Pretty Boys™

Ok doing these in order I received them, and this is a DOOZY right out of the gate. LOVE Harry in this light, I actually think it's very believable for him (I think he'd be significantly less dark and scary than Anakin but I can totally imagine him bulldozing Sirius's rules because harry never met a rule he didn't want do bulldoze amirite).

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Sirius told him no. Twice, perhaps more–sandwiched in between plaintive, weakening we can’ts and I’m sorrys. 

But voices only count for so much regarding matters of the flesh, and Harry isn’t stupid. Merlin, no, he’s not stupid, and he’s not cowardly. He’s sharp-eyed, green and hot as floo fire behind his smudged lenses, mouth set in that horrible, stubborn way that James used to do, but worse because it’s not James, it’s Harry, and Harry is fifteen, and he saw his classmate die in a graveyard last summer before Voldemort brought a blade to his skin and drew a cold finger down the length of his face. He’s a natural born rule-breaker and he's been hardened already by things so dark and terrible that an adult’s simple, unconvincing no isn’t enough. Sirius knows this. The protests–they’re only for him. For his own conscience, so when he looks back on this night when he poured his Godson liquor and allowed subtext to become confession,  he can say to himself you did everything you could, old man. You tried. 

Harry comes closer. Presses Sirius into the headboard, close enough Sirius can smell his nervous firewhiskey breath when it huffs out in the tight space between them. “Harry,” he tries one last time. It’s not no. It’s not anything at all–a prayer, a wish maybe. Something he might say in the shameful quiet of his own mind before blowing out a birthday candle, or late at night with a hand fisted down his trousers. 

 “I don’t believe you,” Harry murmurs, reaching out and laying a careful, questing hand on Sirius’s bicep. “When you tell me you won’t let this happen. You'll say one thing–but you won’t stop me.” 

Wicked, clever, precocious boy. He’s right, of course. He sees through Sirius, knows his resistance is a smokescreen. But Sirius has his own stubborn streak, and he is a madman, after all, so he lays a hand flat on Harry’s chest to hold him in place. Five fingers, spread over the hammer of his heart. “I will stop you,” he warns, but he says it all wrong, he said it so softly, it comes out like don’t make me stop you.  With his eyes hooded, fixed on Harry’s very pink mouth. 

Like all smokescreens, it dissipates to nothingness. All it takes is for one shrewd, skeptical teenager to call his bluff.

Harry kisses him, rough and wet with inexperience. Their teeth click together and Sirius kisses back fiercely before he remembers that’s the exact thing he’s not supposed to do. He tries to pull away but it’s too late, Harry makes a triumphant sound into their mouths, a drunk, smug little hah Sirius remembers James uttering out on the quidditch pitch, eons ago. Then, just like that, Harry is in his lap. Straddling him, grinding against him, breathless. 

Sirius’s hands twitch to Harry’s waist beyond his will. Burning skin beneath the softness of a worn out flannel shirt, Sirius mauls the two together, crushing Harry between his palms. Then Harry tears away from kiss–too much, crossed the line, this was why I told you no Sirius thinks in a rush, another apology half-choked. But then it dies in his throat because Harry is not stopping him–Harry is peeling off his shirt. Pulling it over his head, knocking his glasses off and rucking his hair into a crowblack wreck in the process. He’s all marble stained pink, and Sirius cannot remember a word he meant to say, all he can do is look, like looking is drinking and he's a man parched.

Harry settles back down, and when Sirius doesn’t touch him he takes his hands, and puts them where he wants them. One on his waist, the other across his chest. He lays it out flat over the thin, uneven smattering of black hair there that likely only started to grow this summer. His heart is still pounding like he's terrified, but he stares Sirius down as if daring him to follow through on that pathetic promise to stop. 

Sirius is weak. His thumb wanders, pushing the fine hair one way, and then the other. Counting the beats of that sweet, brave heart. “You are very difficult to resist, do you know that?” he murmurs.

“For you,” Harry says, shy and cheeky all at once, how does he do that. “Can’t imagine why.” He shrugs.

"God, Because you're beautiful. Because I love you," Sirius admits. "Because you're irresistible." Irresistible, like chemistry, physics. A force of nature.

Again, Harry won't let him squirm away. "To you." Then, after a sharp inhale, spit out quickly, in a tumble. "AndIloveyoutoo. Obviously."

Sirius tries to draw his hand away, but Harry chases it, pushes his body into it. "You play very dirty," Sirius says, and that last word, dirty, feels so goodwrong in his mouth that his guts burn. He thickens to full, shameful hardness under Harry's weight. "I feel as if I don't have much choice in this matter,"

“It’s like in quidditch, when you find a player’s weakness," Harry explains.

“And use it against them." Until they lose.

Harry nods, sitting up onto his knees and undoing his flies clumsily before tugging his jeans down. Over his ass, over his thighs, then painstakingly off of each knee until he kicks entirely free of them, in nothing but a pair of obscenely threadbare black pants and his socks as he sits on Sirius again. Sirius stares, dumbstruck–that insane Gryffindor bravery (bordering on mad stupidity) again, bolder than he, bolder than James. “What do you think?” Harry says, voice very low, and very shaky. 

Sirius fans his hands worshipfully down his chest, to his hips, to his thighs. Then he shakes his head. “That you’re fifteen,” he murmurs. 

“And you’re still touching me,” Harry observes. “So this is how it’s gonna go, then, isn’t it–you’ll say the right thing, but your hands–” he takes one, encircles Sirius’s wrist and drags it up, up to the tent in his pants, lashes fluttering, cheeks turning crimson at his own rashness, or perhaps at the way Sirius’s breath catches when he makes contact with the heat of his erection– “will tell the truth?” 

“No,” Sirius says, beside himself as he palms Harry through the meager fabric, tugs him down by his hair with the other hand to lick into his mouth. “No–no,” between kisses, fevered licks, Harry rutting into his palm, their hips working in choppy tandem. 

Here are some others :)

In light of some of the many things happening across the world this year, I thought this Pride Month needed a special illustration.