april 26 @jegulus-microfic prompt: aimless. word count: 248.
Regulus Black is not a person who ever feels misguided. At this point in his life, he feels strength in his purpose, and he’s confident in his decisions, his opinions. He follows a clear path, he’s organized—and it brings him joy to be so put-together. He doesn’t often feel lost.
That is—he’s never felt as aimless as he does now, standing before the most stunning man he’s ever met, mouth dropped open in awe as he stares wordlessly. The man grins at him, and his heart flutters. He is pure fucking gold under Regulus' gaze, glistening and warm under the sunlight, and Regulus knows he has never understood true want until this moment.
He’s been standing silently for far too long now, and he realizes he forgot the question the man asked entirely. Shit.
He stammers through half a phrase before the man’s chuckle interrupts him.
“I’m James,” he says, eyes full of honeybrown sugar as he looks down at Regulus. He’s tall. Regulus is weak in the knees.
Remembering his manners, Regulus breathes and extends a hand, “I’m Regulus.”
James’ smile widens, and he says, “That’s a lovely name, Regulus.” Their hands meet in the middle. Between them, Regulus feels the entire universe hone into the contact—he feels the universe pause and right itself completely at this moment, because nothing has ever felt as perfect as them. Regulus looks up at James, and he thinks, absurdly, in every life, my heart will find yours.
[this a short 'character study' of Barty in a fic i'm writing]
HUMAN BARTY | ROSEKILLER| WC : 514
cw; implied abuse, mention death, religious imagery
"Barty and his need to worship"
He has sinned and been forgiven time and time again.
He has seen the moon and the stars and the heavens above.
He has lived and he has died.
His father fears that something inside him has changed, has twisted when he returned from death.
“You are sick, broken, possessed. You hold his face, you hold his name, but know this, you demonic spawn, you are not my son, you will never be my son for he is dead and with the Saints.”
Except he wasn't dead, he was here standing in front of his father watching him burn his favorite toys and books.
He was ten.
He was twenty when he met a real demonic creature.
He was twenty when he fell in love with the demonic creature.
He was twenty when he wanted to become one as well.
Life and death, blood and flesh. It all lost meaning.
It all became the same.
Death was just an extension of life that no one could escape, not unless you were one of those demonic creatures his father feared so much.
Feeding upon the living to ensure their strength.
He grew to love the idea. Being needed to continue living. Having purpose to the very thing his father despised.
Feeling wanted, feeling desired and loved by the very things he should want nothing to do with.
“Darling, you feed me so well. I don't think anyone could compare to you. You're sweet but never overwhelmingly so. Absolutely perfect for me.”
That's what he loved, being perfect, being adored for who he was without remorse.
Fuck his father, fuck the Saints he worshiped.
This creature before him. The one who he would go to his knees for is the only one he would ever go to worship.
The Saints took his life and returned it just as quickly, but they took all his happiness and no amount of repentance or prayer would return things to how they once were.
But here, being pressed against a wall with teeth at his shoulder and nails digging into his arm, he could finally find acceptance and love for a being of greater power.
His blood, his life, all for the taking. Layed out as an offering to the one who picked him up from the ground and showed him ecstasy with nothing more than his mouth.
He has sinned and he has been forgiven by the Saints his father worships and adores. He has spit at their altar, and defaced their image. Fucked against walls of their most sacred temples just to spite them.
Fuck them all. Nothing could compare to him. An altar in his name. Marble statues in his image, never catching his true perfection. No hands would be able to create him in a perfect replica.
Evan Rosier, the only thing worth worshiping in this forsaken city. On his knees, with his mouth, with his body as an offering.
“With blood as sweet as nectar, how could I ever ask for more than that.”
He would do anything to continue worshiping this creature of sin.
[this a short 'character study' of Sirius in a fic i'm writing]
VAMPIRE SIRIUS | WOLFSTAR | WC : 657
cw; implied abuse, description of eating(?) people, mention of blood
"Sirius and his need to taste"
Oh, he was broken.
He never thought Walburga's silver-laced words held any semblance of truth. He knew of how they cut, of how they hurt. He knew that they could dig deep into his skin and bleed him out. Opening his soul for all to see, for all to witness.
“Look upon the boy. Watch as he squirms and begs.”
“Don't break him, not yet.”
“Knock him down.”
“Hang him up.”
“Tear him apart.”
Taunting words, humiliating cries.
They follow him here and there. Dead or alive. He could never find an escape.
He knew this, but he, still, never believed them true.
It was one of his better qualities. It's a gift, really. A gift he had developed for the sake of his own well-being because believing anything Walburga Black said would result in true madness.
After centuries under her control, it was the only thing he could do.
She was horrible, and her husband was cut from the same cloth. Often they spoke in riddles making demands, requiring more, insisting on perfection.
The role of a son, of an heir.
The perfect performance of an aristocratic family that held no secrets, that told no lies. It was years of living this meaningless existence. Years of the same harsh words, years of the same painful punishments.
It was no surprise when the heir of House Black just disappeared.
It was years ago, a lifetime ago.
Her influence gone, her words forgotten, yet he was still the same boy that escaped all those years ago.
He was still broken.
Oh, so very broken. He wasn't sure how he hadn't seen it before.
It was the only explanation for his need for a stranger—a man whom he had never met before. One bite he could reason, just a single taste, but this was more than just a craving. This was an ache he wasn't aware he even held.
How else could he explain the need to taste him? How could he explain the need to have his blood inside him, warming him like no other?
Oh, to have a taste.
To have that hot blood fill his mouth when he sinks his teeth.
It would be everything; he just knew it.
Spice and fire, heat and fury. Something wild, something feral. What else would he taste like? Would he be as sweet as the chocolates he eats or as smokey as the whisky he drinks?
What would it feel like to have him under him? To have him against the wall, to bite his long neck, not to feed but to hold?
He would love to have his teeth against that long neck. Would love to trace each of those scars with his tongue. Bite down on his arms and legs just to see if it was any different. Would his flesh be tender and soft or tough and chewy?
Would he fight or give in?
He was of night, just like him. He would understand the need.
Just a taste; that's all he would ask for.
But it wouldn't be enough.
One taste would never be enough.
No, he would need more. He would become an addiction. Blood, flesh and bones, all of him would be craved, all of him would be needed. All of him would be claimed.
Blood and flesh, he would consume all. Everything he was, his essence, his life. All of it his to call his own.
Teeth on skin, so close but never piercing. Thrilling was the idea of holding him down. Neck bare, his blood rushing through his body. Chocolate or whisky, it didn't matter so long as it was his blood in his mouth. So long as it was his blood that filled him with heat and warmth. So long as it was him in his arms.
So long as it was Remus Lupin who he could taste.
For to not have him would be worse than any wooden stake.
[this a short 'character study' of James in a fic i'm writing]
HUMAN JAMES | JEGULUS | WC : 520
cw; religious imaginary
"James and his need to sin"
Beauty is subjective, but only when you don't have an angel looking at you.
There's no warning.
A star falls from the sky and an angel falls from the heavens. It's how things have always been. The way the world works.
When the night rises there is one less star to be seen and one more angel who looks at you as you search in the sky.
Fallen angels are punished for disobedience, for insolence, for disrespect and selfishness. If he is an angel he has fallen.
And if he has fallen then the Saints must have intended to bless him because someone as beautiful as him should never be punished.
Too beautiful for this world. Too beautiful for us, for me.
He is damaged, broken. He will corrupt you, destroy you, kill you.
Then let it be. It's as the Saints intended it.
Why else would he be blessed with such a creature? Beautiful, angelic, perfection in all the ways that matter.
Devils are beautiful, devils are what the angels turn into when they fall down from the heavens.
Fallen angels bring corruption. They bring death and disease.
Following a fallen angel will lead you to the depths of damnation. They lie and deceive as they drag you away from all that is holy. The light, the love, the goodness of humanity.
It would be such a nice way to be taken.
Gray eyes and black hair. Such a gorgeous sight. Red tinted lips and skin that shined like the moon. So pale, so cold, he was so effortlessly beautiful that it was impossible to look away from.
It was the red of his mouth that truly caught his attention.
It was red, so bright against his skin, a color so bright and full of life that it was practically mesmerizing.
Destruction will follow. Watch your soul, your life, your eyes. They will bring you to sin, to corruption and destruction.
Then let him commit those most sinful acts. Let him be accused of absolute blasphemy. Should he be punished by the Saints then let him have a taste of the very thing that is forbidden.
An angel should not be touched. Far too holy for the attention of man.
But he was punished to walk the world just like any other man. Could he ever return to the heavens if he were to give in to mortal desires? Could his touch be the only thing that truly destroyed him?
"You are far too good for us. You walk through these corridors as if you were light itself, as if the sun has come to greet us. I miss having the sun touch my skin."
It was a plea to return, but if he was the sun would he be enough to replace the light that he was born from. Would he miss the holy air that he was once a part of. Immortality exchanged for a mere mortal?
Who would ever make such an agreement?
No, Regulus Black deserved to return to the heavens. It didn't matter that he was not allowed to touch him like the sun.
Touch is something he never thought he would miss.
Years of solitude, years of isolation, and the one thing he continues to wish for is the warm skin of another person.
Oh, how he missed the warmth. Not just the warmth of touch but the warmth of life. The warmth of the sun that could scare off any chill that wished to take hold of him.
It’s been years, centuries since he’s seen the sun.
Years, centuries, since he could claim to be alive.
Years, centuries, since he felt alive.
Years, centuries, it was all the same in the night. All of it is the same in the cold, in the dark.
Years and centuries, why did time matter for a creature like him? Why did he count the days, the months, the years, the centuries? Lifetime after lifetime, it was all the same.
Always missing the warmth, always missing the sun.
“You, my brother, are the ocean. Wild and untamed, deep and engulfing. It does not matter how long goes by, you will continue to return to the shores with a vengeance. May the Saints bless those who stand on the shore you wish to fall upon.”
Call him the ocean, call him the waves that crash on the sands, call him the waters that are pulled by the moon, but also call him the water that wishes for the sun. Call him the sea that glistens in the morning light. Call him all of that in more, so long as he gets to see the beautiful blue skies again.
That is what he wishes for.
For the blue sky and the warm sun.
That’s what he finds in his touch.
In the touch of a human that shouldn't wish to be touched by him.
A creature, a monster.
“You are beautiful. So wonderful to look at, so pleasant to hold. Saints above, you are absolutely divine.”
He lies.
A monster like him, divine?
A twisted joke. The Saints must take great pleasure in making a mockery of him.
Touch this man and feel your mortality leave you once again. Look upon him and witness as everything you wished for is taken away.
His eyes are warm and kind. His touch is delicate and caring. For a moment he can forget the cold that creeps under his skin whenever they touch.
He is the sun you crave. The warmth you wish to feel on your skin.
He is bright, so bright that he shines against the candle light. He could light up a room if he were to smile. He is soft, warm, and kind.
Look at him and yearn, for you will never be worthy of him.
Yearn, that's all he can do. He is the light his life is missing. He is the sun, the warmth, and he can not have him.
No, he could never be worthy.
No one would ever be worthy of a man like James Potter. Especially not someone who wishes to take the blood that keeps that skin of his so warm.
