FIC: The Soul of Pleasure
Title: The Soul of Pleasure
Pairing: Lucius/Sirius, Lucius/Remus, Lucius/James, some Lucius/Peter
Rating: R
Disclaimer:
A.N. For moshes and kennahijja *loves*
It's an old game with Sirius.
The dice is rolled as Lucius walks into the ballroom and sees the disgraced Black heir, lounging against the wall at the back with a glass of claret in his hand and a bored twist to his painted lips.
It may be a masked ball, but Lucius knows his playmate intimately. From the amethyst clips that hold back his sweeping fall of black hair, to the lithe lines of his body that are teasingly hinted at by the dark purple robe he's wearing, Lucius knows Sirius.
He knows how to make him writhe as if in a fever. He knows the precise shade of red his pale wrists turn when Lucius binds him to his bed. He knows the alcoholic edge to his laughter when Sirius is straddling him, hot slick skin of his inner thighs pressed to Lucius's sides. He knows how Sirius can become a beautifully mad angel when he has Lucius biting his lip to keep from begging.
But first there is the game.
The elegant turnabout of performance, the flow and rush between them; it could almost be some courtly dance, but for the fact that dances don't have winners and losers. This flicker of eye-contact behind porcelain-mask faces of beasts and gods, this working closer to each other through the crowds only to disappear again just as the other turns to address them - it requires someone to end the evening very unhappy indeed.
Lucius is determined that it won't be him tonight.
Of course, if he could guess the way the game would end, he probably wouldn't bother playing.
*
It's all ethics with Remus.
Remus doesn’t even seem to have noticed that the waiters have cleared the table. He picks up the tiny cup of French coffee that was set in front of him and takes a sip without apparently being aware of its arrival. He is too engrossed in continuing the discussion that has occupied them both throughout their meal, that of the subjectivity of morality.
They've sauntered from Young to Althusser, with a stop-off at Kierkegaard on the way. They've mused over masks and mirrors, and the tattered fabric of represented reality. Then somehow, when they'd exhausted the thoughts of dead and distant minds, the conversation slides to a more personal level.
Remus seems to find Lucius's amorality enthralling. But isn't there a innate knowledge in humanity of what is good and what is evil? he implores Lucius, whose gaze hasn't wavered from the younger man's ascetic face brought alive with philosophy all evening.
Answering would be one thing, but Lucius thinks it's more intriguing to leave the question lost like a message in a bottle bobbing on the surface of the sea.
If there isn't, Remus says, setting his cup down with a mournful clink of china, then what separates man from beast?
There's such an immense weight of hopelessness in the sudden slump of his thin shoulders, the blink of his eyes as he looks away from the stark white tablecloth, that Lucius has a brief desire to make the world right for him. As scruffy and world-worn as Remus is, there's an innocence that shines through his scarred skin.
Instead, he leads him from the restaurant and down into the dark of an alleyway, where he shows him precisely how wicked men can be.
*
It's a never-ending argument with James.
In the drawing room, they bicker about whether James is uncouth for demanding a bottle of beer in a place like Malfoy manor and in the company of a man as regal as Lucius, or whether Lucius is old-fashioned and inhospitable for refusing to pander to the perfectly reasonable whims of his guest.
On the way up the stairs, they are unable to agree upon which of them it was that made the first advance on the other at the tedious Ministry gathering they were both obliged to attend earlier that evening. James maintains that seeing as he was the one to actually go up to Lucius and start a conversation - albeit with an insult - that the honour rests with him.
Lucius, on the other hand, points out that he was so brazen in his appraisal that James was the last person in the room to realise that Lucius intended to have him. Lucius says he was half wondering whether he'd have to go so far as openly groping James to get the message across.
They detour to the nursery where Draco is crying in his crib. This prompts an argument about the best way to settle a baby to sleep. It's rocking and singing, says James, unfortunately demonstrating both. As Draco's wails become hitched irritable whimpers, the tiny blond head resting on James's lightly-muscled upper-arm, Lucius takes the child from him and declares that the proper way to silence a baby is with Silencio.
The blankets on Lucius's bed are jade, not "Slytherin-green." Through mocking laughter, James bullishly insists that green is green is green, and therefore not to be tolerated. Lucius asks if the same goes for the colour of Lily Potter's eyes, at which James punches him squarely in the mouth.
They wrestle - clumsily, drunkenly - until the last argument to be had is who fucks whom.
A happy compromise is reached only when they agree to try it both ways.
*
It's all too easy with Peter.
END
Pairing: Lucius/Sirius, Lucius/Remus, Lucius/James, some Lucius/Peter
Rating: R
Disclaimer:
A.N. For moshes and kennahijja *loves*
It's an old game with Sirius.
The dice is rolled as Lucius walks into the ballroom and sees the disgraced Black heir, lounging against the wall at the back with a glass of claret in his hand and a bored twist to his painted lips.
It may be a masked ball, but Lucius knows his playmate intimately. From the amethyst clips that hold back his sweeping fall of black hair, to the lithe lines of his body that are teasingly hinted at by the dark purple robe he's wearing, Lucius knows Sirius.
He knows how to make him writhe as if in a fever. He knows the precise shade of red his pale wrists turn when Lucius binds him to his bed. He knows the alcoholic edge to his laughter when Sirius is straddling him, hot slick skin of his inner thighs pressed to Lucius's sides. He knows how Sirius can become a beautifully mad angel when he has Lucius biting his lip to keep from begging.
But first there is the game.
The elegant turnabout of performance, the flow and rush between them; it could almost be some courtly dance, but for the fact that dances don't have winners and losers. This flicker of eye-contact behind porcelain-mask faces of beasts and gods, this working closer to each other through the crowds only to disappear again just as the other turns to address them - it requires someone to end the evening very unhappy indeed.
Lucius is determined that it won't be him tonight.
Of course, if he could guess the way the game would end, he probably wouldn't bother playing.
*
It's all ethics with Remus.
Remus doesn’t even seem to have noticed that the waiters have cleared the table. He picks up the tiny cup of French coffee that was set in front of him and takes a sip without apparently being aware of its arrival. He is too engrossed in continuing the discussion that has occupied them both throughout their meal, that of the subjectivity of morality.
They've sauntered from Young to Althusser, with a stop-off at Kierkegaard on the way. They've mused over masks and mirrors, and the tattered fabric of represented reality. Then somehow, when they'd exhausted the thoughts of dead and distant minds, the conversation slides to a more personal level.
Remus seems to find Lucius's amorality enthralling. But isn't there a innate knowledge in humanity of what is good and what is evil? he implores Lucius, whose gaze hasn't wavered from the younger man's ascetic face brought alive with philosophy all evening.
Answering would be one thing, but Lucius thinks it's more intriguing to leave the question lost like a message in a bottle bobbing on the surface of the sea.
If there isn't, Remus says, setting his cup down with a mournful clink of china, then what separates man from beast?
There's such an immense weight of hopelessness in the sudden slump of his thin shoulders, the blink of his eyes as he looks away from the stark white tablecloth, that Lucius has a brief desire to make the world right for him. As scruffy and world-worn as Remus is, there's an innocence that shines through his scarred skin.
Instead, he leads him from the restaurant and down into the dark of an alleyway, where he shows him precisely how wicked men can be.
*
It's a never-ending argument with James.
In the drawing room, they bicker about whether James is uncouth for demanding a bottle of beer in a place like Malfoy manor and in the company of a man as regal as Lucius, or whether Lucius is old-fashioned and inhospitable for refusing to pander to the perfectly reasonable whims of his guest.
On the way up the stairs, they are unable to agree upon which of them it was that made the first advance on the other at the tedious Ministry gathering they were both obliged to attend earlier that evening. James maintains that seeing as he was the one to actually go up to Lucius and start a conversation - albeit with an insult - that the honour rests with him.
Lucius, on the other hand, points out that he was so brazen in his appraisal that James was the last person in the room to realise that Lucius intended to have him. Lucius says he was half wondering whether he'd have to go so far as openly groping James to get the message across.
They detour to the nursery where Draco is crying in his crib. This prompts an argument about the best way to settle a baby to sleep. It's rocking and singing, says James, unfortunately demonstrating both. As Draco's wails become hitched irritable whimpers, the tiny blond head resting on James's lightly-muscled upper-arm, Lucius takes the child from him and declares that the proper way to silence a baby is with Silencio.
The blankets on Lucius's bed are jade, not "Slytherin-green." Through mocking laughter, James bullishly insists that green is green is green, and therefore not to be tolerated. Lucius asks if the same goes for the colour of Lily Potter's eyes, at which James punches him squarely in the mouth.
They wrestle - clumsily, drunkenly - until the last argument to be had is who fucks whom.
A happy compromise is reached only when they agree to try it both ways.
*
It's all too easy with Peter.
END