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Title: Keeping Secrets
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Angst/Romance
Pairing: Sirius Black/Harry Potter
Warnings: Underage (Harry is 15), secret relationship, rough sex, shower sex, anal play, dirty talk
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Harry knows that it’s wrong, sneaking around with Sirius like this. He knows that they both know it’s wrong. What he doesn’t know is why Sirius started it when he can barely look Harry in the eye afterwards.
Author's Notes: This was written for this year's fabulous![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hp_crossgenfest.
He’s shaking as he’s lowered to the floor. His legs are trembling too badly to hold him upright, so he has to lean back against the wall as he fights to control his breathing. The ache in his arse is becoming a familiar sensation – so is the warm slide of come down his thigh and the hollow feeling in his chest when Sirius reaches out to steady him but doesn’t meet his eyes.
He hates this. He hates the furtive, frantic fucking and the silencing charms and the mad scramble to shed clothes and then pull them back on. But he doesn’t hate any of it enough to stop, and he loves it just enough to keep going even though he knows – even though they both know – that they shouldn’t.
“Are you alright?” Sirius asks after a moment. He’s still not looking at Harry. It looks like he’s studying a patch of wallpaper somewhere near Harry’s left knee. A wave of exhaustion breaks over him, and Harry sighs.
“I’m good. I’m great,” he says. “Er, yeah. Good.”
Sirius snorts in disbelief, but doesn’t argue. He pulls back so that Harry is standing on his own, and after another moment, Harry pushes himself off the wall and starts searching for his trousers. They’re in a crumpled heap next to one of the sofas – his boxers had been conveniently flung on top of them – and he ignores the sticky smears on his legs in favour of pulling them on. He’ll shower later, for whatever good it’ll do; he knows better than to think this is the last time for either of them.
Once he’s dressed, he turns. Sirius is already by the door. There’s an expression on his face, just before he looks away again, that makes that hollow feeling expand like a balloon behind his ribs and a lump grow in his throat.
Harry swallows awkwardly. He doesn’t follow Sirius when he goes. He slumps down onto the sofa instead, and curls his body around a pillow. He feels…tired. Lost. He doesn’t want to be around people or do anything except lie here and try and solve the mystery of what the hell he’s even doing sneaking around with Sirius like this.
He’s not sure, exactly, why Sirius was the one to start it. And it was Sirius who did: that first night in Grimmauld Place, he’d sat there arguing with Mrs Weasley while holding Harry’s hand in his own. He’d played with Harry’s fingers and rubbed his thumb over his knuckles, and then he’d let Harry’s hand go in favour of sliding his hand up Harry’s thigh instead.
Another thing Harry’s not sure of: how on earth he sat there with a straight face and let Sirius grope him in a room full of people without turning scarlet. Or, for that matter, how no one in that room noticed what was going on. How none of them have caught on since, despite how many near-misses they’ve had.
He can put the Order’s willful ignorance down to him being the Boy-Who-Lived. He’s…well. He’s not used to it, but he has learned that most people only see the scar on his head and not the person behind it. And the great scion of Light Magic that he’s supposed to be isn’t the kind of person who sucks off his own godfather in the parlour. Apparently. So despite the very awkward conversation Sirius had had with Shacklebolt while Harry knelt, quietly choking on his cock, hiding behind the sofa, no one knew.
Still, he doesn’t know why Sirius started it. He doesn’t know what Sirius wants from him. He knows what he wants: Sirius. He wants Sirius like he’s never wanted anything, and even though he knows he shouldn’t – that it’s wrong on so many levels – he’s willing to take the guilt and the regret to be able to have even a little of him.
He tries not to think about Mrs Weasley’s accusation: that Sirius sees his father instead of him. He tries, but sometimes – like now – it slips into his mind and curls through his thoughts and poisons every moment that he should be trying to hold dear.
Did Sirius fuck his father too? Did he grope James Potter under the dinner table and shag him up against walls or bent over furniture? Did they sneak around together, their only witnesses the portraits who hissed and whispered of their shame? That Sirius has never actually called him James is a small comfort – the only comfort he really has.
He sighs and runs his hands through his hair. He feels sticky and terrible, and he desperately needs a shower, but he doesn’t move. He stays on the sofa and buries his face in his hands instead.
Sometimes he wishes he could go back to the start of the summer and make sure that this never happened.
…
He doesn’t manage to shower before dinner. He sits through the meal with the crusted remains of Sirius’ come on his thighs and between the cheeks of his arse. And for all his avoidance earlier, Harry can feel Sirius’ gaze on him. He shifts deliberately in his seat – boldly meets his godfather’s gaze from across the table – and licks his lips slowly as Sirius’ eyes darken. As wrong as it is, he craves this.
Under the table, Sirius’ foot hooks around his ankle. His toes – bare and weirdly long – slip under the hem of Harry’s jeans and flex against the delicate skin. Harry shivers, but manages to tear himself away in time to smile up at Mrs Weasley as she heaps a second-helping of mince and dumplings onto his plate. He didn’t ask for it – and he’s comfortably full as it is – but the extra food gives him an excuse to linger.
He scoots forward a little, as if to tuck-in to his dinner, and Sirius’ foot migrates up his calf to slide up his inner thigh. Long toes grip and wiggle against his inseam, shifting ever higher, and Harry has to try not to squirm or gasp as, after what feels like an eternity, Sirius nudges against his cock. Instead, he spreads his legs slightly, allowing Sirius better access, and chokes down as much food as he can bear as his godfather teases him to hardness.
It’s torture, sitting there. Sitting through fucking desert, distracted from his sticky toffee pudding by his godfather’s shameless petting and the sly, lazy grin that curls around Sirius’ lips as he watches Harry suffer over the rim of his whiskey glass. And this, this is what Harry doesn’t understand. Sirius clearly wants him so very much, and yet half the time – whenever he’s not trying to get Harry off – he can’t seem to stand him. Is it guilt? Is it that Harry isn’t enough like his father when he’s not halfway to orgasm?
That’s the thought that ends it. His erection dies. He knows that Sirius feels it, because his godfather looks at him oddly and, for a moment, Harry’s tempted to laugh at the concern in his gaze. It’s so stupid. So fucking absurd. By not pushing Sirius away and by taking everything he wants from the man, he’s somehow managed to ruin everything.
He feels dirty. He feels sick. He dislodges Sirius’ foot from his lap and excuses himself; says that he’s tired and that he wants a shower before bed. It’s true – but he also wants to just get away from them. From everyone, and especially from Sirius, who’s looking like Harry’s just snatched his favourite toy away and –
Fuck it. He knows that Sirius is going to follow him and he knows that he’s going to be fucked until he’s sore and shaking and begging for more because he always is. He offers Sirius a crooked little smile and makes his way upstairs. His belly feels heavy and – anticipation building once more – his cock is hardening again. He wants to get to the bathroom and at least wash the traces of their last round off before Sirius gets to him; he doesn’t want Sirius to know that he’s that much of a filthy slut.
There’s an ensuite between Sirius’ room and the one that used to belong to his younger brother. Harry heads there. Harry and Sirius are, effectively, the only people who use it. The only way to get to it is through one of the adjoining bedrooms, and most of the Order are still too wary of Sirius to just walk through his bedroom even if there aren’t really enough bathrooms in the house for all the people staying there. Still, Harry doesn’t care: he likes the illusion of privacy when he can get it.
(The portrait across the hall spots Harry opening the door, she rustles in her frame and sniffs disapprovingly. She mutters something under her breath, and Harry ignores her. The portraits might not approve, but Sirius is still the owner of the house: they won’t go against him.)
He pays no attention to the dodgy seventies posters of half-naked girls and motorbikes. He’s fairly sure Sirius was more interested in the bikes than the awkwardly posed women who are draped all over them. They watch him, static eyes blankly staring, as he slips out of his clothes to stand naked in the middle of the floor. He reaches down to stroke himself and eyes the bed thoughtfully. The temptation to forget having a shower is there; he could drape himself over Sirius’ pillows and filch the lube from out of the top drawer and get started. Start opening himself up again so that Sirius walks in and sees him – filthy and open and already begging for it – and he shivers at the thought; tightens his grip on the base of his cock and tugs on his balls so he doesn’t come.
He could do that, but it wouldn’t take very long for him to be ready. And besides, he prefers Sirius’ fingers to his own.
He makes up his mind and goes with his original plan. He enters into the ensuite and switches on the shower, waiting for it to heat up before stepping in. He washes his body first, scrubbing off the morning’s smears and stains, and teasing his cock with soapy hands. Sirius is taking forever.
He parts his legs as wide as he can and braces himself against the tiles. He reaches round and soaps himself there too, getting the lather nice and thick before pressing a finger in. The angle is terrible and he can’t go very deep and he’s still fairly loose from the morning, but a second finger has him moaning from the stretch. It echoes off the tiles and his cock, heavy between his thighs, twitches urgently.
He takes it slow. Or, rather, as slow as he can. He turns his head and rests his cheek on his forearm so that he can watch the door. It’s not the most comfortable position in the world, but he wants to see Sirius’ face when he walks in.
It’s worth it.
He’s three fingers deep in himself by the time Sirius pokes his head round the door. It takes a second, but Harry gets to see the sight of him – splayed out and ready and desperate - register in Sirius’ mind. He gets to see his godfather’s jaw drop and his eyes darken with desire and he knows that this time is going to be good.
“Sirius,” he says, and it comes out low and urgent. “Sirius, fuck me. Please.”
There’s a horrible moment when he thinks he sees the guilt again. But he twists his fingers deliberately inside of himself, and the resulting moan is only half-staged. He wants this. He wants Sirius to want him.
He watches hungrily as Sirius undresses. His godfather is long and thin all over, from the tips of his toes to his crooked fingers. His cock is long as well, but unlike the rest of him it’s fat and heavy. Harry has felt the weight of it on his tongue and the burning stretch of it entering him from every angle, and he loves Sirius’ cock. He loves its taste and its smell and the way he feels like he’s going to split open when it’s inside of him. He’s addicted to that cock, and he knows it. Knows that he’ll never be able to say no; knows that he’ll never want to.
Sirius strokes himself as he steps into the shower. His cock is a deep, angry purple; so dark next to the general pallor of Sirius’ skin that it almost looks like it belongs to a separate person.
“Are you sure?” Sirius asks, so quiet that it’s almost impossible to hear him over the rushing water.
Harry doesn’t answer. He pulls his fingers out of his arse and reaches out to wrap them around Sirius’ cock instead. He slicks his godfather up with determined strokes – he’s not really sure, in all honesty. He knows fine well that everything happening between himself and Sirius is incredibly stupid, and that to continue it willingly is even more so, but he wants. And Sirius at least wants something that Harry can give him, whether it’s a memory of his father or just a willing arse, so while he doesn’t dignify Sirius’ question with a verbal response, he pulls him closer by his cock and arches his back to present his arse like the little slut he’s become. It’s the best he can do.
Sirius huffs with laughter, and rubs one of his hands over Harry’s lower back. He soaps his fingers in the mess of suds between Harry’s arse cheeks and spreads him open to study his hole. He traces lightly around the rim, making Harry quiver and twitch before pressing two fingers in deep.
Harry moans. Loudly. He lets his head tilt forward and rest against the tiles as he pushes back onto Sirius’ hand. He takes a third finger with ease, and then Sirius is pressing his cock into him instead, murmuring filth into Harry’s ear, just barely audible over the water.
“Fuck, Harry, so beautiful. You’re such a good boy for me Harry. You love it, don’t you? You love having my cock fuck you open.”
Harry moans shamelessly. Sirius’s thrusts are slow and deep, dragging over his prostate and sending sparks up his spine. And what Sirius is saying… Fuck, but that’s the best part. Usually Sirius just sighs and groans; calls Harry a “good boy” when he swallows his come, and leaves it at that. He doesn’t usually talk like this, and every word is going straight to Harry’s dick. He’s so painfully hard that he’s not sure he’s going to last – if Sirius keeps talking then he knows he won’t, even though there’s no friction. Sirius’ hands are on his hips, holding him steady, and his own hands are braced against the wall. The only touch his cock is getting is a rhythmic against his belly every time Sirius thrusts in. It’s nowhere near enough, and yet it’s managing to be too much at the same time.
“Love your arse, Harry,” Sirius says. He shifts his hands as he talks, and uses his thumbs to spread Harry’s cheeks. “So fucking beautiful. So tight for me, baby boy. So good.”
One of his hands slides round, by-passing Harry’s cock in favour of curling over his belly and rubbing at the stretched skin. Harry knows that it’s still slightly distended from eating too much at dinner – he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror before climbing in the shower. Sirius doesn’t add any pressure, thankfully. He just rubs and caresses and keeps up his slow, steady pace of deep, toe-curling thrusts.
Harry feels the scratch of Sirius’ stubble on the back of his neck just before his godfather kisses him there. It’s soft and open-mouthed; probably wet, but it’s hard to tell given how wet Harry is already.
“You’re so full, baby boy,” Sirius says. “Want to fill you up even more. Want you stuffed full of come, baby boy, want to fucking breed you.”
Harry shudders. He reaches back helplessly and curls his fingers around the sharp jut of Sirius’ hipbone. “Please,” he says. “Please, Sirius. Please. I want it.” He can feel the flex of muscles under Sirius’ skin as he begins to move faster. Black spots dance over Harry’s vision as his cock spasms and twitches and he sobs as he comes all over the tile. He hears Sirius moan; hears that litany of filth falter. And then Sirius is guiding his hand back onto the wall – higher this time – stretching him up so that he’s standing on his tip-toes and he’s fucking Harry hard and fast, scraping the back of his neck with his teeth and calling him a “good boy” and a “perfect fucking slut” and it feels so good that Harry can barely breath.
“Tell me you love it,” Sirius hisses into his ear. “Tell me you fucking want it, Harry.”
And between the water and his desperate, needy sobs, Harry can’t get enough air into his lungs to tell him. He presses back as best as he can; nods his head; silently wails his desire.
“Fucking tell me!” Sirius snarls. He’s losing his rhythm. He’s close – so close – but the hand that’s been resting on Harry’s belly slides down to grasp at his cock and stroke. The noise that tears free of Harry’s throat is close to inhuman – he’s so sensitive that he hardens again almost instantly; he’d never really softened, but one touch and he’s close again. But that savage cry of pleasure seems to have loosened something, and suddenly he can talk, he is talking. Words are pouring out of him, and he’s only half aware of what he’s saying when the phrase “I love you” slips out and Sirius goes still.
There’s an awful, ghastly pause before Sirius starts moving again. Slower, more gentle – almost hesitant, and Harry feels utterly helpless before Sirius presses a kiss to the back of his neck again. “Relax,” he murmurs, and Harry does. At least, he tries to: he’s still stretched up on his toes against the shower wall. He loses himself in the familiar pleasure. It’s more tender now than it’s ever been, and he feels almost good about himself by the time he feels Sirius come inside of him. It only takes a few more strokes before he comes for a second time, and he slumps bonelessly in Sirius’ hold.
Sirius doesn’t move away this time. He stands with him, still buried in Harry’s body, and actually holds him. Harry can feel Sirius’ heart beating against his back; can feel his breath hot against his neck.
“What are we doing, Harry?” Sirius asks.
He sounds lost and exhausted, and that – more than anything else – is why Harry doesn’t try to pull away. He sighs instead. He turns in Sirius’ arms, letting Sirius slip out of him, and he buries his face in his chest. “I don’t know,” he replies. “I really don’t.”
Sirius’ hand strokes down his back and he tightens his grip on Harry’s body. They stand there under the cooling water, silent apart from their breathing, and cling to each other. They’re standing so close that, when Sirius does speak, Harry feels it more than he hears it.
He thinks Sirius just said “I love you too”, but he doesn’t want to ask and make sure.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Angst/Romance
Pairing: Sirius Black/Harry Potter
Warnings: Underage (Harry is 15), secret relationship, rough sex, shower sex, anal play, dirty talk
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Harry knows that it’s wrong, sneaking around with Sirius like this. He knows that they both know it’s wrong. What he doesn’t know is why Sirius started it when he can barely look Harry in the eye afterwards.
Author's Notes: This was written for this year's fabulous
hp_crossgenfest.He’s shaking as he’s lowered to the floor. His legs are trembling too badly to hold him upright, so he has to lean back against the wall as he fights to control his breathing. The ache in his arse is becoming a familiar sensation – so is the warm slide of come down his thigh and the hollow feeling in his chest when Sirius reaches out to steady him but doesn’t meet his eyes.
He hates this. He hates the furtive, frantic fucking and the silencing charms and the mad scramble to shed clothes and then pull them back on. But he doesn’t hate any of it enough to stop, and he loves it just enough to keep going even though he knows – even though they both know – that they shouldn’t.
“Are you alright?” Sirius asks after a moment. He’s still not looking at Harry. It looks like he’s studying a patch of wallpaper somewhere near Harry’s left knee. A wave of exhaustion breaks over him, and Harry sighs.
“I’m good. I’m great,” he says. “Er, yeah. Good.”
Sirius snorts in disbelief, but doesn’t argue. He pulls back so that Harry is standing on his own, and after another moment, Harry pushes himself off the wall and starts searching for his trousers. They’re in a crumpled heap next to one of the sofas – his boxers had been conveniently flung on top of them – and he ignores the sticky smears on his legs in favour of pulling them on. He’ll shower later, for whatever good it’ll do; he knows better than to think this is the last time for either of them.
Once he’s dressed, he turns. Sirius is already by the door. There’s an expression on his face, just before he looks away again, that makes that hollow feeling expand like a balloon behind his ribs and a lump grow in his throat.
Harry swallows awkwardly. He doesn’t follow Sirius when he goes. He slumps down onto the sofa instead, and curls his body around a pillow. He feels…tired. Lost. He doesn’t want to be around people or do anything except lie here and try and solve the mystery of what the hell he’s even doing sneaking around with Sirius like this.
He’s not sure, exactly, why Sirius was the one to start it. And it was Sirius who did: that first night in Grimmauld Place, he’d sat there arguing with Mrs Weasley while holding Harry’s hand in his own. He’d played with Harry’s fingers and rubbed his thumb over his knuckles, and then he’d let Harry’s hand go in favour of sliding his hand up Harry’s thigh instead.
Another thing Harry’s not sure of: how on earth he sat there with a straight face and let Sirius grope him in a room full of people without turning scarlet. Or, for that matter, how no one in that room noticed what was going on. How none of them have caught on since, despite how many near-misses they’ve had.
He can put the Order’s willful ignorance down to him being the Boy-Who-Lived. He’s…well. He’s not used to it, but he has learned that most people only see the scar on his head and not the person behind it. And the great scion of Light Magic that he’s supposed to be isn’t the kind of person who sucks off his own godfather in the parlour. Apparently. So despite the very awkward conversation Sirius had had with Shacklebolt while Harry knelt, quietly choking on his cock, hiding behind the sofa, no one knew.
Still, he doesn’t know why Sirius started it. He doesn’t know what Sirius wants from him. He knows what he wants: Sirius. He wants Sirius like he’s never wanted anything, and even though he knows he shouldn’t – that it’s wrong on so many levels – he’s willing to take the guilt and the regret to be able to have even a little of him.
He tries not to think about Mrs Weasley’s accusation: that Sirius sees his father instead of him. He tries, but sometimes – like now – it slips into his mind and curls through his thoughts and poisons every moment that he should be trying to hold dear.
Did Sirius fuck his father too? Did he grope James Potter under the dinner table and shag him up against walls or bent over furniture? Did they sneak around together, their only witnesses the portraits who hissed and whispered of their shame? That Sirius has never actually called him James is a small comfort – the only comfort he really has.
He sighs and runs his hands through his hair. He feels sticky and terrible, and he desperately needs a shower, but he doesn’t move. He stays on the sofa and buries his face in his hands instead.
Sometimes he wishes he could go back to the start of the summer and make sure that this never happened.
…
He doesn’t manage to shower before dinner. He sits through the meal with the crusted remains of Sirius’ come on his thighs and between the cheeks of his arse. And for all his avoidance earlier, Harry can feel Sirius’ gaze on him. He shifts deliberately in his seat – boldly meets his godfather’s gaze from across the table – and licks his lips slowly as Sirius’ eyes darken. As wrong as it is, he craves this.
Under the table, Sirius’ foot hooks around his ankle. His toes – bare and weirdly long – slip under the hem of Harry’s jeans and flex against the delicate skin. Harry shivers, but manages to tear himself away in time to smile up at Mrs Weasley as she heaps a second-helping of mince and dumplings onto his plate. He didn’t ask for it – and he’s comfortably full as it is – but the extra food gives him an excuse to linger.
He scoots forward a little, as if to tuck-in to his dinner, and Sirius’ foot migrates up his calf to slide up his inner thigh. Long toes grip and wiggle against his inseam, shifting ever higher, and Harry has to try not to squirm or gasp as, after what feels like an eternity, Sirius nudges against his cock. Instead, he spreads his legs slightly, allowing Sirius better access, and chokes down as much food as he can bear as his godfather teases him to hardness.
It’s torture, sitting there. Sitting through fucking desert, distracted from his sticky toffee pudding by his godfather’s shameless petting and the sly, lazy grin that curls around Sirius’ lips as he watches Harry suffer over the rim of his whiskey glass. And this, this is what Harry doesn’t understand. Sirius clearly wants him so very much, and yet half the time – whenever he’s not trying to get Harry off – he can’t seem to stand him. Is it guilt? Is it that Harry isn’t enough like his father when he’s not halfway to orgasm?
That’s the thought that ends it. His erection dies. He knows that Sirius feels it, because his godfather looks at him oddly and, for a moment, Harry’s tempted to laugh at the concern in his gaze. It’s so stupid. So fucking absurd. By not pushing Sirius away and by taking everything he wants from the man, he’s somehow managed to ruin everything.
He feels dirty. He feels sick. He dislodges Sirius’ foot from his lap and excuses himself; says that he’s tired and that he wants a shower before bed. It’s true – but he also wants to just get away from them. From everyone, and especially from Sirius, who’s looking like Harry’s just snatched his favourite toy away and –
Fuck it. He knows that Sirius is going to follow him and he knows that he’s going to be fucked until he’s sore and shaking and begging for more because he always is. He offers Sirius a crooked little smile and makes his way upstairs. His belly feels heavy and – anticipation building once more – his cock is hardening again. He wants to get to the bathroom and at least wash the traces of their last round off before Sirius gets to him; he doesn’t want Sirius to know that he’s that much of a filthy slut.
There’s an ensuite between Sirius’ room and the one that used to belong to his younger brother. Harry heads there. Harry and Sirius are, effectively, the only people who use it. The only way to get to it is through one of the adjoining bedrooms, and most of the Order are still too wary of Sirius to just walk through his bedroom even if there aren’t really enough bathrooms in the house for all the people staying there. Still, Harry doesn’t care: he likes the illusion of privacy when he can get it.
(The portrait across the hall spots Harry opening the door, she rustles in her frame and sniffs disapprovingly. She mutters something under her breath, and Harry ignores her. The portraits might not approve, but Sirius is still the owner of the house: they won’t go against him.)
He pays no attention to the dodgy seventies posters of half-naked girls and motorbikes. He’s fairly sure Sirius was more interested in the bikes than the awkwardly posed women who are draped all over them. They watch him, static eyes blankly staring, as he slips out of his clothes to stand naked in the middle of the floor. He reaches down to stroke himself and eyes the bed thoughtfully. The temptation to forget having a shower is there; he could drape himself over Sirius’ pillows and filch the lube from out of the top drawer and get started. Start opening himself up again so that Sirius walks in and sees him – filthy and open and already begging for it – and he shivers at the thought; tightens his grip on the base of his cock and tugs on his balls so he doesn’t come.
He could do that, but it wouldn’t take very long for him to be ready. And besides, he prefers Sirius’ fingers to his own.
He makes up his mind and goes with his original plan. He enters into the ensuite and switches on the shower, waiting for it to heat up before stepping in. He washes his body first, scrubbing off the morning’s smears and stains, and teasing his cock with soapy hands. Sirius is taking forever.
He parts his legs as wide as he can and braces himself against the tiles. He reaches round and soaps himself there too, getting the lather nice and thick before pressing a finger in. The angle is terrible and he can’t go very deep and he’s still fairly loose from the morning, but a second finger has him moaning from the stretch. It echoes off the tiles and his cock, heavy between his thighs, twitches urgently.
He takes it slow. Or, rather, as slow as he can. He turns his head and rests his cheek on his forearm so that he can watch the door. It’s not the most comfortable position in the world, but he wants to see Sirius’ face when he walks in.
It’s worth it.
He’s three fingers deep in himself by the time Sirius pokes his head round the door. It takes a second, but Harry gets to see the sight of him – splayed out and ready and desperate - register in Sirius’ mind. He gets to see his godfather’s jaw drop and his eyes darken with desire and he knows that this time is going to be good.
“Sirius,” he says, and it comes out low and urgent. “Sirius, fuck me. Please.”
There’s a horrible moment when he thinks he sees the guilt again. But he twists his fingers deliberately inside of himself, and the resulting moan is only half-staged. He wants this. He wants Sirius to want him.
He watches hungrily as Sirius undresses. His godfather is long and thin all over, from the tips of his toes to his crooked fingers. His cock is long as well, but unlike the rest of him it’s fat and heavy. Harry has felt the weight of it on his tongue and the burning stretch of it entering him from every angle, and he loves Sirius’ cock. He loves its taste and its smell and the way he feels like he’s going to split open when it’s inside of him. He’s addicted to that cock, and he knows it. Knows that he’ll never be able to say no; knows that he’ll never want to.
Sirius strokes himself as he steps into the shower. His cock is a deep, angry purple; so dark next to the general pallor of Sirius’ skin that it almost looks like it belongs to a separate person.
“Are you sure?” Sirius asks, so quiet that it’s almost impossible to hear him over the rushing water.
Harry doesn’t answer. He pulls his fingers out of his arse and reaches out to wrap them around Sirius’ cock instead. He slicks his godfather up with determined strokes – he’s not really sure, in all honesty. He knows fine well that everything happening between himself and Sirius is incredibly stupid, and that to continue it willingly is even more so, but he wants. And Sirius at least wants something that Harry can give him, whether it’s a memory of his father or just a willing arse, so while he doesn’t dignify Sirius’ question with a verbal response, he pulls him closer by his cock and arches his back to present his arse like the little slut he’s become. It’s the best he can do.
Sirius huffs with laughter, and rubs one of his hands over Harry’s lower back. He soaps his fingers in the mess of suds between Harry’s arse cheeks and spreads him open to study his hole. He traces lightly around the rim, making Harry quiver and twitch before pressing two fingers in deep.
Harry moans. Loudly. He lets his head tilt forward and rest against the tiles as he pushes back onto Sirius’ hand. He takes a third finger with ease, and then Sirius is pressing his cock into him instead, murmuring filth into Harry’s ear, just barely audible over the water.
“Fuck, Harry, so beautiful. You’re such a good boy for me Harry. You love it, don’t you? You love having my cock fuck you open.”
Harry moans shamelessly. Sirius’s thrusts are slow and deep, dragging over his prostate and sending sparks up his spine. And what Sirius is saying… Fuck, but that’s the best part. Usually Sirius just sighs and groans; calls Harry a “good boy” when he swallows his come, and leaves it at that. He doesn’t usually talk like this, and every word is going straight to Harry’s dick. He’s so painfully hard that he’s not sure he’s going to last – if Sirius keeps talking then he knows he won’t, even though there’s no friction. Sirius’ hands are on his hips, holding him steady, and his own hands are braced against the wall. The only touch his cock is getting is a rhythmic against his belly every time Sirius thrusts in. It’s nowhere near enough, and yet it’s managing to be too much at the same time.
“Love your arse, Harry,” Sirius says. He shifts his hands as he talks, and uses his thumbs to spread Harry’s cheeks. “So fucking beautiful. So tight for me, baby boy. So good.”
One of his hands slides round, by-passing Harry’s cock in favour of curling over his belly and rubbing at the stretched skin. Harry knows that it’s still slightly distended from eating too much at dinner – he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror before climbing in the shower. Sirius doesn’t add any pressure, thankfully. He just rubs and caresses and keeps up his slow, steady pace of deep, toe-curling thrusts.
Harry feels the scratch of Sirius’ stubble on the back of his neck just before his godfather kisses him there. It’s soft and open-mouthed; probably wet, but it’s hard to tell given how wet Harry is already.
“You’re so full, baby boy,” Sirius says. “Want to fill you up even more. Want you stuffed full of come, baby boy, want to fucking breed you.”
Harry shudders. He reaches back helplessly and curls his fingers around the sharp jut of Sirius’ hipbone. “Please,” he says. “Please, Sirius. Please. I want it.” He can feel the flex of muscles under Sirius’ skin as he begins to move faster. Black spots dance over Harry’s vision as his cock spasms and twitches and he sobs as he comes all over the tile. He hears Sirius moan; hears that litany of filth falter. And then Sirius is guiding his hand back onto the wall – higher this time – stretching him up so that he’s standing on his tip-toes and he’s fucking Harry hard and fast, scraping the back of his neck with his teeth and calling him a “good boy” and a “perfect fucking slut” and it feels so good that Harry can barely breath.
“Tell me you love it,” Sirius hisses into his ear. “Tell me you fucking want it, Harry.”
And between the water and his desperate, needy sobs, Harry can’t get enough air into his lungs to tell him. He presses back as best as he can; nods his head; silently wails his desire.
“Fucking tell me!” Sirius snarls. He’s losing his rhythm. He’s close – so close – but the hand that’s been resting on Harry’s belly slides down to grasp at his cock and stroke. The noise that tears free of Harry’s throat is close to inhuman – he’s so sensitive that he hardens again almost instantly; he’d never really softened, but one touch and he’s close again. But that savage cry of pleasure seems to have loosened something, and suddenly he can talk, he is talking. Words are pouring out of him, and he’s only half aware of what he’s saying when the phrase “I love you” slips out and Sirius goes still.
There’s an awful, ghastly pause before Sirius starts moving again. Slower, more gentle – almost hesitant, and Harry feels utterly helpless before Sirius presses a kiss to the back of his neck again. “Relax,” he murmurs, and Harry does. At least, he tries to: he’s still stretched up on his toes against the shower wall. He loses himself in the familiar pleasure. It’s more tender now than it’s ever been, and he feels almost good about himself by the time he feels Sirius come inside of him. It only takes a few more strokes before he comes for a second time, and he slumps bonelessly in Sirius’ hold.
Sirius doesn’t move away this time. He stands with him, still buried in Harry’s body, and actually holds him. Harry can feel Sirius’ heart beating against his back; can feel his breath hot against his neck.
“What are we doing, Harry?” Sirius asks.
He sounds lost and exhausted, and that – more than anything else – is why Harry doesn’t try to pull away. He sighs instead. He turns in Sirius’ arms, letting Sirius slip out of him, and he buries his face in his chest. “I don’t know,” he replies. “I really don’t.”
Sirius’ hand strokes down his back and he tightens his grip on Harry’s body. They stand there under the cooling water, silent apart from their breathing, and cling to each other. They’re standing so close that, when Sirius does speak, Harry feels it more than he hears it.
He thinks Sirius just said “I love you too”, but he doesn’t want to ask and make sure.
