Fanfic [HP]: Decadence {1/1}
Title: Decadence
Category: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling [et. al]. No profit is being made.
Rating: 18+
Warnings: Smut. And rude words. Not for the kiddies. Or work.
Spoilers: Set in the future, nothing specific. Obviously, OotP hasn't happened.
Pairing: Hermione/Sirius
Summary: A week after that, she ignored Harry's smirk at the Sirius shaped hickey on her neck and avoided sitting down as much as possible.
Author's Notes: This was originally written for mrs_remus for the holiday fic exchange at harry_holidays. I thought it would be good for me to provide a copy here. :)
The first time he came to her, it was a full moon. His breath reeked of firewhiskey, and he smelled like sin. Dark and sultry, all wrapped up in leather that left little to the imagination. She convinced herself that the clutch in her stomach were simply nerves, and ignored the wet slick in her panties. When his hands slid over her body while he thrust into her, she rationalised it all by saying that he was the one fucking her, not the other way around.
The second time he came to her, it was with a bottle of Ogden's as a peace offering. She told herself that she didn't wish that it was flowers instead, smiled at the irony of it and invited him in for a drink. They skirted around the fact that he had shagged her against the wall in the next room less than a month ago and made small talk. This time, she acknowledged the wet slick with the resigned air of a woman who knew that another pair of perfectly good panties were going to be ruined. When she decided that she was suitably drunk, she jumped him, attacking his throat with her lips and teeth. He still smelt like sin. This time she couldn't rationalise anything, not while she was riding him in the middle of her kitchen, his thumb pressing against her clit.
The third time he came to her, they skipped the pleasantries. She'd forgone the underwear this time, and felt a wicked thrill when he raised an eyebrow and simply pushed her skirt up, sliding into her with a grunt. Her hands fisted in his hair, tugging at the raven curls, and his hands pulled at her top until her breasts spilt into his greedy hands. The fact that she was shagging her best friend's godfather suddenly didn't matter as much.
A week after that, she ignored Harry's smirk at the Sirius shaped hickey on her neck and avoided sitting down as much as possible. It didn't stop her from wondering what he would do if he knew that Sirius currently had her panties in the pockets of his robe. The man in question was looking at her, dark eyes raking over her possessively. She heard the silent shout of MINE and shivered in confusion. She was not getting off on his control issues. Absolutely not.
Okay, so maybe she was.
Frowning, she stared at the wall, only vaguely noticing when Harry left. The resounding silence in the room caught her attention and she turned her head to meet his eyes. They glinted, and suddenly she was nervous about what exactly he had seen in her eyes.
"Come here."
She keeps her legs pressed tight together, trying not the think about what exactly might be causing that disturbing, traitorous wet slick against her thighs. Because if she thinks about it, and actually considers answering the question, she'll have to admit a few very uncomfortable, very bad things to herself.
And possibly to him, and that scares her more than she thought possible.
Because really, it was just Sirius, and Sirius isn't supposed to be scary. But the fact that the threads of steel intertwined with his voice were getting her this wet was slightly more than a little uncomfortable. She stays where she is, thighs stuck together. It doesn't help, because when he speaks again, his voice a low growl, she feels her legs part and walk towards him.
Damn her and her thing (because really, she wasn't at all sure what to call it) for men in authority.
She doesn't stop him when he pulls her into his arms and when he grinds himself slowly, hard and unrelenting against her she doesn't stop the groan that leaves her throat in time with his. His mouth attaches itself to her neck, lips and tongue and teeth that liquefy her knees.
"What are we doing?" She sounds breathy. She isn't sure if she can sound normal ever again, not while his hips are still moving against hers.
He chuckles against her neck and she can feel the vibrations run through her blood and pool into her stomach. "I would've thought that it was rather obvious." His hands cup her arse, smoothing the soft cotton of her skirt over her.
She idly wishes that he would call her Miss Granger, not because he has ever been her professor, but because this seems oddly reminiscent to a day dream she'd once had during third year in DADA.
Her head falls back, unwittingly providing him with better access to her neck. The exposed skin is readily accepted and her hands clutch at his shoulders. Falling into a puddle at his feet is so not the impression she is going for. He laughs again, and she wonders if he can read her mind. But no, it's Snape who is the leglimens, not Sirius and so she is safe.
His mouth latches onto her breast through her shirt (when did he get down there?) and blows the safe theory out of the water. She is not safe around Sirius. No sane, straight (and possibly not so straight) woman was. Her hips buck against his so that she is pressed against him, and she whimpers low in her throat, rubbing against the bulge in his jeans, searching for friction.
She is denied. The frustrated groan that leaves her lips dies away as his hands slip under her the waistband of her skirt, cupping her. Even as she pushes down against his hand, her own are working busily to strip him of his clothes. The man wore entirely too much, in her opinion. She manages to rid him of the robe before his fingers push into her and she is lost.
She arches, and the hand that is not busy doing wicked things to her cunt reaches up to tug on her hair, pulling her head further back. She wonders how they would look to someone walking in, him fully clothed with one hand fucking her, the other tangled in her hair, and her, with her skirt pushed down past her thighs and her shirt and bra tangled on her chest, exposing her breasts to the air and his mouth.
She rocks on his hand, desperate for more pressure. The moan that leaves her throat echoes the request (since when did she sound so bloody needy?) and her hands forgo the shirt and dive towards his pants, tugging on the zipper. He grins at her, pressing his thumb against her clit before removing his hands. She doesn't have time to protest the loss before he pushes into her, slow and steady.
The breath leaves her lungs in a low whine through her teeth. She makes the noises of a woman who wants to come, and he shifts his angle according to what his ears tell him she needs. She is pleading now, moving her hips and legs and shifting and pulling at him. Her chest is flushed red and when he pulls away from her breasts, there are tiny bite marks coating her skin. She tilts her head back, stretching her neck out until he can see every muscle, every cord in her throat, and he drags his cheek over the hickey he's left there before grabbing her earlobe in between his teeth and whispering hotly, "Come for me Hermione..."
And because he's been reading her, because he's gotten the right signals at the right times, because, Merlin, she doesn't seem to be able to resist him when he uses that voice on her, she does. Her mouth opens wide, eyes squinted up at him as she lets out the low keening moan of release that all males love to hear, and he grins down at her with so much satisfaction in his face that when her eyes close (because this is just too good to keep them open) she is almost afraid that he is going to start crowing his victory.
Bloody Marauder.
She clenches around him and is rewarded by a guttural moan. She grins, and he increases the speed of his thrusts, his face contorting as he comes, spilling into her. The moan leaves his throat again, but it is muffled against her throat, his breath damp and hot.
When he lifts his head, he is smirking. They are still pressed against the wall, and while neither of them are naked, though she is quite close to it, she has just had sex with Sirius Black.
Again.
The smirk on his face widens.
She wonders if they will ever make to a bed.
Fin
[x] Feedback is love.
Category: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling [et. al]. No profit is being made.
Rating: 18+
Warnings: Smut. And rude words. Not for the kiddies. Or work.
Spoilers: Set in the future, nothing specific. Obviously, OotP hasn't happened.
Pairing: Hermione/Sirius
Summary: A week after that, she ignored Harry's smirk at the Sirius shaped hickey on her neck and avoided sitting down as much as possible.
Author's Notes: This was originally written for mrs_remus for the holiday fic exchange at harry_holidays. I thought it would be good for me to provide a copy here. :)
The first time he came to her, it was a full moon. His breath reeked of firewhiskey, and he smelled like sin. Dark and sultry, all wrapped up in leather that left little to the imagination. She convinced herself that the clutch in her stomach were simply nerves, and ignored the wet slick in her panties. When his hands slid over her body while he thrust into her, she rationalised it all by saying that he was the one fucking her, not the other way around.
The second time he came to her, it was with a bottle of Ogden's as a peace offering. She told herself that she didn't wish that it was flowers instead, smiled at the irony of it and invited him in for a drink. They skirted around the fact that he had shagged her against the wall in the next room less than a month ago and made small talk. This time, she acknowledged the wet slick with the resigned air of a woman who knew that another pair of perfectly good panties were going to be ruined. When she decided that she was suitably drunk, she jumped him, attacking his throat with her lips and teeth. He still smelt like sin. This time she couldn't rationalise anything, not while she was riding him in the middle of her kitchen, his thumb pressing against her clit.
The third time he came to her, they skipped the pleasantries. She'd forgone the underwear this time, and felt a wicked thrill when he raised an eyebrow and simply pushed her skirt up, sliding into her with a grunt. Her hands fisted in his hair, tugging at the raven curls, and his hands pulled at her top until her breasts spilt into his greedy hands. The fact that she was shagging her best friend's godfather suddenly didn't matter as much.
A week after that, she ignored Harry's smirk at the Sirius shaped hickey on her neck and avoided sitting down as much as possible. It didn't stop her from wondering what he would do if he knew that Sirius currently had her panties in the pockets of his robe. The man in question was looking at her, dark eyes raking over her possessively. She heard the silent shout of MINE and shivered in confusion. She was not getting off on his control issues. Absolutely not.
Okay, so maybe she was.
Frowning, she stared at the wall, only vaguely noticing when Harry left. The resounding silence in the room caught her attention and she turned her head to meet his eyes. They glinted, and suddenly she was nervous about what exactly he had seen in her eyes.
"Come here."
She keeps her legs pressed tight together, trying not the think about what exactly might be causing that disturbing, traitorous wet slick against her thighs. Because if she thinks about it, and actually considers answering the question, she'll have to admit a few very uncomfortable, very bad things to herself.
And possibly to him, and that scares her more than she thought possible.
Because really, it was just Sirius, and Sirius isn't supposed to be scary. But the fact that the threads of steel intertwined with his voice were getting her this wet was slightly more than a little uncomfortable. She stays where she is, thighs stuck together. It doesn't help, because when he speaks again, his voice a low growl, she feels her legs part and walk towards him.
Damn her and her thing (because really, she wasn't at all sure what to call it) for men in authority.
She doesn't stop him when he pulls her into his arms and when he grinds himself slowly, hard and unrelenting against her she doesn't stop the groan that leaves her throat in time with his. His mouth attaches itself to her neck, lips and tongue and teeth that liquefy her knees.
"What are we doing?" She sounds breathy. She isn't sure if she can sound normal ever again, not while his hips are still moving against hers.
He chuckles against her neck and she can feel the vibrations run through her blood and pool into her stomach. "I would've thought that it was rather obvious." His hands cup her arse, smoothing the soft cotton of her skirt over her.
She idly wishes that he would call her Miss Granger, not because he has ever been her professor, but because this seems oddly reminiscent to a day dream she'd once had during third year in DADA.
Her head falls back, unwittingly providing him with better access to her neck. The exposed skin is readily accepted and her hands clutch at his shoulders. Falling into a puddle at his feet is so not the impression she is going for. He laughs again, and she wonders if he can read her mind. But no, it's Snape who is the leglimens, not Sirius and so she is safe.
His mouth latches onto her breast through her shirt (when did he get down there?) and blows the safe theory out of the water. She is not safe around Sirius. No sane, straight (and possibly not so straight) woman was. Her hips buck against his so that she is pressed against him, and she whimpers low in her throat, rubbing against the bulge in his jeans, searching for friction.
She is denied. The frustrated groan that leaves her lips dies away as his hands slip under her the waistband of her skirt, cupping her. Even as she pushes down against his hand, her own are working busily to strip him of his clothes. The man wore entirely too much, in her opinion. She manages to rid him of the robe before his fingers push into her and she is lost.
She arches, and the hand that is not busy doing wicked things to her cunt reaches up to tug on her hair, pulling her head further back. She wonders how they would look to someone walking in, him fully clothed with one hand fucking her, the other tangled in her hair, and her, with her skirt pushed down past her thighs and her shirt and bra tangled on her chest, exposing her breasts to the air and his mouth.
She rocks on his hand, desperate for more pressure. The moan that leaves her throat echoes the request (since when did she sound so bloody needy?) and her hands forgo the shirt and dive towards his pants, tugging on the zipper. He grins at her, pressing his thumb against her clit before removing his hands. She doesn't have time to protest the loss before he pushes into her, slow and steady.
The breath leaves her lungs in a low whine through her teeth. She makes the noises of a woman who wants to come, and he shifts his angle according to what his ears tell him she needs. She is pleading now, moving her hips and legs and shifting and pulling at him. Her chest is flushed red and when he pulls away from her breasts, there are tiny bite marks coating her skin. She tilts her head back, stretching her neck out until he can see every muscle, every cord in her throat, and he drags his cheek over the hickey he's left there before grabbing her earlobe in between his teeth and whispering hotly, "Come for me Hermione..."
And because he's been reading her, because he's gotten the right signals at the right times, because, Merlin, she doesn't seem to be able to resist him when he uses that voice on her, she does. Her mouth opens wide, eyes squinted up at him as she lets out the low keening moan of release that all males love to hear, and he grins down at her with so much satisfaction in his face that when her eyes close (because this is just too good to keep them open) she is almost afraid that he is going to start crowing his victory.
Bloody Marauder.
She clenches around him and is rewarded by a guttural moan. She grins, and he increases the speed of his thrusts, his face contorting as he comes, spilling into her. The moan leaves his throat again, but it is muffled against her throat, his breath damp and hot.
When he lifts his head, he is smirking. They are still pressed against the wall, and while neither of them are naked, though she is quite close to it, she has just had sex with Sirius Black.
Again.
The smirk on his face widens.
She wonders if they will ever make to a bed.
Fin
[x] Feedback is love.