Chapter Text
Too Much Kissing
Harry
After breakfast, Harry rather hoped for Sirius to turn his famine onto him—to carry him up to their room, to the massive four poster bed, a perfect sprawling soft plate for them to partake in a different sort of meal entirely. Not one of necessity, but just as nourishing, just as salivating. But, just when Harry thinks he has Sirius pegged, knows his next move, his godfather veers left. Unlike before, where Sirius growled, nipped, dissolved into dark hunger until he may as be the real Grimm, Sirius is patient, slow. Agonizingly soft in his caresses, in his detailed mapping of Harry’s mouth as they lie under the summer sky on a picnic blanket near the brook. Warmth, from the sun, from Sirius’s thin, versed lips playcades Harry’s impatience—the curl of frustration after weeks of climbing an impossible mountain only to discover there is no top. To his dismay, in the past twenty four hours Sirius has acquired tact, a hard set intention to savor each kiss, each nip, every taste: There’s no rush, Harry .
“Summer is almost over,” Harry reminds him, breathlessly as Sirius explores his mouth. Without the urgency, the heat of shame spurring Sirius into action, Sirius plays and tunes him as he would a piano, or motorcycle—with skill so effortless it may as well be art. The way he kisses Harry, tender yet commanding, a firm hand on his jaw to keep his head held back, is luxurious. So smooth and rich, and numbingly captivating. His lips tingle from the friction, from Sirius’s beard tickling his skin, but he’d gladly rub his own skin off to keep kissing Sirius. Minutes, hours must go by as they kiss and kiss, never growing bored, because somehow Sirius knows every angle to touch him from, every way to chart his lips, taking shortcuts and secret passages. When kissing Sirius, there is no such thing as time, nor resistance. “Plenty of time to make love.”
Harry expects annoyance to rebloom at the overtly romantic statement, especially since an inferno of unsatiated lust burns through his veins, settling in his abdomen, bubbling and overflowing like an oozing volcano; however, the tender expression makes his heart flutter. “Make love?” Harry whines into their kiss, somewhat wishing to add: you said you would claim me, not “make love”. Because making love and fucking seem drastically different acts. One involves Sirius being rough, mounting Harry like the beast he sometimes showed, the prior suggests showering Harry in more balmy affections until he turns to mush. One makes his body ache to be filled, the other makes his heart yearn even more for Sirius’s love. Against his lips, he can feel the twist of a smile. With a peek, he meets blazing gray storms against the backdrop of clear skies. His belly wrenches as Sirius smiles down at him, as if privy to a fact he is unaware of. Completely at a loss, only going off of carnal instinct, off of enough anatomical understanding to put the pieces together.
In this sense, Sirius has the upperhand, and after weeks of Harry’s ruthless taunting and goading, it seems Sirius is basking in the payback, of now being the one to fiddle with Harry’s strings. Strings that nearly snap as Sirius leans down to whisper in his ear, “Yes pup, or did you really think I’d just mount you on the spot?” Blood rises to the surface of his skin, lava pools over the edge of the abyss, because he had thought that, wanted it, still wants it, only now he realizes there is more in store for him than that, “No, no. A pretty thing like you, I’ll take my time. Starting with kissing you until your lips swell,” Sirius adds, trailing back to Harry’s mouth to suck their mouths back together, “And ending with you loose and begging my name.”
Lava gushes, his body clamps in excitement at the meaning hidden with such tender words. Harry yanks away from those masterful lips, sitting up to take heaving breaths, determined not to come from kissing alone. He tries to will the surge of heat back down, tries to beckon the tsunami to wait: yes you can, just not yet please for Merlin’s sake . Coming in his trunks from just snogging would not set the tone Harry has in mind and it would only reinforce Sirius’s desire to start slow, to start with lovemaking, not charging out the gate with fucking a trigger happy virgin.
“Alright?” Sirius asks, amused with a knowing grin as Harry reigns in his body.
“Shut it,” Harry grits out, pushing at Sirius’s chest, before he takes a loophole by diving into the chill brook. The cold sizzles, steam from unmet lust rises off him, but at least the water is enough to badger his balls into submission. From the grass, Sirius watches him, still grinning as Harry shakes the water from his glasses.
“Sensitivity is nothing to be ashamed of.”
Harry sinks his mouth into the water to ease the searing ghost of Sirius’s kiss. He throws Sirius an icy glare, which only furthers Sirius’s smirk.
“In fact, it makes me wonder how many times in a row I can make you come until you run dry.”
It’s the most utterly filthy thing Sirius’s ever said to him and not even ice could cool the flame that bursts through Harry.
“Then come in here and see,” Harry dares, trying to be bold even when his voice squeaks at the prospect.
This side of Sirius, the provocative confident sleek wolf, excites him. Rarely does he see this exclusive part of Sirius’s charm, of his ability to say such seductive things, before now Sirius has kept it under lock and key; now though, now Sirius rises to the challenge, unbuttoning his white linen shirt to reveal runes and lithe planes that fills Harry’s mouth with saliva. A flash of hesitation, however brief, crosses Sirius’s face. There is a slight tremor in his hands as he pulls off the shirt to unveil pale skin, made paler by the stark black tattoos, glittering gold scar on his sternum, and trail of hair descending down his belly. Since their move, Harry notices there is a bit more meat on him, mainly his neck and limbs. It makes him look younger, sprier, more alive, and his muscles that much more pronounced given his skin is adequately supplied by the butter and fruits they’ve been stuffing themselves with all summer. In particular, the dip and v formation of his hips hypnotizes Harry—he can’t look away from that long gorgeous torso. Carefully, Sirius slides his jeans off, his shoulder length hair falling over his face as he leans forward. His smirk falters as he kicks away the fabric. Harry splashes water up to him, smiling, heart beginning to race because Sirius has yet to swim in the brook with him in his human form. Perhaps not just to keep a distance from Harry, but to also prevent the eyeful he makes now: elegant long legs and gleaming black hair that contrasts with the warmth of his smile. The shyness won’t do. Harry ducks his head under water as Sirius dives in, letting the coolness envelop him again, before he swims back over to the fire, wrapping his arms around Sirius’s neck to kiss him once more. Harry tries to scramble for words that might erase Sirius’s timidity, to ease the toll prison and hiding took on his handsome features, but Sirius beats him to it, “ Merlin , you are gorgeous. Are we sure you're entirely human? And not some creature sent to tempt me?”
“I could say the same of you,” Harry bites back, bristling at the compliment, because no one but Sirius ever describes him as such things as gorgeous . Unlike Harry, Sirius does not retreat into his shell. His smile widens and Harry sucks in a gasp—Sirius is the one who is gorgeous, who embodies light and warmth despite the shadow and gray of his hair and eyes. Here and now, the years peel back, he sees the Sirius Black of old, the ladies man, the wizard with a dangerous pizazz and gusto. The bad boy of Hogwarts. But that reckless teen is long gone, Sirius has aged, has suffered, made kinder for it, and that much more desperate to love because of it.
More time flies by, precious time that Harry wishes to stop as they swim until their toes go numb and flee back to the blanket to bask in the sun like cold-blooded lizards until their blood warms so much they are forced to repeat the cycle. Through all of this, Sirius kisses Harry until his lips turn raw and chapped, and “red as berries” as Sirius teasingly points out, even though his lips look just as bruised. Sirius lies on his side, never burying Harry with his body, never giving an indication of his own need, unlike Harry, who finds himself in a constant tug of war with his swollen, frustrated cock. By the time the sun begins to dim, Harry is a twitching mess, hips shifting uncomfortably on the blanket, needing pressure and attention. Sirius is too aware to be blind to it, but he seems rather content to suck on Harry’s pulse and run his hands through Harry’s hair.
“Sweetheart,” Sirius coos, his tongue swiping against the column of Harry’s neck.
Harry gurgles, choking on his own salvia, as the need becomes too unbearable. He rolls onto Sirius, presses their hips together, groaning at the warm and solid body underneath him. Sirius grins up at him, black hair fanned out against the grass. Hands sweep up and down his back and Harry whimpers, dragging his hips up and down along the twin hardness below him.
“Dinner first,” Sirius teases him, even as he meets one of Harry’s thrusts.
“I’m not hungry,” Harry protests this, shutting his eyes as he tries to fight the urge to climax from just a little bit of grinding.
Gods , he is a livewire, seconds from imploding, a thriving ball of nerves somehow made more sensitive and raw from Sirius’s gentle care. He nearly comes as Sirius replies, low and promising in his ear: but I am . Something tells Harry he isn’t talking about food, in fact Sirius barely touches the stew and bread as they reconvene in the kitchen. Harry does eat quite a bit, because it's either that or come from just Sirius’s heated stare alone, and plus the faster he eats, the sooner he gets dessert—dessert that is in their sights. It would be so easy to take the final steps. They're already down to just swim trunks, the final layer. The dance is so close to the final pose, but they keep spinning around and spinning. The longer it goes on the more dizzy Harry becomes, need filling the hot cauldron in his gut, brewing a potion that may just be his undoing. Harry is on his second helping of stew when Hedwig flies in, depositing a stack of letters, his weekly exchanges with Hermione and Ron, an update from Hagrid, with an inquiry into Buckbeak's recovery.
Sirius leaves him to read, “I need a shower, I think I have pond scum in arse.”
Harry chokes midswallow, cheeks darkening as Sirius departs for the bathroom, unapologetic with divulging such unnecessary information even if intended as a joke.
Alone in the kitchen, Harry tries to get a grip on his traitorous body, his sudden bashfulness that must be prolonging the process, and yet he can’t help but feel Sirius is upstairs, preparing . Ensuring that he is clean and smells good before they take the last step. Harry fiddles with his damp hair, sniffs his pits, wrinkling his nose. He is a bit ripe now that he notices. It dawns on him—Sirius has done this, likely many times, he knows how to prep. Harry, on the other hand, hasn’t a clue. Should he shave so that he isn’t prickly or hairy? Should he wash himself in unexplored places? Harry shivers. Of course it wouldn’t hurt to be clean, but now a question begins nags him: how is it decided? Whose bit goes into the other? This is the sort of question Harry wishes he had researched prior, months ago, or had access to a source other than Sirius for information. He is sure Sirius intends to fuck him—the shield gave him a glimpse of what is to come by brushing his insides, parts that Harry didn’t even know could feel pleasure. Yet after that, would Harry be given the opportunity? He blushes, Sirius is bigger than him, stronger than him in a lot of ways, to be the one on top feels even more of a stretch.
Afterall, if Sirius commands the act, Harry just has to listen, submit, but if roles were reversed Harry wouldn’t have a clue what to do, besides logically following what should be pleasurable. He wouldn’t have craft, certainly not in the way Sirius does. Again, Harry curses his nerves, hates that now with the restraints off he grows tentative. It was much easier to be bold when Sirius was denying them, but boldness aside, Harry still craves his touch. Still aches for it deep in his belly and groin and he knows Sirius will take care of him—that he will coach Harry through this, that he won’t leave Harry alone to navigate the experience. So nervous but determined, Harry wanders up to the shower too, passing Sirius on his way out, shutting his eyes as the steam hits his flushed skin. Sirius is dressed in a soft house robe that, like always, doesn’t cover his tattooed chest. His hair is washed and dried, styled into its perfect waves that shine under the lights. His beard is brushed too. The bergamot shaving oil hits Harry’s nose as Sirius walks past, leaning to kiss Harry’s forehead.
“I’ll be downstairs,” He murmurs, voice hoarse. Harry hears the unspoken promise: I’ll be waiting.
In the shower, Harry gives himself the most thorough cleaning of his life, scrubbing his already sunburnt skin raw and making sure to leave no nook, cranny, crevice unwashed. It feels rather clinical to wash himself there too and yet his body thrums with the touch, because the shield educated to the location of a spot deep inside him that is just as excitable as his stifled cock. By the time he deems himself as clean as possible, Harry is lightheaded from the steam. A quick drying spell speeds the process, but leaves his hair an unfortunate haphazard mess. Hopeless, Harry avoids studying the mirror on the way out, choosing to steal a robe from Sirius’s closet, because he doesn’t want to add back pesky layers, but also isn’t quite up to descending the stairs in the nude. The robe is too long for his limbs, tripping him up, and hiding his hands. He rolls up the leaves as he rushes back downstairs, trying not to think about the fact Sirius is willing to take this next step.
Downstairs he finds Sirius and he very much feels like he is entering the lion's den, not their living room. The fireplace roars with flame and casts the room in shadow which only darkens Sirius’s stare further as he looks at Harry from top to bottom. Sirius drowns the glass of firewhiskey and Harry notes that while his shoulders may be lax, he’s fisting the crystal cup, knuckles a stark white.
“Can I have some?” Harry asks, wanting some liquid courage himself as Sirius stands to pour another drink. It might be nice to have something to occupy his hands with inside of fumbling with the annoyingly long leaves of the robe, but for the first time today Sirius denies him.
“No,” He firmly replies and Harry glares as Sirius does not give him an explanation.
“But—” Harry starts to object, coming closer, mindful to not trip on the fabric.
“But, no. It’s important for you not to be tipsy tonight. I want you to have all your wits about you.”
Harry studies the floor, sparing a glance at the decanter and then to Sirius’s second pour, second as far as he knows.
“Why?” He huffs, a bit bitter that Sirius gets to dilute his own nerves with the amber liquid and not him.
“Because,” Sirius drawls, casting one arm around Harry’s waist before reeling him in, “I want you fully coherent when I touch you. I want you sober, perfectly equipped to say yes, or no.”
A gasp squeezes out of Harry’s throat as he is tugged into his embrace, their hips and torsos aligning, so close that Harry must crane his neck up to keep eye contact. Only he isn’t sure he can keep gazing at the eye of the storm, not when he stands in its path of destruction. Without blinking, without closing his stormy eyes, Sirius drowns the whole glass in one calculated swallow and Harry follows the bob of his throat as if he can see through flesh to the amber waterfall trickling into his stomach. Carefully, Sirius places the empty glass on the mantle. Harry wonders if he might be the next thing to be drained of all its essence. Will Sirius place his empty, sated body on the mantle like a trophy when he is finished?
“This is mine,” Sirius muses, rubbing the hem of the robe between his thumb and fingers. Fingers that are unusually bare, void of the rings from earlier. “But then, so are you,” Sirius adds, before slipping the robe off Harry and swallowing Harry into another promising kiss.
Silk dangles off his elbows as Sirius consumes his lips. Heat, blood, magic, everything all plummets south into his abdomen as Sirius splays his hand on his low back and presses his hips in. To his dismay, he squeaks, caught off guard by the rapture considering he didn’t have to provoke Sirius into it. Cinnamon and full-bodied oak warm his mouth as Sirius wrestles his tongue, tangling their mouths together, distracting Harry as he slides the robe from his arms. Bare as can be, Harry’s skin prickles with exposure to the air, nothing to guard him from the famished typhoon hitting him. Good, he doesn’t want any barriers. So he returns the favor, sneaking his hands between them to untie the knot on Sirius’s robe. Sirius lets him remove the fabric and Harry’s heart pounds as unseen skin comes into view: his fully masted cock, an inch longer, and thicker than his own, slightly hooked. It may as well be the first cock Harry’s ever seen. It’s beautiful, but also a bit dangerous like the rest of Sirius, nestled in black hair. Drool escapes from his gaping mouth and it does not go unnoticed, Sirius collects the salvia with his thumb, “I’ll take that as a compliment then?”
“Yeah,” Harry replies, throat dry, but mouth wet, embarrassment mixing with desire in his core. Sirius inspects him too, eyes drinking him up, before he reaches to yank Harry back in, forcing Harry to balance on the balls of his feet.
“Beautiful,” Sirius growls, a hand migrates to one of Harry’s cheeks, squeezing the plump flesh roughly. “Do you have any clue how much I want you?”
He does have somewhat of a clue, just going off of the wet cock smearing against his belly. Harry whines, abandons all pride, because standing like this there is no pressure, nothing to teether him as he sways, knees buckling as his own cock presses against Sirius.
“Show me, I’m yours,” He pants and tries to offer some encouragement although Sirius doesn’t look like he needs it, “You can do anything you want to me.”
“Anything?” Sirius purrs, amused. Harry’s core twists at the taunt. Another hand grabs his butt and with one swift pull, Sirius lifts Harry up into his arms. Harry goes willingly, this time hoping they make it further than the sofa, only they don’t. Sirius kneels, bringing them to the plush fur rug in front of the roaring fire. He lays Harry out, before dropping next to his side, and Harry scrambles to drape himself on top of Sirius because he does not want a repeat of the picnic blanket situation. He wants to explore uncharted territories.
“Yes, anything,” Harry confirms, whining as Sirius parts his legs so Harry can fully spread out on top of him.
“Sweetheart,” Sirius pants, hot breath cascading down his neck, and Harry lurches as Sirius thrusts up in him—his hard cock jutting into his thigh. The hurried motion spurs Harry to act in kind. He rubs his length downward, gasping at the pressure and warmth. Shaking, Harry stiffens, trying to ward off the rising urge to let his hips grind with a ballistic desperate fervor. A hand presses into his low back in encouragement—a signal to not stop.
“Pup, it’s okay,” Sirius whispers, “You can come.”
The soft invitation is all it takes for him to crack, morphing into the pitiful eager virgin he is and dry humping Sirius into the red rug: red as the scorching hot want branding his core. Without layers, irritating fabric caught between their lusting bodies, he can caress Sirius’s indulgent soft warm skin, not caring as their bones bump against each other, knees and hips, teeth on teeth. “There you go, good pup,” more hushed cheering that burns , because he is incapable of stopping himself from such frantic rutting, unable to stop his hips from bucking as Sirius strokes his waist and lazily drags his hips in answer underneath him. Everywhere his blood pounds, he can hear the velocity in his ears—embarrassment and lust dueling, driving him to act like the untrained puppy he is: wanton, helpless. Sirius coos at him, strokes his hair through it all, and Harry crumbles as their wet and stiff cocks touch.
“Ah!” He cries, tremors taking over his limbs as his release punches through his core. Sirius holds him up, hangs on through the vibrations. Harry whimpers in shock as Siris’s member slips between his thighs into the crevice of his ass and then, he is not the only one shaking.
“Harry, fuck , Harry.”
Sticky seed sandwiched between them, they lie there for a moment, catching their breaths and the only thing that keeps Harry from flinching in dirty shame is the fact that Sirius’s heart is hammering too. Harry squirms as the evidence of Sirius’s release pools down his inner thigh. His seed is still hot as it trickles down his skin and Harry somehow, despite already being sweating and hot, flushes further. Aftershocks still possess him, as Sirius rolls them, crushing Harry into the rug with his weight. The pressure defies the laws of physics—his lungs sighing with relief as Sirius bares onto him, mouth seeking his pulse to suck on.
“Beautiful,” Sirius remarks and Harry shuts his eyes, glasses too steamy to see that good anyways.
Aftershocks dwindle to the aftermath—their heaving bodies molded together, hearts winding down, a surge of relief replaces the waves of white hot bliss. Harry sags into the carpet, content to lie there with Sirius licking and kissing his neck, his beard tickling his sensitive skin, as Harry traces Sirius’s gold scar with his finger. The floor, combined with their proximity and the roaring fire behind them, grows cozy, lulling Harry to relax, to lounge in the solace of finally knowing Sirius this way. Of being able to know him this way. He lets the dark envelop him, thinking in his pleasure drunk state that it is Sirius, until sleep takes him away before he can notice the difference.
The plethora of kissing scenes this chapter, my gawd
And last but not least, how I imagine the "fire" in the Carmine Manor fireplace watching Harry hump Sirius with abandon:
