Big Bang Blackout: This Time It's Sirius/Bellhop
The bigbangblackout community and archive are still live and there are still many fantastic stories there to be read, including by me.

The masterlist for the archive is HERE and my story (R/S, Sirius/Charlie, Sirius/OMCs, with a fair amount of non-romance plot, AU, NC-17, gorgeous art by spacefragments) is HERE.

Artists and authors can now post to other sites and archives--it will probably be a while before I get around to reformatting and posting mine here. However, I thought I'd share this little bit of filth. Way back when, this was conceived as a flashback in the story. But then there weren't actually any flashbacks in the story. I had mentioned Sirius/Bellhop porn to the other sirius_writers enough times that I thought I had better deliver, and originally posted this there.


Sirius/bellhop porn (NC-17, absolute PWP, in case that wasn't clear).





Once there was a bellhop who was rather bored and disgruntled...

So, imagine you're at work, yeah? It's slow, dead boring, like. It's not a great job at its best, but a year out of school, not so many NEWTS, and in these times, you're not going to whinge about it too much, you know? Things have changed in the last year. Not many people tossing their money about on swank hotels. If they've got digs, they're sticking with them and putting a bit aside for a rainy day, because you never know. You never know anything these days.

The fucking uniform is miserable, too. The bloke who owns the place fancies himself a bit of a dandy and he went on holiday last year to one of those five-star Muggle joints, in Monaco, or something like that. Anyway, he comes back with a head full of ideas. The bellhops there wore these idiotic monkey-suits, little round hat perched on the head, tight muggle trousers trimmed with black and gold, and a jacket with more bloody buttons than your Aunt Bessie's corset. It is unimaginable how Muggles wear these things every day. A bloke's bits could strangulate if he's not careful.

There is one good thing about it—the uniform, that is. The back of the jacket has these curves, right, sort of swoops over each side of your arse and it points down in the middle. The thing there, though, is that no one fit ever, ever, comes in this place anymore to see your arse with that jacket pointing it out like a road sign.

Until today.

In walks this bloke, two, maybe three years older than you. He looks dead familiar and you can't place him at first. It must be the Muggle clothes. And let's just say that his bits don't look like they're about to strangulate and the jeans cradle his arse like they're making love to it. He sort of slides up to the front desk manager, quick but totally unhurried, like he's moving at two speeds. It's not until he combs his long, black hair back from his face and says, I need a room, that you realise who he is.

And he doesn't just say it. He growls it, like he's just had the worst fucking day of his life and you can see from the storm brewing on his face that he probably has.

The manager finishes checking him in. It doesn't take long. The expression on his face doesn't exactly invite small talk. He turns and you nearly fall flat. You saw from the back that his t-shirt was tight, pulled over his broad shoulders like it had trouble getting there, but didn't want to leave. But nothing could prepare you for the way it clings to the flat of his stomach and the swell of his chest, gold bird wings stretched over that chest, hugging the curves. Nothing could prepare you for the black band of leather, silver studded and wide, circling his throat and begging, begging, you to lick the hollow just below it.

You snap to attention right quick.

You don't know for sure if he'd go for a bloke, but you remember those rumours at school about him and his mates and none of them ever went to great pains to deny it.

"May I help you with your bags, Sir?" you ask. And then you clear your throat because you sounded like someone just kicked you in the balls.

He looks at you, those dark eyes sweeping you from head to foot and you think your knees might give out because you thought about him looking at you like that everyday from when you were fourteen until, well, probably it was some time last week.

His face relaxes from fierce to amused and one side of his mouth curves up in a half smile. The bastard must practise that in the mirror.

"No bags, mate," he says, shrugging.

You feel your cheeks heat. It's like every squirming memory of talking to him as a kid. You watched him, waiting for the chance to say something clever, or funny, or to make him look away from his mates for just a minute, then your chance would come and you'd put your foot bang in the middle of it.

No fucking bags.

"I'll just call the elevator for you then, Sir," you say. You walk to the lift, swishing just a bit, because you know your arse looks fucking gorgeous in these trousers and there's finally someone worth showing it to.

The manager, wand firmly up his arse, gives you an approving little nod, like you've finally figured it out.

Black walks up behind you, his boots thudding against the marble floor, and his presence warm in your belly.

He leans in closer and says, still a growl, but not like he wants to kill someone this time, "I think I can manage pressing a button by myself, thanks. I'm rather good with my hands."

And you nearly whimper out loud. In all the times you hoped he'd speak to you, imagined him touching you, wanked to the images of him strutting across the school grounds, so carelessly beautiful it made you want to cry, you never thought you'd feel his breath hot against your ear.

"It's my pleasure," you say and cringe. A perfect bloody opening for something snappy, something brilliant, and you come up with that.

"Well, then," he says, his voice slow and easy, a little purse to his lips before he smiles. "I'm pants with directions," he says. "Maybe you should show me to my room."

So, maybe you didn't say the wrong thing, then after all.

You nod and just concentrate on breathing, because you never realised before what an effort it is to draw in the air and remember to let it back out again. The bell chimes and the door slides open.

You step aside, holding the door like you were trained to do—as if anyone needs a lift door held for them. You follow him in, heart beating a Tattoo in your chest, and it stops when he turns to look at you, all smoky eyes, and shining hair falling over his face. Your eyes keep darting to the collar and you know he sees it by the way he smirks.

"You look familiar," he says, cocking his head and raking his gaze over you.

"I was a couple of years behind you in school."

"Were you," he says. "I thought I'd have noticed an arse like that."

All of a sudden, the monkey suit isn't half bad.

"I noticed you," you say, because you have to say something and it seems a bit early for, please may I suck your cock, Sir?

He does that thing where he purses his lips before he smiles again, only this time, he adds a lusty look through long, dark lashes.

"Did you, now?" he asks.

There's no one here but you and the first bloke you ever dreamt about. This is the moment. You can get on with it or cringe when you think of it for the rest of your life.

"I did," you say, and you pull off the hat, because people are always telling you that your hair is your best feature, apart from your arse.

He frowns a little and says, "Oh, I liked the hat."

You falter, but quickly pull yourself together, and say, "I watched you and thought about what it might be like to kiss you. If you'd like to know, I credit you with my learning to wank."

He licks his lips, flash of pale pink on nearly-red, and moves to stand in front of you. He runs his hands through his hair again, the movement of his head making the collar strain.

"It's been a few years, then," he says. "Have you learned to do more than wank?"

No, this is it. This is the chance that never comes. This is the once in a lifetime moment and if you muck this up, you will feel pathetic until the day you die. So you throw your arm back and smack the Stop button and the lift grinds to a halt between floor five and floor six.

You've surprised him. You've taken Sirius Black by surprise. He recovers quickly, a grin that could melt the hills around Hogwarts in January. He looks around the lift.

"Won't they notice that it's stopped?" he asks, not because he's worried. His eyes gleam, happy to be plotting mischief with someone, wondering if you're a worthy accomplice.

"This lift seems to be faulty on a regular basis," you say. "Always breaking down. So long as no one sounds the alarm, no bother."

He beams at you and you shiver under the intensity of his charisma.

"So, bellhop," he drawls, leaning in to you, so you have to press back against the wall, the railing that circles the lift pressing in to your back. "What's your name?"

"Roderick," you tell him, eyes on his full bottom lip, mind on what it would be like to pull that lip between yours. "Roderick Wood."

His eyes light with recognition and you feel a ridiculous flutter that he remembers you now.

"You played Quidditch," he says. "You were on the team that last year. You weren't half bad. Good flyer."

"I got by," you say, soaring with the praise. "I used to watch you fly with your mates. Wondered why you didn't play. Seemed like you loved it."

He waves one long-fingered hand and says, "Had to let Potter be the best at something, didn't I?" His hand looks like an artist sculpted it and you picture what it would look like sliding over your cock. You've pictured that dozens of times, but never when it seemed remotely possible.

"You're a generous sort," you say, and someone has to do something, someone has to touch, so you reach up and run your finger along the band of leather on his neck, from the tendon on the side to just under his Adam's apple. "What's this, then?"

"One of my mates fancies himself a comedian," Sirius says. "It's a long story, and I don't think stories are what we're wanting at the moment."

Your knees tremble and you have a moment when you think you'll lose your nerve, so you drop your hand to his chest, moving over the golden bird and feeling the curves of his muscles under the tight cotton. His eyes dart to watch your fingers on his chest, and the question about the meaning of the bird dies in your throat.

"Yeah," you stammer as he moulds his hand around the curve of your hip.

He moves to kiss you first. He has to, because you're frozen, caught in his sultry gaze. His lips press to yours and you suck on his bottom lip, just like you'd imagined. His hand works between you, caressing your stomach and chest through the thick material of the scarlet jacket.

"That's a lot of fucking buttons," he says, smiling against your mouth.

"The trousers have less," you say and his smile turns to warm laughter on your cheek.

You slide your hands up the front of his t-shirt, velvet-soft skin over hard muscles on his flat belly. He sucks in his breath and his stomach muscles twitch. Your searching fingers reach his chest, thumb finding a nipple. He flicks open the waist band of your trousers and slips a finger down, tickling the fine sprinkling of hair there, barely brushing your cock.

His tongue is sliding in and out of your mouth, dragging along the length of yours and plunging back in. You tilt your hips, pushing against his hand and he groans deep in his chest. You move one hand from his chest to feel his broad back and push the other down past the waist band of his jeans, teasing the top of his arse, sliding your finger into his cleft. He leans against you and his hard cock grinds into your hip.

He moves his hands to your arse, and for a minute you think the elevator's started up again as the floor dips when he grasps your arse with both hands and pulls you against him. Then he pulls back a few inches, just enough to put daylight between you, just enough so his cock is no longer pressing against you, and you grumble at the loss.

"Hang on," he rumbles, deep and soft, a pleased laugh at the end. He gently nudges and pulls and you realise he's turning you around, stepping close again so you can feel his heat against your back. "Okay?" he murmurs, as he works his hand around to finger the buttons on your jacket.

You nod and press back against him, licking your lips and gasping when you feel the length of his cock pressing against your arse. "Yeah," you choke out, so there will be no mistake that you want this, you wanted this when you were fifteen and being this close to him makes you feel as aroused and stupid as it did then.

He fumbles with the zipper of your trousers, pulling them open, and you feel a moment of panic as he starts to ease them down your hips.

Today of all days. Of all the bleeding days out of every fucking day to have grabbed those pants. Washing hadn't been done for a week, so instead of the black silk boxers he might have slipped off as he ran his hands over your arse, Sirius Black pulls down your trousers to see bright the pink knickers that Neil gave you at Christmas.

You wince, waiting for him to take the piss, but instead he makes a delighted little sound and drops to his knees behind you.

You flatten both hands against the wall, bracing yourself. His tongue draws warm, wet trails along the elastic of your pants. You bend and moan when he licks along the crease of your thigh, darting just under the soft material to taste the place where your thigh curves into your arse.

"Mmm," he hums. He grasps the pants and pulls them down, and you feel the cool air on your bare skin. "As lovely as these are," he says, "that is nicer."

He mutters a spell and you sigh, yes. A sensation like cool water shivers over you and his finger, slick and gentle, slips between your cheeks.

"This what you want?" he asks softly, pushing just the tip of his finger inside you, barely in, just enough to make your pulse race with anticipation.

"No, I want more," you say, panting on each word, and you bend more at the waist, pushing back against his finger.

He chuckles, more like a growl, and slips his finger in and slowly pulls it back out. His breath is harsh and ragged and you moan, fuck, oh, fuck at the thought the he is behind you on his knees, black hair falling across his face, slowly coming undone as he watches his finger slide in and out of your arse.

You breathe out hard as he pushes another finger in alongside the first. You have your face pressed against the cool wall now, gasping each time he pushes in, each time you rock your arse back to meet him, take him deeper, open more for him.

You reach down and squeeze your cock. "Now, unh, fuck me, you," you babble.

He grunts a noise of agreement and he pulls himself to standing behind you. You hear the click, click of his zipper coming down and turn to look over your shoulder at the look of concentration on his face as he glances down and slicks his cock.

He puts a hand on the side of your arse and you spread your legs and bend nearly in two. He draws the other hand over the curves where your jacket frames your arse and mutters, "Sexy," as he holds his cock and slides it along your cleft, making every inch of your skin tingle and burn.

"Get the fuck on with it," you say, rolling your hips, angling until the thick, slippery tip nudges at your opening. "Oh, yeah," you gasp and push back, forcing his cock past the tight muscle and inside.

"Pushy little bugger," he says, but you can hear that he is on the edge himself and he pulls back, both hands on your hips now. He rocks forward again and his cock stretches you even more, delicious friction and fullness that takes your breath away. You look over your shoulder and see that he is leaning back and looking down, watching himself fuck you, just like he did with his finger.

You circle your hips and arch up, changing the angle, and you know he can see even more now. "You like to watch," you say, and you are thrilled that it came out slow and sexy.

"S'worth watching," he says and starts to fuck you harder, quick strokes in and long, slow, strokes out, just enough pressure to make you squeeze your eyes shut and sob, "yes, yes," each time his cock skates over your prostate.

You start to ask him to touch you, to make you come now, because it is building and aching and if you don't come soon you think you might explode, but that would mean changing what he's doing and you don't want him to ever, ever stop. You take one hand off the wall and nearly lose your balance under his hard, strong thrusts, but he grips your hips tighter, holding you up. Your cock is so hot in your hand and you stroke, tight and hard.

"Not, not much, not much more," you stammer and you get the rhythm so you're squeezing over the head of your cock every time his drags over your prostrate.

"Bloody hell," he mutters and he stills, holding your hips and watching as you rock between his cock and your hand.

"Coming, coming," you moan. Your cock pulses in your hand and come coats your fingers when you stroke over the tip. Every muscle in your body seems to contract and twitch and your can feel your arse squeezing and gripping his cock as the waves of your orgasm roll through you.

"Fuck." His fingers dig into your arse and he pushes in hard, his chest finally against your back. "Yes," he lets out in a long, slow hiss as he fucks you, short, sharp, quick little thrusts. He slows and drops his forehead onto the middle of your back.

You slowly straighten to standing and he pulls put of your body, a trail of come dripping down your thighs. He's kind and considerate, telling you that was brilliant, helping you tidy up, treating you like you've just done him a favour.

"I was having a right awful day until you showed up," you say. You fasten your trousers and smooth the placard of the jacket. You pick up the stupid hat and plonk it on top of his shining black hair.

"As was I," he says, smiling and patting the hat into place.

"Even that looks dead sexy on you," you say, half envious, half pleased with yourself.

"I have news for you," he says, leaning in to kiss the side of your neck. "The whole thing looks dead sexy on you."

"How long are you staying?" you ask, a grin springing to your face, your fingers lingering over the collar around his neck.

"A little while," he says, shrugging and blinking drowsily at you.

You turn and pull the stop button out and the elevator whirs to life again. You silently thank the terrible slump in business.

"Well, in that case, Mr. Black, may I show you to your room?" You pluck the hat off his head and put it, at an angle, on yours. "Oh, and I get off at ten."