There is a headiness to your first days of freedom after school. All good sense has taken leave, flown away on dove’s wings and disappeared. It can’t last, you know this, but Sirius’ enthusiasm is too infectious to be denied. You almost let yourself believe you’re just another spoiled princeling with the world at his feet. It is an easy lie to sell yourself, so seductive, so attractive, not unlike Sirius who pulls you along in his wake. You are drawn in to his sphere, so close you can practically smell the galleons. He spends his wealth like water rushing from a spigot, never reminding you not one worn knut of it is yours.
Wine and ale and spirits too expensive for you to even know the names of flow freely; the breaking of every dawn finds you drunk in a bed you did not buy in a flat you cannot afford, fucking a man who could buy and sell you three times over without ever breaking a sweat. You cannot imagine denying him anything; he’s got you wrapped round his little finger, folding you into a life you never knew existed, carefully plucking all your concerns and tossing them aside like rubbish.
You are worn down and laughing, cares and caution pushed aside with the war that will come along soon enough. Soon enough you will take your place in the shooting arcade, a smile on your face as you wait for death to come for you, too. It is a ridiculous imagine, one you share with Sirius who laughs and pulls you from your chair and walks you to a dark corner of the pub.
His mouth is hot and desperate on yours and you are stunned to realize you are not the only one pretending. You’ve come to close to the truth with your little joke and now Sirius needs to forget the words were ever spoken. He is afraid; you comprehend this fully as he pushes your bodies together. Not twenty meters away is a pub full of patrons, five meters away is the brick wall that leads to Diagon Alley. Neither of you care.
Sirius has your trousers open now and his as well, they ride low on hips, slipping ever further with every jerk. He’s got both your cocks in hand, pulling, pulling, pulling. He whispers filthy things in your ear – your head spins from the alcohol and your orgasm as it hits. You are vaguely aware of passersby and the whispers they bring with them. You don’t care.
Sirius kisses you again, cleans you both up, pulling his trousers together as you do the same. He slings his arm around your shoulder, steering you back to the pub, loudly calling for another round. There is still so much you both need to forget.
Forget
Wine and ale and spirits too expensive for you to even know the names of flow freely; the breaking of every dawn finds you drunk in a bed you did not buy in a flat you cannot afford, fucking a man who could buy and sell you three times over without ever breaking a sweat. You cannot imagine denying him anything; he’s got you wrapped round his little finger, folding you into a life you never knew existed, carefully plucking all your concerns and tossing them aside like rubbish.
You are worn down and laughing, cares and caution pushed aside with the war that will come along soon enough. Soon enough you will take your place in the shooting arcade, a smile on your face as you wait for death to come for you, too. It is a ridiculous imagine, one you share with Sirius who laughs and pulls you from your chair and walks you to a dark corner of the pub.
His mouth is hot and desperate on yours and you are stunned to realize you are not the only one pretending. You’ve come to close to the truth with your little joke and now Sirius needs to forget the words were ever spoken. He is afraid; you comprehend this fully as he pushes your bodies together. Not twenty meters away is a pub full of patrons, five meters away is the brick wall that leads to Diagon Alley. Neither of you care.
Sirius has your trousers open now and his as well, they ride low on hips, slipping ever further with every jerk. He’s got both your cocks in hand, pulling, pulling, pulling. He whispers filthy things in your ear – your head spins from the alcohol and your orgasm as it hits. You are vaguely aware of passersby and the whispers they bring with them. You don’t care.
Sirius kisses you again, cleans you both up, pulling his trousers together as you do the same. He slings his arm around your shoulder, steering you back to the pub, loudly calling for another round. There is still so much you both need to forget.