Cruor
Cruor
Allister; as gen as he gets
NC-17; extreme violence, character death.
For spessartine. Hope you like it!
He's on his knees, and all that black hair is falling forward. It's in his face, and god, his arms are red to the elbow with blood. It looks like he's wearing opera gloves. He's breathing hard, that cupid's-bow mouth open, head bent. There's blood on his leather and there's blood on his chest, cracked like an old fresco. There's blood in his hair.
He actually ripped Turannos' heart out. He said he was going to, but I thought it was just one of those bloody threats. But no, he took the traitor by the throat and threw him to the ground. There was a sickening crack, but Rosier only smiled. That smile, it's like an apocalypse. It's like some cruel devil clawed its way out of hell. Beautiful and twisted up like nobody should be. Utterly, implacably remorseless.
He swung his leg over, and it looked like pornography. Allister's thighs and ass, enough to make your mouth dry and your tongue ache. The rhythm, squeezing hard. If you just looked at Allister, at his curls cascading over a torso, like ebony and mother-of-pearl, his face still frozen in a look of rapture- it would have been erotic. Beyond the words for erotic. He looks so ornamental, like sex behind a mask.
But Turannos' face was twisted in agony. His lips wide: he was trying to scream without any breath. And Allister ran his hands through Turannos' greying brown hair. At first it was gentle. Then you could see he was tearing it out in clumps. Spattering scarlet on the stone floor. Turannos' scalp looked bloody, unformed.
Allister bent his body down sinuously. He drew his tongue across it, raked the blood off his tongue with his teeth. He murmured next to Turannos' ear, in a deep voice like drenched black velvet, a bedroom purr,- "Do you know how you traitors sicken me? I just want to vomit up my heart, thinking I opened it up to you. Don't flatter yourself that you make a difference to him, either way, but to me. I'm going to cut, and cut, and burn and tourniquet. When I'm tired of looking at you, I'm going to tear out your heart."
He cut. He cut little flaps off in shapes - butterflies, serpents. His hair trailed into the blood, crusted with it, and he smiled and ran his bloody fingers over it, murmuring to himself in singsong tones. He said, "Claret's a nice phrase, but far too poetic. My favorite is cruor. Yes, my hair is thick with it, with cruor. This scarlet sticky-sweet, the vengeance of my love."
He stabbed the knife through the bones of Turannos' legs. He said, "I will crack your bones and suck the marrow."
Then Lestrange came up like a whisper of wind, laid his hand across Rosier's shoulder. He whispered, "Shh..." He stroked the blue-black hair of the head as if Allister were a crying dog. All the trembling that had lit Rosier's frame ceased. He reached back and squeezed the hand, leaving a bloody imprint like lace.
Macabre. He turned and pressed, rocking back and forth. If only he had not looked so lovely, so utterly rapt. His fingers pressed into Turannos' chest, and slowly slowly dug deeper. The screams were so hoarse, drawn out. One would have thought he would have lost consciousness long before. Thus magic serves the will of cruelty. Oh, god.
In one savage pull, his lips skinned back from his white teeth, Rosier ripped the lump of tissue, the spurting organ from Turannos' chest. His arms were thick with blood. He hissed like a snake, tossed the heart from him, then sagged forward over the body. His breathing gasped out.
Now he rolls across the body, on to his side on the bloodstained stone. His hair falls all around him like a dark curtain, a curling shadow. From the corner the snake Nagini slithers to him, coils herself around his throat. Her head raised, her tongue flickers between his parted lips as if she tastes the mingled absinthe and menthol on his breath. He waits until she draws back and then kisses her, letting her crawl as she will across the iron-coiled muscles of his body.
I don't know whether to vomit or jerk off. The better part of valor... time to leave the room, wait pressed trembling to a wall for one or the other. I can hear Riddle's step on the stairs. It can be no other. Perfect confidence, the rhythm unhurried like a whisper of folded time.
Allister; as gen as he gets
NC-17; extreme violence, character death.
For spessartine. Hope you like it!
He's on his knees, and all that black hair is falling forward. It's in his face, and god, his arms are red to the elbow with blood. It looks like he's wearing opera gloves. He's breathing hard, that cupid's-bow mouth open, head bent. There's blood on his leather and there's blood on his chest, cracked like an old fresco. There's blood in his hair.
He actually ripped Turannos' heart out. He said he was going to, but I thought it was just one of those bloody threats. But no, he took the traitor by the throat and threw him to the ground. There was a sickening crack, but Rosier only smiled. That smile, it's like an apocalypse. It's like some cruel devil clawed its way out of hell. Beautiful and twisted up like nobody should be. Utterly, implacably remorseless.
He swung his leg over, and it looked like pornography. Allister's thighs and ass, enough to make your mouth dry and your tongue ache. The rhythm, squeezing hard. If you just looked at Allister, at his curls cascading over a torso, like ebony and mother-of-pearl, his face still frozen in a look of rapture- it would have been erotic. Beyond the words for erotic. He looks so ornamental, like sex behind a mask.
But Turannos' face was twisted in agony. His lips wide: he was trying to scream without any breath. And Allister ran his hands through Turannos' greying brown hair. At first it was gentle. Then you could see he was tearing it out in clumps. Spattering scarlet on the stone floor. Turannos' scalp looked bloody, unformed.
Allister bent his body down sinuously. He drew his tongue across it, raked the blood off his tongue with his teeth. He murmured next to Turannos' ear, in a deep voice like drenched black velvet, a bedroom purr,- "Do you know how you traitors sicken me? I just want to vomit up my heart, thinking I opened it up to you. Don't flatter yourself that you make a difference to him, either way, but to me. I'm going to cut, and cut, and burn and tourniquet. When I'm tired of looking at you, I'm going to tear out your heart."
He cut. He cut little flaps off in shapes - butterflies, serpents. His hair trailed into the blood, crusted with it, and he smiled and ran his bloody fingers over it, murmuring to himself in singsong tones. He said, "Claret's a nice phrase, but far too poetic. My favorite is cruor. Yes, my hair is thick with it, with cruor. This scarlet sticky-sweet, the vengeance of my love."
He stabbed the knife through the bones of Turannos' legs. He said, "I will crack your bones and suck the marrow."
Then Lestrange came up like a whisper of wind, laid his hand across Rosier's shoulder. He whispered, "Shh..." He stroked the blue-black hair of the head as if Allister were a crying dog. All the trembling that had lit Rosier's frame ceased. He reached back and squeezed the hand, leaving a bloody imprint like lace.
Macabre. He turned and pressed, rocking back and forth. If only he had not looked so lovely, so utterly rapt. His fingers pressed into Turannos' chest, and slowly slowly dug deeper. The screams were so hoarse, drawn out. One would have thought he would have lost consciousness long before. Thus magic serves the will of cruelty. Oh, god.
In one savage pull, his lips skinned back from his white teeth, Rosier ripped the lump of tissue, the spurting organ from Turannos' chest. His arms were thick with blood. He hissed like a snake, tossed the heart from him, then sagged forward over the body. His breathing gasped out.
Now he rolls across the body, on to his side on the bloodstained stone. His hair falls all around him like a dark curtain, a curling shadow. From the corner the snake Nagini slithers to him, coils herself around his throat. Her head raised, her tongue flickers between his parted lips as if she tastes the mingled absinthe and menthol on his breath. He waits until she draws back and then kisses her, letting her crawl as she will across the iron-coiled muscles of his body.
I don't know whether to vomit or jerk off. The better part of valor... time to leave the room, wait pressed trembling to a wall for one or the other. I can hear Riddle's step on the stairs. It can be no other. Perfect confidence, the rhythm unhurried like a whisper of folded time.