matchstick
Matchstick
Rabastan/Rodolphus
R; references to incest, sex, and torture
Prompt: We lived north of the future, days opened
letters with a child's signature, a raspberry, a page of sky.
--From Dancing in Odessa, Ilya Kaminsky
It could not have gone on forever, of course: not this. Roddy like a matchstick between the lips, always tasting of red poppies and accelerant. The bite of good whiskey in the kiss. The fire of a spectacular sunset streaking his hair with blood crimson.
Roddy curled like a question-mark, nude on the edge of a sarcophagus. How he'd turned, and the light had caught the golden tone of his skin as he unfolded himself across the surface of a carven angel. Light brown eyes reflecting an impossible depth: mazes formed of silk walls, cajoling and twisting and hiding what lay beyond, ever-shifting. Eyes containing some impossible mixture of sweetness and cruelty, hatred and desire. Eyes that seemed to know every rotten thing you'd ever done, every twisted want, every hopeless broken dream. Eyes that devoured all this and needed more. Impossible not to want to break him, not to want to pin him squirming to the stone, to make him scream your name, to defeat those eyes...
Impossible not to want, in the most secret depths of your heart, to try to love him.
Roddy at eleven years old, writing love letters to statues. He would go out in the dead of winter, without a coat, shouldering through the clinging and scratching fingers of the boneyard trees. Kneeling in the snow before the graves, he'd leave these sealed and secret missives upon the pedestals of the statues: the entwined hands, the book-bearing angels with their faces of cold, inhuman justice.
Once, you read one. God, it made you shiver. And he was eleven years old, and you were nine, and he was still peeling apples while you peeled skin and feathers from doves' wings. But Roddy's always been like this unfinished painting and trying to put together the final pieces of what it must look like sends a chill down your spine. He's a child of October. There's only color on his lips when you bite it there.
Roddy at fifteen, when he first brought you into his bed. The sweet smile of seduction, but just there beneath the lowered eyelashes you glimpsed that first macabre fatality of distance, and didn't you know it then? You were young and fumbling, it was so-so, but his eyes and his smile are just addictive. There's this taste in his mouth that spurs you on, drives you infinitely further than you'd ever go alone.
Rodolphus' razorblade. How he slips it out of his boot just so, running the ivory handle across his lower lip before he opens it. The way he hurts with the utmost deliberation, using knife and wand, tongue and fingers, keeping a person alive longer than you would think possible, making them dance through sadistic hoops of terror and agony and then the hope of a little pleasure before plunging them into a chasm of infinite pain. It's not frequent. He's like an artist who waits years between masterpieces. Then again, there's this lassitude, this delicacy to Rodolphus. He has you and Bella, so he doesn't really need to do more than to plan contingencies and human thought and all the other things the Dark Lord sees in him. Afterward, he's exhausted and he always drinks himself to troubled dreams.
Roddy's nervous white fingers, always tapping against something.
The smile like a crowbar, opening some dark and secret lock.
And you knew it could not last forever, but still you never wanted to see this, never expected to be forced to endure it: Rodolphus with his eyes dead and ultimately locked, body twitching and skin white as new-fallen snow. Roddy with lips slack as a coma patient, shuddering against your body with weary breaths. This isn't Roddy, it's some hopeless sack of flesh, it's his discarded body, and you can't bear it breathing near you, but you feel your arms tighten anyway.
And you'd kill him for breaking your heart like this, even though it's the fault of this wretched prison. You'd kill him if you didn't hold out some fleeting, stupid hope of seeing that look in his eyes again... wouldn't you, Rabastan?
Rabastan/Rodolphus
R; references to incest, sex, and torture
Prompt: We lived north of the future, days opened
letters with a child's signature, a raspberry, a page of sky.
--From Dancing in Odessa, Ilya Kaminsky
It could not have gone on forever, of course: not this. Roddy like a matchstick between the lips, always tasting of red poppies and accelerant. The bite of good whiskey in the kiss. The fire of a spectacular sunset streaking his hair with blood crimson.
Roddy curled like a question-mark, nude on the edge of a sarcophagus. How he'd turned, and the light had caught the golden tone of his skin as he unfolded himself across the surface of a carven angel. Light brown eyes reflecting an impossible depth: mazes formed of silk walls, cajoling and twisting and hiding what lay beyond, ever-shifting. Eyes containing some impossible mixture of sweetness and cruelty, hatred and desire. Eyes that seemed to know every rotten thing you'd ever done, every twisted want, every hopeless broken dream. Eyes that devoured all this and needed more. Impossible not to want to break him, not to want to pin him squirming to the stone, to make him scream your name, to defeat those eyes...
Impossible not to want, in the most secret depths of your heart, to try to love him.
Roddy at eleven years old, writing love letters to statues. He would go out in the dead of winter, without a coat, shouldering through the clinging and scratching fingers of the boneyard trees. Kneeling in the snow before the graves, he'd leave these sealed and secret missives upon the pedestals of the statues: the entwined hands, the book-bearing angels with their faces of cold, inhuman justice.
Once, you read one. God, it made you shiver. And he was eleven years old, and you were nine, and he was still peeling apples while you peeled skin and feathers from doves' wings. But Roddy's always been like this unfinished painting and trying to put together the final pieces of what it must look like sends a chill down your spine. He's a child of October. There's only color on his lips when you bite it there.
Roddy at fifteen, when he first brought you into his bed. The sweet smile of seduction, but just there beneath the lowered eyelashes you glimpsed that first macabre fatality of distance, and didn't you know it then? You were young and fumbling, it was so-so, but his eyes and his smile are just addictive. There's this taste in his mouth that spurs you on, drives you infinitely further than you'd ever go alone.
Rodolphus' razorblade. How he slips it out of his boot just so, running the ivory handle across his lower lip before he opens it. The way he hurts with the utmost deliberation, using knife and wand, tongue and fingers, keeping a person alive longer than you would think possible, making them dance through sadistic hoops of terror and agony and then the hope of a little pleasure before plunging them into a chasm of infinite pain. It's not frequent. He's like an artist who waits years between masterpieces. Then again, there's this lassitude, this delicacy to Rodolphus. He has you and Bella, so he doesn't really need to do more than to plan contingencies and human thought and all the other things the Dark Lord sees in him. Afterward, he's exhausted and he always drinks himself to troubled dreams.
Roddy's nervous white fingers, always tapping against something.
The smile like a crowbar, opening some dark and secret lock.
And you knew it could not last forever, but still you never wanted to see this, never expected to be forced to endure it: Rodolphus with his eyes dead and ultimately locked, body twitching and skin white as new-fallen snow. Roddy with lips slack as a coma patient, shuddering against your body with weary breaths. This isn't Roddy, it's some hopeless sack of flesh, it's his discarded body, and you can't bear it breathing near you, but you feel your arms tighten anyway.
And you'd kill him for breaking your heart like this, even though it's the fault of this wretched prison. You'd kill him if you didn't hold out some fleeting, stupid hope of seeing that look in his eyes again... wouldn't you, Rabastan?