Authors Note: My totally weird artsy bohemian French take on a Lestrangecest. It's...very bad, but I at least finished it! I wrote this as a request for a friend, so, yeah, Steph, this is for you!
The sounds of the people floated up from the streets, shouting and screaming. They were the crowds that only came out after the fall of darkness. The whores, flooding into their bordellos, and the hapless fools who sought their bodies in exchange for money. The pitiful and the lowly, who found their comfort in a late-night round, the riff-raff who would sell their mortal soul for one last drink. The same routine, drowning their sorrows in sex and booze, the children of the underground.
They too, were creatures of the night, seeking their own comforts in the veil that darkness brought with it. But in a very different way.
No one here, in this room, had to pay for their night-time pleasures. Not to say that satisfaction was given without a price. Oh, no. Not at all. For when you're a Lestrange, you learn that all things come with a hefty tag. You only ever got what you gave.
Their lips met in a bruising kiss, the satin sheets of the freshly made bed quickly finding the floor where they lay in a shimmering black puddle, forgotten like so many other things. Well manicured hands clawed at pieces of clothing, tugging hastily on handfuls of soft black hair, pale skin upon pale skin.
It was Rodolphus who spoke first, his voice low and gravely, dark eyes flashing as he stared up at his younger sibling. "I want you fuck me, Rabastan," he said breathlessly, arching his back slowly, raising his thin hips to meet his brothers, causing them both to shiver, despite the warmth their bodies created. This was the one, and only, thing they had in common with the riffraff milling the streets outside their door. It was never about love, only lust, and carnal desire.
"And I won't deny you, dear brother," Rabastan said as a means of reply, the words muffled as his mouth was busy planting fevered kisses along the older boys neck, skilled tongue trailing along the outline of the defined jaw. He was met with a squirm, another hard upward thrust, and a low moan of satisfaction that passed between the lips of the older Lestrange.
It didn't take long for their skin to become dotted with salty flecks of sweat, easing the friction as they glided against one another, Rodolphus raising his bare legs to wrap around his brothers waist, pulling him closer as they ground together. The muffled moans became tortured grunts and urges of pleasure, coupled with the sound of desperate and heavy breathing.
"I said," the eldest panted, "I want you to fuck me. If you don't give me what I want right now, I'm going to scream." Rodolphus buried his fingers in Rabastan's back, not noticing the way his brother winced as he broke the skin, thin lines of blood appearing as those perfect nails chipped and cracked around the edges as they dug into soft flesh.
Silently complying, Rabastan snaked his hand between them, fingers dancing over his lover's body, making sure to go painfully slow, teasing. He knew Rodolphus hated it when he dawdled, but that was half the fun, taking his time, feeling every inch, tracing every line. He gripped his brother firmly in his hand, finally reaching his destination, and began to stroke methodically. Once he was sure that the other boy's mind was substantially occupied, he positioned himself more comfortably between Rodolphus' legs, pushing in slowly, enjoying the way the body beneath him tensed and stiffened at the new pressure.
Whining low in his throat, Rodolphus clung harder to the boy, pulling his brother closer then he ever imagined close could be. Hands clutched wildly at bare shoulders, legs tightened around smooth hips, and dark hair fell across equally dark eyes, which were currently closed in a state of complete rapture.
The languid movement of hands, became coupled with the mounting rhythm of hips as Rabastan fulfilled his brothers demands, each thrust harder then the last, each cry for more, louder then the one before it. The kisses, which were often chaste and cool, were now hot and needy, fueled by something greater, that they had no knowledgeable control over. Their words were a nearly indecipherable mix of French and broken English. But neither cared about what the other was saying, because in moments like this, it wasn't your words that mattered, it was your actions, and how you carried them out.
Using his brother for leverage, Rodolphus pulled himself up, lips trailing from the mouth of the other boy, to the smooth, alabaster, skin of his neck, suckling and licking, revealing in the salty taste, his seemingly heightened senses tingling. "Rabastan," he whispered this time, his voice a low growl, "I want you to make me come."
"Yes," Rabastan moaned, angling his neck so that the experienced lips could have better access, "anything you want. Anything at all."
Rodolphus bit down hard on his
brother's neck as the younger boy ground their hips together, in an
almost painful manner; pushing in as far as he could go. Everything
felt tight, and stretched, and tense. It was utterly euphoric, and
the sensations were amazing.
The world around them seemed to stop
then, and to cease to exist. The sounds of the nightlife, the clatter
of the others moving around downstairs, even the sounds of their own
labored breathing, there was nothing.
They both found release in succession, first Rodolphus, and then Rabastan, two pairs of nearly identical pouted lips open in silent o's of ecstasy.
When it was finally over, and the last waves of their orgasms had passed, Rabastan collapsed on top of his brother, his dark head settled into the hollow of Rodolphus' neck. Their breathing was returning to normal, and the roar of life on the streets came humming through the open window once more, the chiffon curtains whipping in the breeze.
The room began to cool, and the scent of sex wafted out as the fresh air came in, and yet they remained there, still coupled together, but not moving, just relaxing into one another, enjoying the feeling of closeness.
They would never admit it, but they were far more like the plebeians below then anyone would know. Perhaps even more then they knew themselves. There was something there, in the times after, when they were coming down from their sexual high, arms wrapped loosely around one another, fingers woven into ebony locks, light kisses placed on swollen lips.
Beneath the lust, and the want, and the pure need to have and to take, was something stronger. Stronger then the bond of brothers, stronger then the ties of blood. It only came out, when they lay entangled in a sticky mass of sweat and fluids, the older boy kissing the top of the younger boys head, muttered nothings whispered between them.
They, like the mongrels of the underworld, wanted love, even though they tried to mask it as nothing more then a dark lust. Love was at the root of all. It was the tag that hung over their heads. A forbidden love, that could never be, and so it just wasn't. The world was never spoken between them, the actions never shown outside those brief minutes, inside these four walls, the world going on below them, and around them, as it always had and always would.
Love was the price they paid.