Despoiling Harry

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The characters and the situations within these fanfiction stories are not my property. They are the property of J.K. Rowling, Warner Brothers, and others, and are used without permission; challenge to copyright is not intended and should not be construed. No profit is being made from the use of these characters and situations; these written-down imaginings are only presented in an internet forum for the interest of and consumption by the like-minded individuals who enjoy them and recognize them as unauthorized fanfiction only, and are not in any way meant to be confused with the originals NOR presented as authorized materials of these owners.

Even Closer To Me

by Amanuensis

Pairing: Harry/Sirius
Summary: "I dropped it in the Forest," he lies.
A/N: Canon-compliant smut. Thanks to fabularasa for the super-fast beta. The characters are all fictional and thus have no age; I own nothing in the Potterverse and am only imagining.

"Like that?"

A brow wrinkles, a mouth purses. "Little harder. Can't feel it."


"No, no, don't be like that." Sirius's fingers riffle through Harry's hair, trying to comfort; it's like wind, it's so insubstantial. "Just try again. A little harder, that's all."

Again Harry moves his hand--sweaty, anxious--along the length of Sirius's cock, fingers wrapping about it in a grip that he'd be scared would hurt, were he not trying to bring off a stone-born shade. "Yeah, I think I felt that this time. Nice."

He thinks he felt it. Shit and damn and bloody fuck. "Maybe..." Harry swallows, not wanting to say it, but they're both thinking it so why the hell shouldn't it be said? "Maybe that's what the Three Brothers tale meant. What it said about how his sweetheart was distant 'as by a veil.' That maybe they couldn't get closer than this." He swallows again; he can't unsay it.

Sirius's hand moves to Harry's chin; his fingers pull Harry's face up so that he's looking right into Sirius's eyes. The tug of his fingers is faint enough that Harry knows he could resist it, but he doesn't try.

"Sod all stupid children's fairy tales," Sirius says, and kisses Harry full on the mouth. This, Harry feels. Every bloody fabulous moment of it.


"Have you seen Harry?"

"Hm? No, I haven't. Wasn't he with you?"

"He was supposed to meet me for a walk."

"Huh. No, haven't seen him. Suppose he's got other things on his mind, Gin. He's been like that."


"I felt that."

Sirius's warm chuckle against his chest. "Did you now."

Harry's voice is hoarse. "Yeah." Every part of him feels sticky, not just the seepage around the head of his own cock. "Do that some more?"

Another chuckle, and Sirius obliges, kneading Harry's cock in his fist, and it's just as fantastic as it was a moment ago. He can feel fingers, not just vague pressure but the joints and bones of Sirius's hand squeezing about him, and the answering tightening in his balls is like a cry. More of the sticky ooze leaks from his cock, and he can feel that, too--the interface of wetness between his cock and Sirius's hand, and there's nothing ghostly, nothing shadely, about it at all.

Sirius lifts his head from where his lips have been worrying at Harry's nipple, and brushes them against the shell of his ear. "You can come for me now, if you like," husks Sirius, low and wicked and enough to push Harry over right then.

Truly enough. A well-timed thumb of Sirius's strokes down the underside of Harry's cock and Harry shouts, arches into Sirius's hands and comes hot splashing drops in gorgeous pulses that seem to empty him like the life-giving opposite of a Dementor's Kiss. Oh, it's better than he'd imagined, better better better. He pants into Sirius's neck, sweaty and feeling radiant. As if he's...

As if he's beaten death.

He can even feel the arm Sirius has about his neck, feels how it pillows him, how Sirius's hand lies upon his shoulder. He can feel Sirius's breath on the side of his face. Things Harry couldn't have felt at all a few weeks ago. Sirius has become damned good at this. Harry likes to think he's got something to do with it.

"Half-bad isn't half-bad," jokes Sirius lightly.

Harry shakes his head. "Not half-bad at all."


"Hermione. Where's Harry?"

"Ron, don't be angry at me--I let him sleep. He so looked like he needed it."

"I'm not angry, why'd you think that?"

"Oh--just--the look on your--you looked worried."

"Suppose I am. Did you actually look in his bedroom?"

"Why, no. The door's closed. I assumed..."

"Might be what he wants us to assume."



"I wish I could--I dunno, take you somewhere."

Sirius lifts his head. "This is nice." He looks around at the path that leads down from Shell Cottage: lots of weeds to hide them from anyone who might come by, but the view of the sea unimpeded. "It's a different place from the Burrow, too, so, technically you have taken me somewhere. Not that I'm not happy to be anywhere you are."

"Not what I meant."

"I know what you meant, Harry." Sirius plucks a stem of oniongrass; it takes him a couple of tries to get it but eventually it yields to the grip of his fingers and comes away with a tiny snap. "I suppose it doesn't matter that I don't mind?"

"It matters." Harry tries to smile. He lets the smile go when he feels its falseness but more, realizes that he doesn't need to put it on, not when the plain sober truth will serve him better. "It matters enough. It does."

He reaches for Sirius, who takes his hand and interlaces the fingers of it with his own. Harry can feel every separate division of it and knows it really was the truth he spoke.


"You've been gone a long time. Fleur thought we should hold dinner for you, but I said you'd feel bad if you'd thought you'd delayed it for the others."

"Thanks, Hermione."

"It's no problem. Only...only I wonder if keeping to yourself so much is making you feel better."

"It's not bad. I'm all right."

"We're here, always. I'm not saying you have to talk to us, even. Just that we're here."



Harry finds himself wishing his eyes were somewhere else on his body, so that he could do this and watch Sirius's face more easily at the same time. Sirius's mouth is twisted up and his eyes are slits, and the idea that he's making Sirius look like that makes Harry double his efforts, hollowing his cheeks with the effort of his sucking. Sirius groans, and Harry stops to lay the flat of his tongue against the join of skin between Sirius's cock and balls, lick hard along the loose flesh of the sac, until Sirius groans even louder. "Devil," Sirius mutters, and Harry fights a grin off his face so that he doesn't slack off in his job.

At last Sirius's hips buck, Harry with almost the full length of Sirius's cock in his mouth, feeling it nudge the back of his throat as Sirius shouts and bucks and comes. Harry lets the taste of it drip back down his tongue, needing the proof of it as one more trophy, even though Sirius's shouts and shudders and his fingers clutching at Harry's head should be more than enough.

"Yeah?" he says when he's at last released Sirius's cock, when Sirius's eyes are on him and Harry is making a show of licking a drop from his lower lip, just because.

"Yeah," Sirius echoes with a laugh. "What on earth must I taste like, you cheeky pup?"

"Starlight," says Harry, and Sirius makes a face and cuffs him, but fondly. And then he wrestles Harry into a kiss, his tongue chasing the remnants of his own come from the inside of Harry's mouth, and the shocks of that are so electric Harry fancies he wasn't just being poetic after all, really.


"I dropped it in the Forest," he lies, surprised that he can tell a lie to a portrait, and that Dumbledore does not see through it instantly. But Dumbledore does not, and Harry can feel the stone in the pouch around his neck, waiting, waiting for him. As he imagines he can feel Sirius still by his side, waiting, waiting for him.


"It's Sirius, isn't it? I heard you say his name."


"I won't tell anyone else. I just--I just want you to be happy. And I'm afraid--afraid of what will happen if this drives you mad. 'Hopeless longing.' Oh, Harry, we can't lose you to this!"

"You won't. It's...not like that."

"How can it not be?"

"That's how they told the tale to children. I'm not a child and this isn't a fairy tale. It's different."

"I want to believe you."

"Hermione. I promise you this. I won't kill myself over it, all right? Not going to happen."

"All right."

"Don't look like that, please. I mean it; it's really all right."


"You can bring the others back, too."

Harry starts, closes his hand about the stone. He hadn't realized Sirius was there. Though he should have expected it; Sirius is usually content to wander unseen in whatever dwelling they're staying in, but here in Grimmauld Place Sirius tends to stay close to him.

"It's not like I'm selfish." Sirius leans back on the bed, shakes his long hair out of his face. "That I need to be the only one. You can have your time with them, too, really."

Harry looks at him, shakes his head at last as he replaces the stone in the pouch. "I can't. I'm afraid of what they'll say."

A wry smile. "Of how much time you're spending with ghosts, or that your godfather's defiling their dear boy?"

Harry ducks his head. "The latter, I guess." He looks at Sirius more directly. "You're not a ghost."

"Suppose not." The smile widens into a grin. "Ghosts can't do this." Sirius reaches forward and begins to undo Harry's flies as if such physical barriers never once gave him trouble, and the bite he worries into the join of Harry's neck and shoulder is slow and fierce and ends just below the point of pain. It is enough.


"I heard you were thinking of getting a place in Godric's Hollow."

"I was, yeah."

"Not that I mind. I just sort of thought I'd have heard about it first from Ginny or Hermione. Not from an estate agent who left a message."

"Yeah, well--"

"Of course, once I would have heard about it first from you. I don't really expect that so much these days."

"Ron. Ron, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, me too. I'm still your friend, you know? I'm even your mate, if you want to be that too. Let me know if you want to talk about anything, okay?"

"Okay. I'm--thanks, Ron. Not--right now..."

"It's all right. You and me, you know? I'm here, when you want me."


"Fuck me," Harry begs, hearing the unfamiliar words fall from his mouth and inflaming him even further with their obscenity. "Do it. Fuck me."

He's on his knees, his own hands spreading his arse wide and Sirius growls with animal lust as he comes up behind him, draping his own naked body to cover Harry's. Harry groans, feeling the bluntness of Sirius's cock and balls knock against his spread crack, and then Sirius backs off to place his thumbs at either side of Harry's arsecheeks and push them open further, ducking his head and spitting a tangible gob of saliva directly upon Harry's anus. His tongue follows it, laving more spit into the crack, and Harry nearly sobs with the agony of his arousal.

And then Sirius is up against him again and his cock is huge and remorseless and breaches Harry in a fiery burn of glory, hard, enormous, truly too much for him and Harry thinks he'll die with the joy of that. Sirius sheathes himself completely and pulls nearly out and does it again, and again, and Harry can hear him saying, "Like that? Like that, you cock-hungry slut? My cock-hungry slut?" and Harry babbles words he never imagined could come from him, all yes yes more and I am, I'm your cock-hungry slut, yours all yours and make it hurt more please please please. His orgasm is an explosion, a death, a moment he can't imagine living past, and Sirius gives him the violence of his own orgasm to match his and the entire world stops for them, useless fragile world.


They don't talk about how long it will last. Sirius insists that Harry get out of the house frequently, and for more than just shopping. Harry knows that Sirius is trying to think of Harry's best interests and that it would be best for Harry to meet someone else, but Sirius thankfully isn't so noble that he can stop himself from fucking Harry in just the way they both like.

Harry's friends don't fail to visit, though Ginny comes by less and less and Harry's glad of it; it's not fair to her. He wishes she wouldn't keep saying, "I'll wait. It's all right."

Hermione's kept her word, not told. He knows because Ron still doesn't know, hasn't said anything, seems content just to be on better terms with Harry.

When Hermione looks at him, Harry can almost see her running the text of Beedle the Bard through her head. He wishes he could convince her not to worry.

It's not perfect, but it's enough.


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