do you have any more head canons for older sirius ....
yes i ALWAYS have more to say about older sirius !!
warnings: smut and general angsty-ness
I feel like the whole relationship is grounded in this constant feeling that you need to make up for lost time.
You fuck more often in your thirties than you did when you were nineteen, and the sex is never just sex. It’s like he has something to prove. He’ll make you come three times in his mouth before he even thinks about fucking you, and then it’s firey and possessive - he’ll bend you over the dining table that his mother used to hold court over, or lift you up and fuck you against the spot in the family tapestry that his name was burned off. You scream his name loud enough that it may as well stitch it back into the fabric.
He has to be touching you, all the time, like he’s scared he’ll blink and you’ll be gone.
Because one day you were gone. He will never forget the night before he was arrested, when he was holding you for the last time and he had absolutely no idea he wouldn’t see you again for over a decade.
Now, he holds you so tight that you can hear the beating of his heart in his chest. Sometimes you’ll wake up in the morning to find him leaning up on his elbows, staring at you like he can’t quite believe you’re actually here, laying in the bed with him.
He isn’t the boy that you fell in love with at Hogwarts. He’s a man, hardened, with lines beyond his years on his face. It upsets you to no end that the crows feet set beside his eyes are there because of indescribable suffering, and not years of laughter with his best friends.
But the boy does come out sometimes— when he stares at your tits like a teenager while you’re getting ready, or when he refuses to come in the kitchen when you make eggs for breakfast because they ‘smell like a goblin’s farts’. He winks at you after Moody makes an accidental innuendo during an Order meeting once, and you start choking on your wine so hard that Molly Weasley has to hit you on the back.
One night, you wake up cold, and find his side of the bed empty. You pace down the hall, and he’s there, on the sofa, listening to David Bowie on the record player you’d found beneath the floorboards of Regulus’ old bedroom (Sirius hadn’t spoken for a day after you found it, rendered silent by the realisation that his brother had hidden it from his mother after he ran away) with a cigarette smoking away in his hand.
James fucking hated this song, he croaks, sensing your presence in the room without having to turn around. He charmed the vinyl so that the song would skip when I put it on in the mornings.
And now the charm has worn off and James can’t fix it because he’s dead, he doesn’t say, but you understand. Neither of you were raised in a way that allowed you to talk about the emotionally complicated things in your lives, but you read him in other ways, like the faraway tone in his voice, or the slight tremor in his hand when Harry laughs with the exact same cadence as his father.
You just sit with him and stare into the fireplace together some nights in silence, passing a bottle of whisky between you and chainsmoking cigarettes like you used to in the astronomy tower when you first started seeing each other at school. The weight of everything that you’ve lost swirls in the air along with all the cigarette smoke, but the feeling of his thigh against yours is almost enough to make the hurt go away, even for just one night.
