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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
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authorized materials of these owners.
Not Exactly Romance
Categories: PWP, Voyeurism,
A/N: Written for wave 3 of the
pornish_pixies 2005 Fantasy Fest for teaspoon14, who requested:
"SS/SB+TRIO, trio spying on S/S at grimmauld place &
getting off on it (AU, trio 17+) no heavy kink." You may
assume this is AU if you like, but (at least until we see HBP)
there's nothing to say that this couldn't also be post-resurrection
Sirius and that the seventh-year trio are back in 12 Grimmauld Place
for the holidays. Thanks to betas pauraque and florahart.
They were really, really too old for all three of them to be hiding
under the Invisibility Cloak anymore, Harry thought.
But Hermione hadn't believed them. She was always the first one to
notice that sort of thing, she'd insisted, and she hadn't seen any hint
of romance between the two.
That was when Ron had squirmed uncomfortably, and Harry had looked
away, and at last Ron had said, "I wouldn't call it romance. Not by
And the rest of the conversation...
Well, it had ended with the three of them crowded together under the
Invisibility Cloak, and Harry pressed directly against Hermione's right
shoulder and smelling not only her hair but her neck, and praying she
wouldn't shift in his direction because his altogether inappropriate
erection was going to make direct contact with her bum if she did.
And Ron. He could smell Ron, too, this close, and Ron smelled like he
did after Quidditch practice, and Harry knew he'd just showered. Could
Hermione tell? How could she not?
Far, far too old.
He didn't dare look at Ron. No doubt he was trying to keep his own
erection off Hermione's bum. Harry wondered if the sense of
wrong he got from that was jealousy. Not that he
could sort that out now. The smell from Hermione's neck and the
erection he couldn't seem to will away and his bloody godfather with
bloody Snape, mustn't forget that.
They weren't in the same room with the two; they might be stupid but
not suicidal. The servant's access hall had been Hermione's idea-- even
more disused than everything else in 12 Grimmauld Place, the hall had
walls thin as parchment and rotted as the late Mrs. Black's heart. It
took no effort to break away bits from about a wall knothole until they
had a gap large enough to peer into Sirius's room.
Harry never failed to be impressed by the degree of sneakiness Hermione
was capable of when she fancied it necessary.
It couldn't have been a very big gap, or it would have been noticed
from inside the room. But Hermione had suggested the Invisibililty
Cloak, and so the gap was something more than a mousehole fit only to
put one's eye to. And, Hermione had said, if they kept the hallway dim,
the gap would be lost in the ugly repeating-key wallpaper pattern that
lined Sirius's room.
Which meant all three of them could look at the same time.
Which was good, because when Hermione's breath escaped in the softest
of "Oh,"'s, Harry wouldn't have known whether to shove her out of the
way in order to see what could get her to sound like
that, or to put his hands on either side of her face
and turn her towards him so that he could seal his mouth over hers and
get her to breathe like that into his mouth. Oh,
And what would Ron have done, if he'd done that? Deck him? Leave? At
that moment Harry didn't care. He was sweating and aching and Hermione
smelled like that and was making noises like that and, fuck, he had the
stark view of his godfather pinning Snape up against the opposite wall
with his mouth against Snape's mouth--and also with his hand on his
chest but more with his mouth--and his other hand reaching into the
opening of Snape's robes to yank at his flies with no more patience
than Dudley confronted by the wrapping paper on one of his birthday
gifts. Sirius, bloody fuck, Sirius, what are you doing? This is
Snape, his mind wailed, overcome by the wrongness of
His body didn't seem to care what his mind thought. It was fucking hot.
Snape's sallow face contorted and Harry knew, even though Snape's robes
concealed it, that Sirius had Snape's cock in hand. He saw how the
tendons in Sirius's wrist shifted just so, knew Sirius had his hand
wrapped about it, just as fiercely as Harry would fist his own cock
when he was on the verge of coming. Now Sirius was shoving back the
robes from Snape's hips with his other hand, getting his prize out into
the open where he could see it. Where all of them could see it. Harry
heard Ron swallow. Snape's cock--Harry'd thought he'd never ever have
thought those two words together--was beet red and rock hard in
Sirius's fingers, and what brought the sight back from startling to hot
was the look Sirius was giving that hard prick: satisfied, snide,
Sirius went to his knees. Harry watched in glorious horror as Sirius
seemed to ready the cock in his hand as he leaned forward, drawing the
head of it to and then into his mouth with a noise, with a set of his
shoulders, with an upward cast of his eyes that made Harry wonder why
he'd ever believed the one sucking cock was the one inconvenienced.
Sirius made it seem the most coveted act possible, made it a thing
forced on the other. Sirius had Snape at his mercy, and wasn't that an
even more delicious thought.
Harry watched as Snape splayed himself against the wall: legs
spreading, arms out to his sides, fingers clawed and with the nails
digging ruts into the ancient wallpaper. Snape's head tilted back,
mouth open but soundless save for his breaths, eyes not closed but
straining to look down from that position to take in the sight of
Sirius sucking his cock in ever deeper. The two had their gazes not
locked but questing for each other, fighting physical limits to stay
targeted, to say I see you doing this; I see you having it
Oh, fuck. Harry had to get out of there. Had to leave and wank off
before he ground himself against Hermione or the wall or his own bloody
hand right there, because he knew he would any moment, but fuck if he
could move from the spot. Not when Sirius was shifting the hand that
had been encircling Snape's prick to catch and bring forward Snape's
bollocks, rolling the sac in his hand while the other was in his own
lap, unbuttoning his trousers with hasty, careless greed, diving inside
to grab at his own cock, his face tightening just that much as he did
so. Not when--
--not when Hermione made another "Oh..." sound again, but this one
closer to an ah than the last, and Harry could feel
her hand brush by his leg in their unbearably close, sweat-humid space
as she fisted her hands in her skirt, and she swayed--
Later he knew he hadn't meant it, had only wanted to keep her from
falling against the wall and making noise. When his arm shot out to
circle her about her waist, he hadn't planned to have his hand end
directly on her breast. He hadn't.
He had no time to draw away--barely had time to realize he'd done it,
before Hermione's own hand was covering his, squeezing his hand over
her chest, and he could feel her nipple, pebble-hard against his palm.
What he did next had no meant or didn't
mean in it at all. With no mental excuses, not even that he
was only trying to smother his own groan, Harry pushed his mouth
against the back of Hermione's neck and pressed his own hips into hers,
his cock aching for the contact. She'd never forgive him. Ron, at whom
Harry couldn't even look, wouldn't forgive him. There was nothing he
could do about it.
That was when Ron's arm snaked out and wrapped about both of them.
Hermione was the first to act. She had Ron's other hand in hers, took
it and set it upon her other breast, covering it with her hand as she
had Harry's. A heartbeat later, it wasn't Hermione Ron was looking at;
it was Harry's eyes he was meeting, Harry's gaze he was holding--
Harry didn't know what had passed between them in that look, but he
understood, and knew Ron understood, and the arm that was about both
Hermione and Harry's waists tightened and Ron too was now molded
against Hermione. He ducked his head, which obscured his eyes for a
moment in the folds of the cloak, pushing his mouth to Hermione's
temple in an awkward, permission-seeking kiss that Harry recognized
Hermione was--as usual--one step ahead of them. Her hands over theirs
moved away, but it was only to yank at the edge of her blouse, freeing
it, and then she had her hands on theirs again and was lifting them
from her chest, directing them underneath her blouse this time, and
Harry had his fingers on sweaty skin and sheer silky material and the
softness of her breast beneath, and his thumb was on the very tip of
her nipple through the bra and when he moved it she shivered.
He kissed her. Closer to the side of her face this time, not quite so
brave enough to call it her cheek, much less the corner of her mouth.
If he tried to pull her bra to the side, would she stop him? He wanted
to do it, to have done it--not so much because her skin beneath his
hand would be so much better but because he wanted to know she
was bare underneath his fingers and that she was
letting him. Oh, God, yes.
He was aware that, quite without consulting him, his hips had started a
rhythm, pressed where they were against Hermione's splendid bum. Was
Ron doing the same? Was Hermione at all upset about this, God, were
they making too much noise? Behind the gap, Sirius
was still on his knees, still sucking with slow deliberate
back-and-forths of his head, stopping to withdraw his mouth and apply
his tongue to the head of Snape's cock with an unhurried deliberateness
that looked more evil than any injustice Snape had ever meted out
against him.. Snape was far less quiet about it now
and Harry was glad for that, wanting more noise to drown out their own
sounds. The huffs and groans Snape was making were arousing as well as
obscuring, but Harry was too far gone to even think about whether that
Beneath Hermione's blouse Harry felt a shift of Ron's hand and knew
that he'd tunnelled under that filmy scrap covering her nipple. And
Hermione wasn't reacting except to breathe harder. Yes. Harry did the
same, sliding his fingers beneath, feeling how warm the skin was,
touching the crinkly part about the nipple, realizing it was more about
the touch of skin on skin after all and not just the nakedness. His
fingers brushed Ron's and it wasn't strange or off-putting, to feel
that. It was Hermione, and so there was Ron, and that was all right.
Better than all right--it struck him that no one else could have had
just that thought, and that was...electric, lewd, fabulous.
There was a moment of shuffling beneath the cloak--Hermione was
reaching for his other hand, where it was pressed against her shoulder,
but it was awkward. She was trying to draw it forward but was in the
wrong position for that. Instinct made Harry take his right hand from
her breast, instead, and slide it into her grasp. Hermione was plucking
at the waist of her skirt in front and she set Harry's damp hand
against her belly, pushing his fingertips just under the waistband of
the skirt. Harry's arousal surged like steam; no one could have lacked
the instinct to guess what she wanted. What she was giving him.
His fingers pushed down beneath the material and under the elastic
waist of her knickers; no hesitation about whether to stay above or
below those. Her belly was so damp; when he touched the hairline
beneath he did pause, wanting to go further but uncertain all the same.
She wouldn't stop him? Would he know what to do? But
Hermione wasn't stopping him; she was moving her legs apart, planting
--and Ron, Ron's hand she'd guided into position behind her, where it
was easier for him to get to her with his right hand, beneath her
skirt, her knickers half-pulled down to her thighs by his hand already.
Hermione was shuddering; Ron's fingers were exploring down her
bum-cleft and Harry felt an explosion of need or jealousy to be doing
that too. He pushed his way through the silky damp hair until he met
wetness and soft openings of skin and a thrust of Hermione's hips
against his fingers that he tried to use as direction, to learn where
she wanted to be touched.
His fingers met Ron's, there where she was most wet. Again the sense of
shamefully pleasurable happiness that this was right for them, and
wouldn't have been had there been just one different person in the mix.
He pulled his hand back slightly, arm hugging into Hermione's belly so
that his wrist wouldn't cramp, and tried to recreate that hip-thrust of
hers using his fingers. There. Right in between the
folds, all around there. Hermione was pushing against his fingertips as
he stroked her, and Ron's fingers were doing something else that made
her hips buck in that direction as well, her feet planted wide and her
mouth trying to hold back her own panting.
Harry was straddling the top of her thigh, though his cock seemed to
have the idea that it could come very nicely even without the contact.
There was plenty of motivation without it--Hermione writhing under his
hands and Ron's and her sight of Sirius and Snape having it off with
each other just beyond the wall--not that that last was distressing
him, either. Snape had sunk to the floor--hang on, had Snape come?
Harry couldn't believe he might have missed that--and was divesting
Sirius of his trousers altogether, shoving him back upon the floor and
forcing his legs apart--not that Sirius needed the forcing. He arched
his back as Snape crawled between his legs and took Sirius's straining
prick into his own mouth, Sirius's fingers biting at Snape's shoulders.
Snape didn't linger upon Sirius's cock for long, but pulled away and
dove instead at Sirius's bollocks, lashing them and the skin about them
with his tongue until Sirius snarled, "You fucker,"--the first words
either of them had said in long minutes. As if in response to the
insult, Snape backed off, set his thumbs on either side of Sirius's
buttocks, spread them, and dove forward with his tongue again. Harry
had no time to be incredulous or disgusted--the howl it produced from
his godfather as Snape tongued his arse was enough to make Harry moan
It drove him to push his mouth against Hermione's, sucking at her lips
to stop his own cry, pulling her breath into his mouth as he'd wanted
to all this time. Her mouth was moving under his, she was kissing him
back in the same frantic devouring way. And when he let her go to
breathe, he knew to draw back, because Ron wasn't going to have any
less for himself, as he ducked in to kiss Hermione as well--and,
watching their mouths cling, Hermione didn't give Ron any less just
because he'd been second. Maybe because he'd been second, Harry
wondered, not liking the tang of jealousy that hinted at, but
remembering that his fingers were not an inch away from Ron's in
Hermione's wet pussy, and that he should kick himself for caring.
He reached beneath Hermione's skirt with his free hand and caressed her
exposed bum, feeling its curve and the way it flexed beneath him as he
squeezed it and the bit of hair that tickled his fingers as he neared
the cleft, and he didn't know if that was what pushed him over but he
didn't care. His hands were full of her and she wanted it and wanted
them both and he was okay with it and the moaning from the next room
was obscene and filthy and all three of them liked it and
God, he came against Hermione's thigh in an
explosion that barely let him keep his feet except that falling would
have been disastrous, barely let him keep stroking her except that it
was automatic now, barely kept him from noticing when Hermione, and
then Ron, came except that a dead man couldn't have missed noticing
that--Hermione clamping her thighs on his hand and shuddering as if
killed and Ron throwing his head back with a yell that he somehow
managed to keep soundless.
He did miss noticing when Sirius came. Fortunately both he and Snape
were lying on the floor, panting and showing no inclination to move--or
indication that anything had been overheard--by the time Harry was able
Harry braved himself for the moment needing the most courage of all:
looking at the faces of his two friends.
Who looked as if they'd needed to work up the same courage. But were
not looking away.
He'd been right the first time. Definitely too old.
Not, Harry thought, that that was a bad thing.
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