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traintracksTitle: Not Waving but Drowning
Author:traintracks
Pairing: Sirius/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~1,050
Written for: Porn Sunday and forsdkshelly's prompt: Harry/Sirius, in the kitchen with the lights off.
Warnings: chan, angst
A/N: Assume an established relationship that began either in the cave or the summer before 5th year either one. Title is from the Stevie Smith poem of the same name: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15801
When Hermione left his and Ron's room to go to bed, Harry told Ron he was feeling peckish and, immensely grateful Ron preferred sleeping to eating at that moment, left their room to make his way down to the quiet kitchen.
It was dark, the fire almost out, only a few lonely embers flashing orange behind the grate. At first Harry thought he might have misunderstood Sirius' intentions, his signals. It wasn't exactly something they could speak about in mixed company. He had looked drawn and depressed over dinner and then at the meeting after. There had been a lot of talk about the return to Hogwarts the next day; that was usually enough to set off a mood. It was hell to be reminded that once again he'd be alone.
The only times he'd regained some measure of life were when his eyes would find Harry and hold the contact. That thing happened, then. That thing that had been happening for months. It wasn't hard to decipher Sirius in those moments. It wasn't hard to give in to the smoldering need of him – the plea behind the demand.
Harry stood on the last stair, peering into the kitchen, his eyes trying to adjust. It wasn't until he took that last step down that Sirius came out of the deep shadows and grabbed him up hard.
Harry wondered if this was how Apparition felt: being lifted off one's feet and displaced so suddenly one wasn't sure where up was anymore. He was only sure of two things: he had left his breath back on that staircase, and up didn't matter, because all around him – up, down, and center – was Sirius.
There was usually a lot of talking – some to assuage Sirius' guilt, permissions got before hands roved too far. Some to titillate. Some to praise.
Now there was nothing. It had all been said. It wasn't as if this was still new. And Sirius' intensity was such that Harry was quite stunned into speechlessness, even if he had had something to say, which he didn't and hadn't.
Sirius' mouth was sooty and hot. Harry's clothes rent in his hands, blistering the silence. Harry gasped into his mouth.
There was hectic fumbling, Sirius' breath fast and hard. Harry's denims and boxers got shoved down and tangled around his legs. And then he was sat on the table, and Sirius went after his own belt with one hand, the other arm wrapped around Harry, holding him fiercely close.
Harry had never quite seen Sirius like this. Heard rather, since he could hardly see him at all. Sirius sounded lost to it – as though to stop would mean to die.
Sirius ripped Harry's trousers the rest of the way off, throwing them to the floor, and then Harry held his breath, his knees pulled in, as the one word Sirius whispered was the charm, and then Harry's arse flooded with slick, and he knew – as if he hadn't already known – that tonight there would be no tender words, no gentle touch of fingers to his chest, his nipples, his stomach, his back and shoulders and the flesh of his arse – down his legs and tickling over his feet. No teasing, teaching, no sentiments. There would be what there was: Sirius' erect cock nudging at his arsehole and Sirius' shaken breath on his face.
There would be the tightening of Harry's hands on his godfather's shoulders as the cock pushed, and he held his breath, and it breached.
There would be Sirius pushing him down, back against the flat of the table, grunting as he went deeper and then sighing when he started to fuck.
There would be forgotten Silencing charms and the rough plow of a heavy table moving staccato inches across a dirty floor.
There would be Sirius' mouth close to his own. There would be the pain quickly easing and the rejoicing of being connected – being so very, incomprehensibly full.
There would be time to get caught.
There would be so little time.
Harry had no idea how long he was pinned to the table, how long Sirius rutted inside him. He only knew that they came close together – Harry and then Sirius, as though Sirius needed Harry's cries of pleasure to get there, to pump hard and fast and breathe and shudder through it, fucking his semen deep into Harry like that could link them through the months, the silences, the loneliness.
The cock in him finally slowed, moved in him tenderly now – stroked his ache. Harry gripped Sirius to him and parted his lips at Sirius' ear, thinking he might just say something, might just confess his love one more time. And he would have if he thought Sirius could take it. The man had broken inside him. It would not be wise to push him any further.
When he started to go soft, Sirius withdrew carefully with a little groan. He helped Harry to sit up at the table's edge. The moon had just splashed a handful of light into the room, and it caught, reflected, in Sirius' sad eyes. He turned away as Harry stood gingerly and righted his boxers and denims – tried to decide whether to tuck the ripped hem of his shirt in or leave it. Sirius shoved his cock away and refastened his belt, the delicate tinkling of it concocting a moment of severe longing in Harry.
That sound would always be Sirius loving him.
When they were dressed, Harry walked up behind and wrapped his arms around Sirius, burying his face in his warm back. This was his godfather. This was his reluctant lover. This would never change.
Sirius brought one of Harry's hands up to his mouth and placed a long kiss on the palm. Harry's heart beat fast against him.
Then Sirius walked away, his boots harsh on the floor, trudging up the stairs. Harry listened to him go, his heartbeat slowing. He stared into the last dim vestiges of heat from the fireplace as one stubborn ember seemed like it might flare to life in spite of everything but then just succumbed at last to the pull, becoming instead a wisp of smoke on the air.
Author:
traintracksPairing: Sirius/Harry
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~1,050
Written for: Porn Sunday and for
sdkshelly's prompt: Harry/Sirius, in the kitchen with the lights off.Warnings: chan, angst
A/N: Assume an established relationship that began either in the cave or the summer before 5th year either one. Title is from the Stevie Smith poem of the same name: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15801
When Hermione left his and Ron's room to go to bed, Harry told Ron he was feeling peckish and, immensely grateful Ron preferred sleeping to eating at that moment, left their room to make his way down to the quiet kitchen.
It was dark, the fire almost out, only a few lonely embers flashing orange behind the grate. At first Harry thought he might have misunderstood Sirius' intentions, his signals. It wasn't exactly something they could speak about in mixed company. He had looked drawn and depressed over dinner and then at the meeting after. There had been a lot of talk about the return to Hogwarts the next day; that was usually enough to set off a mood. It was hell to be reminded that once again he'd be alone.
The only times he'd regained some measure of life were when his eyes would find Harry and hold the contact. That thing happened, then. That thing that had been happening for months. It wasn't hard to decipher Sirius in those moments. It wasn't hard to give in to the smoldering need of him – the plea behind the demand.
Harry stood on the last stair, peering into the kitchen, his eyes trying to adjust. It wasn't until he took that last step down that Sirius came out of the deep shadows and grabbed him up hard.
Harry wondered if this was how Apparition felt: being lifted off one's feet and displaced so suddenly one wasn't sure where up was anymore. He was only sure of two things: he had left his breath back on that staircase, and up didn't matter, because all around him – up, down, and center – was Sirius.
There was usually a lot of talking – some to assuage Sirius' guilt, permissions got before hands roved too far. Some to titillate. Some to praise.
Now there was nothing. It had all been said. It wasn't as if this was still new. And Sirius' intensity was such that Harry was quite stunned into speechlessness, even if he had had something to say, which he didn't and hadn't.
Sirius' mouth was sooty and hot. Harry's clothes rent in his hands, blistering the silence. Harry gasped into his mouth.
There was hectic fumbling, Sirius' breath fast and hard. Harry's denims and boxers got shoved down and tangled around his legs. And then he was sat on the table, and Sirius went after his own belt with one hand, the other arm wrapped around Harry, holding him fiercely close.
Harry had never quite seen Sirius like this. Heard rather, since he could hardly see him at all. Sirius sounded lost to it – as though to stop would mean to die.
Sirius ripped Harry's trousers the rest of the way off, throwing them to the floor, and then Harry held his breath, his knees pulled in, as the one word Sirius whispered was the charm, and then Harry's arse flooded with slick, and he knew – as if he hadn't already known – that tonight there would be no tender words, no gentle touch of fingers to his chest, his nipples, his stomach, his back and shoulders and the flesh of his arse – down his legs and tickling over his feet. No teasing, teaching, no sentiments. There would be what there was: Sirius' erect cock nudging at his arsehole and Sirius' shaken breath on his face.
There would be the tightening of Harry's hands on his godfather's shoulders as the cock pushed, and he held his breath, and it breached.
There would be Sirius pushing him down, back against the flat of the table, grunting as he went deeper and then sighing when he started to fuck.
There would be forgotten Silencing charms and the rough plow of a heavy table moving staccato inches across a dirty floor.
There would be Sirius' mouth close to his own. There would be the pain quickly easing and the rejoicing of being connected – being so very, incomprehensibly full.
There would be time to get caught.
There would be so little time.
Harry had no idea how long he was pinned to the table, how long Sirius rutted inside him. He only knew that they came close together – Harry and then Sirius, as though Sirius needed Harry's cries of pleasure to get there, to pump hard and fast and breathe and shudder through it, fucking his semen deep into Harry like that could link them through the months, the silences, the loneliness.
The cock in him finally slowed, moved in him tenderly now – stroked his ache. Harry gripped Sirius to him and parted his lips at Sirius' ear, thinking he might just say something, might just confess his love one more time. And he would have if he thought Sirius could take it. The man had broken inside him. It would not be wise to push him any further.
When he started to go soft, Sirius withdrew carefully with a little groan. He helped Harry to sit up at the table's edge. The moon had just splashed a handful of light into the room, and it caught, reflected, in Sirius' sad eyes. He turned away as Harry stood gingerly and righted his boxers and denims – tried to decide whether to tuck the ripped hem of his shirt in or leave it. Sirius shoved his cock away and refastened his belt, the delicate tinkling of it concocting a moment of severe longing in Harry.
That sound would always be Sirius loving him.
When they were dressed, Harry walked up behind and wrapped his arms around Sirius, burying his face in his warm back. This was his godfather. This was his reluctant lover. This would never change.
Sirius brought one of Harry's hands up to his mouth and placed a long kiss on the palm. Harry's heart beat fast against him.
Then Sirius walked away, his boots harsh on the floor, trudging up the stairs. Harry listened to him go, his heartbeat slowing. He stared into the last dim vestiges of heat from the fireplace as one stubborn ember seemed like it might flare to life in spite of everything but then just succumbed at last to the pull, becoming instead a wisp of smoke on the air.
