Title: After Dinner
Prompt: food smut
Pairing: Harry/Sirius-Padfoot
Warnings/enticements: underage, pseudo-bestiality, crossgen

Harry lies back, feeling Sirius’s hand come to rest on his hip while the other hand paints stripes of melted chocolate across his bollocks.

Maybe Harry’s so into this kink because he never got enough to eat at the Dursley’s.

And maybe Sirius is so into it because he spent twelve years starving in Azkaban.

Maybe it’s because neither of them is really quite okay with what’s going to happen in a minute, and the chocolate or butter or marmalade or whatever provides some kind of distraction from the reality of what they’re doing.

Oh no, Harry’s got chocolate all over himself, and the Order meeting’s going to start in ten minutes! Of course Padfoot will have to help him clean it up!

Or maybe they’re both into it simply because it feels really fucking good.

And shouldn’t they both have that?

Padfoot’s long, sloppy tongue so insanely perfect as it wraps around Harry’s cock, taking the entire length of him in a single wet stroke.

Harry’s never felt anything better in his life. Not even flying.

And Harry’s pleasure is the only thing Padfoot wants. And if Padfoot gets to be the cause of that pleasure, too?

Well, who’s a good dog, then?

Who’s the best dog?

This way it’s so uncomplicated.

And shouldn’t they both have that, as well?

Padfoot isn’t Harry’s godfather, after all.

A dog lapping at a boy is entirely different from a man sodomizing a teenager twenty years his junior.

Padfoot just wants to help.

They have nine minutes.

“Get going,” Harry tells Sirius, whose human face is such a mess of love and desire and pain that Harry can’t bear to look at it. He closes his eyes while Sirius transforms.

And then it’s just a boy and a dog and a dark rich sweetness that gets everywhere and covers everything. It fills their noses with the fragrance of pleasure, it coats Harry’s skin with the texture of pleasure. The velvet of chocolate, the velvet of Padfoot’s tongue. The velvet of Harry’s cock, the velvet of pleasure. The pleasure of orgasm. The taste and scent of Harry’s orgasm in Padfoot’s mouth, and nose, the senses overwhelmed with pleasure.

Harry holds the dog’s ears, one in each hand, keeping Padfoot’s huge hot mouth pressed close to his groin. He sighs, sated and limp on his back on the table. The clock on the kitchen wall ticks and neither of them notices the sound. And that absence of noticing, the absence of thinking anything at all for a few more moments while they lie here together, is pleasure.


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