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phoenix

fingers whispering sound

sirius/harry and other perversions

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"Some Wrong Kind of Magic", Sirius/Harry, NC-17
phoenix
phoenixtears777
Title: Some Wrong Kind of Magic
Author: [personal profile] phoenixtears
Pairing: Sirius/Harry (mild suggestion of Sirius/Remus)
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1,500
Prompts: [personal profile] elrhiarhodan wanted "serious Sirius" man-pain, Harry lust, and big time wanking.
Warning: Imagined sex with an underage character. Real UST with same character.





Christmas time was over. Everyone had come and gone – the Weasleys, Tonks, Remus, the kids, Harry (for Sirius tried not to think of Harry as one of the kids; or he did; he wasn’t at all sure anymore) – and there was nothing left but the old paper wrappings off of presents, a leaning tree, and grumbling, awful Kreacher.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. Sirius sat with a whiskey in front of a fire not quite hot enough to keep bare feet warm (so he was in his socks) in his bedroom, and he held the framed photo of himself and his godson taken by Arthur Weasley just two days prior. His arm was around Harry, and they seemed to sway in their wrought iron enclosure, impervious to being trapped there forever. And while Sirius had but the one arm around Harry, Harry had wrapped both of his arms around Sirius’s waist and was leaning his head on Sirius’ shoulder, and on his face was a look so bald and real and unmistakable, Sirius grew warm knowing that Arthur had seen it through the lens.

Harry looked warm and happy and satisfied and starry-eyed and…perhaps…God, Sirius couldn’t even think it. But there, in the frame, Harry tilted his face up and looked at Sirius, and he practically glowed with it. Love. Pure love. And not the right kind, either. Not the kind Sirius had tried to feel countless times – and did feel, but did not *only* feel, he should say.

“Blast,” he sighed, looking down at the picture still, his own face flickering in the firelight. Sirius had given Harry a silver case for his wand. Harry had given him a watch, the sort like the Weasley’s clock which would let Sirius know if Harry was eating, sleeping, in mortal danger. Sirius had set about putting it on when Harry’s hands had stopped him.

“Let me,” he’d said, and then he’d taken his sweet time attaching the thing, kneeling there in front of Sirius’s chair, his eyes glistening with promise, his cheeks flushed. His fingers had touched the inside of Sirius’s wrist, and Sirius’ cock had come awake to that touch like no other.

Sirius rested his forehead in his hand. He felt agitated, angry. That he couldn’t control his feelings. That Harry seemed not to realize what it all meant or what his presence did to Sirius. That the promise he’d made James and Lily was teetering on the edge of a sinister crevasse. Sirius wanted nothing more than to take it back – not that he wouldn’t protect and love Harry, just the specific role he’d promised to play. How had he known he wouldn’t see the boy for thirteen years? How could he have known that Harry would show up on his doorstep two years after that -- nearly a man, voice changed, body changing, eyes adoring -- and capture Sirius so completely? How was he supposed to stop this? Sirius felt it every time he looked at the boy.

He’d tried ignoring the urges, the thoughts. He could manage most days. There was a lot of work to be done. There were always Order meetings, curses to lift, demons to oust, owls to send. Sirius kept busy. He kept to himself. He policed his feelings, and when he did hear from Harry or send his own owl or visit in the fireplace at Hogwarts, he was fairly good at redefining all the feelings and sensations that would come up: oh this is me feeling protective as I should – this is me feeling the intensity of love of the kind that I should – this is me grieving at the goodbye as anybody in my place would. Sirius had his days regimented out nicely, and he lived in a half-agonized state of rigid but successful self-control.

It was the dreams that killed him:

Stroking that bare body with his rough hands until it shivered, until it *came*. Taking it, marking it – kissing…kissing long and slow and so very deep. Mastering Harry. And the inevitable depravity that would follow, using poor Harry in countless ways until he’d wake in a puddle of sin, feeling very much as though all his control during the waking hours had been for naught.

Sirius opened his eyes and gazed into the fire. He blinked. And then he blinked again, because there was Harry’s elated face.

“Harry?”

“Hi, Sirius. You busy?”

Sirius looked at the photograph still clutched in his hand, sat up straighter in his chair, shrugged. “No… No, are you okay?”

“Oh yeah. Sorry if I scared you. Is that the picture Mr. Weasley took of us?”

Sirius smiled and hoped Harry couldn’t extrapolate the guilt from it. “Yeah.”

“I’ve got one, too,” Harry said, and Sirius could tell, even through the strange green fire, that he was blushing – something in the quick blink of the eye. “I keep it by my bed,” he said. And then Harry’s eyes went wide and he stammered something long and unintelligible that made Sirius want to…do unnatural things to him.

“I’m glad you’ve got one, too,” Sirius told him, breaking in on Harry’s longwinded explanations. “I keep mine close to my heart.”

Harry sighed. “I miss you, Sirius.”

“How’s school?”

“Terrible. Boring. Fun. Terrible again,” Harry said.

Sirius nodded. “Study hard.” He almost rolled his eyes at his own condescending attempt at godfathering.

“Don’t worry – Hermione won’t let me do much else.”

Sirius wished he could touch him. Just hold him. Just listen to him breathing in the same room again.

“Oh!” Harry said. “I almost forgot why I floo-powdered here. I’m going to come to Grimmauld Place for two days for Easter break! I mean, if that’s okay.”

Sirius grasped the photo a little harder. “Yes. Yes, of course that’s okay.”

“It’ll just be the two of us,” Harry added without any trace of subtlety.

Sirius tried to sound paternal when he said, “I can’t wait.” He failed completely.

“Well, I’ve got to go. Quidditch practice. I’ll see you in a couple of months then?”

“See you then,” Sirius said. “Be good, Harry.” Better than me.

Harry smiled widely and then disappeared from his fireplace which went back to burning logs in an orange-gold blaze.

Sirius leaned back in his chair with a loud groan. He suddenly wished for Remus to show up. Remus would talk him out of it with his beautiful morality and stern kindness. They could break out the old Scotch and tell stories and he could get Sirius’s mind off of Harry for a night. They could maybe try it themselves again, though it had been years since they’d done that or even wished to. It had been a long, long time since Sirius had been with anyone he hadn’t paid afterwards. Someone he cared for. Loved.

And Harry was going to be back here – alone – for Easter. The sun would still be cold, and they’d spend the time indoors drinking from steaming mugs and laughing. They’d sit close to share the warmth of the fire. Sirius’s arm would go around Harry’s shoulders and they would each hold their breath. That first touch would be like some wrong kind of magic….

Sirius groaned again as his cock stiffened. He grabbed it, as if doing so would deter its progress, but then he was rubbing it, rubbing it hard and slow through his pants and imagining Harry’s smaller hand there, his pleading eyes and short breaths. It would, of course, be raining, making them feel even more alone, invincible for the night.

It was so easy. His cock was ready, and his hand, having a mind all its own, was unleashing it quickly, as though he would be caught, as though the guilt were now an aphrodisiac, and Sirius brought his cock out, rosy-hard, and pulled it as Harry slipped off the couch, onto his knees on the floor, and Sirius spread his knees for him. Harry would scooch in, sweet hands running up Sirius’s thighs. Sirius would hold his cock for that shy, open mouth, helping to slip it inside….

Sirius worked himself faster, slumping in the chair, the fire hot now, his breath erratic, photo dangling from his fingertips. His head was back and his eyes shut as he let Harry suck on him delicately, lashes fluttering closed, that slight gag, the thing too big for him…. Sirius’s cock jerked at the thought. And Harry suckled at it, making little sounds in his throat at the taste, so hungry for it, desiring it – desiring, so strongly, equally, him. Sirius shot – into his hand – between Harry’s lips, the slick stuff squeezing out, dripping down his smooth chin. Sirius stroked it out, holding onto the image as long as he could – until, cock still stretching his pink lips, Harry opened his eyes and gazed up at him, replete, innocent, in love, taken.

Sirius whispered to the room, the empty loveless room, “Oh Harry… Harry…” And the photo fell gently from his numb fingers to the hard floor.





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Ahhhh - GAH. This is still beautiful and gorgeous and perfect.

And seriously filthy wonderful:

Sirius worked himself faster, slumping in the chair, the fire hot now, his breath erratic, photo dangling from his fingertips. His head was back and his eyes shut as he let Harry suck on him delicately, lashes fluttering closed, that slight gag, the thing too big for him…. Sirius’s cock jerked at the thought. And Harry suckled at it, making little sounds in his throat at the taste, so hungry for it, desiring it – desiring, so strongly, equally, him. Sirius shot – into his hand – between Harry’s lips, the slick stuff squeezing out, dripping down his smooth chin. Sirius stroked it out, holding onto the image as long as he could – until, cock still stretching his pink lips, Harry opened his eyes and gazed up at him, replete, innocent, in love, taken.

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