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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.
Any Excuse for Smut
Summary: A bit of Harry/Padfoot fetish, written for dear switchknife, who had a specific request on HP_Pervs.
Author's Note: This is a sequel written for the drabble "Any Excuse to Celebrate," a 100-word drabble written for a challenge on HPSquick100, for the "Feet" challenge. Then Switchknife requested a sequel, and that was that. Or rather, this.
(First, here is the original drabble: Any Excuse To Celebrate)
Padfoot was confused. What were these pawprints? In the house, no less!
He could distinguish a pawprint, certainly, but these belonged to no
familiar smell--not Moony's, no dog nor cat that he knew.
At the top of the stairs they changed. Not pawprints-- human footprints, made by a human foot, salt-tangy and very, very familiar.
He followed the distinctive odor into the bedroom, right up to the foot, naked, pink, and very human, that dangled off the side of the bed. Harry, also naked, pink, and human, grinned at him.
"I found my animagus form today, Padfoot," he said.
(And here is the
sequel, Any Excuse for Smut.)
Padfoot blinked, the information Harry had just told him overriding the
urge to lick that tempting, salty pink foot--but only just, mind
you--and set his forepaws on the side of the bed, to look closely at...
Harry's face. Look at the face. Not at anything else on his delectable naked godson.
Harry's grin did not diminish. "Nuh-uh."
Padfoot cocked his head.
"'M not showing you."
Speech was needed. Padfoot became Sirius. "The hell."
The lips moved from a grin to a prim little pout. God damn him. "The other form wouldn't be any fun for this."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"This." And with no further talk, Harry pushed himself forward and set the sweetest, most stainless kiss possible on Sirius's lips.
Sirius's instinct wasn't to push away. His thought was to push away. No, his instinct was to wrap his arms around his godson and ravish the delicious teenaged mouth with his own lips and tongue like he would eat the boy alive. Sweet Merlin, he was already getting hard.
Instead, he worked out a compromise between the two. Setting his hands on Harry's shoulders, so that he could prevent the boy from pressing closer, he let Harry complete the kiss and fought with every bit of will he had to keep from kissing back.
Which caused Harry to break the kiss and pull back. Sirius thought he would have to scourge himself, later, for giving Harry a reason to look hurt like that. Even if it was for his own good.
"No," said Harry, and there was a firmness about it that he hadn't expected. "Not this time."
Before Sirius could protest that, for god's sake, there had been no other times, Harry was against him again, not kissing, but against him and in his face and fiercely saying, "I'm of age, I want this, and so do you, and dammit, I won't let you."
And Sirius was having a moment's difficulty processing the negatives in that statement as well, which, he told himself later, was how Harry got his lips on his godfather's again. And his tongue in his mouth, too.
Well, what was a man to do? He couldn't very well bite, could he, to stop him?
But he had clearly lost control of the situation, if he'd ever had it to begin with, and needed to do something.
He shifted back into Padfoot. It caused Harry to let go, but that was more the physical details that had caused that than the expected reaction of "Eww, dog lips," which Harry did not say.
But it was a mistake anyway. As Harry fell back, and so did Padfoot, he found himself on nose level with those pink bare feet again, and Padfoot, it seemed, had just as much of a hard-on as Sirius had had, so that the doggy part of his brain had even less blood going to it, all of which was making for an extremely instinct-driven set of reactions.
His tongue snaked out and--oh, heaven!--swiped along the sole of one invitingly odorous foot. The salt taste seemed to shoot straight through to his brain and his cock at the same time.
Harry yelped and jerked that foot back--but only, Padfoot noticed, that one. "That tickles!"
Sirius's resolve snapped. The wretched little tease was going to learn, all right. He wasn't sure exactly what he was going to learn, but he didn't care.
Padfoot lunged at the other foot and licked its sole from the base of the heel to just under the toes. Harry tried to draw that one away, but he followed, giving the toes his attention this time, swiping across them. That got a squeal out of Harry that made him sound quite a bit younger than his years, and that incensed Padfoot still further. He'd show the rotten little...brat!
His nose and tongue burrowed against the arch of Harry's foot, aware that Harry was laughing now, not quite able to wriggle away completely without a bit better purchase on the bed, which meant Sirius got in a rapid series of licks right at the crest of that sensitive arch, prompting a cross between a yell and a laugh from Harry, who curled his toes but wasn't-- and it took Padfoot a moment to realize this--pulling away.
So when Padfoot's tongue inserted itself in the space between two of Harry's toes, the resulting moan that he got hit him like a direct caress to his own hard cock. "Oh," Harry sighed, and his toes splayed this time. "Oh, yes. That's--"
Oh, bloody hell.
The taste alone was too good to resist, but that...if he'd've been fixed, he'd still have responded to that. Padfoot doubled the pace of his tongue licking along, and between, Harry's toes, bursts of salt and musk and sweet-sour boy-flavor in ecstatic overload on his tongue, and oh, Harry was moaning some more, actually pushing his foot towards Padfoot's muzzle, sighing, "Oh, oh, yes, that feels--that's so nice--ah!" That last as Padfoot licked his arch again, but Harry only jumped, didn't try to get away or pull away this time, and a giggle or two made its way free, but they were delighted giggles, not of protest now.
Somewhere in the back of his mind Sirius tried to remember that this had not been his intention.
Oh, hell, he'd never had an intention. There had only been naked Harry and tempting, so very willing Harry, and those pawprints and footprints and tasty, fragrant, dog-lickable feet, and intention had gone right out the window, or never entered that room to begin with.
Harry was wriggling his toes now, the little...slut. The word was inspiring. Whether his godson had experience or not, innocent was not a term Sirius could apply to the boy. Angelic, certainly. The sort of angel who carried a sword, not some silly harp. Both still had their halos, but one was much more fun to be around.
Padfoot settled in to some good, thorough licking. Harry writhed and groaned and sweated, most importantly--sweated so that the smell of him got stronger and the salty taste of his feet did not diminish no matter how much Padfoot licked. He explored every crevice between his toes, pausing only to scrape sock-fluff off his tongue, which actually smelled and tasted no less wonderful but made the back of his throat tickle, and the callused skin along the ball of Harry's foot got another laughing ticklish reaction from him when Padfoot's tongue worked it over with enthusiasm.
Oh, and suddenly Harry's other foot was in convenient position for licking as well. He attacked the sole, licked it and the arch for long moments before drawing the toes into his mouth, biting at them in that possessive, exploratory way his instincts told him to, making Harry gasp and sound just a little overwhelmed--ah, there, you beloved little bastard, maybe you didn't bargain on that today, did you?
Toes. Every toe, drawn into his mouth, sloppily tongued and sucked and bitten at gently, like little escargot that he'd eat up any minute, which seemed oddly appropriate, as Harry-taste was as delicious to Padfoot as garlic butter would have been to Sirius. Harry lay back and bit his fist and murmured, "Siri--Padf--oh--", and Sirius wanted to tie the boy in that position and just lick at his feet until he'd worn a few layers of skin off of them. Imagining the tender pinkness that would lie under those calluses if he did that, their hypersensitivity, and Harry's screaming reaction to that, nearly had him going to look for rope.
The smell of Harry's body, armpits and groin, suddenly became sharply acute to his nose, stronger even than that of his well-licked feet, and that, that was the only thing, he was sure, that could have pulled him away from his blindly arousing task, and he tore his mouth away and licked Harry's calf, licked his thigh, and there, there was the musky odor, clinging to the hairs on the boy's groin and carried to him on infinitesimal droplets of scent, and he attacked the tufts of hair and the swollen maroon cock, foreskin slicked back from it and the head fat and bulging, and oh, there, the lovely loose sac of his balls, less hairy than some but still delightfully furred, and as he dove into it nose-first, sucking one springy testicle into his mouth and as he realized how very easy it had been to do that, his nose pressing against the underside of the cock and the balls falling into his mouth so very easily, like billiards clicking together, that he realized he wasn't Padfoot anymore, hadn't been for--well, he had no idea how long, he was himself and he was sucking his godson's balls like he was starving and if that was wrong, then he and angel-Harry would bloody well go down together into Lucifer's kingdom, because he wasn't. Bloody. Stopping.
Harry had spread his legs and Sirius felt his fingers tangle into his hair, and if Harry'd been making addictive noises before it was nothing compared to the cries that stuttered out of him now, as Sirius sucked and lapped at him and started to move his tongue up the base of the boy's shaft--and the eager little shite didn't even let him get as far as tonguing open the eye-slit in that edible-looking morsel of a cockhead before he screamed and shot, come landing messily in Sirius's hair, and on his shoulder, and much of the bedclothes besides.
Rude little bugger, Sirius thought with an odd mixture of tenderness and exasperation.
"Oh," said Harry, and that seemed to be enough. Sirius slithered up the bed and kissed his godson on the mouth, in precisely the way he had wanted to before, and this time it was Harry who was slack and moaning during it.
Well. No point in pretending it hadn't happened now, was there? Might as well be hung for a sheep, and all that.
"All right," Sirius growled, more fiercely than even Padfoot could have, even as he tucked the dark head against his shoulder affectionately, "show me this bloody animagus form of yours, you little fiend."
"Mmm." Harry's sigh was enough to remind Sirius, forcefully, that nothing had been done about his own erection yet. "Later."
"Later?! After all, that, 'Later'?"
Harry lifted his head, smiled dreamily, and began to slide down Sirius's side, aiming for the source of his continued discomfort. "Let me try to make it worth the wait."