Miserere Mei

Vede
(Sirius)

He watched, sheets tangled at his feet, muscles loose and eyes wide and glistening with grey anticipation. His dark hair, in need of cutting, hung heavy in his gaze as he stared at the scene, but his hands were too busy to keep pushing the strands back and it would be but a futile effort anyway.

He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t tear his iron eyes from the movements before him. This was his show, after all. It wasn’t intended to be, but James had refused to allow him to participate.

”We don’t share you,” he’d said firmly, “I don’t share you.” It was the distinctly possessive look in James’ hazel eyes that had lulled Sirius into submission. James had eyes that could darken so quickly, within the flash of a second. Those eyes had always intimidated Sirius. There was always that same look in James’ eyes as he thrust into Sirius and they moved sharply against one another in the silent early hours of the morning. Sirius was used to that dark-eyed stare, the “listen to me, look at me, love me” look. The look could still make him fall to pieces within seconds.

Surely James knew as much.

They’d assembled awkwardly, nothing intended or planned. And yet everything came together as if it had been. The scene was dark, lights low on the red and gold bed curtains and slick, golden bodies moving in tandem, yet slightly off, rhythms in what must have been moonlight.

James looked beautiful and wanton, thrusting ruthlessly into Sirius’ brother, all the while stealing glances at Sirius. His lips were flushed with red as his gaze alternated between the canvas of skin that was Regulus, and the perfect, aristocratic features of Sirius’ face. They were so similar that Sirius wondered if James could tell the difference, if Remus had been able to tell the difference all those times when Sirius had stumbled upon them in the library, pressed against one of the shelves, clearly having become distracted from studying.

How smug his brother was, lips full, just like his own, eyelashes brushing his cheeks as the lids fluttered closed in some vague perversion of an angel.

He had that look on his face now, just when he moved to slip his tongue up around the head of Remus’ cock. His brother held his gaze for a second. Twin pairs of eyes melding into each other through the space that divided them.

And Sirius’ vision grew hazy.

Sente
(Peter)

He listened, hearing sharp breaths and moans that surrounded him, cocooned him in sound. He couldn’t tell who was whispering his name, or if that was merely in his mind. He’d always been observant, more observant than anyone gave him credit for.

James breathed slow and unlabored, like he was used to this; Peter knew he was. Peter had heard James and Sirius together sometimes, on nights when he couldn’t sleep. He’d never said anything. Peter had never been the sort to speak up.

His own voice sounded caged in bars of teeth and lips as though he was afraid to moan, worried that he would say the wrong name, reveal something he shouldn’t.

Remus breathed in soft, hitching gasps; nervous breaths that belied his calm brown eyes. Peter listened, tensing his muscles as he matched the rhythm of his hand with that of his shallow panting, his – or perhaps it was Remus’. Their air had always been indistinguishable, or Peter liked to think as much.

Regulus hardly breathed at all. Sandwiched between Remus’ mouth and James’ body, the younger Black had to fight between inhale and exhale, and managed only a few loose breaths through his nose. It sounded like sand, funneling swiftly downward, running out as grains clicked together in almost inaudible, frenetic movement.

“Please…” The sound was muffled around the length of Remus’ cock, but the plea was still clear, identifiable, a note in that word Peter knew far too well, one he’d used himself far too often. Regulus gasped for forbidden air, coughing around Remus in a way that made them both tremble.

Peter was silent, unable to respond because it was not his place to say anything. He had never been a boy of many words, and whatever he did say was usually stupid, and quickly disregarded. He knew Remus wouldn’t respond either, because Remus was too proper to lend any words to this situation. He always had been.

Peter never stopped to think that perhaps no words were needed.

Peter didn’t know of the times Regulus whispered ’Remus’ against the shell of the werewolf’s ear, the voice so similar to Sirius’ that if Remus closed his eyes, he could swear it was someone else there with him instead.

Remus looked up and their eyes met, for just a second. Peter could see words form over those lips, words that he could hear though they were never actually voiced. The sound slid across the silence.

And Peter held his breath.

Odora
(Remus)

He inhaled, breathing in deeply through his nose as the world spun around him in a dizzy blur of musk and dank air.

The lips against his neck were nuanced with aromas of sweet and bitter. Remus could smell dinner and mint and Quidditch as James leaned close. It wasn’t a particularly dignified scent, but then, they weren’t in a particularly dignified setting.

Peter smelled like fear and anticipation and potential not yet reached.

Remus could always recognize the smell of Regulus, pureblood mixed with grey eyes mixed with the thin line of his mouth. Remus wondered if anyone knew that the aroma of Sirius’ brother was like a pedigree; that it clung to his very life fabric, mapping out his history, his destiny. Remus wondered if the Slytherins could smell him on their housemate when he returned from one of their meetings in the library. Remus knew his own friends couldn’t tell. They hadn’t figured out until just tonight, after all. He figured it was probably because, even in animal form, the trace was unrecognizable. Regulus smelled too much like Sirius.

And now he smelled like nothing. He was being pounded into with harsh vigor by an unforgiving James. Remus knew it wasn’t James who was fucking Regulus though. And whatever pleasure he felt from the smooth curve of Regulus’ lips was not enough. Any pleasure was lost when Remus thought of Sirius’ glare as he\'d suggested this, planned out the whole thing as a way to humiliate his brother and hurt Remus the only way he knew how. Remus wondered why; he’d never thought Sirius to be one to care much about other people’s affairs.

They all smelled foul now, like dirt and emptiness and betrayal.

They all smelled of sex and lust and breath that was hot, used and wasted.

It was a mingling of hurt and need and Remus just wanted to escape it. All of it. Had he not been so foolish as to get caught with Regulus in the Gryffindor dormitory, none of this would have happened. But oh, James would have none of his excuses. And so here they were, sweaty palms moving over flesh and lips, cocks sliding in and out in expert patterns that left a stain of sex against Remus’ nostrils. It would linger; he was certain.

Remus inhaled again, thinking this time that he might choke and drown on that scent.

Assaggia
(James)

He was possessive of those lips. He looked at Sirius running his wicked pink tongue over their chapped surface as he stroked himself, as he wanked while looking right at James’ limber frame and taut muscle and cock sliding easily in and out of his brother. He watched that tongue and remembered what it tasted like. Sirius’ mouth was dark; his tongue like a knife and tinged with copper even before it had been bitten.

When James kissed – Remus, Peter, Regulus – their lips were chapped, tasting like sleep and stress and boys being boys and somehow not, at the same time.

James’ slid his tongue over the back of Regulus’ skin, Peter’s breaths coming hot against his open mouth. That boy was always too close. He kissed Regulus’ skin desperately, trying to absorb that taste, the glistening, pure, untouched taste of Sirius’ brother. But Peter was there, reaching, and touching, and he was always so close.

Peter’s breath tasted like the darkness in the Potions classroom, like Severus Snape’s yellowing teeth. Or no, not exactly that; Peter’s mouth tasted like the fear that James recognized was shared by Snape, by the heartbroken Hufflepuff girl whose name James had long since forgotten.

Maybe then, it wasn’t really fear at all.

James’ throat was dry, filled with the slightly sour, lingering taste of Sirius’ come. He liked it that way, wondered if others could smell it on his breath. Wondered if Sirius could, when they kissed, could taste it and know, remember, that James had just swallowed a part of him, had claimed it for himself.

And Remus, Remus with wolf sense ingrained in his mind, could surely tell. When they kissed now, it was with a smug curl of James’ lips. Triumph. He didn’t know that whatever he claimed in flesh did not make Sirius any more his, though. Sirius, whose eyes were devilish and wicked as they traced patterns across his brother’s back, over the arch of Remus’ hips as they rose off of the bed, fucking Regulus’ mouth. Sirius, whose eyes were sometimes not on James at all.

James thrust hard and deep into the younger Black, Peter’s breath hitching at the motion, as if his thoughts were lingering vicariously somewhere between James’ stomach and cock.

There was a kiss, flushed lips pressed hard against his own.

James forgot which mouth was pressed over his, because it didn’t really matter. His tongue was still clinging to the one person who wasn’t within reach.

All he could taste was Sirius, Sirius, Sirius.

Tocca
(Regulus)

He felt like he was burning. With each thrust behind him, each harsh constriction of Remus’ lips, each strangling touch of imperfect, fumbling fingers, Regulus felt licks of fire; cruel, unwanted, scorching fire pricking at his skin.

He shouldn’t….shouldn’t have come back this time. They were going to get caught eventually, but it shouldn’t have been tonight. Why? Because tonight was now. They could get caught any time in the future but now, right now, they should have been safe.

Remus had reassured him with smooth whisper-touches.

And then with the click of the light, they were exposed and Sirius had been there, looking right at him, pushing through him with an invisible hand of confusion and jealousy.

But also desire.

Like flying, diving, spinning, they’d come to this. Whatever this was now. And Regulus couldn’t move, could hardly breathe, could only feel. He could feel James, moving like he would have inside of Sirius. But Regulus wasn’t Sirius. He couldn’t take. this. much.

And Remus, closing his eyes – Regulus wondered if it were to hide tears or hide guilt, as he threaded fingers through Regulus’ hair. Those thumbs were calloused and the palms hard and blistered (Regulus never asked why).

Remus moaned low in his mouth, a gurgle, really, and it made Regulus shake and tremble and hurt somehow because he wondered if it was meant for him, wondered how many times the suction of Remus’ smooth, reader’s lips had been meant for another.

Peter slid his hands over Regulus’ body like he was finger-painting, inexpert touches and scrapes of nails. He was gasping against Regulus’ ear, James’ neck, panting into the darkness as he grinded himself against James, against his hand, against Regulus’ thigh.

But what Regulus felt the most was Sirius’ steady gaze, watching under the cover of shadow from the corner of his bed. Sirius had eyes like grey ice, burning marks of red down Regulus’ back – Regulus had looked in the mirror enough times to know that their eyes were the same, could burn the same.

Regulus longed to make Sirius hurt too.

He didn’t know that he’d already succeeded, that beneath the cruel and twisting mask, Sirius was not actually enjoying this.

Were any of them?

Regulus thought he might die from the heat of all these hands over him, cruel, relentless hands, unforgiving hands, deadly hands, desiring hands…

His own hands.

Fin.