Bound Before
Title: Bound Before
Pairing/Characters: Lorcan/Lysander
Prompt: trace
Rating: hard R/NC-17
Word Count: 360
Warnings: Mild knife-play & blood-play. And incest, obvs.
Notes: This is my first time with these two... I always picture them as a bit off, but in a more malignant way, perhaps, than their mother. *shrug* I wrote it for hp_cestfest's quick drabble challenge. Go write! It's for charity, you slags! ;)
He's wicked on his best days; on his worst, he's brutal, and Lorcan can't decide which way he likes his brother better.
When he looks at Lysander, he thinks it should be like looking into a mirror. That's the joke, isn't it? That's what everyone says.
It's nothing like a mirror. It's more like staring into moving water: the colours are the same; the shape is there at its most basic, but the features are rippling and warped, ever-shifting, impulsive and impossible to pin down. Like Lysander.
This is what Lorcan's thinking about as he pulls his knees up and spreads his legs wide. He's not sure which version he's going to get - wicked or brutal - and his hips are bucking wildly, up and down and back and forth, like they can't figure it out either.
The blade in his brother's hand makes it worse; makes every muscle he's got string itself tight with anticipation. Lysander likes blood and Lorcan likes pain - or sometimes it's the other way around - and maybe he's just going to come right now, with the tip of the fucking thing a millimetre from his navel: that weird, concave spot where they were bound before they were born.
"Hush," Lysander says. "Hush. Still." He avoids sentences when he can; he says they're superfluous when one word will do.
Lorcan listens and breathes. He bites his lip and thinks of stuffed-up noses and spat-out toothpaste just to keep himself from spilling all over his brother's hands when Lysander lifts his hard-on from his stomach and traces a circle underneath.
A red line rises - red and round like something screaming STOP - but nobody stops. Lysander licks it to make it sting, his saliva like suspicious potion, and holds the flat of the blade against Lorcan's thigh. There's an artery underneath.
When Lysander's mouth is doll-red against his daisy-white skin, he kisses blood like lipstick across Lorcan's throat. Lorcan's body betrays him with a spastic jerk; the knife thumps against the carpet; they come back together at the belly, and they floatfloatfloat away - the water red; the mirror broken; the world wicked and brutal and warm as a womb.
Pairing/Characters: Lorcan/Lysander
Prompt: trace
Rating: hard R/NC-17
Word Count: 360
Warnings: Mild knife-play & blood-play. And incest, obvs.
Notes: This is my first time with these two... I always picture them as a bit off, but in a more malignant way, perhaps, than their mother. *shrug* I wrote it for hp_cestfest's quick drabble challenge. Go write! It's for charity, you slags! ;)
He's wicked on his best days; on his worst, he's brutal, and Lorcan can't decide which way he likes his brother better.
When he looks at Lysander, he thinks it should be like looking into a mirror. That's the joke, isn't it? That's what everyone says.
It's nothing like a mirror. It's more like staring into moving water: the colours are the same; the shape is there at its most basic, but the features are rippling and warped, ever-shifting, impulsive and impossible to pin down. Like Lysander.
This is what Lorcan's thinking about as he pulls his knees up and spreads his legs wide. He's not sure which version he's going to get - wicked or brutal - and his hips are bucking wildly, up and down and back and forth, like they can't figure it out either.
The blade in his brother's hand makes it worse; makes every muscle he's got string itself tight with anticipation. Lysander likes blood and Lorcan likes pain - or sometimes it's the other way around - and maybe he's just going to come right now, with the tip of the fucking thing a millimetre from his navel: that weird, concave spot where they were bound before they were born.
"Hush," Lysander says. "Hush. Still." He avoids sentences when he can; he says they're superfluous when one word will do.
Lorcan listens and breathes. He bites his lip and thinks of stuffed-up noses and spat-out toothpaste just to keep himself from spilling all over his brother's hands when Lysander lifts his hard-on from his stomach and traces a circle underneath.
A red line rises - red and round like something screaming STOP - but nobody stops. Lysander licks it to make it sting, his saliva like suspicious potion, and holds the flat of the blade against Lorcan's thigh. There's an artery underneath.
When Lysander's mouth is doll-red against his daisy-white skin, he kisses blood like lipstick across Lorcan's throat. Lorcan's body betrays him with a spastic jerk; the knife thumps against the carpet; they come back together at the belly, and they floatfloatfloat away - the water red; the mirror broken; the world wicked and brutal and warm as a womb.