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The locker room door hadn’t even clicked shut before the first hand cracked across Sirius’s face, sharp enough to snap his head sideways and leave a stinging red mark blooming on his cheek.
“Strip.”
The single word came from James, low and lethal, laced with the adrenaline still pumping from the Quidditch match. Sirius’s towel hit the floor before the echo died, his body already responding—cock jutting up flushed and wet-tipped, thighs trembling with anticipation. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and victory, the Slytherin team and a few opportunistic others crowding in, eyes hungry.
James didn’t bother with niceties. He spun Sirius by the shoulder, slammed him chest-first into the lockers so hard the metal dented under the impact, and kicked his legs apart until the stretch in his hips burned like fire. Cold air hit his exposed hole for half a second, then James hawked a thick glob of spit directly onto it, once, twice, three times for good measure, rubbing it in roughly with his thumb before lining up. He drove in dry anyway, the spit barely easing the way, the burn immediate and white-hot.
Sirius’s mouth opened on a silent scream, forehead grinding against the locker as James set a punishing pace from the first thrust, hips snapping so hard the whole row of lockers rattled like gunfire. Every stroke dragged over his prostate with brutal precision; within thirty seconds Sirius was leaking steadily onto the floor, untouched, choking on broken noises that echoed off the tiles. James wrapped a hand in Sirius’s hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat, biting down hard enough to break skin while he rutted deeper, grinding against that spot until Sirius’s knees buckled.
“You love this, don’t you? Getting wrecked right after we win,” James growled, his free hand sliding down to pinch Sirius’s balls, rolling them roughly until tears pricked at the corners of Sirius’s eyes.
James didn’t last long, too keyed-up from the match. He buried himself deep, fingers digging bruises into Sirius’s hips, and came with a guttural curse, flooding him so full it was already dripping down his balls and thighs when James pulled out with a wet, obscene pop. He stepped back, admiring the mess, then slapped Sirius’s ass hard enough to leave a handprint. “Next.”
Sirius barely had time to sag against the lockers before Adrian Pucey grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him down to his knees on the cold, gritty floor. Adrian’s cock was already out, thick and flushed dark, veins pulsing. He slapped Sirius across the face with it, once, twice, three times, smearing pre-come across his cheek and lips like marking territory.
“Open wide, Black. Show us that pretty mouth.”
Sirius did, tongue lolling out eagerly. Adrian fed himself in until Sirius’s nose was crushed against coarse hair, then held him there, hips grinding in slow circles. Sirius gagged, throat convulsing around the intrusion, tears streaming down his face, but Adrian only ground deeper, cutting off his air in short bursts. Saliva poured from the corners of his mouth, dripping off his chin in long, sticky strings that pooled on the floor.
Behind him, someone—Marcus Flint—laughed darkly and dropped to his knees. Two thick fingers shoved into Sirius’s loose, come-slick hole without warning, twisted viciously, spreading him open. A third joined, then a fourth, stretching him obscenely wide, knuckles brushing his prostate until his cock twitched and leaked more. Flint scissored them roughly, adding a thumb to press against his rim, threatening to fist him right there.
“Listen to him,” Flint said, voice thick with lust. “Fucking gagging for it. Bet he could take my whole hand.”
He pulled his fingers free with a squelch and replaced them with his cock in one brutal shove, bottoming out so hard Sirius’s body jerked forward, impaling himself deeper on Adrian’s length. A raw animal noise ripped out of him as they found a rhythm instantly: Flint pounding his arse with heavy, bruising thrusts, Adrian fucking his throat in slow, suffocating strokes that made his vision blur. The bench nearby scraped across the floor from the force, and Sirius’s hands scrabbled at Adrian’s thighs, nails digging in for purchase.
Adrian came first, pulling back just enough to spill across Sirius’s tongue, forcing him to swallow or choke. “Don’t waste a drop,” he snarled, slapping Sirius’s cheek lightly to make him gulp it down. Flint followed soon after, groaning as he added to the mess inside, his come mixing with James’s and leaking out in thick rivulets.
They stepped away, leaving Sirius coughing and gasping on all fours, but Evan Rosier was already there. He hauled Sirius up by the throat, fingers squeezing just enough to make his head spin, and threw him face-down over the massage bench. Wrists were jerked behind his back and bound with someone’s Gryffindor tie—James’s, probably—tight enough that his shoulders screamed in protest, circulation tingling.
Evan didn’t speak at first. He just lined up and slammed in so hard Sirius’s hips bruised against the edge of the bench, the impact jarring his bound arms. Every thrust shoved him forward, cheek grinding into the leather, breath punched out of him in sharp sobs. Evan reached under and twisted his nipples viciously, over and over, pinching and pulling until they were swollen, red, and hypersensitive, sending jolts of pain-pleasure straight to Sirius’s cock.
“Not enough,” Evan muttered finally, grabbing a discarded Quidditch glove from the floor and stuffing it into Sirius’s mouth as a gag, muffling his cries. He slowed his pace deliberately, edging himself—and Sirius—thrusting deep but pulling back before hitting that spot fully, denying release. Sirius whined around the glove, hips bucking desperately, but Evan just laughed and slapped his thigh. “Beg for it later, slut.”
When Evan finally came, he pulled out midway, spilling half inside and half across Sirius’s back, marking him like territory. He unbound the tie but left the glove in, smirking as he walked away.
Barty Crouch Jr. took his turn like he was trying to win a prize for cruelty. He flipped Sirius onto his back on the bench, shoving his knees to his chest until he was folded in half, exposed and vulnerable. Barty spat directly into his open mouth—once for the gag, twice more for good measure—then slapped him, hard, three times in quick succession, the glove still muffling his gasps.
“Spit that out and beg,” Barty ordered, grinding his cock against Sirius’s hole teasingly.
Sirius spat out the glove, voice shredded. “Please—fuck—harder—use me—”
Barty laughed, a sharp, mocking sound, and obliged, hips pistoning so fast the bench legs screeched across tile. He wrapped a hand around Sirius’s cock, stroking roughly but stopping just as Sirius tensed, edging him cruelly. “Not yet. You come when I say.” He pressed his thumb hard over Sirius’s windpipe, cutting off air entirely until Sirius’s vision blackened at the edges, body arching in desperation. Only then did Barty let go, slamming in one last time and coming deep, finally allowing Sirius to spill untouched—or rather, barely touched—across his own stomach in weak spurts.
They didn’t give him time to breathe. Two Ravenclaw reserves hauled him upright, one in front and one behind. The one behind—Davies, maybe—lifted him clean off the ground, legs spread wide like a ragdoll, and impaled him on his cock, gravity doing the work. The one in front forced his head down and fed himself into Sirius’s mouth at the same downward angle, choking him anew. They bounced him between them like a fucktoy, every drop slamming him balls-deep on both ends, the stretch burning deliciously.
Someone—another Slytherin—produced a belt from a discarded uniform. The first crack across his arse made him scream around the cock in his throat, the leather biting into skin; the next five striped him red and raised welts that burned with every thrust, the pain blending into heat that made his cock throb. They didn’t stop, adding more lashes across his thighs and back, timing them with the bounces until Sirius was a trembling mess, tears mixing with saliva on his face.
He lost count after that, the bodies blurring into a haze of hands and cocks and commands.
A Hufflepuff beater bent him over the sinks and fucked him against the mirror so he could watch his own face—mouth slack, eyes rolled back, drool and come streaking the glass where his cheek kept smacking it. The beater reached around, jerking Sirius roughly while whispering filth: “Look at yourself, Black. Pathetic little whore, covered in everyone’s mess.” He edged Sirius again, stopping just before climax, laughing as Sirius whimpered.
A Slytherin chaser made him ride him reverse on the floor, hands cuffed behind his back with someone’s belt this time, forcing him to do all the work. The chaser lounged back, hands behind his head, watching Sirius exhaust himself bouncing on his cock until his thighs shook and burned, collapsing forward sobbing when his muscles gave out. The chaser just grabbed his hips and finished himself off, spilling inside before shoving Sirius off like trash.
Then came the humiliation round. Random seventh-years he barely recognized took turns holding his legs open wide, pinning him to the floor while others jerked off onto his face, into his open mouth, painting him until he was glazed and dripping, couldn’t see through the mess in his eyes. One pissed a hot stream across his chest, marking him further, the warmth mixing with the cooling come, and Sirius moaned at the degradation, cock twitching despite everything.
A group of them improvised toys: a broom handle wrapped in a towel, slicked with spit and come, shoved into his gaping hole while another fucked his throat, stretching him impossibly wide. They twisted it, angling for his prostate, edging him relentlessly—bringing him to the brink over and over without letting him tip over, until he was babbling incoherently, begging for release.
Someone brought out a vial of potion—stamina enhancer, maybe—and forced it down his throat, making his body hypersensitive, every touch electric. They pinched and slapped his oversensitive skin, focusing on his nipples, balls, inner thighs, until he was writhing, overstimulated and desperate.
By the time the crowd thinned, Sirius was a wreck: lips split and swollen, throat raw and voiceless, arse gaping and obscene, come and piss and sweat leaking from him in a steady stream, bruises blooming everywhere skin showed—handprints, bite marks, welts from the belt crisscrossing his back and ass. He was on his knees again, barely upright, swaying like he might pass out, when Remus finally stepped forward.
Silence fell. Even the stragglers still lingering stopped to watch, the air heavy with anticipation.
Remus didn’t rush. He circled once, slowly, taking in every mark, every bite, every handprint, his eyes dark with possession. Then he gripped Sirius by the throat, lifted him like he weighed nothing, and slammed him back against the lockers so hard the breath exploded out of him, metal groaning.
Remus’s first thrust punched a broken wail out of Sirius’s ruined throat. There was no build-up, no mercy—Remus fucked him like he wanted to split him in half, one hand choking off his air in pulsing squeezes, the other pinning both wrists above his head. Each stroke dragged over his prostate with devastating accuracy, forcing another weak spurt of come from Sirius’s spent, oversensitive cock, the potion making it hurt so good.
“Look at you,” Remus snarled against his ear, teeth sinking into the lobe hard enough to draw blood, then licking it away. “Took every single one like a perfect little come-slut. Still not enough, is it? Still begging for more with that wrecked hole.”
Sirius could only sob, shaking his head frantically no—yes—pushing back into every thrust, body betraying him.
Remus spun him around, shoved him down over the nearest bench again, and drove back in from behind. He wrapped a hand around Sirius’s throat and squeezed until stars burst behind Sirius’s eyes, pounding into him with short, vicious strokes that made the bench legs scream. His other hand reached down, finally stroking Sirius’s cock—fast, rough, but stopping at the edge again and again, drawing it out until Sirius was a babbling, tear-streaked mess.
“Beg me to let you come,” Remus demanded, biting down on his shoulder.
“Please—Remus—let me—need it—” Sirius rasped, voice barely there.
Remus obliged at last, stroking him through it as he came himself, burying deep and grinding, flooding Sirius so full it forced everything else out around his cock in messy, obscene pulses, Sirius’s own release splattering the bench in exhausted spurts.
Only then did Remus ease out slowly, watching the mess drip. Sirius collapsed instantly, legs giving out, hitting the floor in a trembling heap of bruises and spend and sweat, body twitching from overstimulation.
Remus knelt, gathered him up carefully despite the shaking in his own arms, and pressed soft kisses to every hurting place he could reach— the welts, the bites, the bruises—whispering praises now.
Sirius’s voice was completely gone, but he managed the faintest, cracked laugh, nuzzling blindly into Remus’s neck.
“Next match,” he mouthed silently, barely audible, “losing team gets me in their showers. And bring more... toys.”
Remus huffed a wrecked laugh and held him tighter, fingers gentle in his hair.
“Whatever you want, love. Whatever you fucking want.”