A Lousy History Of Tomorrows
i.
You wake to the feel of Sirius's lips soft yet urgent upon your thighs, his breath hot and moist, calling you to life, to love, to start the day.
Your laugh turns into a moan as he wraps a hand around your hardening cock, and takes the head in his mouth. You close your eyes and moan again, the line between sleeping and waking so blurred you can't be sure you're not still dreaming.
He pulls away and says, "Moony." You open your eyes. "Look at me," he says in a low, demanding growl, before taking you in his mouth again, his gaze holding yours as he sucks you off, one hand curled around the base of your cock, the other fondling your balls.
Your hips buck, and you thrust into the velvet heat of his mouth, slipping one hand through the soft, dark fall of his hair to anchor yourself, the silk slide of it against your fingers, tickling your palm, telling you this is real, and not a dream.
You don't know it yet, but this is the last time you will ever touch him like this.
You come with pleasure so intense it's almost pain (everything you love is edged with pain), and he swallows it down, licking and sucking until there's nothing of you left, you've given it all to him.
He rises up and kisses you, and you taste yourself, mingled with the taste of sleep still on his tongue, all the little deaths a living man can know. You shiver, and he pulls you close.
"Stop being morbid," he teases and you have to laugh at how well he knows you, even after so long a time apart and so much of it where it seemed he didn't know you at all.
You roll him over and rain kisses on his hair, his eyes, his lips.
"My turn now," you say, smiling, all presentiments of death chased away by the heat and weight of his cock in your hand. You stroke until he comes, arching and moaning into the planes and hollows of your body, two halves joined to form a whole.
ii.
You feel it, the moment everything changes. It's like the moment of utter stillness before a storm, and it raises the hair on your arms and the back of your neck. His hand lingers just a bit too long on your shoulder as he says good night, and there is a question glittering in those wide, grey eyes.
His fingers ghost over your collarbone and your mouth goes suddenly dry.
"Sirius?" you ask, because you want to be sure of what he means, of what he wants. You want to be sure he won't hate you in the morning, and you won't hate yourself.
"Please," he answers, fingers tightening, and you know how much it costs him just to ask.
You stand and turn into his embrace, your lips meeting his for the first time in fourteen years, and it's the shock of the new and the thrill of the old, like the familiar and yet undiscovered country of dreams.
You don't even make it to the bedroom. The kitchen of your flat is tiny, but it's warm and cozy, and it plays host to your desperate exchange of kisses and touches, the whispered questions and answers spoken with words and touches like words, except these touches between you will not be misunderstood, the way words so often were before.
Your fingers tremble as you push his clothes aside, and his hands, aristocratic even with the nails bitten down to the quick, fumble with the buttons on your shirt, your flies. But then there is nothing but the glorious glide of skin on skin, the shift of muscle moving like light through water, and the heat of his cock sliding against yours. You lean your hips against the kitchen table and twine one ankle around his calf to keep him close as you thrust together, not caring about the way the table bangs a staccato rhythm against the wall as you fuck, a clear signal of your love to those who know how to interpret it.
He comes groaning your name, his face buried in the hollow of your throat, his breath moist and hot against your sweaty skin. You curl your fingers around his chin and raise his face so you can kiss him as you come, shuddering against him in the final release of so many years of guilt, regret and loneliness.
You feel blessed that he wants you, trusts you, enough to lay himself completely bare, and you return that trust a hundredfold. You belong together, you always have. You refuse to believe it's only because there is no one else left who would have either of you, after everything that's happened.
iii.
He is silent as he fucks you -- quick, efficient. He may as well be using his hand, for all that you interact even while his cock is in your arse and you are allegedly as close as any two people can be.
It is rote, mechanical, the kind of fucking that old married people joke about, and though your body responds to him -- your body always responds to him -- it's clear both your minds are elsewhere. You wonder if there's someone new, someone who can hold down a job for more than three weeks, someone who doesn't turn into a ravening monster once a month. Someone who hasn't been approached three separate times by recruiters for Voldemort, and who isn't a prime target for blackmail by intelligent and unscrupulous former schoolmates.
You breathe in sharp counterpoint to the hurried huh huh huh of his breathing, warm and moist against your neck, sending softer shivers of pleasure over the surface of your skin, grace notes on the deeper current of tension coiling low in your belly. Your heart kicks hard against your ribs as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, and his hand squeezes just a bit too tightly around your cock as he jacks you, tiny cruelties he never used to inflict on you, but now the pain just makes the pleasure sweeter. At least you both are feeling something.
He grunts, and comes inside you, his body shuddering against yours like parchment fluttering in the wind. You wrap your hand around his and stroke, determined now to finish before he pulls away and leaves you to yourself. The thought is almost enough to stop you from coming at all, but you close your eyes and stroke, letting your body have its way for once without interference. You feel it surge and pulse out, and you keep his hand on you for as long as possible afterward, the same way he keeps his cock inside you for as long as he can.
Your bodies don't like the distance you've set between them, and you can't seem to lie to each other in this state of sated lethargy, so you don't speak at all.
He pulls away and you collapse to the floor, trembling thighs unable to support your weight. The carpet is rough against your cheek and smells of dog and sex; you notice absently that it needs to be vacuumed as he murmurs cleaning spells, and pulls his clothes on.
You are still there, naked and shaking, when he walks out the door without saying a word.
You don't know that the next time you see his face, it will be the face of a madman, a killer, emblazoned across the front of the Daily Prophet, laughing at the deaths of your friends.
iv.
You touch him tentatively, still not quite believing he wants this, wants you. You've done this with other boys -- Fabian Prewett last year in the prefects bathroom, Angelo Zabini out behind greenhouse three, a couple of Muggles over the summer -- but none of them mattered, because none of them are Sirius.
Those first awkward kisses have grown into this, late night fumblings behind the closed curtains of his bed, the air humid with lust and heavy with the scent of boysweat and come and Sirius's old socks. You are naked now, and unashamed, because he's seen all your scars, has been there to bandage many of the wounds that caused them on mornings after the full moon. His hands and tongue are quick, eager, adventurous, as they roam your body, and he makes you laugh even as he makes you hard.
You move down the bed, licking and sucking at his hard, flat nipples, enjoying the play of firm muscle under supple skin, reveling in the knowledge that you do this to him, you make his cock hard and his voice needy, and he whispers promises of love and forever to you as you kiss your way down his belly and up the insides of his thighs.
You whisper his name as you run your thumb over the head of his cock, lovingly spreading the small pearl of pre-come over it before your lower your head to take it in your mouth. You lick and suck eagerly, forgetting your nervousness as he responds, making low urgent noises that shoot straight to your cock. You love the hard, heavy weight of him on your tongue, against your palate, the salty, slightly nutty taste of him in your mouth, lingering on your lips later, reminding you it wasn't all a dream.
"Fuck, Moony, please," he groans, his fingers tightening in your hair, pulling hard enough to make your eyes tear. But you don't stop. You remember everything those other boys taught you, everything you learned for him, and you let him push in deep, swallow it all as he spills himself down your throat.
"Fuck," he says again when he's able to speak. You wipe your mouth with your fingers and lick them clean, wanting every bit of him you can get. "Moony, that was incredible."
You duck your head and smile, because you made the ever-glib Sirius Black speechless for a few moments. He looks like a fallen angel sprawled out on the bed, wanton and sated and yours.
"We have to do that again," he says, and you agree. Again and again and again.
You want to never stop fucking him and being fucked by him, loving him and being loved by him, and you believe him when he promises forever.