Page 81 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
There are ways you can still care for him, she said. Little ways he can still be yours.
So Auden had St. Sebastian’s car serviced, and the render on the front of his mother’s house repaired. He refilled St. Sebastian’s drinks when they sat in the library, he told Saint to go to bed when it was time, he drove him to the library when he was at Thornchapel and picked him up when his shift ended. He bought Saint’s plane ticket to America and then savored his sullen protests for no other reason than it gave him an excuse to use that voice and then see St. Sebastian’s flushed response to it.
And sometimes, when he was very, very bad—when he felt like his bones would cut right through his flesh with wanting this man so much—he would do worse. He would make St. Sebastian get drinks for him, he would stretch out his legs on the sofa so that Saint would have no choice but to sit on the floor beneath him. He would make Saint wait for him when they needed to go someplace—five minutes, ten minutes, once even a full half an hour—and then he would finally show up, insouciant and drawling, cock throbbing at St. Sebastian's flashing eyes and angry pout. Because of course St. Sebastian waited for him anyway.
Of course he sat on the floor and fetched Auden his drinks.
Of course he had to pretend it didn’t make him hard too.
It’s a dangerous game to play, Auden knows that. He wants this to be forever—he needs this to be forever—and so he has to keep St. Sebastian safe from the worst of his needs. From the worst of both their needs. But surely these little nibbles and licks of dominance are okay? Surely what he’s about to do next won’t hurt anyone? Surely it will be a little relief valve for both of them, a way to blunt the teeth of their cravings for a little while?
It’s just an innocent little birthday gift, that’s all. Nothing like what they did in the gallery.
Auden deliberately, unhurriedly, steps to St. Sebastian’s side. And he just as deliberately, just as unhurriedly, lifts his bare foot and then rests it on St. Sebastian’s chest.
St. Sebastian goes totally still. Auden can’t even feel him breathe under his foot.
“I thought,” Auden says, “Proserpina might want a little help giving you your birthday present.”
This isn’t actually Poe’s present to Saint—that is back at her father’s house, a signed first edition of a fantasy novel he loves—nor is it actually his, but that’s apart from the point. The point is how St. Sebastian’s ribs judder and shake as he finally manages to drag in a breath. The point is the swelling ridge behind St. Sebastian’s zipper.
Poe herself crawls between Saint’s legs and perches there on her knees, a small smile on her lips. “I did want some help,” she says. “I thought I could make you come harder if Auden held you down while I sucked you.”
The noise St. Sebastian makes then—like death would be easier to endure. Now Auden is smiling too.
He presses the ball of his foot even harder against Saint’s chest. Not hard enough to bruise or even really to hurt, but hard enough that he can feel the firm resistance of his pectoral muscle. The bones underneath.
“We did agree,” Auden says, looking down at the boy trapped beneath his foot, “that you should get to pick where you come, because it is your birthday and all. You can of course make use of Poe’s mouth, but you could also make use of her cunt, isn’t that right, little bride? Why don’t you show him his options?”
Poe shows him. She spreads her knees apart and lifts the hem of her dress—a different dress than she wore to the service today. It’s a white sundress with little daisies printed on it that falls past her knees when she’s standing, the picture of summer sweetness, which makes it all the sluttier when she pulls the skirt up to her hips to reveal the naked pussy underneath. She’s groomed herself completely bare, and so there’s no hiding her soft lips, her clit, where she splits open to show a beckoning shadow, dark pink and dewy.
She also opens her mouth—wet tongue, plush lips, all of it waiting to be used—and Auden has a dizzy moment when he can’t believe this is real. That she is his, and his in the way he felt ashamed of needing for so long.
St. Sebastian lifts his head to stare at her, his chest seizing fast and urgent under Auden’s foot. “Fuck,” he groans, head falling back. “Both. Both please.”
Poe gives Auden a look, which Auden returns as smugly as possible. They’d taken bets earlier on what Saint would choose and Poe thought he’d only want a blowjob. Auden knew better. Poe’s body inspires desperation, it calls to gluttony; a person looks at her and needs to do everything, taste everything, feel everything. Of course, St. Sebastian would pick both.
“Start with your mouth,” Auden tells her. “Go slow.”
St. Sebastian’s eyes are dark mirrors reflecting back the sunset as Poe unbuckles him, unzips him, and finally exposes his erection. He rolls under Auden’s foot, hissing a little as Poe gives him a long, hot stripe with her tongue.
His eyes search Auden’s face, and he doesn’t have to ask the question out loud for Auden to know what it is.
Do brothers do this?
Auden nods at him.
Saint’s eyes flutter closed as Proserpina takes him into her mouth. The foot on his chest keeps him from arching, but his hands reach down for her, and Auden can’t have that. He kneels down, easy and fast, and pins St. Sebastian’s wandering hands up by his head.
He also rests a knee on Saint’s chest while he’s down there—not strictly necessary to keep him pinned at this point, but still fun.
Saint blinks up at him—trapped, flushed, beautiful. “You’re holding me down,” he says, a little dazedly.
“Does it feel good?” Auden asks.
“What do you think?” Saint mutters, but there’s no venom to it. His eyes dr
op to the front of Auden’s shorts. “Does it feel good for you?”
