hp fic: These Walls Were Built to Fall
Title: These Walls Were Built to Fall
Pairing: Harry/Sirius
Rating: NC17
Words: ~3,200
Summary: Harry is James' son and twenty years too young, and Sirius could build a brand new house with the cold wreckage from all his bad decisions and ruined relationships.
Notes: For![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
faithwood and 1 Word Prompt Fest. The prompt was Harry/Sirius, desperation. Set during OotP, so Harry is underage. This went angstier and pornier than I intended; all apologies.
These Walls Were Built to Fall
Harry kisses Sirius in the upstairs hallway, nudging Sirius into a narrow slice of shadow before stretching up and wrapping his arms around Sirius' neck. It's fumbled and clumsy; Harry is six inches shorter than Sirius, and he lets his nose bump Sirius' cheek, nearly bites Sirius' lip as one of his stumbling feet scrape over Sirius' boots, but he's warm and bright and alive, tastes like summer and sunshine and a hundred other things Sirius doesn't remember how to feel. He leans into it without any thought, tilting Harry's head and dragging his knuckles down Harry's jaw, kissing harder and deeper, until Harry clutches at Sirius' shirt, his fingers bunching and pulling at the loose fabric of Sirius' sleeves, until he makes a soft, startled sound that hums against Sirius' tongue.
"Harry."
"No, don't," Harry says quickly. His hands are everywhere, edging under Sirius' collar, prying at the buttons on Sirius' shirt. "I want to, and you -- you want to."
Sirius does want to, has wanted to, the kind of crushing, restless want he thought he'd forgotten in Azkaban. It's a constant itch beneath his skin, a heat so sharp it splinters through his sense of reason and shame, drives him to watch Harry when he talks or eats or plays chess with Ron, narrowing his eyes at the turn of Harry's wrist and the curve of Harry's mouth, at the way his tongue curls slick and pink as he wets his lips or licks jam from the pad of his thumb.
"I'm -- "
"I don't care," Harry says, his voice sour and bruised, brimming with the same lonely, frustrated anger he's been venting at Ron and Hermione for the last two days. "It doesn't matter."
It does matter -- Harry is James' son and twenty years too young, and Sirius could build a brand new house with the cold wreckage from all his bad decisions and ruined relationships -- but he can't find the right words to explain it, not in a way he thinks Harry would understand, and then Harry leans in again, soft breath and warm lips sliding up the line of Sirius' jaw. Sirius catches Harry's arm but doesn't push him away; he lets his hand drift up over Harry's shoulder, settles it at the curve of Harry's neck, his thumb brushing the hollow of Harry's throat.
"Are you sure?" Sirius asks, crowding Harry back against the wall.
Harry nods, swallowing thickly, a slow shift and flex of muscle and skin that Sirius feels under the hand at Harry's neck. Sirius drops his other hand down, palming the hard line of Harry's prick; Harry chokes out a gasp, a shocked and broken noise that stabs Sirius with a sick twist of guilty arousal, and he thinks about pulling away, about Obliviating Harry and pretending this never happened, but Harry arches up from the wall, twisting closer to Sirius, his hip rubbing against Sirius' prick, and Sirius shudders, hating himself, burying his face in Harry's hair as he tugs open Harry's flies.
Harry's prick is beautiful, hot and smooth and flushed, and Sirius watches as it slides through his fist, horrified at himself but unable to look away, leaning in closer as Harry's hands twitch and scrabble at the wall, wanting to feel the quiet hitches of Harry's moans, the soft tremble hidden in Harry's thighs. Harry turns his head a little, mumbling Sirius' name as he presses his wet, open mouth to the skin just below Sirius' ear, comes with one hand clenched in Sirius' shirt and the other wrapped around Sirius' wrist, his breathing ragged against Sirius' jaw and his fingernails digging sharp crescents into Sirius' skin.
"Oh, fuck. Fuck. Sirius."
Footsteps creak on the stairs; Sirius grits out the spell to button Harry's jeans as Molly says, "I've lunch laid out, whenever you're ready."
"Go on," Sirius tells Harry. His eyes are wide and his mouth is swollen and red, parted in a way that makes Sirius' prick ache. "I'll be right down."
+
Sirius has his hand down his trousers as soon as the door is closed and locked, has his prick out and his fingers curled around it before he even reaches the bed. He buries his face in the musty sheets and pillows, the linens bitingly cold against his burning skin, smells dust and damp as he shoves his pants down to his knees, as he shakes and groans and strains into his hand, the hand still warm and sticky with his godson's come. He feels ill, guilt heavy on the flat of his tongue, sour at the back of his throat.
He tries not to think of what he just did to Harry, what he still wants to do to Harry, of sucking Harry, or fucking him, of fingering him open, pushing in slow and deep as he bites bruises into the soft skin inside Harry's thigh, of spreading Harry out on the bed and stripping off his clothes, kissing the back of Harry's neck and the rosy stretch between his shoulder blades, running his tongue over the dips and knobs of Harry's spine, the tight furl of his arse. He comes to jagged half-memories of fucking Remus in broom cupboards and the Shrieking Shack and the familiar red and gold of their seventh-year dormitory, but Remus doesn't look the way Sirius thinks he remembers, slips into someone with darker hair and a narrower jaw and eyes that flash green instead of clear honey-brown.
+
The floorboards creak, a tired, maudlin sound that has nettled Sirius since childhood, that once meant Regulus was snooping in his room, but he blinks awake to Harry standing over him, his eyes wide and his lip caught between his teeth. The moon is waxing gibbous, large and shining brightly through the window behind him, the light glinting through his hair, casting strange shadows over his shoulders and arms; he's practically naked, wearing nothing but his pants, too large and washed thin and barely clinging to his hips.
Sirius' mouth is dry, his throat clicking twice before he manages to speak. "Go back to your room."
"No."
"Harry, I --"
"You ran away from me," Harry says, his jaw tight, his entire body an accusation. He takes a step closer, his pants sagging low as he moves, the stretched elastic slipping past the swell of his hip; he has beautifully sharp collarbones, a narrow line of dark hair arrowing away from his navel. "You didn't let me touch you, and I want -- I want you to -- "
"We shouldn't have done that, earlier," Sirius says, sitting up and rubbing his hand over his face. Harry is half-hard already, his prick pressing against the front of his pants, and Sirius can't stop looking at it, remembering what it felt like pushing against his palm. "Go back to your room. We'll talk about it in the morning."
Harry stares at him for a moment, silent, his eyes narrowed and his mouth slanting into a frown. He looks very much like James, not only his face but the expression on it -- determined, mullish, the one James favoured when he had a prank to plan, or a Quidditch match to win, or a suspicious professor to get sorted. That alone should mute the slow heat building in Sirius' gut, remind Sirius that it shouldn't have happened, cannot happen again; he takes a deep breath, but Harry reaches out before he can speak, trailing his fingers across Sirius' mouth, running his thumb over the curve of Sirius' cheek, and Sirius grabs Harry's wrist, tugs hard enough to tumble him into the bed.
They kiss until Sirius' jaw aches, until his lips are numb and his chin is slick with spit, until Harry is twisting underneath him, shaking and gasping, scratching stinging lines into Sirius' shoulders and back as he arches up into Sirius, rubs his prick against Sirius' thigh. He knots his fingers in Sirius' hair, pulling when Sirius bites the slope of his neck, sucks a dark bruise into the hollow of his throat; he tips his head back, his foot dragging over Sirius' shin, his mouth open and his hair a dark smudge against the rumpled pillows, and the ragged noise he makes when he comes digs at something hot and dangerous underneath Sirius' skin.
"Let me," Harry says, once he catches his breath, when Sirius is curled over him, fucking roughly into his own fist as he kisses Harry's throat and jaw, the shell of Harry's ear. Harry works his hand between their bodies, his knuckles bumping and skipping down Sirius' chest; his palm brushes the head of Sirius' prick just as Sirius is stroking up, and Sirius comes all over himself, comes all over Harry, streaking warm and thick onto Harry's belly and thighs.
Harry smiles at him, drawing a curious finger through the mess, and Sirius stretches out beside him, lets the guilt roll over him like a wave.
+
"Fuck -- oh, oh -- fuck."
"Shh," Sirius murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the base of Harry's prick. The length of it slides against Sirius' cheek, hot and hard and slick. "Moody's just downstairs. He'll look up if he hears you."
Harry sobs out a breath, threads his fingers into Sirius' hair. "Sorry, sorry. I won't -- oh God, Sirius."
Sirius sucks Harry back in, letting his tongue swirl over the head of Harry's prick, humming softly as Harry bucks up into his mouth, tries to squirm closer. He nearly falls off the sink, his heel spurring into Sirius' back as his hands fumble and claw at the wet porcelain, and Sirius leans into him, his lips dragging down Harry's length as he draws Harry back into his throat, the tile cold and rough under his knees, biting patterns into his skin. Harry moans again, quieter than before but still too loud; Sirius cast a Silencing Charm before he worked his hand into Harry's jeans, but he doesn't trust the house to keep their secrets, nearly expects it to give them up out of spite.
"Harry."
"Oh God, sorry. I'm sorry." Harry's thighs are shaking; he runs his hands over Sirius' face, digs his thumb into the hinge of Sirius' jaw. "Don't -- don't stop. Please don't stop."
Sirius curls his hand around Harry's prick, rubbing his thumb over the head before teasing the slit with his tongue. "I won't," he says honestly, because he doesn't think he can.
+
The table grunts under Harry's weight, the legs wobbling and the edge rasping against the wall.
Sirius can hear voices in the next room, Remus and Arthur, a low burr that might be Mundungus, but he can't stop rolling his hips, rubbing himself against the curve of Harry's arse as he strokes Harry's prick. Harry makes a low, throaty noise, his hands shaking on the table, his fingers raking through years of dust and chipped lacquer; his head dips as he sucks in another breath, his hair wild behind his ears, sticking to the back of his neck in sweaty clumps.
"I'm -- Sirius, I don't -- I can't."
"Just one more. You can give me one more," Sirius says quietly, his free hand splayed at the small of Harry's back. Harry has already come twice, the sticky mess waiting on the carpet, right between Harry's feet, but Sirius wants it to happen again, wants to feel Harry twist and shudder against him, watch the deep flush burn over Harry's skin, hear Harry gasp and moan and choke out Sirius' name.
Harry sags closer to the table, his shoulders slumping, hunching over; the table groans out another objection, this one loud enough to be heard in the kitchen, and Sirius squeezes Harry's hip, then slides his hand under Harry's chest, holding Harry up as he drags his hand up the length of Harry's prick.
"Sirius, please. I -- I can't."
The voices grow louder, as if approaching the door; Sirius strokes Harry faster, turns his wrist and tightens his grip. "You'd best hurry, or they'll find you like this. Bent over a table with your kecks around your knees."
"Oh fuck." Harry shivers, a taut ripple pushing up the length of his spine. "You wouldn't, you -- fuck."
Sirius pulls Harry back against him, hides a biting kiss just below Harry's ear. "Come on," he murmurs, thumbing the head of Harry's prick, smiling into Harry's shoulder as Harry whines behind his teeth. "They're almost here. They'll see you."
The door creaks, and Harry's prick pulses in his hand.
+
"All right, old man?" Remus asks, leaning against the lintel. He has a tired smile on his face and a bottle of Ogden's Old under his arm.
Sirius snorts. "Who's old, then?" He waves Remus in, nodding as Remus tops off his tea. "Ta. You've more grey in your hair than me."
"It's all part of my furry little problem."
"You used to call it charm."
"If I ever had any of that, I lost it years ago," Remus says, curling up on the other end of the couch. He Transfigures a crystal ashtray into a glass and pours himself a drink. "I mean it, now. Are you all right? You did promise you'd stop brooding in the dark."
"There's a fire on."
"Padfoot."
Sirius shrugs slightly, unsure of what to say. He's in the drawing room alone because Harry is upstairs with Ron and Hermione, because Harry had run past him on the stairs with barely half a word, like he hadn't just sucked Sirius off in the pantry, hadn't stroked himself with Sirius' prick in his mouth, moaned when he pulled back too soon and Sirius accidentally came on his face.
"I'm grand," Sirius says, dropping a little more Firewhisky into his tea. He'd kissed the mess off Harry's chin and jaw, can still taste it on the back of his tongue. "I haven't lost my mind yet."
"Never was much there to start." It's an old joke between them, but Remus' voice is cautious, like he fears he's skirting too close to the truth. "Fancy a chess game, then?"
"Yeah, all right," Sirius says, Summoning the board as he hears muffled laughter from upstairs. "Once I've beaten you, you can tell me again why I can't go with Harry to the station."
+
"Harry, are you -- is it good?"
"Yeah, just -- oh." Harry shifts in Sirius' lap, digging his knees into the couch cushions, tucking his hot face in Sirius' neck as Sirius twists his fingers, pushes in deeper. "It's weird, but it's -- it's good."
He presses his mouth to Harry's temple, drags it open and wet over the slope of Harry's cheek, noses at Harry's jaw until Harry turns enough for Sirius to catch his lips. They kiss slowly, their tongues curling and slipping in time with the careful shift of Sirius' fingers; he slides his other hand up to the back of Harry's neck, knots it into Harry's hair, brushes his thumb over the skin behind Harry's ear as Harry moans into his mouth. He's beautiful like this, his pants off and his pajama top unbuttoned, his cheeks flushed and his glasses crooked and his eyes wide and dark.
"Are you, um." Harry rattles out a breath, digs his fingers into Sirius' shoulders. "Are you -- oh, fuck."
Sirius wants to, has imagined it countless times, lowering Harry to the floor or spreading him out on the bed, pushing open Harry's thighs as he eases his prick into Harry's arse, but he's already too close, a lucent heat writhing in his gut just from watching Harry ride his hand. Harry moans again, tipping his head back, exposing the long line of his throat, and Sirius follows it with his mouth, sets his teeth against the soft skin under Harry's chin.
"I want it," Harry says, his lips bussing against Sirius' ear. "I want you to."
"Come for me first," Sirius says, wrapping his hand around Harry's prick. "Come for me, and then I will."
+
"Harder," Harry says, louder than he should, spots of colour blooming on his cheeks as he twists off the bed.
Sirius thrusts into him, one hand pinning Harry's wrists to the pillows, the other sliding over the smooth skin of Harry's side, and Harry makes a soft, broken noise, his eyes squeezing shut and then fluttering open again. Sirius has sweat pooling in the dip of his throat, and he can't keep his left knee from slipping on the sheets, but Harry is perfect, his legs spread and his back arched, his prick rubbing against Sirius' stomach, dotting a wet trail over Sirius' skin.
"Oh God. Please -- Sirius, please."
Sirius leans up on his knees, pulling Harry's arse into his lap, watching as Harry curves his hand around his prick, as Harry strokes himself harder and faster than Sirius is fucking him, his breath hitching and his legs wrapping around Sirius' waist. He comes easily, his heel digging a bruise into Sirius' thigh, his whole body shuddering in a long, beautiful wave, tightening just enough to drag Sirius over the edge. It leaves Sirius gasping, feeling empty and breathless, and he stretches out against Harry's side, tugging Harry close, kissing Harry and sifting his fingers through Harry's hair until he hears someone Apparate into kitchen with a crack like a rock shattering a window.
"That'll be Mad-Eye," Sirius says, frowning at the door. "He said he wanted an early start."
"Yeah. I should go, I guess." Harry worries his lower lip, doesn't quite meet Sirius' eyes. "If Ron wakes up he'll ask where I've been."
"Go on, then," Sirius says, groping through the bedding until he finds his wand. "Tergeo! Go in and lie down, and I'll get you when it's breakfast. Whatever Mad-Eye wants, it'll be another hour before he pulls Molly out of bed."
+
"Brooding in the dark again, are we?" Remus asks, the couch sighing out a complaint as he settles against the arm. He's wearing a blue and green Weasley sweater, has a teacup cradled between his hands.
"Go on," Sirius says, waving him off. "I've a fire and two lamps." Remus huffs under his breath, a fondly exasperated sound, and Sirius digs a bottle of Odgen's Old from a gap in the cushions. "Need another splash?"
"I thought you'd run out."
"I did. I found this under Regulus' bed."
Remus laughs softly and holds out his cup. "All right, then. But just one. I'm meant to be up in the morning."
"Big plans?"
"I'm, um. Dumbledore wants -- I rather can't talk about it. You know how it is."
Sirius nods, hides a frown behind a quick drink straight from the bottle. "Yeah." Of all the things he has forgotten, he can remember every awful, horrifying moment of the first war. "I know."
"Tonks said she'd come around for tea, so you're not --"
"I'll be all right," Sirius grumbles, shifting on the couch. He doesn't want Tonks, doesn't really want Remus; he can still feel Harry's hands on his skin, hear him laughing as Padfoot chased cats on the way to King's Cross. "I did twelve years in Azkaban, I think I can spend one night alone in this house."
"Padfoot."
"Moony."
Remus sighed and took a long sip of his tea. "Only, it's terribly quiet now. Without the kids, I mean."
"Yeah."
"I expect they were glad to see our backs. Probably tired of having us in their hair all the time."
Sirius swallows around the burning knot in his throat, the dull ache hollowing into his chest. "Yeah, probably."
Pairing: Harry/Sirius
Rating: NC17
Words: ~3,200
Summary: Harry is James' son and twenty years too young, and Sirius could build a brand new house with the cold wreckage from all his bad decisions and ruined relationships.
Notes: For
faithwood and 1 Word Prompt Fest. The prompt was Harry/Sirius, desperation. Set during OotP, so Harry is underage. This went angstier and pornier than I intended; all apologies.Harry kisses Sirius in the upstairs hallway, nudging Sirius into a narrow slice of shadow before stretching up and wrapping his arms around Sirius' neck. It's fumbled and clumsy; Harry is six inches shorter than Sirius, and he lets his nose bump Sirius' cheek, nearly bites Sirius' lip as one of his stumbling feet scrape over Sirius' boots, but he's warm and bright and alive, tastes like summer and sunshine and a hundred other things Sirius doesn't remember how to feel. He leans into it without any thought, tilting Harry's head and dragging his knuckles down Harry's jaw, kissing harder and deeper, until Harry clutches at Sirius' shirt, his fingers bunching and pulling at the loose fabric of Sirius' sleeves, until he makes a soft, startled sound that hums against Sirius' tongue.
"Harry."
"No, don't," Harry says quickly. His hands are everywhere, edging under Sirius' collar, prying at the buttons on Sirius' shirt. "I want to, and you -- you want to."
Sirius does want to, has wanted to, the kind of crushing, restless want he thought he'd forgotten in Azkaban. It's a constant itch beneath his skin, a heat so sharp it splinters through his sense of reason and shame, drives him to watch Harry when he talks or eats or plays chess with Ron, narrowing his eyes at the turn of Harry's wrist and the curve of Harry's mouth, at the way his tongue curls slick and pink as he wets his lips or licks jam from the pad of his thumb.
"I'm -- "
"I don't care," Harry says, his voice sour and bruised, brimming with the same lonely, frustrated anger he's been venting at Ron and Hermione for the last two days. "It doesn't matter."
It does matter -- Harry is James' son and twenty years too young, and Sirius could build a brand new house with the cold wreckage from all his bad decisions and ruined relationships -- but he can't find the right words to explain it, not in a way he thinks Harry would understand, and then Harry leans in again, soft breath and warm lips sliding up the line of Sirius' jaw. Sirius catches Harry's arm but doesn't push him away; he lets his hand drift up over Harry's shoulder, settles it at the curve of Harry's neck, his thumb brushing the hollow of Harry's throat.
"Are you sure?" Sirius asks, crowding Harry back against the wall.
Harry nods, swallowing thickly, a slow shift and flex of muscle and skin that Sirius feels under the hand at Harry's neck. Sirius drops his other hand down, palming the hard line of Harry's prick; Harry chokes out a gasp, a shocked and broken noise that stabs Sirius with a sick twist of guilty arousal, and he thinks about pulling away, about Obliviating Harry and pretending this never happened, but Harry arches up from the wall, twisting closer to Sirius, his hip rubbing against Sirius' prick, and Sirius shudders, hating himself, burying his face in Harry's hair as he tugs open Harry's flies.
Harry's prick is beautiful, hot and smooth and flushed, and Sirius watches as it slides through his fist, horrified at himself but unable to look away, leaning in closer as Harry's hands twitch and scrabble at the wall, wanting to feel the quiet hitches of Harry's moans, the soft tremble hidden in Harry's thighs. Harry turns his head a little, mumbling Sirius' name as he presses his wet, open mouth to the skin just below Sirius' ear, comes with one hand clenched in Sirius' shirt and the other wrapped around Sirius' wrist, his breathing ragged against Sirius' jaw and his fingernails digging sharp crescents into Sirius' skin.
"Oh, fuck. Fuck. Sirius."
Footsteps creak on the stairs; Sirius grits out the spell to button Harry's jeans as Molly says, "I've lunch laid out, whenever you're ready."
"Go on," Sirius tells Harry. His eyes are wide and his mouth is swollen and red, parted in a way that makes Sirius' prick ache. "I'll be right down."
+
Sirius has his hand down his trousers as soon as the door is closed and locked, has his prick out and his fingers curled around it before he even reaches the bed. He buries his face in the musty sheets and pillows, the linens bitingly cold against his burning skin, smells dust and damp as he shoves his pants down to his knees, as he shakes and groans and strains into his hand, the hand still warm and sticky with his godson's come. He feels ill, guilt heavy on the flat of his tongue, sour at the back of his throat.
He tries not to think of what he just did to Harry, what he still wants to do to Harry, of sucking Harry, or fucking him, of fingering him open, pushing in slow and deep as he bites bruises into the soft skin inside Harry's thigh, of spreading Harry out on the bed and stripping off his clothes, kissing the back of Harry's neck and the rosy stretch between his shoulder blades, running his tongue over the dips and knobs of Harry's spine, the tight furl of his arse. He comes to jagged half-memories of fucking Remus in broom cupboards and the Shrieking Shack and the familiar red and gold of their seventh-year dormitory, but Remus doesn't look the way Sirius thinks he remembers, slips into someone with darker hair and a narrower jaw and eyes that flash green instead of clear honey-brown.
+
The floorboards creak, a tired, maudlin sound that has nettled Sirius since childhood, that once meant Regulus was snooping in his room, but he blinks awake to Harry standing over him, his eyes wide and his lip caught between his teeth. The moon is waxing gibbous, large and shining brightly through the window behind him, the light glinting through his hair, casting strange shadows over his shoulders and arms; he's practically naked, wearing nothing but his pants, too large and washed thin and barely clinging to his hips.
Sirius' mouth is dry, his throat clicking twice before he manages to speak. "Go back to your room."
"No."
"Harry, I --"
"You ran away from me," Harry says, his jaw tight, his entire body an accusation. He takes a step closer, his pants sagging low as he moves, the stretched elastic slipping past the swell of his hip; he has beautifully sharp collarbones, a narrow line of dark hair arrowing away from his navel. "You didn't let me touch you, and I want -- I want you to -- "
"We shouldn't have done that, earlier," Sirius says, sitting up and rubbing his hand over his face. Harry is half-hard already, his prick pressing against the front of his pants, and Sirius can't stop looking at it, remembering what it felt like pushing against his palm. "Go back to your room. We'll talk about it in the morning."
Harry stares at him for a moment, silent, his eyes narrowed and his mouth slanting into a frown. He looks very much like James, not only his face but the expression on it -- determined, mullish, the one James favoured when he had a prank to plan, or a Quidditch match to win, or a suspicious professor to get sorted. That alone should mute the slow heat building in Sirius' gut, remind Sirius that it shouldn't have happened, cannot happen again; he takes a deep breath, but Harry reaches out before he can speak, trailing his fingers across Sirius' mouth, running his thumb over the curve of Sirius' cheek, and Sirius grabs Harry's wrist, tugs hard enough to tumble him into the bed.
They kiss until Sirius' jaw aches, until his lips are numb and his chin is slick with spit, until Harry is twisting underneath him, shaking and gasping, scratching stinging lines into Sirius' shoulders and back as he arches up into Sirius, rubs his prick against Sirius' thigh. He knots his fingers in Sirius' hair, pulling when Sirius bites the slope of his neck, sucks a dark bruise into the hollow of his throat; he tips his head back, his foot dragging over Sirius' shin, his mouth open and his hair a dark smudge against the rumpled pillows, and the ragged noise he makes when he comes digs at something hot and dangerous underneath Sirius' skin.
"Let me," Harry says, once he catches his breath, when Sirius is curled over him, fucking roughly into his own fist as he kisses Harry's throat and jaw, the shell of Harry's ear. Harry works his hand between their bodies, his knuckles bumping and skipping down Sirius' chest; his palm brushes the head of Sirius' prick just as Sirius is stroking up, and Sirius comes all over himself, comes all over Harry, streaking warm and thick onto Harry's belly and thighs.
Harry smiles at him, drawing a curious finger through the mess, and Sirius stretches out beside him, lets the guilt roll over him like a wave.
+
"Fuck -- oh, oh -- fuck."
"Shh," Sirius murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the base of Harry's prick. The length of it slides against Sirius' cheek, hot and hard and slick. "Moody's just downstairs. He'll look up if he hears you."
Harry sobs out a breath, threads his fingers into Sirius' hair. "Sorry, sorry. I won't -- oh God, Sirius."
Sirius sucks Harry back in, letting his tongue swirl over the head of Harry's prick, humming softly as Harry bucks up into his mouth, tries to squirm closer. He nearly falls off the sink, his heel spurring into Sirius' back as his hands fumble and claw at the wet porcelain, and Sirius leans into him, his lips dragging down Harry's length as he draws Harry back into his throat, the tile cold and rough under his knees, biting patterns into his skin. Harry moans again, quieter than before but still too loud; Sirius cast a Silencing Charm before he worked his hand into Harry's jeans, but he doesn't trust the house to keep their secrets, nearly expects it to give them up out of spite.
"Harry."
"Oh God, sorry. I'm sorry." Harry's thighs are shaking; he runs his hands over Sirius' face, digs his thumb into the hinge of Sirius' jaw. "Don't -- don't stop. Please don't stop."
Sirius curls his hand around Harry's prick, rubbing his thumb over the head before teasing the slit with his tongue. "I won't," he says honestly, because he doesn't think he can.
+
The table grunts under Harry's weight, the legs wobbling and the edge rasping against the wall.
Sirius can hear voices in the next room, Remus and Arthur, a low burr that might be Mundungus, but he can't stop rolling his hips, rubbing himself against the curve of Harry's arse as he strokes Harry's prick. Harry makes a low, throaty noise, his hands shaking on the table, his fingers raking through years of dust and chipped lacquer; his head dips as he sucks in another breath, his hair wild behind his ears, sticking to the back of his neck in sweaty clumps.
"I'm -- Sirius, I don't -- I can't."
"Just one more. You can give me one more," Sirius says quietly, his free hand splayed at the small of Harry's back. Harry has already come twice, the sticky mess waiting on the carpet, right between Harry's feet, but Sirius wants it to happen again, wants to feel Harry twist and shudder against him, watch the deep flush burn over Harry's skin, hear Harry gasp and moan and choke out Sirius' name.
Harry sags closer to the table, his shoulders slumping, hunching over; the table groans out another objection, this one loud enough to be heard in the kitchen, and Sirius squeezes Harry's hip, then slides his hand under Harry's chest, holding Harry up as he drags his hand up the length of Harry's prick.
"Sirius, please. I -- I can't."
The voices grow louder, as if approaching the door; Sirius strokes Harry faster, turns his wrist and tightens his grip. "You'd best hurry, or they'll find you like this. Bent over a table with your kecks around your knees."
"Oh fuck." Harry shivers, a taut ripple pushing up the length of his spine. "You wouldn't, you -- fuck."
Sirius pulls Harry back against him, hides a biting kiss just below Harry's ear. "Come on," he murmurs, thumbing the head of Harry's prick, smiling into Harry's shoulder as Harry whines behind his teeth. "They're almost here. They'll see you."
The door creaks, and Harry's prick pulses in his hand.
+
"All right, old man?" Remus asks, leaning against the lintel. He has a tired smile on his face and a bottle of Ogden's Old under his arm.
Sirius snorts. "Who's old, then?" He waves Remus in, nodding as Remus tops off his tea. "Ta. You've more grey in your hair than me."
"It's all part of my furry little problem."
"You used to call it charm."
"If I ever had any of that, I lost it years ago," Remus says, curling up on the other end of the couch. He Transfigures a crystal ashtray into a glass and pours himself a drink. "I mean it, now. Are you all right? You did promise you'd stop brooding in the dark."
"There's a fire on."
"Padfoot."
Sirius shrugs slightly, unsure of what to say. He's in the drawing room alone because Harry is upstairs with Ron and Hermione, because Harry had run past him on the stairs with barely half a word, like he hadn't just sucked Sirius off in the pantry, hadn't stroked himself with Sirius' prick in his mouth, moaned when he pulled back too soon and Sirius accidentally came on his face.
"I'm grand," Sirius says, dropping a little more Firewhisky into his tea. He'd kissed the mess off Harry's chin and jaw, can still taste it on the back of his tongue. "I haven't lost my mind yet."
"Never was much there to start." It's an old joke between them, but Remus' voice is cautious, like he fears he's skirting too close to the truth. "Fancy a chess game, then?"
"Yeah, all right," Sirius says, Summoning the board as he hears muffled laughter from upstairs. "Once I've beaten you, you can tell me again why I can't go with Harry to the station."
+
"Harry, are you -- is it good?"
"Yeah, just -- oh." Harry shifts in Sirius' lap, digging his knees into the couch cushions, tucking his hot face in Sirius' neck as Sirius twists his fingers, pushes in deeper. "It's weird, but it's -- it's good."
He presses his mouth to Harry's temple, drags it open and wet over the slope of Harry's cheek, noses at Harry's jaw until Harry turns enough for Sirius to catch his lips. They kiss slowly, their tongues curling and slipping in time with the careful shift of Sirius' fingers; he slides his other hand up to the back of Harry's neck, knots it into Harry's hair, brushes his thumb over the skin behind Harry's ear as Harry moans into his mouth. He's beautiful like this, his pants off and his pajama top unbuttoned, his cheeks flushed and his glasses crooked and his eyes wide and dark.
"Are you, um." Harry rattles out a breath, digs his fingers into Sirius' shoulders. "Are you -- oh, fuck."
Sirius wants to, has imagined it countless times, lowering Harry to the floor or spreading him out on the bed, pushing open Harry's thighs as he eases his prick into Harry's arse, but he's already too close, a lucent heat writhing in his gut just from watching Harry ride his hand. Harry moans again, tipping his head back, exposing the long line of his throat, and Sirius follows it with his mouth, sets his teeth against the soft skin under Harry's chin.
"I want it," Harry says, his lips bussing against Sirius' ear. "I want you to."
"Come for me first," Sirius says, wrapping his hand around Harry's prick. "Come for me, and then I will."
+
"Harder," Harry says, louder than he should, spots of colour blooming on his cheeks as he twists off the bed.
Sirius thrusts into him, one hand pinning Harry's wrists to the pillows, the other sliding over the smooth skin of Harry's side, and Harry makes a soft, broken noise, his eyes squeezing shut and then fluttering open again. Sirius has sweat pooling in the dip of his throat, and he can't keep his left knee from slipping on the sheets, but Harry is perfect, his legs spread and his back arched, his prick rubbing against Sirius' stomach, dotting a wet trail over Sirius' skin.
"Oh God. Please -- Sirius, please."
Sirius leans up on his knees, pulling Harry's arse into his lap, watching as Harry curves his hand around his prick, as Harry strokes himself harder and faster than Sirius is fucking him, his breath hitching and his legs wrapping around Sirius' waist. He comes easily, his heel digging a bruise into Sirius' thigh, his whole body shuddering in a long, beautiful wave, tightening just enough to drag Sirius over the edge. It leaves Sirius gasping, feeling empty and breathless, and he stretches out against Harry's side, tugging Harry close, kissing Harry and sifting his fingers through Harry's hair until he hears someone Apparate into kitchen with a crack like a rock shattering a window.
"That'll be Mad-Eye," Sirius says, frowning at the door. "He said he wanted an early start."
"Yeah. I should go, I guess." Harry worries his lower lip, doesn't quite meet Sirius' eyes. "If Ron wakes up he'll ask where I've been."
"Go on, then," Sirius says, groping through the bedding until he finds his wand. "Tergeo! Go in and lie down, and I'll get you when it's breakfast. Whatever Mad-Eye wants, it'll be another hour before he pulls Molly out of bed."
+
"Brooding in the dark again, are we?" Remus asks, the couch sighing out a complaint as he settles against the arm. He's wearing a blue and green Weasley sweater, has a teacup cradled between his hands.
"Go on," Sirius says, waving him off. "I've a fire and two lamps." Remus huffs under his breath, a fondly exasperated sound, and Sirius digs a bottle of Odgen's Old from a gap in the cushions. "Need another splash?"
"I thought you'd run out."
"I did. I found this under Regulus' bed."
Remus laughs softly and holds out his cup. "All right, then. But just one. I'm meant to be up in the morning."
"Big plans?"
"I'm, um. Dumbledore wants -- I rather can't talk about it. You know how it is."
Sirius nods, hides a frown behind a quick drink straight from the bottle. "Yeah." Of all the things he has forgotten, he can remember every awful, horrifying moment of the first war. "I know."
"Tonks said she'd come around for tea, so you're not --"
"I'll be all right," Sirius grumbles, shifting on the couch. He doesn't want Tonks, doesn't really want Remus; he can still feel Harry's hands on his skin, hear him laughing as Padfoot chased cats on the way to King's Cross. "I did twelve years in Azkaban, I think I can spend one night alone in this house."
"Padfoot."
"Moony."
Remus sighed and took a long sip of his tea. "Only, it's terribly quiet now. Without the kids, I mean."
"Yeah."
"I expect they were glad to see our backs. Probably tired of having us in their hair all the time."
Sirius swallows around the burning knot in his throat, the dull ache hollowing into his chest. "Yeah, probably."