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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
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authorized materials of these owners.
Tower Princess, Ravished
Warnings: PWP, cross-dressing
Summary: No one hates the idea of Slut!Harry more
than Harry does.
A/N: Not really AU; the details of Sirius's return
are just not in this particular tale. Thanks to my betas Cluegirl and
Florahart. Written for Foreword in the 2005 Sirry Slash Secret Santa
exchange. Happy Holidays to you, Foreword! May all your Sirry dreams
come true. :D
When he thinks of it, Harry imagines Sirius seducing him.
He's not experienced. He's had his hands on the back of a girl's body,
but not below the waist, and on the front his hands never moved below
With boys, nothing. Zip, nada, zilch. All he has is the comfort that he
himself is a boy, and knows what he likes, and it's something but it's
And Sirius isn't a boy. He's a man.
He's worse. He's twenty years older than Harry, and he was best friends
with Harry's father and there's this label that stands between them,
one that starts with god and isn't that just bloody
perfect, the way it looms like a condemning eye over all his thoughts.
So Sirius is not going to seduce him. Harry can accept that truth,
though he'll not deny his fantasies.
But that leaves the alternative that Harry just can't see: him seducing
Sirius. Him slipping into Sirius's arms or his bed one night, all
clever persuasion and perfect logic, well-timed kisses and
soul-searching looks and pouts that make him look sultry and
irresistible instead of a stupid child whining for something he
Harry hasn't any of that in his arsenal. He won't unless he finds
someone to practice it upon, and he doesn't want anyone else, he wants
Sirius. Which loops him right back around to the beginning.
Hopeless, he tells himself, and the thing is he knows it's not. It's
not, because he wants this too badly, and because Sirius, he's
learned--from sources that would wince and cover their eyes if they'd
learned he'd been eavesdropping--is what his closest and dearest call
omnisexual ("if you won't fuck it, Padfoot'll hump
it, you randy bugger"), and that he acknowledges Harry's grown up
rather fit ("Quite fanciable--he'll have no lack of company, bless him.
And he smells delicious, you notice?" "I try not to, Sirius, and you
shouldn't either." "Just observing, Moony. Best-interests-at-heart
godfather, and all that").
So he's got to convince Sirius that he has better ideas about his own
He just wishes he could be seduceable.
The idea comes to him and won't stop winding its way around his brain,
looping by as if it's on a track and becoming more fleshed with each
If he were a girl, it wouldn't be so hard to put the idea in front of
Sirius. A look, a lingering conversation, and surely the spark would
fire in Sirius's head. It's the way of things. Girl even shows interest
in a bloke, first thought is that she might--must--like him that way.
But because Harry's a male, he's going to have to spell it out so
plainly he might as well shove his tongue down Sirius's throat, for all
the good subtlety will do him.
And he doesn't know if he can be that bold.
But if he were a girl...
He doesn't mean it literally, though he knows there are likely spells
for exactly that sort of thing. There are spells for everything--for
turning people upside down and subduing pixies and shoving a wad of gum
up another person's nose, for God's sake--so there's got to be one for
But he can't see it giving him the effect he wants. He wants Sirius to
want him as he is, as Harry, and so pulling a stunt like that wouldn't
be a proper test. It'd be desperate.
No point in him reminding himself he is desperate.
But he doesn't have to be a girl. He wants an unmistakable display for
Sirius, and thinks that all he needs are the girl-like trappings to set
it out for him. Not a setup that screams "wanton," but feminine,
vulnerable, submissive. Ripe for the plucking.
Of course, he hasn't any experience with this, either. And if he
doesn't want to balls this up as badly as he knows he can, he's going
to have to remedy that.
He can't think of a soul to ask. Hermione? Rubbish. If he could be
certain it would all work out with Sirius, he could go to her, but if
it all goes pear-shaped then he'll have to look at her and imagine her
looking at him and thinking and pitying...no.
Both Wizarding and Muggle girls have the same objectives, though, and
it's little difficulty for Harry to lay hands on leftover copies of
Witch Weekly and Elegance--if
he's seen with them, he can give in to the reflex to blush and let
others assume he's got more mundane lascivious thoughts, looking at
photos of half-dressed girls--and find most of what he needs to know in
order to begin experimenting. He's a little reluctant to use
spell-methods exclusively; you mess up Muggle lipstick, all you have to
do is wipe it off and begin again, but with magic you could end up Plum
Crazy-stained for a week, and wouldn't that be bloody awkward to
The alternative, though, is to buy everything from
Muggle shops, and, God, he doesn't think he can face that either. The
cosmetics--bad enough. The clothing--no. Just, flat no. One single,
"For your girlfriend, then, dear?" and he'd choke and flee, he knows it.
Before he can take himself too far down the tangent that if he can't
buy a sodding pair of satin knickers then how on earth does he think
he's mature enough to start a sexual relationship with a man twenty
years older than him, Harry throws himself into a compromise. Owl post
and mail order for everything that can be bought that way, and forays
into shops for those items that'll raise no overt eyebrows. Magical
tailoring's most reliably done when you have the component materials to
begin with, and men's silk handkerchiefs and poster glitter don't get
him into any counter confrontations.
By the time he does brave the frilliness of a "Misses" department to
purchase a scarf of satin and spangles, he's able to say "Gift-wrap
that, please?" with a wistful look that earns him a dimpling and an,
"Of course, love," from the shop woman, and is feeling bold and jaunty
when he walks out with the package beneath his arm. On his way home he
stops at a chemist's, purchases gum, toothpaste, crisps, a packet of
safety razors, newspaper, condoms, and two plastic-egg-cased pairs of
nylons without raising his own heart rate more than a little. All the
cashier hesitates over is the toothpaste, which turns out to be on sale.
This isn't so hard after all.
But it's harder than if he'd been able to ask Hermione. Going it
alone--learning to apply eyeliner and rouge so that he doesn't look
like a stupid child who got into his mother's dressing table one
afternoon, magicking up clothing (middy blouse and miniskirt? black
lace bodystocking and pearls?) that says feminine
and not clown on him--takes him days, and then it
isn't sufficient that it be good enough, no, it's
got to be perfect. Which means he wonders if softly
blushing is better than darkly kohl-lined, if dove-grey suits him
better than sea-green. The need to get it right is so obsessive he
doesn't even stop to ask himself if he's enjoying it too much.
And when he's got his answers--when he can survey himself in the mirror
and the mirror says, "Quite fetching, darling," and he can think, yes,
not bad, in return--there comes the next stumbling block.
How is he to present this to Sirius? He'd imagined
himself positioned in the center of Sirius's bed for him to find, a
satin-and-mascara ornamented present for Sirius to unwrap. Now it seems
absurd. It's that damned seduceable, not seducer
plaguing him again, and he can be bold enough to stand here in high
heels and pose but he can't take those few steps into Sirius's bedroom
that will cross that abstract, yet all too forbidding line. Oh, he's
useless. All this and he's helpless because he wants
to be the pursued and not the pursuer.
Which gives him the answer. He can do it--he just has to modify it.
Not Sirius's bed, but his. He needs to be caught.
A short little rap at his door, the kind that knows the person's on the
other side. "Harry?"
They're the only ones in the house. He knows that. He's got nothing to
be afraid of. Nothing, he tells himself. "Come in."
The door swings open. The anti-cliché gods are smiling on Harry,
and Sirius doesn't stop mid-sentence in a garble--he sees Harry,
reclining there on the bed, before he starts to speak, and, yes, his
eyes go wide and his lips separate, but that's all. And the luck gods
have at least decided to give Harry the first of the dice rolls--Sirius
doesn't stumble backwards or swing the door shut again with a hasty
"sorry!" or do anything but stand there.
Harry knows luck gods need all the help they can get. "You can come in.
I said you could," he says, and is amazed how steady he sounds.
And Sirius, not taking his eyes off Harry, does step forward, one step,
then another. His fingertips are still on the door, and--oh, Harry will
find a proper sacrifice for the luck gods tomorrow, he will--he pushes
the door shut. Behind and not before him.
"Do you hate it?" Harry asks, and his voice isn't small, no, not at
all. It's reluctant and shy, but it's not small.
Sirius stares and Harry knows what he sees. Harry went with the kohl,
but not too much of it, only on the lower lids; and the sole other
color on his face is gold. A pale trace of gold on his lips, a dusting
of it on his lashes and over his cheekbones, enough to catch the light.
He thinks perhaps the look is not too girlish to be ridiculous on him,
but might make him look like some exotic slave boy,
so he's dressed to match. The silk swathe covering his groin is meant
to look genderless, not a skirt, but too thin and fluttery to be a
loincloth. The necklace that reaches the center of his bare chest is
jeweled (fake, of course) but the single earring is a plain gold
dangle. And he's abandoned the heels for flat sandals that lace to his
knees. Though he kept the stockings. They're sheer, and stay up by
magic, so there are no garters to interrupt the look. And he really
liked the way his legs looked in them.
Harry can't bring himself to stretch, show off for Sirius--this is hard
enough, telling himself that it's all right, because Sirius came into
his room. He's gone as far as he can with this;
because he's in his own room, he doesn't have to worry about himself
retreating. He's laid it out--laid himself out--for Sirius, and given
Sirius an easy exit.
It's that last which chokes Harry. He's thought he was doing the
honorable thing, not forcing himself on Sirius, but it's suddenly too
much to bear. Imagining Sirius shaking his head, a little appalled by
his godson, leaving him here--what was he thinking? No. He'll fling
himself between the door and Sirius, promise to wash off the whole
mess, tell him it was a lark, anything as long as Sirius gives him a
"No," says Sirius, and it's a hoarse note as if he hasn't spoken in
hours. "No, I don't hate it. Let me--let me look at you," he says,
though he's been looking at nothing but Harry. Look
means that he takes a step forward, and another, and Harry finds
himself sitting up straighter as Sirius sinks down onto the bed next to
him, only on the very edge, gingerly. Sirius is never
ginger about anything, and at first Harry thinks
that this is awful, but then there's a complete change in Sirius's
posture; he leans forward, and has Harry's chin between his thumb and
"You're lovely," says Sirius, and Harry is dizzy. "You--you were
waiting--did you do this for me?" His eyes flicker down Harry's body
but return to take up Harry's gaze again.
Harry nods, and knows in that moment there is no seducer and no seduced
in this room, no innocent, no slut, no fainting maiden and no cheap
slag--there's need and want and truth and something so important that
surges behind his breastbone that he knows he has to tell it to Sirius
if he could only locate the words.
Sirius exhales. "Well. You thought this out, didn't you."
Harry knows he needs to answer. "I think about you. Only you. All the
"God, Harry." Another exhale. It sounds like the prelude to a pant.
"I'm rather good at keeping my hands to myself when I'm
not wanted, but--" That hand of his, which was at
Harry's chin, is now lying against his neck, and it's warm and it's
damp--just a little--and it's moving down to the join of Harry's neck
and shoulder where it fingers the necklace and Harry can see Sirius
swallow as if dry-mouthed and Sirius's mouth is ever so close to
"Please," Harry breathes, thinking he might die of it.
And Sirius leans forward and it's perfect, it's Sirius's mouth on
his--Sirius kissing him and not Harry pretending he knows exactly what
he's doing and making a tart of himself. Which means that it's all
right for Harry to kiss back and show his silly, face-reddening lack of
experience, because Sirius thinks he's lovely and Sirius doesn't want
to keep his hands off him and if Harry needs to be taught how
men kiss properly that's fine, it's so very, very
"Where did you--"Sirius starts to say as he pulls his mouth away, and
then, "Oh," they both say together, because Sirius's hand is on Harry's
leg and he's feeling the stockings. "Oh," Sirius
says again, louder, "Christ--" and it's low and
hungry and he reaches under Harry's skirt/swathe/wrap and seizes
Harry's arse in one hand and pulls him forward. Harry feels how his
legs part as Sirius does this, how one knee curls back and both knees
spread so that Sirius can pull him onto his thighs, straddling him,
Harry's cock reacting to the silk and to Sirius's thighs and to Sirius
as his balls feel the friction of that denim-covered thigh and draw up
Another kiss--Harry knows he was right; the way Sirius kisses him stirs
only a dim echo of memory in the way he's ever kissed before, and stirs
an entire world's difference of arousal now. There are tongues and
teeth and mouths in these kisses, as if the idea that kissing was only
ever about lips is ludicrous. He gasps, he hears
Sirius groan, feels him groan into his own open mouth and the
electricity of it runs all the way down to his cock, which is pressing
into Sirius's hip as Sirius presses him back into the bed with as much
force as he pulled him forward, just a minute before.
"These stay on," Sirius growls, his hand sliding along Harry's thigh
and the stocking again. "This--" he pulls on the silk wrap--"is coming
off you now, you fucking sexy brat. Oh, fuck, yes," he says as he
uncovers Harry's cock, already vertical and then some. "You're
Harry sees the predatory look on Sirius's face and thinks he's going to
seize Harry's cock; instead, Sirius winds the silk between his hands
and then draws it about the very base of Harry's shaft, sliding it
upwards in a caress that has Harry arching and gasping and fearful that
he's already on the verge of coming.
Sirius lifts the silk away and there's a wet streak down the center of
it. Sirius brings that wet discolored streak up to his face and licks
it, looking down at Harry as he does so, who inhales and feels his
vision go foggy, just for a moment. Sirius doesn't smile, but there's
no mistaking his satisfaction as he reaches out and picks up both of
Harry's hands in one of his.
His hands get pulled all the way up to the headboard, where Sirius uses
that silk to wrap his wrists to the center post and ties it there,
nothing that Harry couldn't slip out of if he wanted to but he doesn't
want to; he takes the taut portion of it that runs between the post and
his wrists in his hands and holds on, looking back up at Sirius, who is
kneeling over him and opening the top button on his jeans, then
wrestling with his shirt as if he can't think where to begin.
Sirius has the shirt off and his fingers go back to the waist of his
trousers, but he stops there. "I should spell the door locked." But
then after only a moment he resumes, buttons giving way one by one.
Harry sees the shadow of dark hair and that Sirius is wearing nothing
beneath. "Or maybe I shouldn't. Might be fun, having someone walk in
and see the look on their face."
Sirius grins as he says that and all Harry can do is suck in breath,
watching Sirius tease him, imagining. "You'd never," he says, knowing
it's exactly the right response.
"Oh, I think I'd like it," Sirius continues as he sheds the last of his
clothing. "They come in, see you like this, see me ready to fuck you--"
Harry nearly breaks on those last two words-- "want to be shocked but
then they see that pretty face of yours and they can't look away."
Sirius is lean but at last has lost that look of far too
thin that's haunted him so long, and he's hairy from navel to
feet and his cock is just beginning to lift away from his body, and as
he speaks, Harry watches it rise higher still. "And I say, yeah, that's
right, I'm the one that made him dress that way, forced him to do it,
because I knew he'd look fucking gorgeous and he doesn't dare say no to
me. And then I'd ask them to stay for the show."
And Sirius sets a knee on the bed and pushes Harry's stockinged legs
apart, spreading him open with his hands on the insides of Harry's
thighs as he settles between them, and Harry gives his own small
explosive, "Oh, fuck," as Sirius ducks his head and licks--not his
cock, but his balls, nudging them with nose and tongue, bathing the
entire sac and tangling in the hair on and about it. His tongue
flickers behind, right into the crack of his arse, and Harry feels
everything recede in a warm haze, staving off his own orgasm with less
difficulty than he would have imagined so that the hazy moment won't
leave him just yet.
And when Sirius lifts his head and his mouth sinks over the end of
Harry's cock, Harry wants to beg him to wait but something tells him
Sirius won't listen, and that pushes Harry to the edge even faster,
thinking that, and Sirius hums like he's just found something
impossibly delicious, and it's as if the suction and friction of
Sirius's mouth and tongue are only secondary measures to get Harry to
orgasm, what with everything else.
Sirius pulls away at that moment, though, but Harry doesn't regret it
because Sirius is crawling up over him, his own eager prick bumping
against the rock-hard length of Harry's, as he murmurs, "I should fuck
your arse until you scream my name and you do bring someone running.
You're too beautiful like this to waste on just me alone." Harry wants
to protest that that isn't true, except he's too caught up on the first
idea and Sirius is actually spitting a gob of moisture into his palm
and rubbing it over his own cock, and he doesn't push Harry's knees up
but forces them wider apart instead, and he cradles Harry's balls with
his other hand and lifts them up and away from his cleft, and then
Sirius pushes his hips and his cock forward and slides the cock between
Harry's buttocks, shifting back and thrusting, doing it again,
slickened by that bit of wetness and not, it seems, seeking Harry's
arsehole more than as a passing spot to rub against--neither of them
could last long enough for that, Harry realizes.
Sirius's hands clutch at Harry's arse, moulding him about Sirius's cock
as Sirius's thrusts get faster, as his groans become more frenzied.
Harry pulls at the silk about his wrists with a force that makes the
headboard protest badly, and one of Sirius's hands comes to seize
Harry's cock in a grip that nearly presses his erection flat on his own
belly. "Come for me, Harry. Want to watch you dirty your pretty little
self up." And it's that even more than the fingers dancing over the
length of his prick that does it; Harry cranes his neck back and moans,
feeling himself burst as the stream of his ejaculate spills over his
stomach, his chest, the links of the jeweled necklace and even touching
his gold-painted lips and cheeks with warm, obscene drops.
He's boneless, brainless, on another plane entirely, but when the crack
of his arse floods with Sirius's own orgasm and Sirius snarls and
buries his face against Harry's come-streaked neck, he doesn't miss
that. He doesn't return from that plane for a long time, though--he
just grants Sirius admission to it, and drifts, rapturous.
He thinks there is sleep in there as well; it seems they've reached
another year entirely before Sirius shifts, reaching up to lace his
fingers with one of Harry's bound hands--but not release them. "You
really are fucking beautiful like this, " he says. "Not--that you need
to go to these lengths every time. Gorgeous no matter what, really."
Every time. Harry didn't think he needed anything
else to make him happier, but those two words fill him so full he
almost gets hard again. "But you liked..." he begins, and then finds he
can't finish, all boldness fled.
"Dirtying you up? Fuck, yes. Can't wait to do it again," Sirius
supplies and answers, and gives him a kiss at the corner of his mouth.
"Neither can I," says Harry, and this time the kiss is slower,
thorough, and there's no mistaking its meaning.
When it's over, Sirius smiles, and casts amused, almost sheepish eyes
towards the door. "Of course, I suppose we should get into the habit of
locking the door, from now on."
"I don't think I want you to," Harry breathes, remembering, feeling his
cock stir just a fraction against Sirius's belly.
"Oh, you don't, do you?" Sirius leans back and gives Harry a slap on
the hip. "Turn over then, and get on your knees. Don't think I'm
untying you, either." Harry's not at all confounded by this, but it's
the dark grin on Sirius's face and Harry's own growing erection that
have him momentarily incapable of obeying. "I'm going to tongue that
pucker of yours for a solid hour," says Sirius, "and if we do get any
trespassers in here--I'm going to invite them to join in."
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