along his shaft, even through the fabric of both their pants. Still, it wasn't as if Sirius was touching
Harry. It wasn't as if he was putting his mouth on him, or sliding his fingers over his heated flesh, or pressing his girth into the eager clutch of Harry's body. He wasn't taking, he was giving, giving Harry what he asked for, what he wanted.
And it was clear that Harry did want it. His eager lust and desperate desire was obvious in every quavering breath, in the sweet hitch of his hips, in the mindless way he reached back to tug his pants down to his thighs to free his swollen prick. Sirius couldn't help but glance down at the slender length and rounded, rosy head that disappeared into Harry's fist as Harry began to work himself over, his grunts and gasps increasing in volume.
Sirius tore his eyes away from the sight, wondering what line he was crossing now, only for his gaze to land on Harry's newly bared bum. His arse was surprisingly full for a boy so scrawny, and the skin was much paler than his tanned arms and face. It looked paler still compared to the dark blue of Sirius's pants-covered erection burrowing between the perfect cheeks. This time, Sirius couldn't tear his eyes away, couldn't make himself look away from the sight of such a lovely arse.
Without conscious effort, the hand gripping Harry's hip began to slide back, his thumb sweeping lovingly over the fair curve of Harry's bum. The skin was petal soft, the faint brush of peach fuzz a pleasant whisper against his fingertips. He ventured farther, his thumb skimming along the cleft where the two cheeks met, grazing against the soft cotton surrounding his firm flesh. Godric, the yielding warmth of Harry felt good, but Sirius ached for more. His fingers squeezed and pulled, spreading Harry's arse open and letting Sirius press deeper into his crevice. The heat was almost unbearable there, in that hot dark press of Harry's arse, his most private of places.
Somewhere, Sirius registered that Harry's moans had become louder and more frequent, that his body was shuddering and convulsing with pleasure, but it was all experienced as if from a great distance. Sirius's world had narrowed down to his prick and Harry's arse and the wonderful ways in which they moved against one another.
He squeezed and pulled a little more, opening Harry a little wider until he exposed the furled rosebud of Harry's arsehole. It was so small and dark, all dusky pink and fluttering madly. Saliva flooded Sirius's mouth and his cock jerked in his pants as he stared and wanted. It was so lovely, so perfect, and Sirius knew it would feel just as good, hot and tight and unbelievably good around him. It wasn't for him, he wouldn't cross that ultimate line, but just knowing that such an inviting place existed was enough for Sirius. He guided his prick towards it, sliding himself across Harry's rim over and over again, imagining he could feel the catch of the wrinkled skin even through the fabric of his pants.
Sirius moved faster, harder. He knew Harry's arse would probably have fingerprint bruises from his grip, but he didn't hear Harry complaining, and they'd be easy enough to heal with a pass of his wand. Sirius was close, so close, the energy of his release welling up around him like the crackle of magical build-up before a storm. He felt a jolt go through him, a frisson of skin to skin contact lighting him up like Lumos. His furious rocking motions had managed to jostle his pants, and his prick was now poking through the placket in front, proud and eager. Sirius shuddered as he felt the burning heat of Harry's arse on the sensitive skin of his prick. He watched, mesmerised as the thick, ruddy girth of his cock slid through the pale, unblemished cheeks of Harry's lovely arse. The mushroom tip slid across Harry's hole, Sirius's foreskin catching on the wrinkled entrance, stimulating his frenulum and tempting Sirius to take, take, take
His cock erupted in a violent rush, spewing sticky white across Harry's entrance and coating the valley between his cheeks. Sirius rocked a few more times, dragging his sensitive prick through the warm, wet mess as his entire body was wracked with rapturous tremors.
The afterglow didn't last, flooded out by guilt and horror. What had he done?
Harry was silent and shivering in front of him, and Sirius tentatively removed his hand from Harry's arse to reach for his wand. It took him several tries, but he finally managed to cast a decent Cleaning Charm over them both. Harry let out a soft sound of surprise as it prickled over him, and Sirius watched, frozen in place, as he reached down and pulled up his pants, regretfully covering his bared bum.
"Sirius?" Harry whispered after several moments of tense silence.
"Yeah, Harry?" Sirius replied in a low, guttural voice that sounded like it hadn't been used in years.
Harry turned to look at him, and Sirius was hit right in the gut with the sweet innocence of his face. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes a little glassy, and his hair was an untamable mess, and he still looked at Sirius like he was Harry's favourite person. But there was trepidation there, too, guilt and fear as well, and the bottom dropped from Sirius's stomach.
"I'm sorry," Harry said in a rush. "I know I'm a freak, please don't hate me. I—I won't—"
Sirius reached for him then, pulling him close and letting Harry's fingers curl into his shirt, his face buried in Sirius's neck. He was so thin, smaller than James had been at his age, but he seemed to fit perfectly in Sirius's arms.
"I don't hate you. I could never hate you, Harry. There's nothing wrong with you. That was my fault. I shouldn't have…"
"I wanted you to," Harry murmured against his neck, his hot breath on Sirius's sensitive skin causing gooseflesh to pop up along his arms. "I love you, Sirius."
Sirius's stomach flipped and his arms tightened instinctively around the fragile body against his chest. Fuck, how long had it been since somebody had said those three words to him?"I love you, Padfoot. That's why it has to be you. There's nobody I trust more to keep my family safe."
Sirius's eyes burned and his throat constricted. Everything was beautiful and terrible, the vibrant, breathing, miracle of a boy in his arms, the burning, ever-present ghost of James, haunting every last corner Sirius's broken mind. He ran his fingers through Harry's hair, soft as silk and wilder than a Hippogriff nest. It was like James's and it wasn't, and this was real, and it wasn't, and Sirius's head pounded and he wasn't sure if he was sure where reality began and ended, but there were some things that he was sure of, some things that were too true to forget.
"I love you too, Harry."