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hp_rarefestTitle: Three days on a drunken sin
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nathalieweasley
Prompt: "I. I was the first person to teach you that love was not always a white light to a ship lost at sea.
II. On my worst days, the sky was a festering wound that wouldn’t heal. I didn’t want to be that to you.
III. On my worst days, you were the only word I could say without clenching my fists.
IV. I really did love you, I just couldn’t claw my way out of the ground to do it properly.
V. None of this was your fault.
VI. I’m sorry I was your lighthouse. I’m sorry you couldn’t see the wall of rocks on my shore."
-author unknown
Pairing(s): Regulus Black/Bartemius Crouch, Jr.
Word Count/Art Medium: 1576
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer:Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Much thanks to the mods for holding the fest and dealing with my multiple extensions, to my lovely beta A for her fantastic help (as always), and to my girlfriend E for her help and support. Title comes from Work Song by Hozier. Section titles are from the quote in the prompt, and one line of dialogue comes from Goblet of Fire.
Summary: I have chatted with him once or twice before, discussing the snippets of news from Death Eaters that worked their way into the castle. I had found him both intelligent and admirable, but never had gotten a chance to enjoy the physicality matching the beauty within.
I. I was the first person to teach you that love was not always a white light to a ship lost at sea.
I am sitting down to wait after reviewing my order with the saleswitch when I see him. He is standing on the dais getting fitted for some sort of dress robe. I have chatted with him once or twice before, discussing the snippets of news from Death Eaters that worked their way into the castle. I had found him both intelligent and admirable, but never had gotten a chance to enjoy the physicality matching the beauty within. The off-black selection he wears is elegant and well-suited, highlighting his deep black hair and pale skin. His chin is raised, and he keeps his body still and poised. I sit back in my chair and cross one leg over the other. I had thought that picking up a robe for Father’s gala was going to be a chore, but the show in front of me indicates otherwise. I lick my lips. He must be watching me: a faint pink tinge appears on his cheeks. His posture never alters, and my brain conjures an image of him trying to stay calm as I swallow him down. I smirk at him, and the pink grows deeper.
His fitting doesn’t take much longer. By the time the saleswitch approaches me with a trussed-up parcel full of vicuña wool and full grain leather, he is stepping down from the dais. I stand there a moment, watching. His eyes belie the innocence of his blush as he looks directly at me; his eyes stay on mine as he whisks the robe from his shoulders. His skin is without blemish, smooth and lovely. My eyes sweep over his form, down his chest, down his arms – to a forearm bearing the Dark Mark. So young! And yet he already bears Voldemort’s Mark! I meet his eyes again, hoping he can see my utmost respect.
I walk toward him slowly, parcel still dangling from my arm. I lift his own informal robe from where it hangs on a nearby hook and place it on his shoulders. Then I offer my arm.
“Shall we?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
I shudder as his eyes burn into mine. He calls out for the saleswitch to send the bill and finished garment to Grimmauld Place, and then we head out of the shop.
In the alley next to the shop, I wrap my arms around Regulus Black and Apparate him to my bedroom.
II. On my worst days, the sky was a festering wound that wouldn’t heal. I didn’t want to be that to you.
Brilliant. I’ve found something that will piss off my Father more than our weekly arguments on my support of Voldemort’s ideology. I prop my feet up on the table, cross my hands behind my head. Father’s face contorts, and I don’t expend any effort to prevent the grin from erupting on my face.
“I don’t quite see the issue, Father. It’s not as if I don’t have plans to marry and impregnate a pure-blood woman in due course.
Father’s face is disgusted. “You may not care about how society views your ‘relationship’–“
I’m on my feet in an instant.
“Don’t for one second pretend you care about society and their perception. Your continued efforts toward the destruction of our world and association with Mudbloods and their sympathizers disqualifies you from judgment of my relationships! As if you had any sense of integrity and loyalty to your loved ones.”
I don’t bother waiting for a response. I’m out the door and Apparating to Reggie’s before my father can begin to spout any nonsense.
The house-elf summons Reggie the moment he opens the door to me. And then there is Reggie, face pinched with concern, rushing down the stairwell to do nothing more than pull me into his arms and hold me as I rock back and forth.
“I love you I love you I love you.”
Murmurs of ‘I know’ and ‘I love you’ drift to my ears. Sometimes a lighthouse needs the support of the ships at sea.
III. On my worst days, you were the only word I could say without clenching my fists.
I don’t even remember what I was angry about. All I know is that Reggie looks perfectly debauched, lips puffy and red from my kisses, eyes half-lidded, his fingers grasping at my bedclothes as I run my own over his nipples. I want to have a bowl of cherries beside me. I want to take a cherry and crush it against his lips, watch the sweet red juice drip down his chin. I place my fingers on his lips, shove them into his mouth. He sucks desperately at my fingers and arches up, his pale, lithe body catching the moonlight as he gasps against my fingers. He is beautiful.
I kiss his skin. I start at his neck, sucking at the soft skin below his ears, his breathy moans heated and promising. I move lower, flicking my tongue rapidly over his nipples until he cries out, kissing reverently at his Mark, sucking at the pale skin of his chest, his stomach, his thighs. I slip him into my mouth, drinking up his taste, savouring the feel of him under my tongue. I run my hands over the path my tongue made as he writhes under me, moans becoming louder and less constrained. I slide my fingers into him, and the gasping filling the air sets me alight. I take my time loosening him, preparing him for myself. I can’t take my eyes off my fingers as they move in and out of his body; the fact that I am here, in his bed, possessing him is staggering and powerful. I finally slide into him, claiming him, my mouth sealing over his as a reverse echo of our lower bodies, and I shatter apart as his tightness, his heat, his love envelops me.
IV. I really did love you, I just couldn’t claw my way out of the ground to do it properly.
I am fire. I am boiling, burning up, throat so full of anger and rage that I barely able to whisper the Cruciatus. Frank Longbottom screams and I scream and I can hear Bella and Rodolphus and Rabastan scream around me. I think of Reggie drowning, torn apart by undead hands, and the fire within me builds. I will bring change for him. I will bring Voldemort back to power, bring purity and tradition and respect back as the foremost ideals of our world. I close my eyes and know nothing else.
V. None of this was your fault.
I'm in a box in a box in a box and I'm happy because that means that no one else is around me. Reggie isn't around me. He can't see me getting like this. He can't be attacked he can't be hurt and he's safe. He's safe somewhere else. He’s dead but that’s good because he’s safe and not here. Because in here it's not safe in here where it's just me and the darkness and the cold. But the cold is sometimes good, sometimes an escape. Because the darkness is so dark and I just can't. I'm glad Reggie isn't here. I'm glad he's escaped. I'm glad that he's better than me.
I think I cry. I think I hurt. I don't know what is happening anymore. There's no time, there's just my box and the dark and my mind is being torn apart. And I'm safe here though. I’m ok because the darkness and the cold and the box exist. Because in here I can't hurt Reggie. And here I cause no harm. And here I can actually be something for him. When you put me away, when you separate me from the ones I love, I'm actually good. Something about me is actually good.
I am evil. The dark reaches out to me, and my mind wraps around this fact. I am evil and I am bad and I deserve this. I curl into a ball and I scratch at the walls of the box and I scream. The box will keep the rest of the world safe. The box will keep Reggie safe.
VI. I’m sorry I was your lighthouse. I’m sorry you couldn’t see the wall of rocks on my shore.
Leaving Azkaban is like opening your eyes after a nightmare. A flash of light and happiness and reality that is doused the second I am brought forward in the courtroom.
His blood runs through my veins, yet he doesn’t feel the connection, doesn’t understand, will act only according to his ‘principles’. My father, the bloody Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, stands at his podium, his power and position fuelled by those of purest blood, those sitting at his feet, and he dares – he DARES – to turn a fight for purity and tradition into a heinous crime worthy of Azkaban.
I scream, I plead, words pouring from my mouth, trying to build a bridge between father and son, blood and blood. And then he cuts our link.
“You are no son of mine! I have no son!”
I beg more, I think. I am lost now, severed from my father, from my blood. How can someone so powerful be so weak?
The guards drag me away.
Author/Artist:
nathalieweasleyPrompt: "I. I was the first person to teach you that love was not always a white light to a ship lost at sea.
II. On my worst days, the sky was a festering wound that wouldn’t heal. I didn’t want to be that to you.
III. On my worst days, you were the only word I could say without clenching my fists.
IV. I really did love you, I just couldn’t claw my way out of the ground to do it properly.
V. None of this was your fault.
VI. I’m sorry I was your lighthouse. I’m sorry you couldn’t see the wall of rocks on my shore."
-author unknown
Pairing(s): Regulus Black/Bartemius Crouch, Jr.
Word Count/Art Medium: 1576
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer:Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Much thanks to the mods for holding the fest and dealing with my multiple extensions, to my lovely beta A for her fantastic help (as always), and to my girlfriend E for her help and support. Title comes from Work Song by Hozier. Section titles are from the quote in the prompt, and one line of dialogue comes from Goblet of Fire.
Summary: I have chatted with him once or twice before, discussing the snippets of news from Death Eaters that worked their way into the castle. I had found him both intelligent and admirable, but never had gotten a chance to enjoy the physicality matching the beauty within.
I. I was the first person to teach you that love was not always a white light to a ship lost at sea.
I am sitting down to wait after reviewing my order with the saleswitch when I see him. He is standing on the dais getting fitted for some sort of dress robe. I have chatted with him once or twice before, discussing the snippets of news from Death Eaters that worked their way into the castle. I had found him both intelligent and admirable, but never had gotten a chance to enjoy the physicality matching the beauty within. The off-black selection he wears is elegant and well-suited, highlighting his deep black hair and pale skin. His chin is raised, and he keeps his body still and poised. I sit back in my chair and cross one leg over the other. I had thought that picking up a robe for Father’s gala was going to be a chore, but the show in front of me indicates otherwise. I lick my lips. He must be watching me: a faint pink tinge appears on his cheeks. His posture never alters, and my brain conjures an image of him trying to stay calm as I swallow him down. I smirk at him, and the pink grows deeper.
His fitting doesn’t take much longer. By the time the saleswitch approaches me with a trussed-up parcel full of vicuña wool and full grain leather, he is stepping down from the dais. I stand there a moment, watching. His eyes belie the innocence of his blush as he looks directly at me; his eyes stay on mine as he whisks the robe from his shoulders. His skin is without blemish, smooth and lovely. My eyes sweep over his form, down his chest, down his arms – to a forearm bearing the Dark Mark. So young! And yet he already bears Voldemort’s Mark! I meet his eyes again, hoping he can see my utmost respect.
I walk toward him slowly, parcel still dangling from my arm. I lift his own informal robe from where it hangs on a nearby hook and place it on his shoulders. Then I offer my arm.
“Shall we?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
I shudder as his eyes burn into mine. He calls out for the saleswitch to send the bill and finished garment to Grimmauld Place, and then we head out of the shop.
In the alley next to the shop, I wrap my arms around Regulus Black and Apparate him to my bedroom.
II. On my worst days, the sky was a festering wound that wouldn’t heal. I didn’t want to be that to you.
Brilliant. I’ve found something that will piss off my Father more than our weekly arguments on my support of Voldemort’s ideology. I prop my feet up on the table, cross my hands behind my head. Father’s face contorts, and I don’t expend any effort to prevent the grin from erupting on my face.
“I don’t quite see the issue, Father. It’s not as if I don’t have plans to marry and impregnate a pure-blood woman in due course.
Father’s face is disgusted. “You may not care about how society views your ‘relationship’–“
I’m on my feet in an instant.
“Don’t for one second pretend you care about society and their perception. Your continued efforts toward the destruction of our world and association with Mudbloods and their sympathizers disqualifies you from judgment of my relationships! As if you had any sense of integrity and loyalty to your loved ones.”
I don’t bother waiting for a response. I’m out the door and Apparating to Reggie’s before my father can begin to spout any nonsense.
The house-elf summons Reggie the moment he opens the door to me. And then there is Reggie, face pinched with concern, rushing down the stairwell to do nothing more than pull me into his arms and hold me as I rock back and forth.
“I love you I love you I love you.”
Murmurs of ‘I know’ and ‘I love you’ drift to my ears. Sometimes a lighthouse needs the support of the ships at sea.
III. On my worst days, you were the only word I could say without clenching my fists.
I don’t even remember what I was angry about. All I know is that Reggie looks perfectly debauched, lips puffy and red from my kisses, eyes half-lidded, his fingers grasping at my bedclothes as I run my own over his nipples. I want to have a bowl of cherries beside me. I want to take a cherry and crush it against his lips, watch the sweet red juice drip down his chin. I place my fingers on his lips, shove them into his mouth. He sucks desperately at my fingers and arches up, his pale, lithe body catching the moonlight as he gasps against my fingers. He is beautiful.
I kiss his skin. I start at his neck, sucking at the soft skin below his ears, his breathy moans heated and promising. I move lower, flicking my tongue rapidly over his nipples until he cries out, kissing reverently at his Mark, sucking at the pale skin of his chest, his stomach, his thighs. I slip him into my mouth, drinking up his taste, savouring the feel of him under my tongue. I run my hands over the path my tongue made as he writhes under me, moans becoming louder and less constrained. I slide my fingers into him, and the gasping filling the air sets me alight. I take my time loosening him, preparing him for myself. I can’t take my eyes off my fingers as they move in and out of his body; the fact that I am here, in his bed, possessing him is staggering and powerful. I finally slide into him, claiming him, my mouth sealing over his as a reverse echo of our lower bodies, and I shatter apart as his tightness, his heat, his love envelops me.
IV. I really did love you, I just couldn’t claw my way out of the ground to do it properly.
I am fire. I am boiling, burning up, throat so full of anger and rage that I barely able to whisper the Cruciatus. Frank Longbottom screams and I scream and I can hear Bella and Rodolphus and Rabastan scream around me. I think of Reggie drowning, torn apart by undead hands, and the fire within me builds. I will bring change for him. I will bring Voldemort back to power, bring purity and tradition and respect back as the foremost ideals of our world. I close my eyes and know nothing else.
V. None of this was your fault.
I'm in a box in a box in a box and I'm happy because that means that no one else is around me. Reggie isn't around me. He can't see me getting like this. He can't be attacked he can't be hurt and he's safe. He's safe somewhere else. He’s dead but that’s good because he’s safe and not here. Because in here it's not safe in here where it's just me and the darkness and the cold. But the cold is sometimes good, sometimes an escape. Because the darkness is so dark and I just can't. I'm glad Reggie isn't here. I'm glad he's escaped. I'm glad that he's better than me.
I think I cry. I think I hurt. I don't know what is happening anymore. There's no time, there's just my box and the dark and my mind is being torn apart. And I'm safe here though. I’m ok because the darkness and the cold and the box exist. Because in here I can't hurt Reggie. And here I cause no harm. And here I can actually be something for him. When you put me away, when you separate me from the ones I love, I'm actually good. Something about me is actually good.
I am evil. The dark reaches out to me, and my mind wraps around this fact. I am evil and I am bad and I deserve this. I curl into a ball and I scratch at the walls of the box and I scream. The box will keep the rest of the world safe. The box will keep Reggie safe.
VI. I’m sorry I was your lighthouse. I’m sorry you couldn’t see the wall of rocks on my shore.
Leaving Azkaban is like opening your eyes after a nightmare. A flash of light and happiness and reality that is doused the second I am brought forward in the courtroom.
His blood runs through my veins, yet he doesn’t feel the connection, doesn’t understand, will act only according to his ‘principles’. My father, the bloody Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, stands at his podium, his power and position fuelled by those of purest blood, those sitting at his feet, and he dares – he DARES – to turn a fight for purity and tradition into a heinous crime worthy of Azkaban.
I scream, I plead, words pouring from my mouth, trying to build a bridge between father and son, blood and blood. And then he cuts our link.
“You are no son of mine! I have no son!”
I beg more, I think. I am lost now, severed from my father, from my blood. How can someone so powerful be so weak?
The guards drag me away.
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Date: 2016-06-23 12:43 pm (UTC)