Ficlet: Benediction (R, Sirius/Twins)
Title: Benediction
Author: spessartine
Pairing: Sirius/Twins
Rating: R
Warning for incest and allusions to drug use, but very mild.
Wordcount: 430
A/N: Written for ariadneelda
In their symmetry, they are sacred. They fold themselves around him and laugh and laugh and touch him, and he laughs too. Their hair skims his skin with gold, making him twitch and writhe; darting pink tongues; their secret language of eyebrow-raises and smirks that he does not understand. Their long fingers, interlaced. The hot press of their lips meeting against his skin.
They seize him in the hall and drag him, dusty and drunk, to their room, dizzy him with whispered absurdity. They feed him sweetmeats from their mouths that make the world blur. And he laughs, unbelieving. They tackle him to the bed and make quick work of his clothes. It is always this way:
The echoing laughter of their muffled voices; Sirius complicit as he has not been for so very long - what? You didn’t - breathless, here - James and I once… and in the summer too. It took them days to clear; you should have seen their faces then, then - but he’s lost the sense of it, now, and their smiles are tinted mischievous. They kneel before him and it’s good, good. He’s only a man, anyway. Their twining sentences plait together into to poetry. His fingers touch their foreheads - their hair at the temples is bright enough to scald him (and his? He won’t look. Let him have this.)
Next day when everyone else is out, he takes them to buy dragonskin jackets. That’s my boys, he says. That’s my fucking boys. He gives them wine worth more than most of what they own and regales them with tales of his exploits. And he can hold them in his thrall, yes, still. In return they show him a new product they’re working on. At noon they’re naked, the three of them: high, and hiding samples in Kreacher’s den. And if the house elf ever eats them, they do not hear his rough high voice calling out, or his curses, because their bodies are moving together in the dim, curtained room that once was his, and their laughter echoes, echoes.
And he only moans under the stoked warmth of their stroking palms because they remind him that once he had laughed too - had laughed, and been incorrigible. Then, a lie was a game. (But he’s forgotten the rules. He’s forgotten.)
In their symmetry, they are sacred. They fold themselves around him and laugh and laugh and touch him, and he laughs too. It sounds like someone else - harsh, desperate, hollow. His cock is resting on their outstretched tongues, now.
In their holy trinity, he is already the ghost.
Author: spessartine
Pairing: Sirius/Twins
Rating: R
Warning for incest and allusions to drug use, but very mild.
Wordcount: 430
A/N: Written for ariadneelda
In their symmetry, they are sacred. They fold themselves around him and laugh and laugh and touch him, and he laughs too. Their hair skims his skin with gold, making him twitch and writhe; darting pink tongues; their secret language of eyebrow-raises and smirks that he does not understand. Their long fingers, interlaced. The hot press of their lips meeting against his skin.
They seize him in the hall and drag him, dusty and drunk, to their room, dizzy him with whispered absurdity. They feed him sweetmeats from their mouths that make the world blur. And he laughs, unbelieving. They tackle him to the bed and make quick work of his clothes. It is always this way:
The echoing laughter of their muffled voices; Sirius complicit as he has not been for so very long - what? You didn’t - breathless, here - James and I once… and in the summer too. It took them days to clear; you should have seen their faces then, then - but he’s lost the sense of it, now, and their smiles are tinted mischievous. They kneel before him and it’s good, good. He’s only a man, anyway. Their twining sentences plait together into to poetry. His fingers touch their foreheads - their hair at the temples is bright enough to scald him (and his? He won’t look. Let him have this.)
Next day when everyone else is out, he takes them to buy dragonskin jackets. That’s my boys, he says. That’s my fucking boys. He gives them wine worth more than most of what they own and regales them with tales of his exploits. And he can hold them in his thrall, yes, still. In return they show him a new product they’re working on. At noon they’re naked, the three of them: high, and hiding samples in Kreacher’s den. And if the house elf ever eats them, they do not hear his rough high voice calling out, or his curses, because their bodies are moving together in the dim, curtained room that once was his, and their laughter echoes, echoes.
And he only moans under the stoked warmth of their stroking palms because they remind him that once he had laughed too - had laughed, and been incorrigible. Then, a lie was a game. (But he’s forgotten the rules. He’s forgotten.)
In their symmetry, they are sacred. They fold themselves around him and laugh and laugh and touch him, and he laughs too. It sounds like someone else - harsh, desperate, hollow. His cock is resting on their outstretched tongues, now.
In their holy trinity, he is already the ghost.