Non Ponitur

*

Harry’s body is light, and smooth, and sweaty as he slides up against Sirius, his firm, calloused palms pinning Sirius’ shoulders back against the chair, the leather groaning as the seat rocks under their weight. They both appear bronzed in the dim light of Professor Snape’s office, illuminated only by the candles that rest precariously on a stone shelf near the gargoyle.

They kiss and both sets of lips are chapped, but this doesn’t matter because they’re theirs, and they are each other’s, and their tongues are smooth enough to make up for the world-weary skin that’s outside. They kiss slowly, exploring and comforting and loving the only way either of them knows how. They’ve both lost things but they’ve found each other and right now, as Sirius’ fingers find their way to the slick, hot circle and slide in, Harry moans out a sound that has only been ever heard by their ears. They curl into one another, Harry’s teeth grazing Sirius’ bottom lip and his hands tight and possessive around Sirius’ neck.

Sirius always takes a painfully long time to prepare Harry. He is always worried for the boy, afraid to move too fast, afraid to hurt him, terrified – though he’d never let his grey eyes show it – of breaking the one thing left in the world that still shines.

He shifts Harry, pulling him closer, Harry’s arms looping over the back of the chair for support. Harry arches his hips, lips catching on the side of Sirius’ mouth again as he whispers something that sounds vaguely like profanity but is surely too delicate. And then Harry is sliding himself down onto Sirius’ hardened length, breath escaping in an easy hiss that reminds Sirius of the sensual whirl of parseltongue. Harry whimpers, arching back as Sirius thrusts upwards, both bodies rising up off the frame of the chair in a single, unified motion. They move like this, Sirius with eyes so focused that he looks as if he intends to swallow Harry’s green, to meld the two colors together, perfectly.

There is a quill on Professor Snape’s desk, and Sirius can see the tip of it glistening in the flicker of candlelight, wet with black ink. Harry moves again, shifting against Sirius so that Sirius swears he can feel Harry’s heartbeat, pounding so hard against his chest that it refracts and Sirius’ vision dilates with the thrum of anticipation.

Harry sees the light in Sirius’ eyes change, and Sirius holds him still for a moment, both of them panting calmly against each other’s necks. Sirius whispers, newly dulcet tone licking the shell of Harry’s ear, and Harry stills, shivering at the words.

He nods into the crook of Sirius’ neck, his small arms wrapping tighter around Sirius’ shoulders.

Sirius reaches for the quill, and presses his index finger to the jagged tip to test it. The ink leaves a mark like polished obsidian on his fingertip and he runs it over Harry’s collarbone, the black smearing with sweat and leaving a smooth trail of black along the naked skin. Sirius thinks he could mark Harry all over, cover every expanse of Harry’s skin with himself, with something permanent and visible.

Harry slides himself up and down on Sirius’ cock, and heat sliding easily in and out of him and Sirius watches the boy move, his inky hair haloed in yellow light that reflects off the grey stone of the gargoyle, and the torch, and the cauldron, and Sirius’ eyes, which are stone-grey with determination now.

He takes the round frames of Harry’s glasses off, setting them on the desk and he can see Harry’s vision twist and blur until he imagines himself as a haze of skin, just a slice of warmth in and out of Harry’s body. Harry leans in close, arching forward again, and kisses Sirius hard with his green eyes flashing and wide open, and Sirius swims back into focus. Harry doesn’t need his glasses now. They only get in the way.

Sirius’ free hand – the one not tangling in the sweaty crown of Harry’s hair – grapples for the ink pot, and dips the quill in generously, scrawling languid circles and whirls in the air, his wrist moving in time with the slow clench and release of Harry’s trembling thighs over his body. Their bodies pull together and apart with slick sounds like suction and sweat and Harry whispers in a whistle-tone rasp to ask Sirius what he is writing.

Sirius tells Harry that he will show him, and sweeps lazy cursive over Harry’s chest. Harry shivers at the scratching tip of the quill over his bare skin, the indentations that are lighter than fingernail scrapes, and harsher than the grazing line of teeth. Sirius’ hand is steady as he connects the swooping black lines, one into the next, mapping their way across Harry’s chest. Sirius pauses, palm steadying itself, and he can feel the nervous flutter of heartbeat, as he finishes the line. He blows cool breathes over the writing, and Harry shivers again, asking Sirius to read it aloud, his voice no more than a whine and he slides up on Sirius’ cock again, bracing his hands on either side of the chair, his fingers digging in to the leather of the chair to keep himself from coming.

Sirius slides his tongue over Harry’s collarbone, licking his way down to the start of the sentence, so that when he reads, his lips are against Harry’s neck and his voice is husky and barely audible.

“Amor animi arbitrio sumitur, non ponitur.”

Harry has come across enough latin in spell books and charms lessons to recognize the first word, and his eyes meet Sirius’ with a look of surprise, a secret, a promise, a light flickering there and flaring up like a spark of green.

He moves more quickly, both his hands sliding down Sirius’ chest, his fingers drawing words there to match those on his own skin. He wants to know what they mean. He wants them to be permanent.

Sirius looks at Harry seriously now, and thrusts upwards as he whispers, louder this time, the translation.

“We choose to love. We do not choose to cease loving.”

Time freezes and Harry imagines, in that second, that if love were a color, it would be swirling grey.

And just like that, he comes.

*