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[personal profile] traintracks
Title: Beginning/Ending
Author: [personal profile] traintracks
Pairing: Sirius/Harry
Rating: R
Words: 635
Written for: [community profile] mmom: day 5 and [personal profile] elrhiarhodan's prompt: "Harry/Sirius: I can see you, Harry."
Warnings/Enticements: Chan, masturbation, godfather/godson (Harry wishes).

It began with the slow touch of his own hand down his stomach. It began with the silence of his breath in the still night, Harry’s eyes closed, or lashes fluttering, his fingers finding the head of his cock and playing with it.

He’d bend his knees to make a tent of the sheet so that the other boys wouldn’t see the movement of his hand, even though he needn’t. He always waited until they were deep in sleep. He always cast Muffliato around his own bed. Harry was always very careful not to say the name that was on his mind.

He’d just close his eyes and picture him, one wavy strand of hair falling into his haggard face, his eyes too bright. It was wrong. Doing it like this. But Harry didn’t want to stop. It wasn’t that he couldn’t. He wasn’t so weak. It’s that he refused. Despite knowing better, Harry knew it was the one sure thing to drag Sirius back from that veil – to have him near again if only for a few minutes, if only to be witness to Harry’s utter degradation.

Harry pictured standing before him, running his hands up Sirius’s stomach, under his shirt, even as he ran his own hands down. He pictured baring that abused and decorated torso, the strong, wiry chest adorned with all his losses, his dark triumphs, his grief etched in black over his skin. Harry imagined ripping the shirt over Sirius’s head and letting it fall to the floor, the other man looking down at him, the flicker of competing emotions as Harry touched him.

That would bring the first breath, like mist under the door, the stirring of the sheers.

Harry would feather his fingers up and down the straining length while in his mind he traced the tattoos, bent to press his open mouth to one.


Harry was the only one who would be able to hear it, and he’d shiver. He’d take himself in hand, in the circle forefinger made with thumb. He’d imagine pressing himself to his godfather’s clothed thigh, the other man’s sharp inhale, that moment when he should pull away but doesn’t, and then Harry would thrust again. And then once more. And then again. And maybe Sirius would bend his leg, press the sole of his boot against the wall, and give Harry something to ride.

Harry would go faster, all delicacy and pretext gone. He would pull on it, tug it to the vision of himself straddling Sirius’s thigh, biting hungry kisses to his chest, crying out while Sirius stayed stoically silent.

And then the room would vibrate, the very walls groaning, and Harry would open his eyes to watch the light gather, unable to solidify even as the voice whispered over his body in the night, “Hhhhharry…”

Harry would be in a fever, almost hurting himself, hips bouncing on the bed, no longer caring if he got caught. He’d be so close, no longer envisioning the inevitable climax, the wet stain he’d leave on his godfather’s trousers. Harry would have his eyes open, willing himself to see him, though he never could.

He’d be ready to beg, biting his lip to keep from saying it. And then he’d hear the words, always the same words – “Harry….I can see you…”

Then he would grab the pillow to his face to muffle his cry as he came under the sheet, his body twisting, rolling, aching, his own voice torn and awful as Sirius’s voice soothed him through it: “I can see you. Harry. Harry…”

It began with Harry’s own hand, his imagination, his memories and his wishes and regrets.

It ended with Sirius’s voice. It ended with one last sigh on the wind before he was, once again, gone. Until the next night.


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January 2015

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