“Harry, my boy, come sit close to me.”
Sometimes it starts this way, with a few bourbons and Sirius feeling nostalgic. He’ll summon me, and maybe if I’d been raised differently, by my own mother and father, or even by him, I wouldn’t feel the sick sort of delight and eagerness at it. And fear. There’s always a little fear too. Sirius can be a bit unpredictable when he’s been drinking.
But I like the smell of it on his breath. I like the way his whiskers scratch my cheek when he pulls me closer, into his lap. He tells me stories of my parents, and the way he talks about my dad in particular… He tells me all the pranks they pulled, their midnight excursions, them and Professor Lupin, who Sirius clearly also loved, loves.
Sometimes he gets hard from it… from telling me things. I feel it against my bum, and under the guise of antsiness or preoccupation, I can’t help it: I squirm against him. To hear him hiss under his breath. To feel his hands clench tighter at my waist. To see it go dark in his eyes.
“Tell me more,” I say, wrapping my arms around his neck, burying my face there, and feeling him throb against me, through our clothes, his voice a rough, deep slide over my body as I nod off.
He carries me to bed, lays me in it, and then disappears. More bourbon. Alone now. So alone.
He’ll come back in the wasteland of night and pull off my covers. He’ll shush me when I wake, a calloused finger against my lips. And then he’ll help me off with my pyjamas. I’ll already be so hard, the tip of my dick red and wet. Sometimes he’ll use his mouth. But more often than not, he’ll slick up a couple fingers, push them into me, pump a bit, clumsy with alcohol, and then he’ll climb on top of me. Face to face, my legs over his shoulders, or he’ll flip me over and take me from behind.
Sometimes he whispers, “Jamie,” when he comes inside me. Sometimes, “Moony. Oh, Moony,” as he slowly bottoms out. But not often. Usually—tonight—it’s, “Harry.” And he stretches me open with his big cock, grunting when he’s inside. I grip his shoulders, lift my knees. “It’ll be over soon,” he tells me. But I don’t want it to be. That’s what he never quite understands. He takes hard, slow thrusts, fucking my breath out of my body, the bed into the wall. The illicit creak of the bedsprings pierces the deathly quiet of the house.
He speeds up. My cock is smacking my belly and smearing it with pre-come. He hardly ever kisses me, but when he does, it’s delicious and sloppy, and I can almost come from it, from his tongue in my mouth, the taste of his breath, his groans filling me up. He loosens me up enough that it’s easy now, and he’s slapping into me. He trembles like an avalanche when he comes. It looks like torture on his face. That he’s doing this to me. That he loves it.
An after thought, his cock still buried inside me, he strokes me off. His rough man’s hand around my virgin dick. Well, I haven’t been a virgin for a few months, not since that first time. But I respond to him that way still—with that indrawn breath, quick, a little frightened, aroused beyond measure. And I strive to see into his eyes, his black eyes, even as they evade me, even as I come in his fist and I yearn for him, and his cock slips out of me messily.
He covers me with the sheet again, tucks me in. He kisses my forehead, his damp lips lingering. There are certain things that will always smell like sex to me: bourbon, the sweat under his arms… it can make me hard, just a whiff of those things on a man. They are Sirius to me. They always will be.
I’m usually sore from it for a couple of days. He looks guilty, avoids me, but I love how it feels after. The tenderness… the private drama of the lasting ache.
Sometimes he’ll take me again, even like this. Those are my favourite times. No stories needed, no pulling me into his lap and slowly getting hard while pretending he’s not.
He’ll find me in the shower the next day, and he’ll strip off his clothes, get in with me, pick me up and wrap my legs around his waist and—
“Fuck,” I cry as he enters me swiftly. “Sirius.” Conjure of lube, and then his hips are whipping and tears sting my eyes. He’s punishing me, the both of us, for the night before. Now his gaze meets mine.
“You like that?”
“You like getting fucked?”
We come together, a crash of moans and hot breath, and he lets it slip in like a secret, “I love you.” His whisper against my cheek, “I love you so.”
He’ll clean me up, gently. He may even drop to his knees and suck my cock so slowly and sweetly I cry.
He won’t touch me for days after that, maybe weeks. And it’s okay, because I’ll need time to recover. It’s okay because he’ll come back to me in other ways. He’ll stroke my hair off my face. He’ll cook for me and let me help. He won’t drink, and his eyes will clear, though there will always be something lurking there, waiting to resurface, an old pain, a clock’s pendulum swaying away the moments until the klaxon of the striking hour goes off.
In the interim, I wish I could go to him. I want to crawl into his bed, and just sleep against his warm body. I lie under my own covers and think about it. Think about how the summer is nearly over, and I’ll be back in school soon, but how I know he’ll come to Hogsmeade, and I can see him there, maybe stay the night with him. How I can floo-call and hear his voice. I think about Christmastime together, in this house, in his bed, me waking up to him behind me, already tugging my pants down and whispering, “I’ll make it quick, love. It’ll be over with soon,” as he presses inside, and me thinking, never, never, never let it be over.
Maybe I’ll sneak into his room tonight, under his sheets, like a thief who doesn’t take anything but love, but comfort. Maybe he’ll let me. Maybe I will. Maybe tonight. We’ve got time, I think. All the time in the world.