(Fic: "Possession", &Harry Potter AU))
I love how I keep posting, even though I doubt anyone reads anymore. For posterity, perhaps?
This is, as always, Hayley's fault. It just is.
Nearly a song-fic to "Possession", Sarah McLachlin.
Harry Potter AU: in which one of the greatest Aurors of his generation deserts the cause.
Pairing: Frank Longbottom/Rabastan Lestrange. (who else?)
Rated: for implied gay sex and infidelity.
(p.o.s.s.e.s.s.i.o.n.
[[p.o.s.s.e.s.s.i.o.n]]
(&one, at sixteen.)
They’re laughing together as they stumble out of the bookshop in Hogsmeade. The wind blows up a gust of snow over the pair of them and Bastan tugs at Frank’s elbow, leading him a few steps over, where the corner of the building could provide a bit of shelter from the winter weather.
Frank’s talking about something; his ungloved hands sketch patterns of emphasis in the air and it’s all that Bastan can do to listen to the words his friend is saying because his attention is entirely focused on Frank’s hands, his long graceful fingers reddening in the cold.
“Frank,” he interrupts softly, “Frank, aren’t you freezing?”
The other boy smiles shyly. “My hands, a little bit,” he admits. “I lost my gloves somewhere, but I’m used to it, I suppose.”
Bastan’s heart is fluttering; his body filled with adrenaline as he reaches out to capture Frank’s hands in his own. “Here,” he murmurs, stepping closer. He draws Frank’s hands in, settles them in the warm place between the wool of his scarf and the skin of his neck and he pretends it’s only from the cold that he’s shivering. He wonders if Frank notices the way his heart is beating, wonders if Frank notices anything unusual, wonders.
Frank murmurs something nonsensical, abruptly closing the remaining distance between them. “Bastan,” he breathes, “Bastan,” and he’s tilting his head to press a kiss clumsily to Bastan’s lips.
A moment years in coming, he thinks, and he’s reaching out to wrap his arms around Frank, bring him closer, kiss him again and again.
Snow swirls on the wind; neither boy notices the cold.
(&two, at twenty five.)
Frank Longbottom twitches the edges of his cloak closer around him and tries to think about how life could get worse; the matter of another miscarriage, of the trap of a marriage with a woman he doesn’t love, of so many graves in so many cemeteries and so many dead in a war that should have been long since over.
And then it’s being given the assignment he’d have refused if he dared: tracking down the one person that meant more to him than any other, the man he’d loved if only in dreams for the past ten years or perhaps forever. Scraps of parchment torn out of incriminating letters are heavy in his pocket - or maybe it’s ten years worth of lusting and dreaming that are heavy in his heart; it’s so hard to tell the difference.
He wouldn’t have made it this far if he wasn’t at least a little bit good at his job; anonymous owls are never as anonymous as they’re intended to be and he’s managed to track the last one back to this place: a rundown hotel in the middle of nowhere in the middle of a blizzard, and in the glow of a flickering streetlamp, a familiar silhouette - his prey, his quarry, his love. Waiting.
The snow crunches under his boots as he approaches.
Bastan lifts his head, manages a small self-depreciating halfsmile. “You’ve come to arrest me, then?” His voice is small and hoarse.
Snowflakes cling to Frank’s eyelashes; another heaviness to go along with that of tears so long unshed, of a shameful stirring of something caught between love and lust and anticipation. “How long have you been waiting out here?”
“Long enough.” Bastan shrugs and there’s snow collecting on his shoulders and his hands are trembling in the cold.
“You’re freezing,” Frank murmurs, “Here,” and it’s a reversal of so many years ago as he captures Bastan’s hands in his own, brings them in, under his cloak, against the beat of the pulse at his throat. And he sighs and he says “Do you want to know the truth, Bastan? They sent me to arrest you but I’m here to take you away and make you mine.” He feels the other man’s fingers twitch and he sighs, shakily. “I mean there must be somewhere we could hide, only together, only,” and he’s sighing again, against Bastan’s lips and it feels like his life is either ending or beginning.
“Frank,” Bastan almost growls, catching Frank up in his arms. Two shuffling steps through the snow, and Frank can feel the coldness of the brick wall behind him, wetness of snow beginning to seep through the wool of his cloak. It’s almost like he’s floating, he thinks, caught between sharp kisses and the way the snowflakes keep swirling round and round and round.
There’s something safe about this rough embrace, and he whimpers and he presses his body against Bastan and he returns those kisses nearly suffocating in love and lust and desperation.
“Take you away,” Bastan echoes Frank’s words from earlier, “make you mine?”
He realizes it’s a question, and he nods. “Forever,” he says, “Forever, if only,” and he’s silenced by another kiss, sharp and desperate before Bastan manages to draw back.
“Come, then,” and he’s taking Frank by the right hand, leading him towards the metal stairway to the second floor of the hotel.
(It only takes a moment for Frank to fumble the ring off of his left hand, into the snowbank.)
The hotel room is dark and dingy and yet somehow beautiful; the window is uncurtained and doesn’t close properly and the snowflakes are still swirling their way into the room. It smells of wet wool and stale cigarette smoke and snow. Frank’s hands shake at the clasp of his cloak, but Bastan is there to help: divests him of his garments with a shower of stinging bruising kisses.
It’s frantic. The kisses are lingering and suffocating and Frank knows he’s clutching hard enough to leave behind bruises and scratches in his wake. Take me he pleads, over and over again and that too is sharp sudden frantic perfect. He comes sobbing and his lover gathers him close, kisses away all the tears.
(&3, at fifty.)
They’re curled together on the threadbare sofa in front of the fireplace, drowsing in the warmth, heads pressed close enough that each can breathe the other’s breath.
Frank is startled at the knock on the door, but Bastan has known they’ve spent the last twenty five years living on borrowed time. His arms go around Frank and he holds him even tighter as the Aurors kick in the door.
“Rabastan Lestrange, I’m here to inform you,” the woman begins, then her eyes go quite wide and she gasps. Her wand falls from suddenly limp fingers and she squeaks something incomprehensible.
“Mum? Everything all right?” The young man crowds into the doorway. He has the same crooked smile as Frank, the same almost green eyes, Bastan realizes. “We’re here to arrest you,” he says, all mock-confidence, as he brushes a wave of dark curly hair out of his eyes.
Frank goes quite pale, hides his head in against Bastan’s chest. “Alice,” he breathes “Alice.”
“It was only a matter of time,” murmurs Bastan, pressing a kiss to the top of Frank’s balding head. “I surrender,” he says, holding out bare hands, palms up, towards the Aurors.
This is, as always, Hayley's fault. It just is.
Nearly a song-fic to "Possession", Sarah McLachlin.
Harry Potter AU: in which one of the greatest Aurors of his generation deserts the cause.
Pairing: Frank Longbottom/Rabastan Lestrange. (who else?)
Rated: for implied gay sex and infidelity.
(p.o.s.s.e.s.s.i.o.n.
[[p.o.s.s.e.s.s.i.o.n]]
(&one, at sixteen.)
They’re laughing together as they stumble out of the bookshop in Hogsmeade. The wind blows up a gust of snow over the pair of them and Bastan tugs at Frank’s elbow, leading him a few steps over, where the corner of the building could provide a bit of shelter from the winter weather.
Frank’s talking about something; his ungloved hands sketch patterns of emphasis in the air and it’s all that Bastan can do to listen to the words his friend is saying because his attention is entirely focused on Frank’s hands, his long graceful fingers reddening in the cold.
“Frank,” he interrupts softly, “Frank, aren’t you freezing?”
The other boy smiles shyly. “My hands, a little bit,” he admits. “I lost my gloves somewhere, but I’m used to it, I suppose.”
Bastan’s heart is fluttering; his body filled with adrenaline as he reaches out to capture Frank’s hands in his own. “Here,” he murmurs, stepping closer. He draws Frank’s hands in, settles them in the warm place between the wool of his scarf and the skin of his neck and he pretends it’s only from the cold that he’s shivering. He wonders if Frank notices the way his heart is beating, wonders if Frank notices anything unusual, wonders.
Frank murmurs something nonsensical, abruptly closing the remaining distance between them. “Bastan,” he breathes, “Bastan,” and he’s tilting his head to press a kiss clumsily to Bastan’s lips.
A moment years in coming, he thinks, and he’s reaching out to wrap his arms around Frank, bring him closer, kiss him again and again.
Snow swirls on the wind; neither boy notices the cold.
(&two, at twenty five.)
Frank Longbottom twitches the edges of his cloak closer around him and tries to think about how life could get worse; the matter of another miscarriage, of the trap of a marriage with a woman he doesn’t love, of so many graves in so many cemeteries and so many dead in a war that should have been long since over.
And then it’s being given the assignment he’d have refused if he dared: tracking down the one person that meant more to him than any other, the man he’d loved if only in dreams for the past ten years or perhaps forever. Scraps of parchment torn out of incriminating letters are heavy in his pocket - or maybe it’s ten years worth of lusting and dreaming that are heavy in his heart; it’s so hard to tell the difference.
He wouldn’t have made it this far if he wasn’t at least a little bit good at his job; anonymous owls are never as anonymous as they’re intended to be and he’s managed to track the last one back to this place: a rundown hotel in the middle of nowhere in the middle of a blizzard, and in the glow of a flickering streetlamp, a familiar silhouette - his prey, his quarry, his love. Waiting.
The snow crunches under his boots as he approaches.
Bastan lifts his head, manages a small self-depreciating halfsmile. “You’ve come to arrest me, then?” His voice is small and hoarse.
Snowflakes cling to Frank’s eyelashes; another heaviness to go along with that of tears so long unshed, of a shameful stirring of something caught between love and lust and anticipation. “How long have you been waiting out here?”
“Long enough.” Bastan shrugs and there’s snow collecting on his shoulders and his hands are trembling in the cold.
“You’re freezing,” Frank murmurs, “Here,” and it’s a reversal of so many years ago as he captures Bastan’s hands in his own, brings them in, under his cloak, against the beat of the pulse at his throat. And he sighs and he says “Do you want to know the truth, Bastan? They sent me to arrest you but I’m here to take you away and make you mine.” He feels the other man’s fingers twitch and he sighs, shakily. “I mean there must be somewhere we could hide, only together, only,” and he’s sighing again, against Bastan’s lips and it feels like his life is either ending or beginning.
“Frank,” Bastan almost growls, catching Frank up in his arms. Two shuffling steps through the snow, and Frank can feel the coldness of the brick wall behind him, wetness of snow beginning to seep through the wool of his cloak. It’s almost like he’s floating, he thinks, caught between sharp kisses and the way the snowflakes keep swirling round and round and round.
There’s something safe about this rough embrace, and he whimpers and he presses his body against Bastan and he returns those kisses nearly suffocating in love and lust and desperation.
“Take you away,” Bastan echoes Frank’s words from earlier, “make you mine?”
He realizes it’s a question, and he nods. “Forever,” he says, “Forever, if only,” and he’s silenced by another kiss, sharp and desperate before Bastan manages to draw back.
“Come, then,” and he’s taking Frank by the right hand, leading him towards the metal stairway to the second floor of the hotel.
(It only takes a moment for Frank to fumble the ring off of his left hand, into the snowbank.)
The hotel room is dark and dingy and yet somehow beautiful; the window is uncurtained and doesn’t close properly and the snowflakes are still swirling their way into the room. It smells of wet wool and stale cigarette smoke and snow. Frank’s hands shake at the clasp of his cloak, but Bastan is there to help: divests him of his garments with a shower of stinging bruising kisses.
It’s frantic. The kisses are lingering and suffocating and Frank knows he’s clutching hard enough to leave behind bruises and scratches in his wake. Take me he pleads, over and over again and that too is sharp sudden frantic perfect. He comes sobbing and his lover gathers him close, kisses away all the tears.
(&3, at fifty.)
They’re curled together on the threadbare sofa in front of the fireplace, drowsing in the warmth, heads pressed close enough that each can breathe the other’s breath.
Frank is startled at the knock on the door, but Bastan has known they’ve spent the last twenty five years living on borrowed time. His arms go around Frank and he holds him even tighter as the Aurors kick in the door.
“Rabastan Lestrange, I’m here to inform you,” the woman begins, then her eyes go quite wide and she gasps. Her wand falls from suddenly limp fingers and she squeaks something incomprehensible.
“Mum? Everything all right?” The young man crowds into the doorway. He has the same crooked smile as Frank, the same almost green eyes, Bastan realizes. “We’re here to arrest you,” he says, all mock-confidence, as he brushes a wave of dark curly hair out of his eyes.
Frank goes quite pale, hides his head in against Bastan’s chest. “Alice,” he breathes “Alice.”
“It was only a matter of time,” murmurs Bastan, pressing a kiss to the top of Frank’s balding head. “I surrender,” he says, holding out bare hands, palms up, towards the Aurors.