zooey (world_dropsdead) wrote,

Sirius didn’t want him. Or, he didn’t want him, at least. It was just a physical thing, a boy thing, a sex thing. It had nothing to do with his friend, the one he’d fight and bleed and kill and die for, because friends simply didn’t do the things they were doing (except for when they did). And they did. And did and did and did. Under covers, covered in scratches, stubble-burns, burning flesh with tongues and lips, they did. They did in the dead of night, to the tune of snores from neighboring beds, and they did in the daytime to the sounds of deserted rooms and empty air.




“Shhhh… Hang on, someone’ll hear.”


“Shut it, nancy boy.”


“Fuck you, Pads!”




“Get over here… Leave your trousers.”




But there were things they didn’t do, as well. Because there were far stricter rules about what boys didn’t do than about what mates didn’t do (or did, as the case may be). They didn’t analyze it, understand it, mean it. Surely, they didn’t Mean It. They were just boys, and it was what boys did when they were alone and horny and perhaps a bit drunk or high, but only when there weren’t any girls around. Or if the girls weren’t as good as a mate and a four-poster and a sweaty, sticky struggle.




Sirius lets his trousers fall to the floor. He’s just cast a straightening spell on them, but he’s not feeling particularly straight at the moment, especially with James looking-- well, looking like that. Stretched out, like a cat but twice as dangerous, twice as nimble, half naked, half hard, all lean muscles and smooth, tanned skin. Beckoning, with a wink and a grin and a tilt of the head, he’s irresistible, and he bloody well knows it. And so does Sirius (not that he admits as much).


By the tie, James pulls him down (down too far to ever come back up), until their lips hover and they trade their fresh air for one another’s recycled breath. Neither blinks or moves, as they trade silent dares.


Dare you to leave.


Dare you to stay.


Little boys playing little games (higher stakes, always higher).




Because what did girls know anyway? Girls were all soft and faint and they never made it feel quite right, quite real. And they were delicate, and you had to take care of their bit. Boys were self-sufficient. Selfish and hard, fingers pressing into upper thighs, teeth scraping along collar bones, mouths red and swollen. There were always marks, but they pretended not to notice, and never spelled them away.




“Ow! Fuck--”


“You’re such a girl.”


“You bit me!”




“…I liked it.”


“That’s ‘cause I’m an excellent shag.”






“Do it again.”




Were they anyone else, were they not them, it might have been different. But this was James for fuck sake, not some bloke. In fact, Sirius couldn’t imagine doing the kinds of things they did (sweaty, sloppy, sweet things) with anyone else, ever. And James—well, he didn’t like to imagine James doing these sorts of things (sometimes violent, always gorgeous things) with anyone else. Because that wasn’t the thing to be thinking about, was it?




There are limbs tangled and a thigh is grinding into Sirius’s groin; mouths, hot and fast, and hands fucking everywhere at once. James is on the bed, but his hips are in the air, until Sirius forces them down, into the mattress, and the bed groans right along with its occupants. Lips skim across James’ neck, a tongue darts out to taste the skin: salt and soap and boyishness. Someone moans, but the sound is trapped between kissing mouths and wet, red lips. James’ hand wanders down, sliding along ripples of taut muscles, touching hard nipples and hips and hair. It wanders further and catches on the dark fabric of Sirius’s boxers, and James pushes them down, so that a hard, red cock springs free.


Their skin rubs together: olive, tanned and long lines against pale gold, and jutting bones. Sharp angles, sharp teeth and even sharper glances. Neither backing down, both in it for their own. They crash against one another, each a tidal wave and a rocky shore rolled into one. Groins press and rock and thrust with the kind of reckless abandon found only in children and the damned, but of course, just then, they are a little of both.








“If you. Expect… Me to be… Quiet. You’d. Best stop. That… With… Your fucking. Hips!”




“No!! Don’t stop, Prongs, I’ll shut up, I swear! Just don’t—ahhh—bloody… Stop!




And they doesn’t. Stop, that is. Not that they can. Sirius lets his head fall back against the pillow and James kisses his way up Sirius’s neck, so sweetly, he nearly cries, but then there is a mouth on his own and James isn’t behaving nearly as sweetly. No, now he’s biting and scratching, like the reckless heathen he is, and Sirius lets out a yelp before he can stop himself when James catches his bottom lip between his teeth and draws blood. The coppery taste mixes with those of saliva and salt and skin and sex, and their tongues collide. It’s like a dementor’s kiss, but reversed, Sirius thinks, so that instead of taking his soul, James is forcing a bit of his own into Sirius. And he has quite a mouth for it.


The taste of blood gives way to something else: something stronger, headier, like alcohol without the sting, and Sirius thinks he might come just watching James’ eyes. They flutter about and squint so that his whole face looks strained and flushed. He is beautiful like this, Sirius decides.




He always thought James was beautiful, even when they were kids. Sirius knew himself to be was hansom, but James had a strange, shining innocence about him, that spoke of fairytales and childhood games and certainly not nicked booze and stolen shags (particularly not with boys or Blacks).


In Sirius’s world, the world of his family and his childhood and every stupid, insane thing in it, people were either with you or against you, good or evil (though, which was preferable remained ambiguous), but James Potter, who looked like an angel and cursed like a hag, straddled the line between Black and white the moment he straddled Sirius, their second trip on the Hogwarts express. And from that moment, that single, silly, boyish moment, when their lips brushed amidst trunks and racks and sleeping students, Sirius knew which side of the line he wanted to be on: whichever side had that mouth.


Because how could a boy with lips that pink and eyelashes that thick and hands that smooth possibly lead him astray? And fuck, surely the depths of hell would be manageable as long as they held the promise of lips and lashes and fingertips. Yes, James Potter was made of promises, and Sirius wished bitterly that he’d had the chance to fulfill them.




“Oh—oh gods… Prongssss…”


Someone shifts and Sirius is on his back.


“Shhhh, silly twat.”


Some one growls and they are on the floor.


“Fuck! Ow, my arse!”


A hand winds around Sirius’s waist, gripping his arse, sliding long the cleft and kneading it hard, hard hard.


“Aww, I didn’t mean it… Come on Pads, you know I practically worship your arse.”


Sirius growls and nips at James’ neck, and when James rolls away on instinct, it is into the middle of the dormitory, with Sirius flush against his back.


“You’ll not get away, my prey, my dear.”


James smiles to the empty room.


“Then I surrender. But please, be merciful, gentle sir.”


And they laugh so loudly, it echoes for years.




Sirius smiles into James’ silly, messy hair, getting messier by the minute. Before he moves, he breathes in deeply and lets his arms engulf the slightly shorter boy pressed against him. James is strangely submissive, but a moment later, pushes his arse back to grind against Sirius’s already aching arousal. A stuttered sigh fills the room, and it sings with longing and impatience and affection, but is soon drowned out by the sound of moving bodies. Somewhere along the way, James’ boxers have gone missing. Later, neither will remember leaving them precisely on Moony’s bedpost, and Moony will just sigh and frown and pretend to believe that James was undressing with the window open and a gust of wind misplaced his knickers, because he’s Moony and only too easy to embarrass. But all that is for later, and right now all Sirius can think is how fucking unbelievably perfect his cock feels sliding along the cleft of James’ arse, even if it’s starting to chaff just a bit, and even though he really shouldn’t be thinking anything of the sort, he is, he really is.




Sirius figured they weren’t gay or anything, because Prongs had Evans (at least in his own mind) and Sirius had anyone and everyone he wanted. No, it was just a bit of fun—like a joint or a stiff drink, and it didn’t matter that sometimes (only sometimes) when he tossed off, he found his hands imitating James’ hands, because they’re just hands, for fuck sake, and it didn’t mean a bloody thing. None of it. At all. (Except for when it did). And the messy black hair he sometimes tangles his hands in during dreams is just a coincidence, because dreams are silly things and who you fuck in dreams has nothing to do with anything. Anything. It’s been a million years since dormitories and dirty fingernails digging into his thighs, but every night Sirius wonders how many times a coincidence can occur before it’s not a coincidence. But he never wonders why he doesn’t want it to stop.






“You’re such a girl.”


“Then what’s that in your hand?”


“Oh James, if having a cock made you not-a-girl, Snivellus would be as much a man as either of us.”


“Fair point, Black. Now, get to business.”


“Aye, captain.”




The nights in Azkaban were the worst. Long, howling, wretched nights, when the dark and the screams seemed to intertwine, making it impossible to think, to breathe. Some of those nights, only some (thankfully not all), his dreams would be filled with messy hair against the living room carpet, and bright brown eyes staring blankly, eternally at the ceiling, as though it held the answers. But there would never be answers. Not for James and his stupid, vacant face, nor for Sirius and his sunken ribs and jutting bones. Beautiful boys turned into hollow, empty tragedies. It would be tragic, but Sirius decided long ago that tragedy was too romantic a word. It was brutal. Brutal and vicious and Not How It Was Supposed to End. They were supposed to fuck and fight and piss away the vast majority of their adult lives. And Lily could come too.


And Harry. Sirius loves Harry, he does, honestly. It’s just that sometimes when Harry’s around, it’s like catching a glimpse of James out of the corner of his eye. Because fifteen is how he likes to remember James. Fifteen and furious and full of love and madness matching Sirius’s own. It’s only sometimes he wishes Harry were James. Only sometimes.




James can feel Sirius getting close. There’s a certain way he bites his lip, and his neck goes rigid and James can just tell he’s going to come. And he wants it, god does he ever want it. It’s sick, really, but he wants Sirius to be out of control and graceless and bumbling, because these are all things that Blacks are not, and James likes that. He likes it when Sirius is un-Siriusish, because no one else knows what that’s like. No one. Just like no one else gets to see the way James toes curl when you kiss along his ribs, or the way his lips quirk when Sirius whispers in his ear.


“I—oh gods… Fucking love oh bloody fucking hell love you so fucking much—ahh!”


James bites his lip, hard, and tries not to say the terrifying things he feels welling up, building in his lungs and blood and rushing to the surface.


I need you.


They come, Sirius inside James and James completely outside himself. Rough hardwoods on his back and soft hands on his neck and face, James comes. There is a long, shuddery sigh that fills the room and neither is sure who made it, but it doesn’t matter. They’re in it together, like always.


Lying there, on the dirty floor, surrounded by laundry and afterglow, James thinks that this is how their lives should be: full of arguments and shags and sweat and scratch marks. And why not? They’re nearly adults, and it’s their turn to decide what that means.




***the last line was taken from this comic.

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