Do We Disappoint You; Gift for the Community!
Title: "Do We Disappoint You"
Beta: bgreenwivy, with a special thanks to wwmrsweasleydo for her help on the pairing. They rock!
Author: crazyparakiss
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros., and various other people I can’t remember. However, I know that they are not mine. Also, I do not own the lyrics to either Set the Fire to the Thrid Bar, or Do I Disappoint You.
Pairing: James Sirius/Albus Severus
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, slash, angst
Word Count: 2,482
Summary: This is their own private world, a world full of secrets; to each other it is frightening and to the outside world it is wrong. Over and over again they ask, 'Do I disappoint you?'
Prompt: Do I Disappoint You - Rufus Wainwright, and then I decided to also use another song, Set the Fire to the Third Bar - Snow Patrol Ft. Martha Wainwright. Three lifetimes worth of listening to these songs brought about this fic.
Author’s Note: Since this is my first fest and a good friend/mentor of mine has left (she is still working on that I think) fandom in general I would like to dedicate this to her. weasleywench, you will always be one of the greats to me. Thanks for all the help and encouragement that you gave me (not on this fic but in general). I will miss you dearly! Also readers, NO this is not a song fic, there are just hints of the lyrics in it.
Do We Disappoint You
000
Yeaaah, Yeaah, Yeaaah, the noise of the stadium surrounds me as I watch robed figures zoom from one end of the pitch to the other. Not even fifteen minutes into this game and already I’ve a headache. They lied to me in training. "It’s great," the instructor said, "Free matches, parties with the players, and girls, lots of girls. The perfect job for a young bachelor, such as yourself." His smile was genuine; I won’t blame him for this when really and truly it’s my doing. It did sound like the perfect job, at the time. I’d get to enjoy free Quidditch, party all night long. I wasn’t so sold on the girls; although, I could pretend, and sadly I do, quite often in fact. I don’t care what shape they wear, the colour of their hair, the appendage or lack thereof between their thighs.
The parties are bittersweet with the saccharine taste of whisky and the unpleasant aftershock of finding another faceless stranger in the bed. I’ve lost count of all the times I’ve vomited before nine a.m. this year. There are matches all right; matches I have to watch with cynical eyes, breaking down the players' technique, letting the world know how they lack talent and dexterity. I feel as if I am taking a whip to my body every time I write a review. The lash stings but the flame of their gaze burns to the core of my being. Branding me a traitor for life, and the sour taste it leaves in my mouth is something I cannot wash out. I try every morning to scrub the word from my tongue, to lie to myself as I look in the mirror. Wanting to pretend that it’s not that bad, that I am doing something I love. Always lying and that there isn’t something closer to home, something I miss dearly. The mirror shows my fatigue, dark circles beneath brown eyes so dull and drained of life.
This was meant to keep me from you, this life, and this job. I moved to find sanity and normalcy, but what I’ve found is nothing more than the empty shadows and dusty cobwebs of my life. It’s mourning me, this mirror, mourning the me I once was. The terrible creature you created; that I’ve allowed myself to become.
“Do I disappoint you?” I ask it every morning, and I imagine the mirror becomes your face. You never respond. There is just that constant look; the look I can’t decipher. Is it disgust, sorrow, pity? Perhaps I’ll never know.
000
Waaah, Waaah, Waaah, the sound of babies crying in the waiting room; afraid of the man in the white coat, wanting nothing more than their soft beds and mother’s gentle coos. I want to rip my hair out, wrap my fingers in the unruly strands and tug for all it’s worth. This isn’t what I imagined when Aunt Hermione talked me into being a Healer. I didn’t think I’d have to deal with screaming children and the ever present old woman with her invented diseases. Naive me, I thought I’d be out discovering things, cures, and yet here I am in this sterile room trying to calm a five year old enough to get a potion down his throat. Oh the joys of being a Healer, if the Cruciatus curse wasn’t illegal I’d use it on Aunt Hermione. I hate kids; maybe I don’t hate them, but I hate when they cry. It’s unnatural and completely wrong, yet I have to listen to it day in, and day out. There is something cosmically wrong with that.
So I sit here, my palm pressing into my eye while my fingers curl against my forehead, desperately wanting to claw off my face. I listen to the boy’s mother promise him a treat if he is good and takes his potion. An acrid taste filling my mouth as she speaks; I hate this horribly flawed world; children shouldn’t be bribed by their parents to do what they are told. They shouldn’t be screaming like horribly pampered brats, especially not in public, and they should not be hitting their mother when she bribes them with sweets. I want to laugh; well, perhaps they should be. It might teach the cow something.
At home, I try to wash the hospital smell from my body. It clings to my skin and no matter how hard I scrub, it doesn’t leave me. I’ve left the bath water pink before and still it stays; sometimes I wonder if it’s more mental than anything else. The fog on the mirror calls me and I draw the familiar names. From A to B I trace the well practiced line; in reality it’s miles between us but it’s only finger lengths that I see here, I don’t want to lay down in my cold bed tonight. I stare hard at your name, and pray that something sets me down in your warm arms. “Do I disappoint you,” I want to ask you one day, but it can’t be today because the mirror is in the way. I whisper “goodnight” before going to bed. Every night the same routine, and always I pray for more.
000
The sounds of their laughter penetrate my silence, and I wonder how drunken men find flaws in science. All their words just noises as I stare down into my empty glass. I signal the bar keeper to bring me another and he gives me a disapproving glance. Get a different job, I want to yell it at him but I refrain; the last bar fight I was in brought me closer to you. A cut on the eye and a broken nose then there I was sitting in a near empty waiting area at midnight. I heard you, saw your smile as you waved a sniffling child away with her mum. A small turn of the head and you saw me, green eyes going wider with shock before whispering something to the Healer’s aid. I watched you come closer, the white coat fanning out a bit, inviting, and I wondered in my broken mind what you’d look like pinned beneath me with only it on. You gestured for me to follow, and like an obedient dog, I did.
That night you showed me, let my obscene mind gaze upon its fantasy. Your pale skin illuminated by the stark white of the lab coat, and I greedily ran my hands over every inch I could reach. The hours passed like days; your flushed face as I drove into you repeatedly, my unsteady breathing against your ear, and your whispered words. Words that were like music to me, and I refused to silence them with kisses. I want to hear you, for whenever I see you I know it might be the last.
When it was all said and done, you dressed in a clinical way; silently you refused to look where I lay naked on the bed. There were no goodbyes, we’ve never said them, and there were no promising kisses. You left me there as I once left you. I felt the ache then, when the door closed I whispered, “Do I disappoint you, Albus,” A cynical smile on my lips as I looked at the rotting wood of the inn’s shoddy door, “in just being human?”
I say it again, now, aloud; the bartender gives me an annoyed glance. I throw down some muggle notes before standing and taking my coat from the seat. Another night passed, another night lived through; I didn’t ever imagine it being this hard.
000
I smell you before I see you, the old dusty books at Flourish and Blotts cannot keep your heady scent from me. That unique mix of firewhisky, sweat, aftershave, and something just James; I round the shelf in excitement, it’s been ages. There you stand arguing with a handsome blond man, his hand on yours as you try to shake him off.
“I told you that’s not what I’m looking for!” You hiss under your breath as he moves closer.
“Then why did you take me to lunch with your mum?” He asks exasperation colouring his words as he moves closer to you, “I thought you might actually want more than a few one-offs.”
His words hurt me more than you or I will ever admit, and I gasp, your brown eyes snap over to me, “Shit.” That’s all I need and I am running, running as far as I can from you, your boyfriend, mum, dad, and anyone else who’d tell me what I feel is wrong.
When I stop, I am a little shocked to be at Mum and Dad’s summer cottage. It looks different in the chill of winter; a light snow dusts the porch and hard dead ground around the greying wood. Moving forward, I sit on it, the frost chilling my bum, but I ignore it, instead listening to the sounds of the ocean. I remember this place. Oh, I remember it well; a small smile takes over my chapped lips as I look ahead to the dead knoll that is usually awash with deep green grass in the summers.
I was fifteen the summer you took me there; in all my naivety, I believed it would last. It started out as a playful joke, “Kiss me.” You complied; pushing me back against the curving hill, your hand on my neck, thumb brushing my jaw as your tongue entered my mouth. It was and still is the best kiss I’ve ever experienced. It was wrong on so many levels. First, you were my brother and we had crossed into something brothers don’t cross into, second I was too eager so our teeth clashed and saliva dribbled down our chins, and last we were boys. Boys with hard bodies pressed to each other. We sought and found matching needs; you gasped in my ear, “Wanna fuck you so bad.” My body responding to your crude words, I felt desired. No one had ever made me feel desired, but you did.
The fear, the constant in our lives, urged us faster. We didn’t have time for hesitation, too far gone to analyse the repercussions of our actions. Too young to realise that love is not something that can truly defy all odds. Your steady hands made quick work of my belt. I wanted to laugh, moan, and cry at your sureness. How many others had you made liquid beneath your palm? The thought hurt. Your concentration was humorous, so intent on a task, completely un-James like. The moan became real when your rough warm palm brushed my aching cock. “Yess.” It came out a half whimper half hiss, and you chuckled in my ear. Humid puffs of air tickling the shell of my ear, as you said “If you like that wait till I take you in my mouth.” It was glorious; your hand stroked up and down firmly as your mouth worked over the head.
I wanted it to last, wanted to be suave like you. Yet my hands clenched tight in your hair, and I could feel sweat raining down my face as I came hard at the back of your throat. I was flipped onto my stomach, to be made more comfortable you promised, and you ran your fingers down my spine. I tensed when you came to that spot I’d only dreamed of touching, “Relax.” As if I could listen when you were about to enter me, make me lose all that made me pure. Still you entered, it burned the glide of your fingers as you tried to stretch out the impossible ring of muscle. I tried and chanted, “I’m trying.” You flipped me moments later; hardly prepared and on my back, you took me. I couldn’t stop the flow of tears; a fire blazed in my bum as you pressed on. You kissed my tears away, lapping up the salty liquid like a parched man. I was limp beneath you, my whole body and my cock. You whispered soothing nothings into my ear, told me things you’d no right to tell your brother. That alone made me love you; you were no longer James, the egotistical bastard with the love ‘em and leave ‘em attitude. You had evolved into James, my handsome forbidden brother, my lover. My name rolled off your lips in a gentle moan when you came, a grimacing smile on my face as I watched you.
That night you entered my room; silently we waited for Mum and Dad to fall asleep, then we shared each other like an island until, exhausted, we closed our eyelids. Now I’m dreaming we pick up from the last place we left off; I want to feel your soft skin weeping, a joy you can’t keep in. However, it’s not like that; we can’t simply be together. I want to damn them all, fuck you in front of them and watch their revolted expressions. Want to quit pretending we just haven’t found someone whose caught our fancy , I simply want what cannot be. All those little meaningless mundane things that other couples take for granted. Seeing your sleeping pants lying on the tile of the bathroom floor in the morning, the slight shadow on your jaw when you’re still sleeping, the smell of coffee wafting from the kitchen as you sing a song from a long forgotten rock band, and most of all I just want to live with you. Want to do all those small meaningless things with you, you and only you. Tears are running down my face, your crack of Apparation alerts me to your arrival, and as you approach I whisper, “Do I disappoint you, James,” I glance up at you when you reach the porch, your dark red hair blowing in your eyes, “in just being lonely?” You reach for me then, strong hands grasping my cold face as your lips come to mine.
“No.”
000
There is no happy ending here, we cannot be who we really are, and there is no way for our love to end in bliss. So, we take our precious moments and string them together, building a lifetime worth of empty joys and regrets. The vacant beach house embodies us now; it remembers our screams of ecstasy, it knows the colour only we can paint, the colour scattered through every room, and the mirrors will never forget our love, glimpses shown when no one is looking. Most importantly the beams house our sorrows, our tragedy, they whisper our pleas, our yearning for understanding and sympathy, “Do I disappoint you,” you can hear them say, “in just being like you?”
~FIN~
Beta: bgreenwivy, with a special thanks to wwmrsweasleydo for her help on the pairing. They rock!
Author: crazyparakiss
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros., and various other people I can’t remember. However, I know that they are not mine. Also, I do not own the lyrics to either Set the Fire to the Thrid Bar, or Do I Disappoint You.
Pairing: James Sirius/Albus Severus
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, slash, angst
Word Count: 2,482
Summary: This is their own private world, a world full of secrets; to each other it is frightening and to the outside world it is wrong. Over and over again they ask, 'Do I disappoint you?'
Prompt: Do I Disappoint You - Rufus Wainwright, and then I decided to also use another song, Set the Fire to the Third Bar - Snow Patrol Ft. Martha Wainwright. Three lifetimes worth of listening to these songs brought about this fic.
Author’s Note: Since this is my first fest and a good friend/mentor of mine has left (she is still working on that I think) fandom in general I would like to dedicate this to her. weasleywench, you will always be one of the greats to me. Thanks for all the help and encouragement that you gave me (not on this fic but in general). I will miss you dearly! Also readers, NO this is not a song fic, there are just hints of the lyrics in it.
Do We Disappoint You
000
Yeaaah, Yeaah, Yeaaah, the noise of the stadium surrounds me as I watch robed figures zoom from one end of the pitch to the other. Not even fifteen minutes into this game and already I’ve a headache. They lied to me in training. "It’s great," the instructor said, "Free matches, parties with the players, and girls, lots of girls. The perfect job for a young bachelor, such as yourself." His smile was genuine; I won’t blame him for this when really and truly it’s my doing. It did sound like the perfect job, at the time. I’d get to enjoy free Quidditch, party all night long. I wasn’t so sold on the girls; although, I could pretend, and sadly I do, quite often in fact. I don’t care what shape they wear, the colour of their hair, the appendage or lack thereof between their thighs.
The parties are bittersweet with the saccharine taste of whisky and the unpleasant aftershock of finding another faceless stranger in the bed. I’ve lost count of all the times I’ve vomited before nine a.m. this year. There are matches all right; matches I have to watch with cynical eyes, breaking down the players' technique, letting the world know how they lack talent and dexterity. I feel as if I am taking a whip to my body every time I write a review. The lash stings but the flame of their gaze burns to the core of my being. Branding me a traitor for life, and the sour taste it leaves in my mouth is something I cannot wash out. I try every morning to scrub the word from my tongue, to lie to myself as I look in the mirror. Wanting to pretend that it’s not that bad, that I am doing something I love. Always lying and that there isn’t something closer to home, something I miss dearly. The mirror shows my fatigue, dark circles beneath brown eyes so dull and drained of life.
This was meant to keep me from you, this life, and this job. I moved to find sanity and normalcy, but what I’ve found is nothing more than the empty shadows and dusty cobwebs of my life. It’s mourning me, this mirror, mourning the me I once was. The terrible creature you created; that I’ve allowed myself to become.
“Do I disappoint you?” I ask it every morning, and I imagine the mirror becomes your face. You never respond. There is just that constant look; the look I can’t decipher. Is it disgust, sorrow, pity? Perhaps I’ll never know.
000
Waaah, Waaah, Waaah, the sound of babies crying in the waiting room; afraid of the man in the white coat, wanting nothing more than their soft beds and mother’s gentle coos. I want to rip my hair out, wrap my fingers in the unruly strands and tug for all it’s worth. This isn’t what I imagined when Aunt Hermione talked me into being a Healer. I didn’t think I’d have to deal with screaming children and the ever present old woman with her invented diseases. Naive me, I thought I’d be out discovering things, cures, and yet here I am in this sterile room trying to calm a five year old enough to get a potion down his throat. Oh the joys of being a Healer, if the Cruciatus curse wasn’t illegal I’d use it on Aunt Hermione. I hate kids; maybe I don’t hate them, but I hate when they cry. It’s unnatural and completely wrong, yet I have to listen to it day in, and day out. There is something cosmically wrong with that.
So I sit here, my palm pressing into my eye while my fingers curl against my forehead, desperately wanting to claw off my face. I listen to the boy’s mother promise him a treat if he is good and takes his potion. An acrid taste filling my mouth as she speaks; I hate this horribly flawed world; children shouldn’t be bribed by their parents to do what they are told. They shouldn’t be screaming like horribly pampered brats, especially not in public, and they should not be hitting their mother when she bribes them with sweets. I want to laugh; well, perhaps they should be. It might teach the cow something.
At home, I try to wash the hospital smell from my body. It clings to my skin and no matter how hard I scrub, it doesn’t leave me. I’ve left the bath water pink before and still it stays; sometimes I wonder if it’s more mental than anything else. The fog on the mirror calls me and I draw the familiar names. From A to B I trace the well practiced line; in reality it’s miles between us but it’s only finger lengths that I see here, I don’t want to lay down in my cold bed tonight. I stare hard at your name, and pray that something sets me down in your warm arms. “Do I disappoint you,” I want to ask you one day, but it can’t be today because the mirror is in the way. I whisper “goodnight” before going to bed. Every night the same routine, and always I pray for more.
000
The sounds of their laughter penetrate my silence, and I wonder how drunken men find flaws in science. All their words just noises as I stare down into my empty glass. I signal the bar keeper to bring me another and he gives me a disapproving glance. Get a different job, I want to yell it at him but I refrain; the last bar fight I was in brought me closer to you. A cut on the eye and a broken nose then there I was sitting in a near empty waiting area at midnight. I heard you, saw your smile as you waved a sniffling child away with her mum. A small turn of the head and you saw me, green eyes going wider with shock before whispering something to the Healer’s aid. I watched you come closer, the white coat fanning out a bit, inviting, and I wondered in my broken mind what you’d look like pinned beneath me with only it on. You gestured for me to follow, and like an obedient dog, I did.
That night you showed me, let my obscene mind gaze upon its fantasy. Your pale skin illuminated by the stark white of the lab coat, and I greedily ran my hands over every inch I could reach. The hours passed like days; your flushed face as I drove into you repeatedly, my unsteady breathing against your ear, and your whispered words. Words that were like music to me, and I refused to silence them with kisses. I want to hear you, for whenever I see you I know it might be the last.
When it was all said and done, you dressed in a clinical way; silently you refused to look where I lay naked on the bed. There were no goodbyes, we’ve never said them, and there were no promising kisses. You left me there as I once left you. I felt the ache then, when the door closed I whispered, “Do I disappoint you, Albus,” A cynical smile on my lips as I looked at the rotting wood of the inn’s shoddy door, “in just being human?”
I say it again, now, aloud; the bartender gives me an annoyed glance. I throw down some muggle notes before standing and taking my coat from the seat. Another night passed, another night lived through; I didn’t ever imagine it being this hard.
000
I smell you before I see you, the old dusty books at Flourish and Blotts cannot keep your heady scent from me. That unique mix of firewhisky, sweat, aftershave, and something just James; I round the shelf in excitement, it’s been ages. There you stand arguing with a handsome blond man, his hand on yours as you try to shake him off.
“I told you that’s not what I’m looking for!” You hiss under your breath as he moves closer.
“Then why did you take me to lunch with your mum?” He asks exasperation colouring his words as he moves closer to you, “I thought you might actually want more than a few one-offs.”
His words hurt me more than you or I will ever admit, and I gasp, your brown eyes snap over to me, “Shit.” That’s all I need and I am running, running as far as I can from you, your boyfriend, mum, dad, and anyone else who’d tell me what I feel is wrong.
When I stop, I am a little shocked to be at Mum and Dad’s summer cottage. It looks different in the chill of winter; a light snow dusts the porch and hard dead ground around the greying wood. Moving forward, I sit on it, the frost chilling my bum, but I ignore it, instead listening to the sounds of the ocean. I remember this place. Oh, I remember it well; a small smile takes over my chapped lips as I look ahead to the dead knoll that is usually awash with deep green grass in the summers.
I was fifteen the summer you took me there; in all my naivety, I believed it would last. It started out as a playful joke, “Kiss me.” You complied; pushing me back against the curving hill, your hand on my neck, thumb brushing my jaw as your tongue entered my mouth. It was and still is the best kiss I’ve ever experienced. It was wrong on so many levels. First, you were my brother and we had crossed into something brothers don’t cross into, second I was too eager so our teeth clashed and saliva dribbled down our chins, and last we were boys. Boys with hard bodies pressed to each other. We sought and found matching needs; you gasped in my ear, “Wanna fuck you so bad.” My body responding to your crude words, I felt desired. No one had ever made me feel desired, but you did.
The fear, the constant in our lives, urged us faster. We didn’t have time for hesitation, too far gone to analyse the repercussions of our actions. Too young to realise that love is not something that can truly defy all odds. Your steady hands made quick work of my belt. I wanted to laugh, moan, and cry at your sureness. How many others had you made liquid beneath your palm? The thought hurt. Your concentration was humorous, so intent on a task, completely un-James like. The moan became real when your rough warm palm brushed my aching cock. “Yess.” It came out a half whimper half hiss, and you chuckled in my ear. Humid puffs of air tickling the shell of my ear, as you said “If you like that wait till I take you in my mouth.” It was glorious; your hand stroked up and down firmly as your mouth worked over the head.
I wanted it to last, wanted to be suave like you. Yet my hands clenched tight in your hair, and I could feel sweat raining down my face as I came hard at the back of your throat. I was flipped onto my stomach, to be made more comfortable you promised, and you ran your fingers down my spine. I tensed when you came to that spot I’d only dreamed of touching, “Relax.” As if I could listen when you were about to enter me, make me lose all that made me pure. Still you entered, it burned the glide of your fingers as you tried to stretch out the impossible ring of muscle. I tried and chanted, “I’m trying.” You flipped me moments later; hardly prepared and on my back, you took me. I couldn’t stop the flow of tears; a fire blazed in my bum as you pressed on. You kissed my tears away, lapping up the salty liquid like a parched man. I was limp beneath you, my whole body and my cock. You whispered soothing nothings into my ear, told me things you’d no right to tell your brother. That alone made me love you; you were no longer James, the egotistical bastard with the love ‘em and leave ‘em attitude. You had evolved into James, my handsome forbidden brother, my lover. My name rolled off your lips in a gentle moan when you came, a grimacing smile on my face as I watched you.
That night you entered my room; silently we waited for Mum and Dad to fall asleep, then we shared each other like an island until, exhausted, we closed our eyelids. Now I’m dreaming we pick up from the last place we left off; I want to feel your soft skin weeping, a joy you can’t keep in. However, it’s not like that; we can’t simply be together. I want to damn them all, fuck you in front of them and watch their revolted expressions. Want to quit pretending we just haven’t found someone whose caught our fancy , I simply want what cannot be. All those little meaningless mundane things that other couples take for granted. Seeing your sleeping pants lying on the tile of the bathroom floor in the morning, the slight shadow on your jaw when you’re still sleeping, the smell of coffee wafting from the kitchen as you sing a song from a long forgotten rock band, and most of all I just want to live with you. Want to do all those small meaningless things with you, you and only you. Tears are running down my face, your crack of Apparation alerts me to your arrival, and as you approach I whisper, “Do I disappoint you, James,” I glance up at you when you reach the porch, your dark red hair blowing in your eyes, “in just being lonely?” You reach for me then, strong hands grasping my cold face as your lips come to mine.
“No.”
000
There is no happy ending here, we cannot be who we really are, and there is no way for our love to end in bliss. So, we take our precious moments and string them together, building a lifetime worth of empty joys and regrets. The vacant beach house embodies us now; it remembers our screams of ecstasy, it knows the colour only we can paint, the colour scattered through every room, and the mirrors will never forget our love, glimpses shown when no one is looking. Most importantly the beams house our sorrows, our tragedy, they whisper our pleas, our yearning for understanding and sympathy, “Do I disappoint you,” you can hear them say, “in just being like you?”
~FIN~