Only Forgiven [Harry Potter ; Sirius/Harry]
Title: Only Forgiven
Pairing: Sirius/Harry, history of James/Sirius
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: cross-dressing, dubious consent, sixteen-year-old Harry
Summary: Sins cannot be undone, only forgiven. - Igor Stravinsky
Word Count: 2722
Notes: Written for the Fans for Fans Challenge as a sequel to xylodemon’s Sins of the Father. As this is a sequel, I definitely encourage you all to go read that fic first. It is hot. Thank you so much to xylodemon for holding my hand through this and for letting me play with her story. ♥
Comments and feedback are more than welcome. I hope you all enjoy this. :)
~~~
He’s upstairs before Harry can say anything, the door to his room slammed and bolted. He slouches on the corner of his bed, the mattress dipping, and he watches the door cautiously, but the corridor is silent.
Sirius’ breathing is still ragged and he hates that even with both eyes closed, he can still see Harry there, pressed warm and tight around him and against the cold of the wall, his lips full and flushed and opening around Sirius’ name.
Sixteen. Sixteen, Sirius, you bastard.
He can still taste himself on his lips, his own come mixed in with the taste of Harry, his taste mingling with that of the boy who is not James. Not. Never will be.
He wonders if his hand is steady enough to cast an Obliviate spell. He doesn’t want to remember this. He forced Harry… It’s his fault, all his fault, and Harry must hate him.
But God, did it feel good. He’d been alive and it had been hot and wrong as he pressed himself into Harry’s tight wet hole. Wrong, he repeats. It had been wrong. So wrong. Sirius thinks he will never be able to forget the strangled look in Harry’s eyes as he came, as Sirius made him come, told him to, ordered. Harry didn’t want to. No.
Sirius takes several deep breaths and wrings his hands. His mind is chanting that it was a mistake, because he doesn’t. He didn’t. But he did, and he does. He wanted to fuck Harry, and he still does. He wanted to slide his cock into that perfect arse, to watch Harry twist and writhe on it - yes, just like that, up against the wall and boneless and helpless and fuck. Sirius is hard again just thinking about it, and no excuses will change that.
Sirius knows somewhere in his chest that it isn’t Harry he wants. He wants James. He always wanted James. This is just psychology gone awry and it means nothing. It will pass if he just stays up here and calms down… and never has to see Harry again.
Harry just looked so much like James tonight that it hurt. Sirius took because he needed to keep that, keep James, needed to make a new memory for himself because all the old ones were faded and dog-eared from overuse.
Harry doesn’t deserve that, Sirius knows. Harry doesn’t deserve to be a space-filler.
Harry was asking for it, part of Sirius’ mind wants to argue. No. He wasn’t. He didn’t want it.
But what if he did?
No.
Sirius, you really fucked up this one. Don't try to justify it.
He wonders what Harry is doing now, if he’s pulled off the skirt and camisole and if he’s curled up and trembling under the blanket, thinking about his father - his father.
Fuck.
Sirius tries to remember what he’d said to Harry. He told him everything. Everything. Harry must hate him. He has to.
Sirius glares at a burn on the hardwood floor, a circle of black splinters, and thinks he might as well find a large bottle of Firewhisky to drown himself in.
He doesn’t have one, though, and before he can do anything to start forgetting, he hears Harry’s footsteps on the stairs. Sirius freezes, the springs of the bed squeaking and then going silent. He listens, can hear Harry’s feet padding slowly to the landing, down the corridor, stopping in front of Sirius’ door.
Sirius closes his eyes. Fuck, he thinks. It’s over now. It’s all over. How is he going to explain?
When Harry spells the door open, Sirius opens his eyes again. Harry is standing in the doorway, shirt wrinkled, still un-tucked, skirt even shorter than Sirius remembers it. He looks pale, frightened, and he’s so skinny, his legs all angles.
Not James, not James, not James, Sirius thinks, automatically, and wonders how he could have ever thought otherwise. The lighting is different up here, and Harry has sunken shadows under his eyes, and a haunted look, and he is not James. He looks nothing like James.
Sirius was fucking a ghost just now, and both he and Harry know it.
Harry steps into the room and shuts the door. The skirt clings.
“Sirius.”
“Harry.”
Harry’s eyes rake over Sirius, and Sirius feels like they’re accusing him of something, of everything, of hurting and taking and then leaving. The stench of sex is all over Harry, his hair wild and sticking to his forehead, his lips flushed with red, his eyes swimming with Firewhisky and surprise. Sirius can’t stand it. He wants Harry to leave, to stop taunting him with what happened. It’s written all over Harry’s fragile teenage body, in his stance, and the distance between his legs. (Fuck, he’s still wet, isn’t he?)
It’s in the way Harry’s voice wavered when he said Sirius’ name. It was almost a whisper. Sirius wonders what happened to that confident, smiling Harry who’d played Truth or Dare tonight with his two best friends, who had laughed and joked and acted like everything was okay and there wasn't a war on its way.
You took that confidence from him. Humiliated him. Sucked him and fucked him and made him come for you. And now he hates you for it. Can’t hardly look at you.
Oh.
Sirius feels a pang of something worse than guilt.
“Sirius,” Harry begins, and then stops. He breathes in, out, in again, the air whistling between his lips. Sirius can’t look at Harry’s lips anymore so he stares at his collarbone instead. Sharp. Pointed. Just like James. Fuck.
Sirius doesn’t move from the bed. “Harry, I-“
“It’s okay.”
“What?”
“I said it’s okay.”
“Fuck, Harry. It’s not. I didn’t mean to.”
“You did.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re not.”
“Harry, shut up. Listen to me. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
There’s a pause and this time Sirius’ eyes shift their gaze up, meeting Harry’s. Harry’s eyes are so green that it’s painful for Sirius to look at them, but he feels like he needs to, owes that much to Harry after-after all this. He feels terrible, and yet, he doesn’t. Harry’s right. He did mean to. Always meant to. Sirius is not one for hesitation and almost and maybe. He wanted to fuck Harry. So he did.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” he repeats, quieter this time, so much sincerity in his voice that he almost believes his own words.
Harry’s eyes narrow, and he bites his lower lip. “What if it was?” He looks ten years old when he says it, not a teenager at all but a child. A stupid, innocent child who has no idea what it is he’s saying.
Sirius rises off the bed, and he’s angry, not at Harry, but because of what’s happened, because of the attitude on Harry’s face, the way he can brush this off. He’s supposed to hate you, Sirius.
He doesn’t, though. He just looks worried now.
“Oh God,” Sirius murmurs. He’s standing now, legs trembling but holding, and he’s close enough to Harry to touch, but he doesn’t. He stands there looking at the boy, his Harry, his godson. He really does look ridiculous in that skirt. He looks ridiculous and sixteen and Sirius feels like the worst person in the world.
Harry is frozen too. He’s just standing there, staring right back, and Sirius isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do.
“Sirius.”
“Yes,” Sirius answers immediately.
“I want to do that again.”
Fuck. The words go straight to Sirius’ already half-hard cock, and he can’t quite comprehend them. Harry’s not angry. He-fuck. Harry’s looking at Sirius curiously, and Sirius realizes he hasn’t replied. What can he say?
Harry must know. Harry knows that Sirius wants, and he’s just saying those words to drive Sirius mad. He’s teasing. He doesn’t mean any of it. He’s sixteen. He can’t mean any of it.
Sirius swallows hard, but the lump in his throat doesn’t go away.
“I want-“
“No, Harry, you don’t.”
Harry says nothing, but grabs Sirius by the collar of his robes and kisses him, defiantly, and Sirius is reminded so much of James. (“Just because I’m marrying her doesn’t mean- You can’t tell me what I want, Sirius.”) Harry is hard against him, kissing and touching and this time it’s his game. His lips are sloppy from the alcohol, dry because he still doesn’t drink all the water he should, and perfect because it's Harry. Potter. James. But they aren’t James’ lips, Sirius reminds himself.
He’s surprised he’s able to think clearly, to differentiate, because before he wasn’t. He sees Harry before him now, Harry, so small and limber, and even though it's Harry and not James, Sirius still wants him. Fuck, he still wants him.
When Sirius’ fingers find the curve of Harry’s arse, reaching under the material of the skirt, he feels that Harry’s still wet, still waiting, and it’s enough. It’s enough to make Sirius forget words like wrong, and shouldn’t, and no. Harry is shivering in his arms, against his chest, and Sirius feels Harry’s cock pressing against his thigh. If he just moves a little to the right-
“Oh God, Sirius.”
That sound. That whimper. It's what Sirius has been waiting for and he can't stand to wait any longer.
He has Harry back on the bed, before Harry can moan again. The whole room slips into distortion as Sirius pushes Harry onto the mattress, dust motes spinning in the air.
“Fuck, Harry. You just can’t wait, can you? You want it now, don’t you?” Sirius can’t stop himself. The words are tumbling from his mouth against Harry’s neck as his fingers tear at the shirt, pulling it from Harry’s shoulders. He needs to touch, needs to tell Harry that he can’t taunt like this, can’t tease. Doesn’t he know what he’s doing to Sirius?
Harry’s breath catches in his throat and he looks like he’s going to die, his head thrown back against dust-covered pillowcases, his eyes wide. He wriggles on the mattress and the sheets tangle in between his feet.
Sirius’ fingers keep moving.
“You like that, do you?” Sirius snarls hungrily against Harry’s neck, and before he can stop himself, he adds, “James did too.”
No.
Stop.
Harry’s looking at him again, and Sirius knows if he doesn’t stop, if he doesn’t control himself, this will go nowhere good. It will end the same way. Harry is looking at him. Harry is lying back on the mattress of Sirius’ bed, legs spread, lips flushed, waiting. Harry - James isn’t here. James doesn’t need to be here.
“Christ, Harry,” Sirius says breathlessly as he tries to forget, burrowing his nose against Harry’s face and into that sweaty tangle of hair.
Harry arches off the bed, and their cocks meet, and God, the friction is electrifying. They aren’t kissing now, but Harry’s hands are all over Sirius, inexpertly grazing over the clasps on Sirius’ robes, undoing and tearing, and shrugging off at the shoulders. Harry’s hands are wild, calloused and young, and they’re all over Sirius.
“God.”
Sirius isn’t sure which one of them said it, isn't sure it even matters.
Harry’s fingers are at the zip on Sirius’ trousers, pulling down, and then his hands are on Sirius’ cock. Harry gasps at the weight and heat, as if he didn’t expect it. His strokes aren’t skilled, but his fingers feel perfect as they tease about the head, and stroke down the shaft, up and down. It's almost too much and Sirius doesn't want to come yet. Harry is panting against his ear, and Sirius thinks he's going to come if Harry keeps breathing.
Sirius doesn’t want to come yet. He wants to come inside Harry again. He wants to feel the pulse of four walls of skin warm and tight around him.
His eyes meet Harry's. They look at each other, and then Harry nods, legs splaying to the sides, as Sirius moves between them. Harry's fingertips uncurl around Sirius' cock, and Sirius misses the touch immediately. He wastes no time, pushing Harry backwards and sliding his fingertips between Harry’s arse cheeks. Harry is panting already, and his hole is tight and wet and Sirius can feel where he fit there, where he will fit again. Harry’s biting his lip and he looks just like James when he does that, but Sirius doesn’t say it, because it’s Harry, not James, that he’s fucking. It’s Harry whose whimper-tone glides across the shell of Sirius’ ear as Sirius’ finger twists inside Harry’s tight entrance.
Harry’s hips are arching off the bed, the garters digging into his thighs, the skirt wrinkling under the press of Sirius’ chest, and Harry looks divine. Sirius wants to touch him all over, and he doesn’t know if that’s the Firewhisky, or the lack of sleep, of the lack of James, or if it’s because Harry is looking at him the way he is now, eyes wide and waiting. Fuck me, his gaze seems to say, and Sirius wonders what it would take to get Harry to say those words out loud, and God, what it would sound like. Beautiful. Filthy. So hot.
Sirius pulls out his fingers and sits back on his heels, looking at Harry. Harry’s body is at an odd angle now, back bent and hips rocking off the bed. He looks so desperate and helpless. He’s trembling, and Sirius can see that Harry wants him, needs him, needs to be fucked right now or he'll die. He might as well be begging.
He could be.
“What is it, Harry?” Sirius asks, eyes on Harry’s cock. It’s leaking already, hard as ever and brushing the wool of Hermione’s skirt. Sirius thinks it’s on purpose, the slide of Harry’s prick along that material. Sirius thinks it’s a taunt.
Harry looks at him defiantly and says nothing. He looks like he wants to whimper.
“What is it, Harry? What is it you want?”
Harry’s whole body trembles, and Sirius thinks that he could make the boy come on his voice alone. He almost comes at the thought, the thought of ordering Harry to come untouched. Fuck.
“Want-“ Harry starts. His voice punctuates in a gasp. “Want you to-“
“Yes.”
“Fuck me.”
“Good.”
Sirius moves quickly then, sliding forward and capturing Harry’s mouth with his own as his cock finds Harry’s entrance again, sliding into the ring of muscle with a single thrust. Harry’s body feels perfect beneath his own, his legs wrapped around Sirius’ waist, his heels digging roughly into Sirius’ back, kneading the skin and pushing just as his hips jerk upward, taking Sirius deeper.
Sirius kisses Harry to distract himself, to keep his eyes shut so he doesn’t look at how broad Harry’s shoulders have gotten, how much he looks like James when he’s lying back and mewling. He kisses Harry because it seems like the right thing to do, and it stops Sirius from hearing the words come out of Harry’s mouth, all the questions Sirius is sure must be there. Sirius kisses Harry to stop himself from hearing “no”. He swallows all the sounds that Harry might make because it's easier that way.
He’s thrusting hard now, his hand slipping between them and wrapping around Harry’s cock. He strokes in time with his own rhythm, his fingers long and gripping. Harry groans, a low feral sound, and pants hot breaths into Sirius’ mouth and Sirius has to pull away or he’ll choke. He pumps Harry’s cock and slams into Harry’s arse hard and when he comes, his voices slices out "Harry" against the sweat-slick skin of Harry’s neck. Not James. Harry.
“God,” Harry exhales, and he’s spent too, spilling over Sirius’ fingers and his own stomach, sticky and wet. Sirius drops forward, pressing his chest to Harry’s. He can feel the peaks of Harry’s nipples against his skin, can feel the scratchy wool of Hermione’s skirt against the plane of his stomach, and Harry’s lips find Sirius’ neck as if they’re meant to be there.
"Oh," Sirius says, and it's a good thing to say because it's not James or I'm sorry or even Yes. It's neutral and simple and it slides off his tongue easily, a quiet, sated sound.
As Sirius’ orgasm slips from him and the dust and reality of Grimmauld Place slowly slide back into focus, Sirius realizes that he should hate himself. He's lying with his body pressed to Harry's and he can feel Harry's breaths in his hair and he should really loathe himself for this.
But this time, he doesn’t.
~~~
Pairing: Sirius/Harry, history of James/Sirius
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: cross-dressing, dubious consent, sixteen-year-old Harry
Summary: Sins cannot be undone, only forgiven. - Igor Stravinsky
Word Count: 2722
Notes: Written for the Fans for Fans Challenge as a sequel to xylodemon’s Sins of the Father. As this is a sequel, I definitely encourage you all to go read that fic first. It is hot. Thank you so much to xylodemon for holding my hand through this and for letting me play with her story. ♥
Comments and feedback are more than welcome. I hope you all enjoy this. :)
~~~
He’s upstairs before Harry can say anything, the door to his room slammed and bolted. He slouches on the corner of his bed, the mattress dipping, and he watches the door cautiously, but the corridor is silent.
Sirius’ breathing is still ragged and he hates that even with both eyes closed, he can still see Harry there, pressed warm and tight around him and against the cold of the wall, his lips full and flushed and opening around Sirius’ name.
Sixteen. Sixteen, Sirius, you bastard.
He can still taste himself on his lips, his own come mixed in with the taste of Harry, his taste mingling with that of the boy who is not James. Not. Never will be.
He wonders if his hand is steady enough to cast an Obliviate spell. He doesn’t want to remember this. He forced Harry… It’s his fault, all his fault, and Harry must hate him.
But God, did it feel good. He’d been alive and it had been hot and wrong as he pressed himself into Harry’s tight wet hole. Wrong, he repeats. It had been wrong. So wrong. Sirius thinks he will never be able to forget the strangled look in Harry’s eyes as he came, as Sirius made him come, told him to, ordered. Harry didn’t want to. No.
Sirius takes several deep breaths and wrings his hands. His mind is chanting that it was a mistake, because he doesn’t. He didn’t. But he did, and he does. He wanted to fuck Harry, and he still does. He wanted to slide his cock into that perfect arse, to watch Harry twist and writhe on it - yes, just like that, up against the wall and boneless and helpless and fuck. Sirius is hard again just thinking about it, and no excuses will change that.
Sirius knows somewhere in his chest that it isn’t Harry he wants. He wants James. He always wanted James. This is just psychology gone awry and it means nothing. It will pass if he just stays up here and calms down… and never has to see Harry again.
Harry just looked so much like James tonight that it hurt. Sirius took because he needed to keep that, keep James, needed to make a new memory for himself because all the old ones were faded and dog-eared from overuse.
Harry doesn’t deserve that, Sirius knows. Harry doesn’t deserve to be a space-filler.
Harry was asking for it, part of Sirius’ mind wants to argue. No. He wasn’t. He didn’t want it.
But what if he did?
No.
Sirius, you really fucked up this one. Don't try to justify it.
He wonders what Harry is doing now, if he’s pulled off the skirt and camisole and if he’s curled up and trembling under the blanket, thinking about his father - his father.
Fuck.
Sirius tries to remember what he’d said to Harry. He told him everything. Everything. Harry must hate him. He has to.
Sirius glares at a burn on the hardwood floor, a circle of black splinters, and thinks he might as well find a large bottle of Firewhisky to drown himself in.
He doesn’t have one, though, and before he can do anything to start forgetting, he hears Harry’s footsteps on the stairs. Sirius freezes, the springs of the bed squeaking and then going silent. He listens, can hear Harry’s feet padding slowly to the landing, down the corridor, stopping in front of Sirius’ door.
Sirius closes his eyes. Fuck, he thinks. It’s over now. It’s all over. How is he going to explain?
When Harry spells the door open, Sirius opens his eyes again. Harry is standing in the doorway, shirt wrinkled, still un-tucked, skirt even shorter than Sirius remembers it. He looks pale, frightened, and he’s so skinny, his legs all angles.
Not James, not James, not James, Sirius thinks, automatically, and wonders how he could have ever thought otherwise. The lighting is different up here, and Harry has sunken shadows under his eyes, and a haunted look, and he is not James. He looks nothing like James.
Sirius was fucking a ghost just now, and both he and Harry know it.
Harry steps into the room and shuts the door. The skirt clings.
“Sirius.”
“Harry.”
Harry’s eyes rake over Sirius, and Sirius feels like they’re accusing him of something, of everything, of hurting and taking and then leaving. The stench of sex is all over Harry, his hair wild and sticking to his forehead, his lips flushed with red, his eyes swimming with Firewhisky and surprise. Sirius can’t stand it. He wants Harry to leave, to stop taunting him with what happened. It’s written all over Harry’s fragile teenage body, in his stance, and the distance between his legs. (Fuck, he’s still wet, isn’t he?)
It’s in the way Harry’s voice wavered when he said Sirius’ name. It was almost a whisper. Sirius wonders what happened to that confident, smiling Harry who’d played Truth or Dare tonight with his two best friends, who had laughed and joked and acted like everything was okay and there wasn't a war on its way.
You took that confidence from him. Humiliated him. Sucked him and fucked him and made him come for you. And now he hates you for it. Can’t hardly look at you.
Oh.
Sirius feels a pang of something worse than guilt.
“Sirius,” Harry begins, and then stops. He breathes in, out, in again, the air whistling between his lips. Sirius can’t look at Harry’s lips anymore so he stares at his collarbone instead. Sharp. Pointed. Just like James. Fuck.
Sirius doesn’t move from the bed. “Harry, I-“
“It’s okay.”
“What?”
“I said it’s okay.”
“Fuck, Harry. It’s not. I didn’t mean to.”
“You did.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re not.”
“Harry, shut up. Listen to me. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
There’s a pause and this time Sirius’ eyes shift their gaze up, meeting Harry’s. Harry’s eyes are so green that it’s painful for Sirius to look at them, but he feels like he needs to, owes that much to Harry after-after all this. He feels terrible, and yet, he doesn’t. Harry’s right. He did mean to. Always meant to. Sirius is not one for hesitation and almost and maybe. He wanted to fuck Harry. So he did.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” he repeats, quieter this time, so much sincerity in his voice that he almost believes his own words.
Harry’s eyes narrow, and he bites his lower lip. “What if it was?” He looks ten years old when he says it, not a teenager at all but a child. A stupid, innocent child who has no idea what it is he’s saying.
Sirius rises off the bed, and he’s angry, not at Harry, but because of what’s happened, because of the attitude on Harry’s face, the way he can brush this off. He’s supposed to hate you, Sirius.
He doesn’t, though. He just looks worried now.
“Oh God,” Sirius murmurs. He’s standing now, legs trembling but holding, and he’s close enough to Harry to touch, but he doesn’t. He stands there looking at the boy, his Harry, his godson. He really does look ridiculous in that skirt. He looks ridiculous and sixteen and Sirius feels like the worst person in the world.
Harry is frozen too. He’s just standing there, staring right back, and Sirius isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do.
“Sirius.”
“Yes,” Sirius answers immediately.
“I want to do that again.”
Fuck. The words go straight to Sirius’ already half-hard cock, and he can’t quite comprehend them. Harry’s not angry. He-fuck. Harry’s looking at Sirius curiously, and Sirius realizes he hasn’t replied. What can he say?
Harry must know. Harry knows that Sirius wants, and he’s just saying those words to drive Sirius mad. He’s teasing. He doesn’t mean any of it. He’s sixteen. He can’t mean any of it.
Sirius swallows hard, but the lump in his throat doesn’t go away.
“I want-“
“No, Harry, you don’t.”
Harry says nothing, but grabs Sirius by the collar of his robes and kisses him, defiantly, and Sirius is reminded so much of James. (“Just because I’m marrying her doesn’t mean- You can’t tell me what I want, Sirius.”) Harry is hard against him, kissing and touching and this time it’s his game. His lips are sloppy from the alcohol, dry because he still doesn’t drink all the water he should, and perfect because it's Harry. Potter. James. But they aren’t James’ lips, Sirius reminds himself.
He’s surprised he’s able to think clearly, to differentiate, because before he wasn’t. He sees Harry before him now, Harry, so small and limber, and even though it's Harry and not James, Sirius still wants him. Fuck, he still wants him.
When Sirius’ fingers find the curve of Harry’s arse, reaching under the material of the skirt, he feels that Harry’s still wet, still waiting, and it’s enough. It’s enough to make Sirius forget words like wrong, and shouldn’t, and no. Harry is shivering in his arms, against his chest, and Sirius feels Harry’s cock pressing against his thigh. If he just moves a little to the right-
“Oh God, Sirius.”
That sound. That whimper. It's what Sirius has been waiting for and he can't stand to wait any longer.
He has Harry back on the bed, before Harry can moan again. The whole room slips into distortion as Sirius pushes Harry onto the mattress, dust motes spinning in the air.
“Fuck, Harry. You just can’t wait, can you? You want it now, don’t you?” Sirius can’t stop himself. The words are tumbling from his mouth against Harry’s neck as his fingers tear at the shirt, pulling it from Harry’s shoulders. He needs to touch, needs to tell Harry that he can’t taunt like this, can’t tease. Doesn’t he know what he’s doing to Sirius?
Harry’s breath catches in his throat and he looks like he’s going to die, his head thrown back against dust-covered pillowcases, his eyes wide. He wriggles on the mattress and the sheets tangle in between his feet.
Sirius’ fingers keep moving.
“You like that, do you?” Sirius snarls hungrily against Harry’s neck, and before he can stop himself, he adds, “James did too.”
No.
Stop.
Harry’s looking at him again, and Sirius knows if he doesn’t stop, if he doesn’t control himself, this will go nowhere good. It will end the same way. Harry is looking at him. Harry is lying back on the mattress of Sirius’ bed, legs spread, lips flushed, waiting. Harry - James isn’t here. James doesn’t need to be here.
“Christ, Harry,” Sirius says breathlessly as he tries to forget, burrowing his nose against Harry’s face and into that sweaty tangle of hair.
Harry arches off the bed, and their cocks meet, and God, the friction is electrifying. They aren’t kissing now, but Harry’s hands are all over Sirius, inexpertly grazing over the clasps on Sirius’ robes, undoing and tearing, and shrugging off at the shoulders. Harry’s hands are wild, calloused and young, and they’re all over Sirius.
“God.”
Sirius isn’t sure which one of them said it, isn't sure it even matters.
Harry’s fingers are at the zip on Sirius’ trousers, pulling down, and then his hands are on Sirius’ cock. Harry gasps at the weight and heat, as if he didn’t expect it. His strokes aren’t skilled, but his fingers feel perfect as they tease about the head, and stroke down the shaft, up and down. It's almost too much and Sirius doesn't want to come yet. Harry is panting against his ear, and Sirius thinks he's going to come if Harry keeps breathing.
Sirius doesn’t want to come yet. He wants to come inside Harry again. He wants to feel the pulse of four walls of skin warm and tight around him.
His eyes meet Harry's. They look at each other, and then Harry nods, legs splaying to the sides, as Sirius moves between them. Harry's fingertips uncurl around Sirius' cock, and Sirius misses the touch immediately. He wastes no time, pushing Harry backwards and sliding his fingertips between Harry’s arse cheeks. Harry is panting already, and his hole is tight and wet and Sirius can feel where he fit there, where he will fit again. Harry’s biting his lip and he looks just like James when he does that, but Sirius doesn’t say it, because it’s Harry, not James, that he’s fucking. It’s Harry whose whimper-tone glides across the shell of Sirius’ ear as Sirius’ finger twists inside Harry’s tight entrance.
Harry’s hips are arching off the bed, the garters digging into his thighs, the skirt wrinkling under the press of Sirius’ chest, and Harry looks divine. Sirius wants to touch him all over, and he doesn’t know if that’s the Firewhisky, or the lack of sleep, of the lack of James, or if it’s because Harry is looking at him the way he is now, eyes wide and waiting. Fuck me, his gaze seems to say, and Sirius wonders what it would take to get Harry to say those words out loud, and God, what it would sound like. Beautiful. Filthy. So hot.
Sirius pulls out his fingers and sits back on his heels, looking at Harry. Harry’s body is at an odd angle now, back bent and hips rocking off the bed. He looks so desperate and helpless. He’s trembling, and Sirius can see that Harry wants him, needs him, needs to be fucked right now or he'll die. He might as well be begging.
He could be.
“What is it, Harry?” Sirius asks, eyes on Harry’s cock. It’s leaking already, hard as ever and brushing the wool of Hermione’s skirt. Sirius thinks it’s on purpose, the slide of Harry’s prick along that material. Sirius thinks it’s a taunt.
Harry looks at him defiantly and says nothing. He looks like he wants to whimper.
“What is it, Harry? What is it you want?”
Harry’s whole body trembles, and Sirius thinks that he could make the boy come on his voice alone. He almost comes at the thought, the thought of ordering Harry to come untouched. Fuck.
“Want-“ Harry starts. His voice punctuates in a gasp. “Want you to-“
“Yes.”
“Fuck me.”
“Good.”
Sirius moves quickly then, sliding forward and capturing Harry’s mouth with his own as his cock finds Harry’s entrance again, sliding into the ring of muscle with a single thrust. Harry’s body feels perfect beneath his own, his legs wrapped around Sirius’ waist, his heels digging roughly into Sirius’ back, kneading the skin and pushing just as his hips jerk upward, taking Sirius deeper.
Sirius kisses Harry to distract himself, to keep his eyes shut so he doesn’t look at how broad Harry’s shoulders have gotten, how much he looks like James when he’s lying back and mewling. He kisses Harry because it seems like the right thing to do, and it stops Sirius from hearing the words come out of Harry’s mouth, all the questions Sirius is sure must be there. Sirius kisses Harry to stop himself from hearing “no”. He swallows all the sounds that Harry might make because it's easier that way.
He’s thrusting hard now, his hand slipping between them and wrapping around Harry’s cock. He strokes in time with his own rhythm, his fingers long and gripping. Harry groans, a low feral sound, and pants hot breaths into Sirius’ mouth and Sirius has to pull away or he’ll choke. He pumps Harry’s cock and slams into Harry’s arse hard and when he comes, his voices slices out "Harry" against the sweat-slick skin of Harry’s neck. Not James. Harry.
“God,” Harry exhales, and he’s spent too, spilling over Sirius’ fingers and his own stomach, sticky and wet. Sirius drops forward, pressing his chest to Harry’s. He can feel the peaks of Harry’s nipples against his skin, can feel the scratchy wool of Hermione’s skirt against the plane of his stomach, and Harry’s lips find Sirius’ neck as if they’re meant to be there.
"Oh," Sirius says, and it's a good thing to say because it's not James or I'm sorry or even Yes. It's neutral and simple and it slides off his tongue easily, a quiet, sated sound.
As Sirius’ orgasm slips from him and the dust and reality of Grimmauld Place slowly slide back into focus, Sirius realizes that he should hate himself. He's lying with his body pressed to Harry's and he can feel Harry's breaths in his hair and he should really loathe himself for this.
But this time, he doesn’t.
~~~