Fic: White Birds (Rabastan Lestrange)
Title: White Birds
Author: spessartine
Rating: NC-17
Character: Rabastan Lestrange
Prompt: the white birds - for 7spells. Table is here.
Warnings: Violence. Knifekink. Death. Torture. Dub con and implied non con.
A/N: I've rated this fic NC-17 for subject matter rather than particularly explicit sex, but heed the warnings.
I’m sorry, says the boy, and arches his back as Rabastan pushes in the knife. I’m sorry.
His thighs tremble against Rabastan’s, one hand gripping his shoulder, knot of tight fear and heat in Rabastan’s lap: his back arched and his whole body trembling and his skin sweetened with sweat; sheen of it on him like light shivered across pallor, across his shuddered pain and want.
Gasped breath hot against Rabastan’s neck, his hands tightening with each wave of pain around Rabastan’s cock, and between his legs, moving slowly, slowly, Rabastan slides the wet metal into him, the handle of the knife hot in his hand.
He sobs: once, quiet. Rabastan brushes his hair back from his forehead gently and rolls his hips, hot slide of his cock against shaking, salted palms. The knife moves. Sweat runs down his back, blood down his thighs. Rabastan gasps, and comes.
**
Money would have made his trial a mockery. Of course, by then the side of good had done away with trials. Men like him did not deserve them.
His first day they throw him in a cell with a dementor and don’t unlock the door for a week. It takes six of them to get him in there, and when the door shut his arm’s been broken in the struggle. One of them apologises through the slot in the grey metal door, and Rabastan laughs; says, throw me your fucking wand then, you little cunt, and let me fix it. Truth is he wouldn’t have been able to. Healing spells have always been beyond him.
He doesn’t look at the dementor in the corner until their footsteps have echoed out into silence. Then the beat of its waiting brewing in his blood. He turns and runs at it headlong.
By the time they let it out he’s almost come to relish the wet white slide of its fingers across his cheek; has slept fitful, fevered nights with his head in the slow-billowed folds of its ragged cloth shape.
**
Into the space of his cell the high calling of the white birds is a thread. Solid as a beam of light it spools across the filth-packed floor, stuttered in the white winter sunlight. The white birds call and spread their clamour over his sleep. The white birds call: little voices kept in such fragile bodies, little voices crying out, crying out, crying.
He’s lying on his back now, arms flung out to either side of his head, dark hair spreading across the floor, and with each bird cry that reaches him he lets his own noise tear free: lies prone and roaring, wordless and yelling blood into his throat.
At first he kept himself sane with cruelty. His cell-mate did not last long. At first he kept himself human by abandoning himself; sat wanking in the corner of his cell and snarling obscenities at the dementors. But he was never much of a human, was he, and never all that sane.
**
Remember that first kill. Half an accident and half a slow growing in his chest like air filling a paper bag. Remember the smell of blood and piss spreading over hot tarmac - only a muggle; remember how she screamed a while but fell silent then and simply watched, just looked; remember her eyes, how she looked up at him silent and gripping onto him as if he could save her, close to the end; how her stuttered breath went out of her, how her stomach convulsed under his arm as he held her against him, vomiting with fear.
How she had said, among the whispered entreaties, please, I love you as if it might help.
He shoved his fingers into her mouth and wrenched her jaw free of its holdings, let it swing loose and grotesque so she could not bite him, and afterwards whenever he saw the dark lips of women as they curled into the deceitful lushness of their smiles, he saw this woman’s mouth, how it was massive and black with blood, how it was bigger than the dark street and the night sky, how it was bigger than death.
**
The mouth of the dementor looms over him. He blinks slowly, not moving, terror’s languor on him like the heavy lull of opium. Or is it that he is not afraid? He can’t remember. They’ve done this before. How many times? There’s frost on his eyelashes.
And they’ve used him too, kept him in a room spelled silent for a week and then thrown him in with some poor bastard trying to become the floor. Those times he sucks the music of their screams from the air. He’s learnt to use his fingers, since they took his knife.
**
Under the dusty blood-red chandelier at his parents house, he sprawls out over the fainting couch, arms folded, tumbler of whiskey resting on the cushion next to him. Some soaring tumble of Russian violins; the curling verdigris of smoke; his brother leaning against the fireplace and smirking at his reflection in the over-mantle. Rabastan slouches into his own snarled boredom, scuffing one boot heel on the ancient carpet.
You might have shaved, says his brother. Rabastan snorts, shuts his eyes and rests his head against the rear of the couch. He hates the white noise of conversation that surrounds them, hates the heat of all these bodies. Bellatrix is coming says his brother.
Creepy fucking bitch, he mutters. Creepy fucking -
Rodolphus’ fingers on his lips stop him, and he wrenches his head away with a glare. She’s bringing someone. Rabastan shrugs. It’s important, says his brother.
Later, when he’s been banished to the vast terrace for knocking out some minor mouthy cousin, a hand on the back of his neck makes him wheel around, lights arcing across his vision. A slow smile and he’s saying alright? Who -
Tom, says the man, and fuck if he isn’t painfully beautiful, like the curve of the knife at his belt, like the curve of the stars twisting wilfully across the sky each night. Call me Tom.
**
He remembers the boy was afraid of him. He wants to say at first, but it wasn’t that way. The boy was afraid. He remembers how it made his cock hard.
Yet still, he only remembers it when the dementors come.
**
Certainly he wanted it. He was fucking asking for it, begging even, when Rabastan told him to. Now there’s only the sound of Rabastan’s hoarse breathing and the strangled whimpers that escape the hot pressure of his hand clamped over the boy’s mouth, forcing his head back; the quiet scratching of the boy’s nails on the floor. The sound their flesh makes as it interacts, the rough wet friction of it, the dragging pleasure of it: he could almost hear that, if he listened for it.
He’s merciless in this as in everything else. He growls against the boy’s ear, come for me; and he does, the boy does, jerking and moaning under Rabastan before his cheek is pressed to the floor, a palm in the centre of his back holding him down. Now let him scream. Now let him fucking scream. Rabastan lets his head fall back and bares his teeth, gripping the boy’s hips and forcing him back hard onto his cock, his hips quick and vicious.
**
Under the white roil of the sea’s temper, the cries of the birds. That black rock growing out of the horizon, the quiet chuckling of Bella from the bench behind him, the slap of the boat moving through the water, the mumbling of the Crouch boy next to him. Rabastan’s silent. His black hair whips about his head in the salt-slapped wind.
Watch the years grow on him as he approaches that shore: watch his hair grow out slow and rope itself into the tangled mat of his stuttered madness; watch the flesh shrink back into itself, shoulders and their round bulk narrowing, ribs rising to the surface like bones in a stock-pot, hands gristling to the knuckles; watch him become the bare syllable of himself, hoarse and base and yelled out from the bloody throat of the world to echo back from this place, this place. See how it’s in him now. See how it’s in him.
**
They’re coming. He gets to his feet, spits onto the dirt floor, shakes his head to spill the errant lights from it that creep across his vision. He never shuts his eyes like the others, wants to see the black billow of their shapes. In the end, they are less frightening than he is.
No footsteps, though, so you can’t listen to their approach, only know it in your bones, only know it in the slack dread that swallows you, only in the abortive slam of your heart knowing it, of your body knowing it: they are coming. It’s never the first now of your fright. He suspects they wait, quiet, outside his door.
His heart, listen to it, measure the nows passing and they haven’t come in. He’s panting, knocking his knuckles bloody against the rough wall. The white birds calling, the white birds spooling in their thread of light and noise through the little barred window, but it is not for him to catch. In this labyrinth these threads lead back on themselves, and he, he is the dark shape pacing at its centre, Asterius bellowing bull-headed and dear Christ they’re coming, they’re coming, they’re -
**
He remembers the boy was afraid of him. He remembers how it made his cock hard. He remembers the warm weight of a head on his shoulder, how the hair against his neck stirred slow as waterweed. Falling snow and its silent slownesses that flurried the air. His hand in velvet, the sound of tearing and the taste of dark red wine and his brother saying it’s important. The sound of breathing and how it is rich. The sound of breathing and how the boy said, it’s fine, I’m fine, I’ll be fine and how his voice broke when he said it and how Rabastan had asked to make him say it, how he’d asked. How their lips slid bloodily together and how the boy tasted how her mouth was huge and dark with blood, scattered with broken teeth like moonlit rocks and how her mouth was massive and bigger, bigger than death.
Swallow.
**
Into the space of his cell the high calling of the white birds is a thread. Solid as a beam of light it spools across the filth-packed floor, stuttered in the white winter sunlight. Little voices kept in such fragile bodies, little voices crying out, crying out.
At first he kept himself sane with cruelty. At first he kept himself human by abandoning himself. But he was never much of a human, was he, and never all that sane.
Author: spessartine
Rating: NC-17
Character: Rabastan Lestrange
Prompt: the white birds - for 7spells. Table is here.
Warnings: Violence. Knifekink. Death. Torture. Dub con and implied non con.
A/N: I've rated this fic NC-17 for subject matter rather than particularly explicit sex, but heed the warnings.
I’m sorry, says the boy, and arches his back as Rabastan pushes in the knife. I’m sorry.
His thighs tremble against Rabastan’s, one hand gripping his shoulder, knot of tight fear and heat in Rabastan’s lap: his back arched and his whole body trembling and his skin sweetened with sweat; sheen of it on him like light shivered across pallor, across his shuddered pain and want.
Gasped breath hot against Rabastan’s neck, his hands tightening with each wave of pain around Rabastan’s cock, and between his legs, moving slowly, slowly, Rabastan slides the wet metal into him, the handle of the knife hot in his hand.
He sobs: once, quiet. Rabastan brushes his hair back from his forehead gently and rolls his hips, hot slide of his cock against shaking, salted palms. The knife moves. Sweat runs down his back, blood down his thighs. Rabastan gasps, and comes.
**
Money would have made his trial a mockery. Of course, by then the side of good had done away with trials. Men like him did not deserve them.
His first day they throw him in a cell with a dementor and don’t unlock the door for a week. It takes six of them to get him in there, and when the door shut his arm’s been broken in the struggle. One of them apologises through the slot in the grey metal door, and Rabastan laughs; says, throw me your fucking wand then, you little cunt, and let me fix it. Truth is he wouldn’t have been able to. Healing spells have always been beyond him.
He doesn’t look at the dementor in the corner until their footsteps have echoed out into silence. Then the beat of its waiting brewing in his blood. He turns and runs at it headlong.
By the time they let it out he’s almost come to relish the wet white slide of its fingers across his cheek; has slept fitful, fevered nights with his head in the slow-billowed folds of its ragged cloth shape.
**
Into the space of his cell the high calling of the white birds is a thread. Solid as a beam of light it spools across the filth-packed floor, stuttered in the white winter sunlight. The white birds call and spread their clamour over his sleep. The white birds call: little voices kept in such fragile bodies, little voices crying out, crying out, crying.
He’s lying on his back now, arms flung out to either side of his head, dark hair spreading across the floor, and with each bird cry that reaches him he lets his own noise tear free: lies prone and roaring, wordless and yelling blood into his throat.
At first he kept himself sane with cruelty. His cell-mate did not last long. At first he kept himself human by abandoning himself; sat wanking in the corner of his cell and snarling obscenities at the dementors. But he was never much of a human, was he, and never all that sane.
**
Remember that first kill. Half an accident and half a slow growing in his chest like air filling a paper bag. Remember the smell of blood and piss spreading over hot tarmac - only a muggle; remember how she screamed a while but fell silent then and simply watched, just looked; remember her eyes, how she looked up at him silent and gripping onto him as if he could save her, close to the end; how her stuttered breath went out of her, how her stomach convulsed under his arm as he held her against him, vomiting with fear.
How she had said, among the whispered entreaties, please, I love you as if it might help.
He shoved his fingers into her mouth and wrenched her jaw free of its holdings, let it swing loose and grotesque so she could not bite him, and afterwards whenever he saw the dark lips of women as they curled into the deceitful lushness of their smiles, he saw this woman’s mouth, how it was massive and black with blood, how it was bigger than the dark street and the night sky, how it was bigger than death.
**
The mouth of the dementor looms over him. He blinks slowly, not moving, terror’s languor on him like the heavy lull of opium. Or is it that he is not afraid? He can’t remember. They’ve done this before. How many times? There’s frost on his eyelashes.
And they’ve used him too, kept him in a room spelled silent for a week and then thrown him in with some poor bastard trying to become the floor. Those times he sucks the music of their screams from the air. He’s learnt to use his fingers, since they took his knife.
**
Under the dusty blood-red chandelier at his parents house, he sprawls out over the fainting couch, arms folded, tumbler of whiskey resting on the cushion next to him. Some soaring tumble of Russian violins; the curling verdigris of smoke; his brother leaning against the fireplace and smirking at his reflection in the over-mantle. Rabastan slouches into his own snarled boredom, scuffing one boot heel on the ancient carpet.
You might have shaved, says his brother. Rabastan snorts, shuts his eyes and rests his head against the rear of the couch. He hates the white noise of conversation that surrounds them, hates the heat of all these bodies. Bellatrix is coming says his brother.
Creepy fucking bitch, he mutters. Creepy fucking -
Rodolphus’ fingers on his lips stop him, and he wrenches his head away with a glare. She’s bringing someone. Rabastan shrugs. It’s important, says his brother.
Later, when he’s been banished to the vast terrace for knocking out some minor mouthy cousin, a hand on the back of his neck makes him wheel around, lights arcing across his vision. A slow smile and he’s saying alright? Who -
Tom, says the man, and fuck if he isn’t painfully beautiful, like the curve of the knife at his belt, like the curve of the stars twisting wilfully across the sky each night. Call me Tom.
**
He remembers the boy was afraid of him. He wants to say at first, but it wasn’t that way. The boy was afraid. He remembers how it made his cock hard.
Yet still, he only remembers it when the dementors come.
**
Certainly he wanted it. He was fucking asking for it, begging even, when Rabastan told him to. Now there’s only the sound of Rabastan’s hoarse breathing and the strangled whimpers that escape the hot pressure of his hand clamped over the boy’s mouth, forcing his head back; the quiet scratching of the boy’s nails on the floor. The sound their flesh makes as it interacts, the rough wet friction of it, the dragging pleasure of it: he could almost hear that, if he listened for it.
He’s merciless in this as in everything else. He growls against the boy’s ear, come for me; and he does, the boy does, jerking and moaning under Rabastan before his cheek is pressed to the floor, a palm in the centre of his back holding him down. Now let him scream. Now let him fucking scream. Rabastan lets his head fall back and bares his teeth, gripping the boy’s hips and forcing him back hard onto his cock, his hips quick and vicious.
**
Under the white roil of the sea’s temper, the cries of the birds. That black rock growing out of the horizon, the quiet chuckling of Bella from the bench behind him, the slap of the boat moving through the water, the mumbling of the Crouch boy next to him. Rabastan’s silent. His black hair whips about his head in the salt-slapped wind.
Watch the years grow on him as he approaches that shore: watch his hair grow out slow and rope itself into the tangled mat of his stuttered madness; watch the flesh shrink back into itself, shoulders and their round bulk narrowing, ribs rising to the surface like bones in a stock-pot, hands gristling to the knuckles; watch him become the bare syllable of himself, hoarse and base and yelled out from the bloody throat of the world to echo back from this place, this place. See how it’s in him now. See how it’s in him.
**
They’re coming. He gets to his feet, spits onto the dirt floor, shakes his head to spill the errant lights from it that creep across his vision. He never shuts his eyes like the others, wants to see the black billow of their shapes. In the end, they are less frightening than he is.
No footsteps, though, so you can’t listen to their approach, only know it in your bones, only know it in the slack dread that swallows you, only in the abortive slam of your heart knowing it, of your body knowing it: they are coming. It’s never the first now of your fright. He suspects they wait, quiet, outside his door.
His heart, listen to it, measure the nows passing and they haven’t come in. He’s panting, knocking his knuckles bloody against the rough wall. The white birds calling, the white birds spooling in their thread of light and noise through the little barred window, but it is not for him to catch. In this labyrinth these threads lead back on themselves, and he, he is the dark shape pacing at its centre, Asterius bellowing bull-headed and dear Christ they’re coming, they’re coming, they’re -
**
He remembers the boy was afraid of him. He remembers how it made his cock hard. He remembers the warm weight of a head on his shoulder, how the hair against his neck stirred slow as waterweed. Falling snow and its silent slownesses that flurried the air. His hand in velvet, the sound of tearing and the taste of dark red wine and his brother saying it’s important. The sound of breathing and how it is rich. The sound of breathing and how the boy said, it’s fine, I’m fine, I’ll be fine and how his voice broke when he said it and how Rabastan had asked to make him say it, how he’d asked. How their lips slid bloodily together and how the boy tasted how her mouth was huge and dark with blood, scattered with broken teeth like moonlit rocks and how her mouth was massive and bigger, bigger than death.
Swallow.
**
Into the space of his cell the high calling of the white birds is a thread. Solid as a beam of light it spools across the filth-packed floor, stuttered in the white winter sunlight. Little voices kept in such fragile bodies, little voices crying out, crying out.
At first he kept himself sane with cruelty. At first he kept himself human by abandoning himself. But he was never much of a human, was he, and never all that sane.