Chapter 2: Thornbound Ecstasy
The guttural, wet sound of the vines moving inside her swallowed her cry. Thorns bit into her wrists, a bright, stinging counterpoint to the deep, relentless stretch below. The stem in her mouth swelled, releasing a faint, floral sap that tasted of rain and dark soil. It pushed deeper, fucking her throat in a slow, vegetative rhythm.
“There she is,” Sirius murmured, his voice raw with want. His hands smoothed over her trembling arse, thumbs spreading her wider. The vine in her cunt pulsed, its ridges catching on her inner walls with every withdrawal. “Look at you. Taking them so well. My greedy girl.”
He wasn’t just watching. His cock, hard and slick, nudged against the base of the second vine, the one buried in her arse. The pressure was immense, unbelievable. She felt stuffed, stretched to splitting, a moan trapped around the intrusion in her throat.
“Teamwork,” he growled, and pushed.
Harriet’s back arched violently. A scream vibrated against the plant in her mouth. He was pushing his cock in alongside it, the broad head forcing the vine tighter against her sensitive ring of muscle, then sliding past, filling a space that had never been filled. The burn was sharp, then deep, then melting into a shocking, full ache. He sank into her arse in one relentless, tearing thrust.
“Fuck,” he hissed, his hips flush against her. “Oh, fuck, Harriet.”
He stayed there, buried to the hilt, both of them panting. The vines kept moving, a ceaseless, fucking cadence. Three rhythms now: the throat, the cunt, the arse. She was a vessel, overflowing. Spit dripped from her stretched lips. Tears leaked from her squeezed-shut eyes.
“Open your eyes,” he commanded, his voice shaky. “Look at the wall. See where you are.”
She forced her eyelids open. The moonlit brick wavered through her tears. Ivy rustled. She was pinned against the old garden wall, part of its decaying tapestry.
“This is yours,” he said, beginning to move. A short, testing pull back, then a drive forward. The vine in her arse moved with him, a dual invasion. “This fucked-up, ancient magic. It knows you. It wants you. Just like I do.”
His pace built, no longer careful. His hips slapped against her flesh, a wet, filthy sound joining the squelch of the vines. Each thrust jolted the stem in her throat deeper, making her gag. Each withdrawal made the ridged vine in her cunt rub a brutal, perfect spot that had her trembling.
“Sirius—I can’t—it’s too much—” The words were garbled, choking.
“You can,” he grunted, one hand fisting in her hair, pulling her head back. “You are. You’re fucking taking it. Every inch.”
The pleasure was a live wire, frayed and sparking, tangled with the pain. It built in her belly, a coiled spring. The vines seemed to sense it. They moved faster, their rhythm turning frantic, jerky. The one in her cunt thickened, its ridges becoming more pronounced, scraping her inner walls with delicious, brutal friction.
“They feel you coming,” Sirius panted, his thrusts turning ragged. “The magic feels it. Come on. Let it go. Let us feel you shatter.”
It wasn’t a wave; it was a detonation. It ripped through her with a silent, searing scream. Her body clamped down, spasming violently around the three intrusions, a convulsive, milking pressure. The vine in her mouth pulsed, releasing a flood of that earthy sap down her throat as the one in her cunt swelled and shuddered, a mimicry of release.
Sirius roared. His hand clamped on her hip, fingers digging in bruise-deep as he hammered into her arse, his own orgasm tearing through him. She felt the hot, sudden rush of his come filling her, marking the claiming as complete.
For a long moment, there was only sound: their ragged breaths, the soft, slithering retreat of the vines as they loosened and slid from her body, the drip of spend on damp earth.
He slipped out of her, his hands gentling, turning her limp form towards him. She collapsed against his chest, her body humming, utterly spent. He kissed her sweaty forehead, her salty eyelids.
“Okay?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
She nodded into his neck, unable to speak. Her throat was raw. Every muscle trembled.
He conjured a soft blanket, laying it on a relatively clear patch of grass before lowering them both onto it. He held her, stroking her hair as the garden’s whispers returned to mere wind in the leaves.
“The first time was for us,” he said quietly, his lips against her hair. “In the quiet dark. This… this was for the house. For the legacy. It’s been starved of life for so long. It needed to taste it again.”
Harriet looked up at him, the rogueish lines of his face softened by moonlight. “It felt… alive.”
“It is,” he said. “And now it knows you. Really knows you.” A slow, possessive smile touched his mouth. “No going back now, little bird.”
In the distance, a light flickered on in a top window of Grimmauld Place—a window that had been dark for decades. It watched them, a single, unblinking eye. Harriet saw it, and buried her face back in Sirius’s chest, not with fear, but with a strange, dark sense of homecoming.
The garden around them sighed, content.