FIC: "Scapegoat" for carrot / vikingcarrot
Recipient: carrot / vikingcarrot
Author/Artist: ???
Title: Scapegoat
Rating: R
Pairings: Igor Karkaroff/OMC
Word Count: ~1,200
Medium: Fic
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): *Non-con, violence, underage sexual contact, implications of incest.*.
Summary: When the Dark Mark starts creeping back up Karkaroff's arm, the future it threatens is no worse than the past it evokes.
There is no ice on the Black Lake to still the stiff and frigid creaking of the ship, and the corners of Igor's cabin speak to him in croaks and groans and muted footsteps. The water is like glass, a plane of glossy darkness beyond the grand curvature of the stern windows, but still everything rocks gently from side to side, displaced by the cargo of boys and girls restless to ignore their eight o'clock curfew (and by Krum, of course, pacing freely in the open air, excused from almost every rule). The January night will be long. Igor will pass it, as he so often does, by writing a very long letter to Petya.
Fredya is sitting on the long, fur-draped cot, doubled over and fiddling with the laces of his boots. It's been five minutes since he started making gestures at removing them, and Igor knows he's only stalling, savouring a few more minutes of warmth. The boy is always hanging back - from the cold, from confrontations, from violent or difficult spells. He's sixteen, though, and by now ought to be able to bare himself to adversity like a man. The way he flushes across his nose and draws his lips together into a reluctant thread reminds Igor powerfully of Petya's husband. Perhaps that's why Fredya has always been so captivating; Igor is never free of the spectre of his brother-in-law for very long.
They have a son, Petya and Julian. Igor has a nephew. But he's only three, and has the narrow face of a Karkaroff, and has a strength of blood that Julian does not, that Fredya can never aspire to.
"Hurry up," he mutters, dipping his quill into the well of chilly, viscous ink. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Fredya straighten, startled, and draw his thick robes in closer around his shoulders before slowly setting his fingers to the fastenings.
Igor knows the shape of the boy's shoulders, chest, waist, hips, thighs by heart. He brought him here to Hogwarts as a comfort; he needs something to take his mind off of Snape and Moody and the winding, flesh-coloured scar burning itself darker and darker into the sagging skin of his forearm. Fredya's pale, smooth chest, his retreating abdomen, his white thighs drifting in and out of shadow in the dancing light of the fireplace are a balm for Igor's speeding mind. The flames are silent, warm but harmless, a magical replacement for the real fire that would be disaster aboard their wooden vessel - one more luxury of the land that Igor's brought with him to this desperate, desolate place.
Soon Fredya is naked, just a skinny, pink figure that shivers mindlessly as it waits for its permission to slip underneath the blankets. His arms are wrapped around his lean chest and his bony knees are pressed almost defiantly together.
Igor coughs. His voice is dry, grating in his throat. "Put your hands down, you stupid boy." He glances over his shoulder then, because there's little he loves more than seeing Fredya cringe. The awkward apology flooding across his face is delicious, priceless; he loves to imagine that this child is Julian, that his brother-in-law is the one letting his arms fall heavily to his sides and leaving his delicate skin open to the elements and to Igor in a primitive but irrefutable gesture of submission and apology. Fredya's fingers worry at the furs hanging over the side of the bed, and he crosses his legs -
"No."
- And uncrosses them again, leaving himself vulnerable. That's a bit of Julian Igor's never seen; he wonders -
But he mustn't let his mind wander in that direction. He puts quill to parchment and fulfills his weekly duty.
My dear Petya, my darling sister -
He hopes that she is well, that her son thrives. He hopes the weather has favoured her. He hopes that she will follow the news, whatever small part of it may reach her, of the achievements of his school in this historical regeneration of the Triwizard Tournament. He hopes that he will see her someday soon, when his obligations are less pressing. He hopes that he will see her someday soon. He hopes that he will see her someday. He hopes that she is still his sweet, loving Petya.
And then he passes the letter through his candle. That fire is real; that fire chars the paper black around his words until both are merely ashes on his desk. That ritual complete, Igor stands and walks to the hearth of the glowing fire, where he strips without ceremony. Fredya isn't watching. Fredya's whole body is open to him, but his eyes are given over to some spot on the deck.
Igor doesn't care. He slips his hand into the boy's hair, twisting his fingers against his scalp to force his face up, wanting nothing more than to see those lips separate in pain or fear or maybe - maybe tonight - anticipation …
But instead they both see it at the same time, the grey tattoo almost fully formed that snakes further down toward Igor's wrist than it has in almost twenty years. Fredya gasps, confused and terrified, his wet lip curling in revulsion - he knows Igor's arms as well as his own, by now, and this is a new corruption. His open horror is so different from Julian's guarded, knowing glare, so much more innocent.
"You won't tell anyone," Igor says evenly - so different from the begging, the rasping sobs he lay at Julian's feet that night so long ago when his brother-in-law found him writhing in pain in the bath, his guilt writ black as coal on his arm. You won't tell her. You can't tell her. Please.
Fredya is too frightened to reply, so Igor lets go of his hair, draws his arm away, and cracks the back of his hand against the boy's broad and witless face. He means to remain calm, but the slow and steady return of his life's ruin has been weighing on his mind for months, now. "I said, you won't tell anyone."
"No - no, I won't. Of course, I won't tell anyone." He probably doesn't even know what it means.
Fredya cries when Igor fucks him, as always, stifled whimpers that intensify with every driven thrust and never cease, even after Igor finally presses his face into the pillow and threatens to suffocate him. He wants to imagine that this prone, tame body quivering under his hand and laying itself open to him at no more than a command is Julian; he wants to tear down the man, the wall, that stands between himself and his sister; he wants to take back the promises he made and chew them up and spit them in Julian's face. He is a Death Eater, yes, and once he believed that Petya was better off never seeing him again, but now - now, his Master has returned. Hasn't he? What else can that Mark mean? Triumph, perhaps, is near. It's time to seek her out again, time to push her husband aside.
He could even do without Fredya, if he had his darling sister. He could even do without his precious scapegoat. For tonight, though, the boy will absorb his sin again, and Igor rides him mercilessly, trying and failing to silence those wailing cries that remind him so much of his own voice echoing through his empty years.
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Author/Artist: ???
Title: Scapegoat
Rating: R
Pairings: Igor Karkaroff/OMC
Word Count: ~1,200
Medium: Fic
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): *Non-con, violence, underage sexual contact, implications of incest.*.
Summary: When the Dark Mark starts creeping back up Karkaroff's arm, the future it threatens is no worse than the past it evokes.
There is no ice on the Black Lake to still the stiff and frigid creaking of the ship, and the corners of Igor's cabin speak to him in croaks and groans and muted footsteps. The water is like glass, a plane of glossy darkness beyond the grand curvature of the stern windows, but still everything rocks gently from side to side, displaced by the cargo of boys and girls restless to ignore their eight o'clock curfew (and by Krum, of course, pacing freely in the open air, excused from almost every rule). The January night will be long. Igor will pass it, as he so often does, by writing a very long letter to Petya.
Fredya is sitting on the long, fur-draped cot, doubled over and fiddling with the laces of his boots. It's been five minutes since he started making gestures at removing them, and Igor knows he's only stalling, savouring a few more minutes of warmth. The boy is always hanging back - from the cold, from confrontations, from violent or difficult spells. He's sixteen, though, and by now ought to be able to bare himself to adversity like a man. The way he flushes across his nose and draws his lips together into a reluctant thread reminds Igor powerfully of Petya's husband. Perhaps that's why Fredya has always been so captivating; Igor is never free of the spectre of his brother-in-law for very long.
They have a son, Petya and Julian. Igor has a nephew. But he's only three, and has the narrow face of a Karkaroff, and has a strength of blood that Julian does not, that Fredya can never aspire to.
"Hurry up," he mutters, dipping his quill into the well of chilly, viscous ink. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Fredya straighten, startled, and draw his thick robes in closer around his shoulders before slowly setting his fingers to the fastenings.
Igor knows the shape of the boy's shoulders, chest, waist, hips, thighs by heart. He brought him here to Hogwarts as a comfort; he needs something to take his mind off of Snape and Moody and the winding, flesh-coloured scar burning itself darker and darker into the sagging skin of his forearm. Fredya's pale, smooth chest, his retreating abdomen, his white thighs drifting in and out of shadow in the dancing light of the fireplace are a balm for Igor's speeding mind. The flames are silent, warm but harmless, a magical replacement for the real fire that would be disaster aboard their wooden vessel - one more luxury of the land that Igor's brought with him to this desperate, desolate place.
Soon Fredya is naked, just a skinny, pink figure that shivers mindlessly as it waits for its permission to slip underneath the blankets. His arms are wrapped around his lean chest and his bony knees are pressed almost defiantly together.
Igor coughs. His voice is dry, grating in his throat. "Put your hands down, you stupid boy." He glances over his shoulder then, because there's little he loves more than seeing Fredya cringe. The awkward apology flooding across his face is delicious, priceless; he loves to imagine that this child is Julian, that his brother-in-law is the one letting his arms fall heavily to his sides and leaving his delicate skin open to the elements and to Igor in a primitive but irrefutable gesture of submission and apology. Fredya's fingers worry at the furs hanging over the side of the bed, and he crosses his legs -
"No."
- And uncrosses them again, leaving himself vulnerable. That's a bit of Julian Igor's never seen; he wonders -
But he mustn't let his mind wander in that direction. He puts quill to parchment and fulfills his weekly duty.
My dear Petya, my darling sister -
He hopes that she is well, that her son thrives. He hopes the weather has favoured her. He hopes that she will follow the news, whatever small part of it may reach her, of the achievements of his school in this historical regeneration of the Triwizard Tournament. He hopes that he will see her someday soon, when his obligations are less pressing. He hopes that he will see her someday soon. He hopes that he will see her someday. He hopes that she is still his sweet, loving Petya.
And then he passes the letter through his candle. That fire is real; that fire chars the paper black around his words until both are merely ashes on his desk. That ritual complete, Igor stands and walks to the hearth of the glowing fire, where he strips without ceremony. Fredya isn't watching. Fredya's whole body is open to him, but his eyes are given over to some spot on the deck.
Igor doesn't care. He slips his hand into the boy's hair, twisting his fingers against his scalp to force his face up, wanting nothing more than to see those lips separate in pain or fear or maybe - maybe tonight - anticipation …
But instead they both see it at the same time, the grey tattoo almost fully formed that snakes further down toward Igor's wrist than it has in almost twenty years. Fredya gasps, confused and terrified, his wet lip curling in revulsion - he knows Igor's arms as well as his own, by now, and this is a new corruption. His open horror is so different from Julian's guarded, knowing glare, so much more innocent.
"You won't tell anyone," Igor says evenly - so different from the begging, the rasping sobs he lay at Julian's feet that night so long ago when his brother-in-law found him writhing in pain in the bath, his guilt writ black as coal on his arm. You won't tell her. You can't tell her. Please.
Fredya is too frightened to reply, so Igor lets go of his hair, draws his arm away, and cracks the back of his hand against the boy's broad and witless face. He means to remain calm, but the slow and steady return of his life's ruin has been weighing on his mind for months, now. "I said, you won't tell anyone."
"No - no, I won't. Of course, I won't tell anyone." He probably doesn't even know what it means.
Fredya cries when Igor fucks him, as always, stifled whimpers that intensify with every driven thrust and never cease, even after Igor finally presses his face into the pillow and threatens to suffocate him. He wants to imagine that this prone, tame body quivering under his hand and laying itself open to him at no more than a command is Julian; he wants to tear down the man, the wall, that stands between himself and his sister; he wants to take back the promises he made and chew them up and spit them in Julian's face. He is a Death Eater, yes, and once he believed that Petya was better off never seeing him again, but now - now, his Master has returned. Hasn't he? What else can that Mark mean? Triumph, perhaps, is near. It's time to seek her out again, time to push her husband aside.
He could even do without Fredya, if he had his darling sister. He could even do without his precious scapegoat. For tonight, though, the boy will absorb his sin again, and Igor rides him mercilessly, trying and failing to silence those wailing cries that remind him so much of his own voice echoing through his empty years.
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