pollicem

Postdiluvian - 30 Kisses #8 - our own world

pollicem — Thu, 03 Dec 2020 00:17:01 GMT

Title: Postdiluvian
Author: pollicem
Pairing: Tom/Harry
Fandom: Harry Potter
Theme: #8 - our own world
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rating: R?

Postdiluvian

after you defeat the dark lord and after the prophet stops publishing cockeyed, half-witted stories of your life—no, I’m not marrying molly weasley or engaging in bestiality with the black dog we rescued from the pound—and after the gleam wears off from winning a job with the aurors because they decide you’re too important as a figurehead so you’re stuck at a desk job, but hey, at least the view of the thames is cracking—

Harry kicks open the door to the flat and locks it—magically and otherwise—behind him. Ginny waves from the kitchen where she’s got three somethings stirring themselves on the stove, and everything smells amazing.

“Daddy!” James toddles to him and clutches his knees. Harry scoops him into his arms and blows a raspberry on his cheek.

James squeals.

Harry pastes on a smile that aches and heads for Ginny. He kisses her.

“How was your day?”

These days, she’s working at St. Mungos as one of the leading therapists in the world for physical and psychological trauma. She’s brilliant, and gorgeous, and the best mom ever, and really Harry should give a shit, but—

you wanted this. you wanted normalcy and love and a family, something so far from the dursleys, something with open arms and laughter and someone to curl up with at night—

They eat dinner, and Harry makes all the right noises at all the right times, like he does every day. He’s waiting for Ginny to notice that he’s a robot, that he’s gone, that he’s already skipped ahead, but her blindness squeezes his chest a little more each day, tighter and tighter and so tight that he wakes up at night, gasping for air that’s everywhere but where it should be. Isn’t it obvious?

After dinner, Ginny goes to shower, like she does every night, and Harry stands James inside one of those baby-jumping-spinny things because he loves James, he does, but this whole charade isn’t what he wants. What he wants is in a cabinet where James can’t follow.

Harry had it designed a year ago. A secret birthday present to himself. He opens the cabinet door and cradles the heavy wooden bowl in his hands, the swirling white twisting toward him, pulling him down.

He has ten minutes before Ginny will call for him.

Ten, perfect minutes.

It’s not a regular pensieve. Not one where you watch proceedings that already occurred.

Harry bends over it, his face brushing the surface, and tumbles down—

this is what waits for you after—

And then he is naked, in bed, skin slipping on deep green silk sheets. Tom swirls through a door, robes billowing. His disheveled black hair is desperate for Harry’s hands, and his dark eyes gleam, drowning Harry in their gravity.

Harry stands, the cool air lapping at his skin, and then Tom is wrapped around him, enveloping him, swallowing him, nipping his lips, scraping fingernails across his back, and kissing the pain away.

“Hey.”

“I’ve missed you.”

30 Kisses - 21 Violence

pollicem — Wed, 02 Dec 2020 00:43:35 GMT

Title: These Violent Delights
Author: pollicem
Pairing: Lucius/Harry Dark Lord/Harry
Fandom: Harry Potter
Theme: #21 - violence
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rating: R

“Prepare him for me, Lucius.”

Lucius bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

It was important, Lucius felt, to appreciate the finer things in life. It was the little things, the subtler details, that provide satisfaction. Like the fit of his cane in his palm, the bite of a dry red wine, and of course, the sting of pain so easily confused with pleasure.

To that end, Harry was blindfolded and bound (silk), and Lucius sipped wine (Syrah). The sheets (Egyptian) were soft, but not, Lucius discovered as he ran a finger up the boy’s bare arm, quite as soft as skin of the saviour. Almost better than the skin, Lucius decided, was the way the boy thrashed and cried obscenities and empty threats, but no tears. No, not those. Those wouldn’t do.

Not yet.

Lucius eyed him, fingertips lingering atop pale flesh beside torn edges of sleeve.

“Get your fucking hand off me.” Harry spat, but he was blindfolded. The gob splotched to the floor.

Lucius sighed and stroked a finger across Harry’s lips. Plump. Utterly kissable. He pulled his hand away from the boy’s darting teeth. He took another sip of wine. He savored the weight of it on his tongue before he spoke.

“Is this really the thanks you show me for making this,” he caressed the word, “pleasant?”

Another litany of curses poured from the boy’s mouth.

Lucius sighed. “If you insist.” And with a muttered spell and motion of his fingertips, the filth stopped. Lucius ran his hand down the side of Harry’s face, soothing his hand over the deliciously smooth ties of the gag. The boy thrashed.

Lucius felt sure, as he surveyed his work, that if the boy knew the picture he made, white on dark sheets, black silk around his wrists and ankles, spreading him across the bed, eyes erased behind a swath of cloth, he would be instantaneously still. As it was, not even Malfoy discipline could keep the hand from straying to caress his lengthening cock through his robes.

“My lord.” Lucius stepped from the bed. “He is ready.”

The Dark Lord stepped into the room. A slow smile spread across his face. “Excuse us, Lucius.”

Lucius strode to the door, but could not convince himself to depart. He lingered as the Dark Lord bent his unyielding body and pressed his lips to the boy’s so-pale, so-soft neck, just beside a blue vein that pulsed with panic.

30_Kisses #20

pollicem — Fri, 17 Jul 2020 14:29:36 GMT

Title: The Best Laid Plans
Author/Artist: pollicem
Pairing: Tom/Harry
Fandom: Harry Potter
Theme: #20 - the road home
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Tom Marvolo Riddle was a genius. He knew he was. His friends knew he was. His enemies knew he was, though most of them didn’t know how truly manipulative he was and counted themselves as his friends. People who knew of him thought he was brilliant, and those who didn’t yet know him would eventually inevitably bow to his superiority. For Tom Marvolo Riddle was a patient man.

But if he was such a bloody persistent genius, how did he get stuck inside this pathetic impression of almost-Hogwarts? He could relive moments that he knew had already happened. He could, to a degree, experience novel incidents, though they felt like facsimiles of what might have once been real. Nothing surprised him. Nothing excited him. Each day—if there was such a thing, in this place, anymore—he ate in the great hall, wandered to classes, tormented the mudbloods and half-breeds, and plotted world domination.

And he was bored.

It seemed like forever, but it couldn’t have been that long, before someone real, and electrifying, and intoxicating appeared as Tom Marvolo Riddle stepped into the potions classroom for the zillionth nauseating time. It was a man a handful of years his senior, in wizard’s robes, with green eyes and a lightning bolt scar blazed across his forehead. He looked strangely familiar, though Tom Marvolo Riddle was certain they’d never met before.

The man stepped to him, confidently, purposefully. “Tom,” he said, the aching immediacy of the voice slicing a jolt of surprise down Tom’s spine. “I’ve been looking for you for so long. We need you to help us defeat a monster.”

The man’s hand came up to Tom’s cheek, but stopped just shy of touch. Heat leapt from his palm, his fingertips. Tom tilted his head to meet the man’s caress. Fire shot through Tom’s body. It had been such a long time since anyone had touched him. Could anything possibly ever have felt this good?

“Who are you?” Tom’s senses whirled. He felt like he should know. But he didn’t care. The pleasure of another’s company, another’s warmth, after so long. Fear knotted his stomach. Hope clogged his throat.

“You don’t remember?” The man’s eyes searched his.

Tom shook his head and stepped back, removing himself from this stranger’s tangible urgency.

The man ran his hand through his disheveled, black hair. It should have made the strands stick up even more, but Tom didn’t think that was possible. Instead, it just rearranged them. Tom longed to touch it. His hand recalled something about its softness, how this man—but younger—liked it pulled. Tom stared at his hand until the man’s sigh jerked his gaze back up.

“I used to visit you. Here, in this book, years ago.” The man’s fingers flailed in the air. “It doesn’t matter. My name’s Harry. Me and my friends are trying to save the world.” A small chuckle left his lips, but it was a sad, hopeless thing. “Two of my friends, Hermione and Snape, brilliant buggers, figured we need your help. Given our… history, they thought you’d be amenable.”

Tom’s eyes widened, and Harry caught his surprise, but not the reason for it.

“Amenable, I know,” Harry shrugged, a small smile playing across his lips. “Snape’s word, not mine.”

Tom raked his eyes across this man, weighing and assessing. If this was all a dream derived of desperation, he would return often to this moment of delight and immediacy. Tom knew he imagined it, but Harry seemed to glow in this flat, pale place.

“Please, Tom.” Harry’s green eyes blazed with need. “Will you come with me?”

It was Tom’s turn to laugh. “Why not?”

So Harry leaned in and pressed his lips to Tom’s. His mouth was soft, and hot, and insistent—foreign yet familiar. Harry teased, at first, then grew bold. Tom fought back. He nibbled Harry’s bottom lip, savored a gasp, then soothed with his tongue. He fisted his hands in that black, unruly, soft hair.

And then Harry broke away, cheeks flushed, eyes wild, and Hogwarts churned, solidifying into itself, and everything was more present, more tangible, more terrifying, and unfamiliar, and new.

“What the hell did you do?” Tom Marvolo Riddle gasped, the world dimming around its edges.

Harry seized Tom’s shoulders and guided him to a bed. Was this the hospital wing? It looked so different. So much less wood and so much more chrome. And the feeling of everything. The air was thicker, the floor harder, the lights burningly bright. Even his robes chafed his skin. Tom looked around, but because he could see everything so clearly, so presently, everything was hard to see.

“It’s okay, Tom. It’ll be okay.”

Harry pressed a glass of something to Tom’s lips. He drank, swallowed. The room softened, fading, but not before Tom was tucked underneath a thin blanket.

Disorientation. A lean, hard body curled around him. Voices muttering. Exhalations. Tom turned toward the warmth, falling away from everything, nausea condensing in his stomach, shooting tremors into his arms and hands. Then Harry’s hands braced Tom’s head, anchoring him to those piercing green eyes, pinning him inside this terrifying immediacy.

“Thanks,” Harry murmured. “Thanks for coming with me.” He spoke with the relief of a man coming home after a long, long time away.

Tom seized Harry’s hot fingers and squeezed. “Thank you for getting me out of there.”

The green eyes filled. A watery laugh brushed Tom’s ears. “Took me too long.”

Tom closed his eyes and settled against Harry’s warmth. “Better late than never.”

Like riding a bike

pollicem — Fri, 17 Jul 2020 13:52:57 GMT

A couple of weeks ago, my computer was down for a round (but thankfully not for the count). I went through and tried to back up everything I needed, and rediscovered fanfiction I'd written over a decade ago.

Much of what I wrote I don't remember writing. The turns of phrase surprise me. I've forgotten the plot progressions. Most of the stories are mundane, but some astounded me. But I must have written them, because the files rest in their folder, sometimes multiple drafts, downloaded to this computer from its long-dead predecessor. I can see that my writing has developed in the intervening decade as my goals have changed, some of which I'm proud of, but I miss elements of what I used to aim for.

And I realized I never did finish my 30_kisses Tom/Harry project. It's funny, because my name is still listed beside the pairing in the community. The last time the community was updated was in 2015. It's taken me a lot longer than the 2 month deadline, and will surely still take me longer yet, since I'm not done.

But I kind of thought hell, why not?

Falling out of Love

pollicem — Wed, 07 Aug 2013 19:41:47 GMT

It's been a while. I've moved on to quite a few other things, but I got nostalgic this morning and thought I'd post something for old time's sake.

Falling out of Love
Harry/Ginny
Drabble
PG-15

"Mmmmm," Harry hummed into Ginny’s mouth. Her tongue flicked against his and her fingernails scraped his back, prickling him through his shirt. She leaned toward the bedroom, pulling Harry with her.

"Should we-" Kiss.

"Continue this-" Kiss.

"Horizontally?" Kiss.

"Yes."

But Harry’s tongue, hands, and back were lying to her. His feet, bare and buried in the living-room carpet of the flat, tried to insinuate their truth, but neither Harry nor Ginny paid much attention.

“Come on.” She pressed herself into Harry, breasts yielding against his chest, and then danced away.

Harry grinned and uprooted his heavy feet, following her.

Wishes

pollicem — Sat, 23 Jul 2011 02:06:24 GMT

Title: Wishes
Author/Artist: pollicem
Pairing: Tom/Harry
Fandom: Harry Potter
Theme: #16 - invincible, unrivaled
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Tom?

Yes, Harry.

Do you ever just want to be superpowered? To… look at anyone who bothers you and tell them to leave you alone and they will? I could make Snape just shut the fuck up, and I'd make Hermione stop shooting me those nervous looks, and I'd make Voldemort stop being such an ass, and Luna could have her shoes back, and-

Yeah, I know how you feel.

Tom?

Yes, Harry?

Can I kiss you?

Not in a Good Mood

pollicem — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 04:41:43 GMT

Title: Not in a Good Mood
Author: pollicem
Pairing: Tom/Harry
Rating: PG
Fandom: Harry Potter
Theme: #12 – in a good mood
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Not in a Good Mood

Hermione told me to write you, because I was being an overbearing broody arse and everyone was getting tired of it and it might be cathartic. I don't know what cathartic means, but it's pretty awful putting ink on parchment that doesn't write back.

See?

You'd say something funny right about now, or show me something silly, or maybe pull me inside. And then I wouldn't be trying to fill this whole page by myself.

I talk to you in my head all the time, but I try not to, because I don't really think it's healthy, and I always end up just sad or, mostly, mad at you, thinking about things I did, and things I didn't, and things I shouldn't have done, and things you definitely will do.

And I yell at you a lot, too, in my head, that I can't be warm anymore, or forget your taste, or remember how to not be lonely.

That might be all I have to say right now.

Harry Goes Back

pollicem — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 05:01:58 GMT

Title: Harry Goes Back
Author: pollicem
Pairing: Tom/Harry
Rating: G
Fandom: Harry Potter
Theme: #25 - Fence
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Harry Goes Back

Harry went back afterward. He whispered Open at the sink and slid down and went back and the book was bleeding on the floor and the middle was burned away and the tooth was lying on its side, and Harry sat down beside it and picked the book up and held it in his lap, and he wondered how he’d let this asshole slither so far inside of him, and how he was supposed to stop this missing.

SS <3 HP

pollicem — Wed, 15 Sep 2010 19:23:45 GMT

Title: SS <3 HP
Challenge: 231: Mask
Rating: R
Author: pollicem
Word Count: 100
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N Harry’s a student, 7th year. Happyfic.

SS <3 HP

In class, Snape’s glare rarely leaves Potter’s clumsy fingers.

“He’s a bloody arse,” Ron says, later, at dinner. Harry nods.

In the hallways, Snape’s voice curses him for being arrogant, stupid, late to class.

Hermione hurries beside him. Harry keeps his head down.

Everyone knows that if it weren’t for Dumbledore, Snape would’ve killed Harry years ago.

But only Harry knows the light of Severus’s eyes in bedroom semidarkness, the way his velvet voice murmurs where no one else can hear, and Harry’s never felt more alive than when fingernails scrape across vast back, Severus’s cock filling him to exploding.

A Superhero's Certainty

pollicem — Fri, 03 Sep 2010 16:28:04 GMT

Title: A Superhero's Certainty
Author: pollicem
Pairing: Tom/Harry
Rating: PG-15
Fandom: Harry Potter
Theme: #7 - Superstar
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Harry is certain. It fills him up, he breathes it in, it’s lodged in his walk and his gaze and his thoughts and fingertips, and he knows exactly what he wants, what he needs, always.

(we’ve got to protect the stone!)

Because Snape’s evil, Dumbledore’s great, McGonagall’s scary but likes him a lot, Draco’s a rich obnoxious shithead, and he and Ron and Hermione will be friends forever.

(it’s in moaning myrtle’s bathroom, it has to be!)

So if Harry never errs in thought or form, not when he wraps his fingers around golden metal, or shouts a curse that scores skin with long, bloody lines, then how come he’s so fuzzy around Tom? His breath jumps and his arms hurt and his cock wants, and Harry’s stuck in a dream of hair that demands to be mussed, and that smirking, kissable mouth, and the perfect pointedness of chin, and the economy of those hands, but fuck it’s Tom Riddle, and he’s stuck in a few preserved pages of a destroyed book, and he’s evil anyway, so what the fuck is Harry supposed to do?

(fuck! tom, god yes - more!)

Upon This Place of Skulls: A Love Story

pollicem — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 03:51:42 GMT

Title: Upon This Place of Skulls: A Love Story
Author: pollicem
Pairing: Tom/Harry (but also Ginny/Tom, and Ginny/Harry)
Rating: PG
Fandom: Harry Potter
Theme: #24 - Good Night
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, and the title's (mostly) Lord Byron's.

Upon This Place of Skulls: A Love Story

Once upon a time there was a red-haired girl who loved a grey-eyed, broken boy. She loved him in every eyeblink, loved him with her lips and fingernails and the backs of her knees, loved him deep in her gut like vomiting. But her love for him was stuck inside a book, hidden between the pages, and she couldn't get it out no matter how hard she tried.

One day, a lightning-bolt boy, bold as the sun, tumbled into the storybook, and the broken boy beguiled him into dreams and madness, because that's what happens inside love when you're stuck underneath two covers.

The girl saw all this, and got jealous of the sun, and stole the book back. She needed hidden nights, needed broken fingers stroking backs of sunburned legs, and broken fingers did. They stroked and pinched and kneaded until finally broken's fingers broke her, and lightning-bolt boy trembled and raged, and then stole the red-headed girl away and broke the broken boy for good.

Now, split lightning-bolt boy thinks he's in love with bloodied red-headed girl, and she tries to imagine that she's in love with him, but they both know that when they kiss each other good night, they're not kissing each other.

Because once upon a time there wasn't a grey-eyed, broken boy.

Accounting for Regulus

pollicem — Tue, 29 Jun 2010 01:01:01 GMT

I'm fairly happy with how this one turned out. Written for Severus Sighs, over there, now posting it here for shits and giggles.

Title: Accounting for Regulus
Author: pollicem
Pairing: Severus Snape/Regulus A. Black
Rating: R (for language and violence)
Word Count: ~4000
Warnings: canonical death
Theme: Love and Courtship
Prompt: Let slip the dogs of war
Summary: Marauders’ era, mostly within-canon. Severus and Regulus fall in love. You know exactly how it ends.
A/N: There are three different plotlines, happening at three different times in the characters’ lives. Their telling is intermingled, though linear within each storyline. (I fantasize about an upcoming extended edition.) Thanks to PrettyPettigrew (yay titles!), and Girlwithsixarms, and Jackie.

Accounting for Regulus

There’s some things you can’t protect yourself against, some things you can’t get used to. There’s no preparation, no charm or curse or concoction. No nothing, because Cruciatus and disappearances are both equally unpredictable, and though Severus has dealt with lots of Cruciatus, lots of excruciating pain and residual nerve damage, he hasn’t had to endure the loss of many lovers. He’s not had to endure many lovers.

Regulus vanished two weeks ago. The Dark Lord was still playing it off like he knew exactly where Reg had gone, like he’d sent him on some top-secret errand in some top-secret place in You-Know-Who-knows where, which would be all well and good, would be normal, except that Severus had been summoned, yesterday, to explain Regulus's absence.

I’m sorry, my lord.
Sorry?
My lord, he told me nothing.
You, his closest confidante?
My lord, I-
Ultimately: Crucio!

He hasn't stopped shaking since. Severus tells himself it's exposure to extended Cruciatus and swallows more potion. Now he stands in front of his dresser, long fingers cradling an oversized ratty green sweater that Regulus loved but never wore. Severus stands in front of his dresser, kneading this favorite sweater, stolen because he has come to appreciate the art of holding on to things.

He’d taken it the first time Regulus had disappeared. The first time that lasted four days, that ended with curses, cries, and kisses, and promises that hid within gasped names and caresses but couldn’t be spoken because those promises are impossible to keep, especially when you’ve bargained your soul and your voice has rotted away with it.

The second time Regulus left, Severus did his best to keep to normalcy. Succeeded, almost, except that he took the green sweater out of the drawer and draped it across his pillow. It scratched his nose while he slept, but it smelled about right.

That second time lasted six days, a few hours shy of a week. Six days of deep breaths, of fading sweater smell, of shaking, of futures that trickled inside of Severus and lodged in his gut and made him want to vomit. But six days, just a few hours shy of a week, and Regulus walked through the door of their apartment with the insanest grin. Severus’s glazed eyes shot up from his favorite quarterly, which he couldn't possibly have been reading even if the Dark Lord himself had decreed it, and that insatiable grin swallowed him whole. Severus wished, fleetingly, before he stood and their lips met and his fingertips ran desperately down hot back, that he could bottle that smile like one of his potions, because if he could bottle that, it would keep him warm forever. It would blaze through him and down to his toes just as solidly as Reg’s kisses.

Regulus's fingertips say, "Fuck, I missed you, I'm sorry."
And Severus's shoulders say, "Where the hell were you?"
And thumb stroking spine says, "You know I can't tell you."
And nipping teeth say, "For him or something else?"
And aching places say, "I can't say."
And blind need says, "Fuck, please stay."
And everything wishes, "Okay."

But nothing was okay, because the next day the inner circle was summoned and it became clear that despite his wild smile (because of it?), Regulus had disappointed the Dark Lord, and then the Dark Lord commanded, and everyone was watching, and Severus was trying to imagine a later instead of this now as his wand was shaking, pointed at those perfect loved lips, and his voice was not shaking, saying "Crucio."

This third disappearance wouldn't have been okay even if Severus had had an idea, even if he had been, impossibly, prepared. If, maybe, Reg had left a note, left a glance, left a misplaced fork on their weathered kitchen table to indicate something. Every noise that he can't place, everywhere he goes, it's Reg's strutting footsteps, Reg's stifled laugh-cough, Reg's snide comment about that couple sitting at the cafe. It's Reg's shoe on display in Madam Malkin's window, Reg's hands pushing open the door of Honeydukes, and it's Reg's fucking green sweater on the man in the corner of his eye, even though Severus knows very well that Reg never wore it, and it's in the dresser drawer, waiting to be taken out when he gets back from the market.

Regulus, Severus screams at the ceiling, late or early or who the fuck knows because who the fuck cares when everyone you've loved has melted through your fingers. How can you be away when there is so much of you still in me? How can you be ¬– gone? – when I have your breath in my mouth, and your skin under my fingernails, and your smile not keeping me warm enough?

-----

The first time he saw Regulus Black's trademark grin, Regulus was sauntering to the Slytherin table through thick cheers and applause, and Severus thought he would vomit because it was so much like Sirius's.

They mostly avoided each other. Or, avoided is too harsh. Had no real reason to associate, really, until they were both a bit older, and Severus was looking for friends or maybe something more, and recognized the use of being close to one of the most charismatic and popular people in the school.

But maybe the burning ink in his arm means Severus shouldn't have approached him at one of Slug's parties.

It was one of those intolerable Christmas get-togethers, and Severus could feel Lily's attention on him except that she had stopped speaking to him and wouldn't even make eye contact, and with that type of encouragement it wasn't like Severus was going to extend an olive branch.

But there was Regulus, standing off to the side, fizzy semi-alcoholic beverage cradled in one hand, thick black hair swept back, dazzling in green velvet dress robes. No one around him, for once, though in a second, it looked like that vampire was going to come over, so Severus had better-

"Hello, Severus."

Okay, so maybe Severus hadn't actually approached Regulus. Been caught ogling would have been more accurate.

"Enjoying the party?" Severus asked.

Regulus raised one eyebrow and smirked. Is that even possible? Severus's tongue wanted to dart between those lips.

Severus swallowed. "We could go anywhere else."

"Sure."

And somehow they ended up laughing (flirting?) at the Three Broomsticks, drinking Butterbeer, and then Severus was laughing as Regulus punctuated a sentence with a smile, and Severus wanted to bury himself in Regulus's happiness and it took him much longer than it should have to realize that Regulus was talking about the dangers, the evils, of Muggleborns.

"Filthy Mudbloods." A swig of Butterbeer.

Severus blinked. "Mudbloods?" Lily...

An eager nod. "Should be eliminated. For their own good."

And Severus is quiet for a moment in the noisy pub, gazing noncommittally into his drink. "Are you planning to join the Death Eaters, then?"

"As one of the few remaining Pure-Bloods, it is my privilege to stand with them."

And Severus tried to breathe. He blinked, a half-nod.

Regulus grinned.

-----

Regulus was reading one of Severus's books about a month before two weeks and three days ago, or maybe more, or maybe less, because the days are getting confused with each other now, scrambled back and folded into themselves, and Regulus was reading on the couch when Severus got back from wherever, and it was strange because Regulus didn't smile.

Then, preparing dinner, Regulus not actually helping, just watching Snape, sprawled bonelessly on a stool like only he could manage and-

"You know we could be immortal."

And it hung in the air as Severus flicked his wand and the carrots started chopping themselves.

"Metaphorically?"

"Actually."

"Are you immortal now, then?" Maybe it was time for a stiff drink.

"No." Reg laughed, stood up from his perch, ran his palms over Severus's shoulders. "They say it's bad for the soul."

Lips hovering over Reg's, Severus murmured. "Couldn't possibly have that, could we?"

-----

After the second time Reg left, after the Summons, after impossibly possible Cruciatus, and nerve damage, after after after, Severus poured Stabilizing Draught between Reg's trembling lips, whispering promises that everything would be fine in a moment, but Severus didn't even believe himself, and Reg was no child, to trust an adult's lies.

Touching soothes Cruciatus, and a moment later they lay in bed, Severus's hand easing along Reg's back.

Severus resolved to get out of this. He had to get away from this insanity, this claustrophobic catastrophe, away from this horror, but against vows and ink, against my privilege, our privilege, how could they possibly leave? Severus looked down at Reg's sleeping face, wanted to kiss his eyelids except that sleep is important for tortured souls and those tortured by lovers, and Severus didn't know if Reg would come with him, or would instead hand him over to the Dark Lord.

So Severus agonized for days. He deliberated over sentences sliding over to Regulus as easy as passing the milk in the morning, like Maybe Dumbledore, and Maybe Siberia, or maybe I'd really like a vacation in Bora-Bora. I've always wanted to visit. Don't you think we should go? But Severus just pushed the milk across the table from behind his morning copy of The Prophet before he plodded through the day as an apothecary’s assistant and Reg did whatever Reg wanted because he's a Black.

-----

When Severus found him, Regulus was sitting in an armchair in the very back of the library practicing something nonverbal that shot pink hearts from the tip of his wand. Severus glared, then sat, seething, on the arm of the chair.

Swirl-flick! Swirl-flick! Regulus waited.

Severus sighed. Then growled. "I hate your brother."

Swirl-flick! Swirl-flick! "Most people do." Glowing hearts rained down, evaporating before they hit the carpet.

"I really hate your brother."

"Get in line. My mother's first." The hearts thickened. "I'm second."

Severus turned to look at him. "Why?"

"Because he's an asshole." Swirl-flick! Swirl-flick! "Because he left." Reg looked up at Severus.

Severus looked back.

"Hey, Sev?"

Severus's eyes narrowed as Reg brought his wand up. "What?"

He should have been less surprised when he was hit with a blast of hearts worthy of a fire-hose. He should have been less surprised when Regulus stood, reached for his hand, and pulled him up, hands pressing into his back, Regulus burning into him. Lips brushed against his, and all Severus could do was stand there and smile stupidly. A moment, and Reg turned to walk out of the library.

"Come on."

-----

The kitchen table hums something tuneless at him as Severus pours his milk and tries to read his paper and ignore the damn thing.

It hums, but then it starts talking, because “You look like you could use some company, Severus.”

He checks himself, ensures that no, he is reading the drivel that comes in The Prophet and that no, he does not look like he could use some company; he looks quite content, thank-you-very-much.

“You think you don’t, but you do.”

Stupid tables. He told Regulus he wanted a miserable, shy, quiet table when they moved in. Reg insisted on this one.

“Well, he won’t be insisting on me now, will he.”

Celestina Warbeck Tour Sold Out!

“Probably won’t be insisting on anything anymore.”

Death Eater raid on Ottery St. Catchpole!

"Because when reckless people get themselves kill-"

"Shut the fuck up!" Severus roars, and he stands up and the chair squeals in pain as it slides backward too fast, and his hand comes down and smacks the table but really just knocks everything to the floor, exploding down, and his favorite mug shatters and his toast is ruined beneath a cracked plate and there's milk and tea everywhere, a puddle burning his little toe, and the world is much too loud and Severus wishes everything would just shut up.

Severus inhales, looks at the buttery knife in his tea-puddle, looks at the table, looks at the remains of his mug, looks at the table. He exhales. He knows he could clean this all up with a wave or two of his wand, could maybe even repair the porcelain, but instead he just stands there in his black pajama bottoms and grey t-shirt and wonders why everything is going to hell as he tries not to think about the fact that the table is probably right. Tables usually are.

-----

"It just seems... dangerous."

"But all the best things are!"

They would go on walks, late at night, long past curfew, out onto the grounds, maybe walk into Hogsmeade, down the deserted streets, staring into the darkness of the usually-bright storefronts.

"The network of people, the power! Think of it, Severus!"

Severus shook his head. "It's not something you can back away from. The Dark Lord can't be told 'I'm sorry, I don't feel comfortable doing this. How about I go on a long vacation to Tahiti until I'm ready?'"

"I know that." Reg's voice was angry beside him.

"Do you really?"

And that's when Regulus stopped walking, and then Severus stopped walking, and that's when Regulus pulled up his sleeve.

"Merlin, Reg!"

Regulus stood there for a moment, then yanked his sleeve down and turned back toward Hogwarts.

"Reg..." Severus hurried to match his strides. "What if you're killed? What if he kills you?"

"Then at least I will have worked for something I believe, instead of wallowing on middle ground like a coward."

-----

Their house still smelled like wood polish and drying paint when Regulus first stumbled out the front door in the half-time between night and morning, clutching his arm. Pop, he disappeared, leaving Severus bewildered, half-fallen out of bed, rubbing his eyes, wondering what the hell had just happened.

The day was any normal day, except, of course, that he dropped two vials of Oil of Olivier (70 Galleons each!), which burned twin holes in the floor and left the shop reeking of lilacs and burned socks.

“Snape!” the apothecary bellowed.
“Yes, sir.”
“Slippery fingers?”
“No sir, my toes caught fire a moment ago.”
“Eh. Make sure Mrs. Mathinia’s order is done by four.”

But that was only how the conversation went in Severus’s head, because his appendages didn’t spontaneously combust, and Mr. Glubman had seen the vials fall from their tray. Severus spent the next half-hour grinding his teeth while being berated.

After work, Severus stumbled into their empty home and just sat at the kitchen for a moment, recuperating, managing to ignore, for once, the jibes of the table. He took some deep breaths, let his feet stop aching, and evaluated his dinner options. Pasta, soup, he could order owl-delivery Indian-

Severus heard a huge thud at the front door. Wand out, he hurried to the entryway, wondering what the hell just happened, wondering where Regulus was, still wondering what he was going to eat for dinner.

"Hominum revelio," Severus whispered from his crouch and he felt the spell settle over a form outside, collapsed on the ground.

A guttural groan came from behind the door. Severus could have just been imagining it, but it sounded a little like his name. If someone’s lips had been cut away and their teeth yanked out.

Severus’s heart was beating much too fast as he eased the door open and a head collided with the ground. A head Severus knew much too well.

“Fuck, Regulus!”

Petrificus Totalus insured that his body was immobile, and Mobilicorpus levitated him to the bed, which Severus covered with a towel.

His teeth were indeed missing, his mouth a mass of bleeding gums. Where his lips should be were hollow flaps of skin, the top of one ear was gone. His shin was bent, bone visible, and one shoulder was dangling out of its socket. Long bloody gashes split his robes, and he reeked of scorched dead things. Severus gagged as he Banished the robes. Reg’s feet were mangled horribly, fingers of both hands were deflated, empty skin sacks, but at least they were there.

Little rasping noises were coming from Reg’s throat, and Regulus probably had broken ribs.

“Merlin, Reg,” Severus wiped the tears out of his eyes and cast every diagnostic and healing charm he could think of, then rushed to the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink. Reg had made him plan for this eventuality, made him create all sorts of restorative draughts, quaffs, everything either one of them could think of. Severus had never expected to use them, but he gathered them all now, and he brought potions and salves and vials and jars back to the bed, squeezed and dribbled tinctures down Reg’s throat. His breathing became quieter, and Severus slowly, ever so gently, smeared balm all over Reg’s skin, everywhere he could reach. Severus would have to turn him over, soon, once the internal damage was healed enough.

He waited, waited, watched Reg’s eyes slip closed with the painkillers, and then Severus eased him over onto his stomach. The potions had done their work well, and Severus’s fingers soothed syrup across mostly-healed skin.

Skele-Gro soon, and more dittany, and lots of sleep.

Severus sat beside the bed, watching Regulus, and wondered how the hell this happened, and what he was going to do about it.

They were both up all night, Severus back and forth from the kitchen, which he’d transformed into a makeshift lab, and Regulus groggy and hurting in bed, under warming charms because blankets chafed too much.

The day after the next day, when Regulus could talk again, and had fingers, and wasn’t hurting everywhere, Severus was eating owl-order Indian food and all Regulus was allowed were blood replenishers and Severus’s Calorie Concoction. It was time for answers.

“So you got blindsided during a raid on a group of Aurors.”

Regulus nodded.

Severus nodded.

“And you’re going to keep fighting?”

If Regulus were four years younger and not a Black, he would be squirming. “Of course. Privilege.” He shrugged.

Severus swallowed. Adults and ultimatums, and Severus wondered if he would have the strength to leave Reg. Wondered, if he didn’t leave, how to ensure this didn’t happen again.

-----

The day after the week after the Ceremony (the day after he tortured so many Muggles and loved it), his arm stopped feeling like it would fall off. He stood in the bathroom, looking at the skull and snake, grotesque beneath his skin, and wished he could claw it off. He wished he could cut it out, could peel off a layer of himself, starting at his elbow, ending at his wrist, and let the ink gush out in gushing splatters across everything, as long as it would no longer be in him. He went into the kitchen for the knife - a smooth one, not serrated, this needed to be clean - and held it in his right fist, ready, prepared to draw a tiny red line in the crease of his arm and then pull the flap of flesh down down down, until the black and green ink would spurt across the kitchen, leaving a hideous stain on the yellow wall that would be vastly preferable to this skull leering out at him. He inhaled, pressed the tip to his inner elbow, and-

Reg came up behind him and pressed himself to Severus's back. Warmth seeped through Severus's robes and fought a bit of the hot in his arm, pushing it back on itself, and if Reg had been a little less insistent, a little less tender, the ink would have shot from his arm in a rainbow of black, but those hands eased Severus's, placed the knife back in the drawer, and then steered Severus to the couch.

Sitting, Reg wrapped Severus within the circle of his limbs, his too-short arms nowhere near long enough to hold him properly, wishing he could swallow him because that would be better.

Reg's hand rubbed Severus’s shoulder and wondered if maybe this is how Sirius felt after he ran away. Reg wished he could vomit.

Regulus leaned to nuzzle at Sev as his fingers wondered how to get them both out of this mess alive. But the back of his neck was beginning to think that maybe getting them out of this was impossible.

But maybe, his spine tingled, less impossible if nightmares could be killed.

So Reg researched and read until his eyes were going to fall out and he wanted to curl in on himself and beg the universe for mercy, because how the hell was he supposed to know where the Dark Lord had hidden his soul? Dead-ended, out of ideas, and needing specifics, the universe smiled when the Dark Lord asked for a volunteer.

"Please, Kreacher. It has to be you."

Kreacher looked skeptical.

"Do whatever he tells you, and then come right back here." Regulus knelt in front of him and reached a hand to his shoulder. “Please.”

Kreacher stared at him with his bulging eyes, but finally nodded. He disappeared with a resounding CRACK!

Hours later, he materialized at Regulus's feet, gasping for breath, bleeding, thirsty as anything, and Aguamenti helped some, and bruise balm from the bathroom cabinet helped more.

"I am so, so sorry, Kreacher. Had I known..."

And Kreacher told him what happened, and Regulus understood what he had to do.

"Hey, Severus." Regulus smiled, later, as Severus's quill flitted across parchment, writing... arithmancy tables? Severus didn't look up. "Severus."

"Hmmm?"

"I'm going out." Reg squeezed the locket in his pocket. The metal of the clasp bit into his palm.

Severus looked up, squinting. "Hmmm?"

"I'll be back later." I love you.

"Alright." Severus went back to work.

So Regulus left, Apparated to Grimmauld Place, summoned Kreacher. They went to the cave. Regulus bled, rowed, gave Kreacher specific instructions for after. Then he drank, and dreamed. And then, thirsty for anything to quench this burning suffocation, he stumbled to the lake, visions of Severus swirling in front of him.

Regulus did not feel Kreacher’s bony fingers tugging him back. He did not feel how Kreacher tried to pull him from the edge of the water, how he held him against other desperate hands pulling him in. Nor did Regulus feel how – CRACK - Kreacher popped them back to Grimmauld Place. Regulus only felt the wetness in his throat, and the feeling of weightlessness that reminded him of Severus.

“Master!” Kreacher shook the robe in his hands. “Master! Master!” He shook it again, and realized that it was too light to be master. “Master!” All he held was Regulus’s black robe. He stared at it, wondered that other hands were more powerful than his.

Kreacher brought the robe into his den and curled up inside it, stroking the locket around his neck.

Kreacher wept.

-----

Severus wishes many things. He wishes he knew how many rat tails are in minkerfuls. Severus wishes he knew the average number of glances a person gets to share with a lover. Severus wishes Reg would walk in their front door, grin at him, and drag him to bed. But Severus really just wishes he'd gotten off his arse the day Reg left and held him one last time.

It's been three weeks, and Severus is holding the green sweater, trying to inhale it, trying to make Regulus real again. He doesn't know what to do.

Ten Nights

pollicem — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 21:33:19 GMT

Title: Ten Nights
Author: pollicem
Pairing: Tom/Harry
Rating: R?
Fandom: Harry Potter
Theme: #10 - #10
Disclaimer: Not mine. Also, pretend Harry’s older – like 16, or so.

Ten Nights

The first night is the worst. Supposedly anyway. The first night, when it’s his own hand, not Tom’s mouth, and the bed is too big and Harry can’t find anything to curl around except his pillow and then his head is flat on the mattress, and it’s not working at all so he wraps his arms around his bent knees and tries not to cry.

Lying in the darkness, Harry wonders if there’s a charm for hearing Tom’s steady sleep-breaths, for feeling his heartbeat, and he’s sure Hermione would know, but he couldn’t possibly ask her.
//
Hey, Herm. So I used to be fucking Tom, but what with him trying to kill Ginny, and then me, and then me killing him, that’s obviously not working out anymore. Yeah, funny, I know. My parents and my virginity, both. Yeah. Is there a charm or something for loneliness?
//
He hates his bed. Scarlet and soft and perfect, nothing like Tom’s green silk Slytherin sheets.

Harry huffs, grabs his pillow and a blanket, stumbles down to the common room couch.

-----

The second night, there’s a pain in Harry’s gut, and he doesn’t sleep because he’s vomiting in the Gryffindor bathroom, knees aching against the hardness of the tile. He can’t find the energy to go to Madam Pomfrey, and everyone else is asleep.

Classes are over, and Harry’s supposed to be celebrating, and maybe he overdid the Firewhiskey tonight, or maybe it’s this absence that Harry shouldn’t even want to fill, but had damn well better scab soon. Fawkes should come cry on this hurt.

Harry looks across the bright white marble into a mirror and Tom stares back, that irresistible trademark smirk blazing from his eyes.
//
Softly: I’m going to kiss you now.
Barely: Yeah.
(Imagined: I’m going to kill you soon.)
//
But then the eyes are green, not grey, and there’s a pale scar peeking out from messy bangs, and then Harry’s insides are heaving and he turns back to the toilet bowl.

-----

The third night, Harry holds a potion from Pomfrey, said he’d been having nightmares. She’d said he was a poor thing, looked exhausted, and gave him three nights’ worth.

He swallows all of it.

-----

The fourth and fifth nights are excruciating. No more potion finds Harry up, three, four, five in the morning. He tries to read – adventure novels from the back of the library –doesn’t have the energy to get up and put on the cloak and wander, but it turns out he doesn’t have the energy to force his eyes to trace across the deeds of Gregory the Magnificent, either. So his exhausted brain goes to its default setting – running in circles around Tom, colliding with him every third second.
//
Tom, you’re evil. I killed you. I can’t still be in love with you.
//
Fuck.

-----

Seamus sucks. Seamus sucks, but his mouth doesn’t feel quite right around Harry, and after, when they’re both sated, Seamus curls around him and just misses cushioning Harry’s spaces.

Harry rubs circles across Seamus’ back and listens as his breaths even out into sleep, except they’re not quite even, they’ve got this hiccough that Harry’s sure would be adorable, except it makes his arms ache to wrap around another body that fits just right. Harry’s eyes are burning, and he extracts himself without waking Seamus (miraculously)-
//
Rasped: Mmmph. Wharezit?
Murmured: Shhh. Go back to sleep. I have to get to class.
//
and heads back to his own bed. At least he’s tired.

Tom rolls over in Harry’s dreams, burrows back into blankets while he flunks Potions.

-----

On the seventh night, Harry asks Madam Pomfrey for something stronger. He squirms under her gaze, and she says he can have it if he’s willing to sleep in the Hospital Wing, and talk to someone tomorrow. Of course. Thank you.

-----

The eighth night, Harry remembers his meeting with the Psychiwizard, remembers his breathing exercises, remembers relaxation, remembers how not to think about Tom, remembers to swallow the Drowsy Draught.
//
I’m sorry we didn’t work out. I really am an asshole. But I really did love you.
Leame ‘lone.
//
Harry could swear he hears a low, broken chuckle as hands soothe him into sleep.

-----

The ninth night has Harry remembering Tom – in the diary and in the Chamber, like always. The ninth night has tentative glances, and urgent kisses, and the most damning betrayal. The ninth night has Harry remembering the Dursleys (summer in two days!), and Ginny (body splayed across stone!), and Lockhart (Obliviate!).
//
Obliviate!
//
Harry remembers.

-----

On the tenth night, Harry forgets.

Closer

pollicem — Tue, 30 Mar 2010 05:04:08 GMT

Title: Closer
Author: pollicem
Pairing: Tom/Harry
Rating: R
Fandom: Harry Potter
Theme: #4 – Our distance and that person
Disclaimer: Not mine.

what was between them was brilliant and bold and beautiful – these garishly red sheets that made harry grin and tom flinch, and this feeling that tripped harry’s breath, and sometimes, sometimes nothing. and the nothing – this hungry emptiness, the aching push, the sweet slide – this nothing between them was the best of all. this nothing, when they were one person sharing warmth and skin and breath, teasing and loving, and rough and softest, moving together, faster faster, closer closest, and yes oh godyesplease–

stay with me? tom asks after, always.

i can’t. always.

and when harry leaves to the real, tom feels like a shirt being pulled from the laundry machine at the orphanage, arms tangled with other clothes, desperate to hold, but tom is cold, and there is nothing to hold here.

Neither Lethe nor Nepenthe

pollicem — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 04:19:18 GMT

Title: Neither Lethe nor Nepenthe
Author: pollicem
Pairing: Tom/Harry
Rating: light R
Fandom: Harry Potter
Theme: #27 – overflow
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Harry thinks he knows how to finally make Tom go away.

Neither Lethe nor Nepenthe

“Harry, what are you doing?”

Tom looks at your back. You continue. Wand to temple, wand to bowl, pulling another wispy strand.

(hermione is screaming, and ron is screaming, and you see yourself screaming, too, because-)

“Harry!” Tom comes up beside you, stares at you.

Wand to temple, wand to bowl.

(tom’s there, and you, and he’s stroking you, loving you, and you’re loving him, but he’s making you do things, you think – he’s maybe making you do things so he can be real and do this, but you’re not sure and you think you love him, but wait-)

“What are you...?”

Rhythmic motion continues. Wand to temple... Tom wonders how many memories are inside a person, anyway. And your Pensieve looks pretty full.

(ginny knows how it is, what possession is like. she’s staring at you with red eyes, saying you were the snake? and you aren’t blacking-)

“It’s dangerous to take too many out, you know. You can’t always get them back in the right places.”

Wand to temple, wand to Pensieve. Wisp wisp wisp.

(outside hogwarts and everything is burning and it’s tom but definitely not tom – older tom, disgusting tom, not tom at all, and he’s laughing laughing laughing and then he’s-)

Tom’s blinking.

“You can’t possibly-”

But at this rate, you probably can.

(dead dead dead. except tom is still here, still fucking you and fucking with you and fucking you over and you’re just barely sane enough to know it has to stop, has to-)

“Harry, if you keep this up you won’t remember anything at all!”

And maybe it’s the way your arm continues, or maybe it’s the way your forehead relaxes just slightly, or maybe it’s nothing at all except that Tom’s pretty smart.

(started the first time when you looked up and saw tom sitting on the arm of one of the big old gryffindor armchairs, grinning manically and swinging his feet like a four-year-old, and you squinted at him and reached for your wand to cast a-)

“You can’t mean...”

Tom swallows.

“You won’t remember me.” Tom’s brown eyes fill a little before he shakes his head and grabs for the Pensieve.

But he’s sent shooting across the room because you’ve been clever, just this once, and there’s a spell around it, and around your wand – he can’t take that either. Wand to temple, wand to bowl. Fuller and fuller and fuller.

(lubrication charm tom mutters desperately desperately desperately wanting more and harder and faster and-)

And then Tom gets it.

“If you think this is going to get rid of me, you’re wrong.”

(he smiles, a dark feral thing, because he’s got his wand pointed at you, and you’re tied, shaking in-)

But you don’t listen.

“I’m not going to just go away, you know, if you forget everything!”

Wisp wisp wisp.

(you love the way tom loves you, but mostly you’re thinking this is crazy and you’re wondering where yesterday went and why voices keep screaming and begging inside your head, begging-)

“I’m not some figment of your twisted imagination!” Tom screams.

You grin, except it’s nothing like a grin, and the wisps are so thick now and you see Tom’s face, thin and stretched, in one. Another moment and it swirls with the others.

(please. you’re crying, because he’s not real, and no one else sees him, and you don’t know what to do, but this has to-)

“Stop it! You can’t kill me by killing yourself!”

And this time Tom grabs your shoulder, turns you and you stare into big brown eyes and his lips ghost over yours and you sigh into him and he runs warm hands down your back, tangles one in your hair, and you love how solid he is in your arms. But he’s not. Not real. He’s just an imagined dream, and it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. Someone told you that once, but you can’t remember who – just that line. And in a moment, when Tom lets you go, color high on his cheeks, staring at you with something like hope in his eyes, you can’t even remember- what was there to remember? Wisp.

(stop. it-)

“Please!”

You shake your head, inhale, and one last wisp is pulled out. This one slightest of them all. It joins the rest.

(has to, has to-)

And then, because the disgusting thing on the table has to go even though you don’t know why – something about the boy standing beside you – you lift it up over your head and you-

let go.

It smashes on the stone floor.

Smashes, and shatters, and silvery liquid spews everywhere before it effervesces away, and you sit, satisfied, on the ground, blinking and wondering how you got there.

There is a boy beside you, staring down at you with horror and other things you can’t name.

“Who are you?” you ask him. You don’t know why, but you have the feeling he shouldn’t be here.

“I’m not. Inside. Your. Head. You fucking idiot.”

(has to stop.)

Green and Brown

pollicem — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 19:40:25 GMT

Title: Green and Brown
Author: pollicem
Pairing: Tom/Harry
Rating: PG-15
Fandom: Harry Potter
Theme: #6 – The space between dream and reality
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Green and Brown

-You’re not real.
     Said green eyes to brown.

-As real as you are, here.
     Brown blinked. Green squinted back.

Green’s poke met brown flesh. Brown flinched.

-Stop that.

-Ow. You made my finger sting.
     Green’s finger now tipped red.

-You poked me.

-How could I? You’re not real.

Brown sighed. Circles.

-Oh yeah?
     Brown leans in, toward green, and brown lips brush green and green widens perfectly and brown opens green and gasps green and brown sighs again, a different kind of sigh, a beautiful brown sigh, before brown pulls back from glowing green.

-Not real. Better than real.
     And green moves this time, slithers up against brown and brown fingers stroke down green sides when green hands pull brown back closer and knead brown flesh with green fingernails until ruddy hot jaggedness touches green and brown, turning them both dark muddy.
     And before long, other things, now yucky brown and green, move inside and over and between breen, and suddenly-

Green and brown make black.

Tom's Gallery

pollicem — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 22:46:00 GMT

Title: Tom’s Gallery; or, What Really Happened In Book Two
Author: pollicem
Pairing: Tom/Harry
Rating: soft R
Fandom: Harry Potter
Theme: #5 – Hey, you know...
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Tom’s Gallery; or, What Really Happened In Book Two

“Hey Tom?”

Tom’s finger stilled tracing curves on Harry’s stomach, then started again.

“Yeah?”

“I really do think modern art’s great, and all.”

The fingers moved up to tweak his nipples. Hard.

“Ah.” Harry squirmed, dug his fingers into Tom’s shoulder. “Really, I do.”

Tom’s other hand flirted with Harry’s waistband, darting under it, then withdrawing.

“Especially coll- collaborative modern art.”

Tom kissed Harry’s temple, stroked his sides,

“But I don’t think what you’re doing is fair-”

traced his earlobe with his tongue,

“to-”

slid a hand inside his pants and squeezed.

“Oh! G- Ginny.”

30_Kisses #14

pollicem — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 23:59:39 GMT

Title: Static
Author: pollicem
Pairing: Tom/Harry
Rating PG-13
Fandom: Harry Potter
Theme: #14 – Radio-cassette player
Disclaimer: Not mine.

Static

White noise. Like a radio tuned to abominable nothing, and Harry was hearing it everywhere. On the Quidditch Pitch, in Transfigurations, in the Great Hall. While he washed, laughed, came.

Pomfrey had seen nothing amiss, had told him it would go away naturally with time. Hermione said it was highly unusual, that it was related to about six rare potion ingredients Harry’d never heard of and certainly couldn’t remember, and told him to get some sleep, because stress was also a potential factor. He was sure it was static and not ringing?

No, Hermione, it’s not ringing, it’s static.

Is it You-Know-Who?

Harry didn’t know. He just knew that there was static everywhere. A constant, low-level noise, always.

Except in his dreams. Some of them, that is. The ones where he shrieked at Tom, and beat him, and cursed him dead, and the ones where he finally got tired of that and he just sat, irritably, feeling heavy eyes watching, and the ones after where they cuddled and kissed and, eventually, fucked.

Tom, I’m going crazy, Tom.

A question in the way his neck was nuzzled.

Sound, always fucking sound, except when I’m with you.

A slow swipe of tongue that said stay here forever.

Sigh. Acquiescence.

And the static stopped.