Barty exhales; a laboured action. The chains rattle and creak, the leather digs further into his wrists. He licks his lips, tasting blood where he’s bitten them raw.
He cannot see anything; the room is submerged in total and complete darkness. Evan made sure of that when he tied the blindfold around his eyes. With his arms stretched out and held in position by his chains, he’s cowering on the bed like a convicted man waiting for his execution, like an offering to Evan and Evan alone.
Death is often swift, but not tonight. Tonight, death is without mercy.
Barty’s cock twitches, strains against his abdomen. He knows he’s making a mess on the sheets; leaking precum everywhere. But he doesn’t chase his high. He tried, of course, but every time his length rubs against the wet fabric, the steps retreat, leaving the empty room to feel even colder and hollower than before.
Click, click, click.
Evan’s shoes clack against the floor. Barty strains his ears, bates his breath. Sound is all he has to locate the man circling him like a predator. For once, Barty doesn’t mind being his prey.
He shivers — partially to the chilliness of the room, but mainly because of the anticipation. The steps are drawing nearer. Again, his cock strains, twitches. His muscles are strung tight with the eagerness of a guard dog soon to be released.
Barty wets his lips, exhales once more. Behind him, the mattress dips, and he senses Evan shuffling closer. Something hard and slick presses against the cheeks of his arse, rubs against them, teasing him. Not flesh, no; silicone — cool and smooth.
A whimper falls from his lips, weakened and desperate from spending hours tied down in the same position: spine arched, chest buried into the sheets, wrists burning and raw. Evan chuckles, pressing the tip of his strap-on against Barty’s entrance, shoving his fingers into Barty’s mouth.
“No need to cry,” he soothes, viciously. “I know you can take whatever I want to give you.”
He presses in, and Barty moans and whimpers around Evan’s knuckles, saliva dripping from his chin. His legs quiver beneath the shift of weight, the pressure on his spine, but if this is Barty’s execution, then he does not want to survive the night.
Grievances | rosenior | approx. 2.5k words | somewhat explicit
He drags his feet along the halls of his home, the office hours wearing at his shoulders, tired from conferences and stacks of paper and reports that need sorting through. Bartemius Crouch Snr got off early today, but this hardly changes anything.
For three years now, every day has bled right into the next. Hadn’t it been for his secretary (what was his name again?) or the calendar standing on his desk, he wouldn’t even know which day, let alone week, it was. Side effects from working overtime, surely. It’s the only thing that still gives him some sort of stability.
His colleagues don’t suspect a thing, of course. To them, he’s taken it like a proper man. He grieved and then returned to his work as composed and diligent as ever; never complaining, never buckling under the weight. It cannot be easy raising two sons on his own, and still, he appears to manage it as effortlessly as a man in his position ever could.
Muscle-memory, really. They don’t know that hiding away from his own sons is exactly what he’s doing — and has been doing, from the second his beloved Anna fell ill.
Risking a glance into the living room, he immediately regrets doing so. The curtains have been drawn shut, allowing no light in, and one of the old flicks he keeps in his collection is playing on the television. At first, this wouldn’t appear so bad, weren’t it for the stench: rotten eggs, the earthy smell of marijuana, and stale beer. Then, he notices the torn pillows left strewn across the floor; the thin layer of feathers draws enough attention to detract from the porn magazines and used tissues scattered about. Who knows how long Junior has barricaded himself in there?
Well, considering his youngest son’s passion to put his father’s reputation in rags and ruin, this might all be just a trick to begin with. The boy knew his father planned to invite a colleague over, discuss the latest law draft the parliament plans to implement, and, therefore, tried to leave an impression. It is only thanks to his colleague cancelling at the last minute that Crouch Snr got spared this kind of repetitive humiliation.
He represses a sigh, calling over his housemaid to take care of the mess. All in all, this is not the worst Junior has done. These days, he doesn’t even try to rectify his son’s behaviour. It would fall on deaf ears or, worse, inspire him to more and far greater acts of debauchery. In a morbid sense, Crouch Snr is glad that his wife had died. It would break her heart to see what monster her sweet boy has turned into.
In his absence, the housemaid has opened the balcony doors attached to his office and turned on the standing fan to create a breeze in this sweltering mid-summer air. The fabric of Crouch Snr’s shirt is clinging to the skin of his back from walking alone.
He places his jacket over the backrest of his chair and loosens his tie before sitting down at his desk. With rolled-up sleeves, he fishes for the draft law in one of his drawers, hunching over the paper to study it carefully. What else is he left to do, really?
His eyes land on the portrait of Annabella, which he keeps at his desk next to his penholder and lamp. She is as lovely as ever: smiling, one ankle crossed above the other, with her long, blonde hair falling over her shoulders in soft, gentle waves. Not a minute goes by that he doesn’t feel her absence.
The corners of his mouth drooping and a saddened crease appearing between his brows, he places the portrait back where it belongs. No amount of wishful thinking will bring his darling back to him. She, now, rests in a better, less painful place.
After some time, a knock rings out from his door. Crouch Snr doesn’t answer, nor does he look up. He’s too engrossed in his work to truly care.
Whoever is standing on the other side of these wooden panels doesn’t await an answer either. The door opens, and so he enters: a young man, his sons’ age, with russet skin and white-blonde locs tied together at the back of his head. Crouch Snr has seen him in his home before.
“Can I help you?” he mutters, eyes following the curve of his fountain pen as he continues to work on his letter.
“I’m here to pick up my stuff,” the man replies.
“I doubt any of your belongings have found their way inside my office, son.”
The young man smiles. It’s a subtle, almost humoured kind of smirk, as if he knows something the older man doesn’t. Crouch Snr lifts an eyebrow.
Biting his lip mischievously, his visitor points with his chin at the older man’s desk. “Upper left drawer. You’ll need your key.”
Bewildered, Crouch Snr stares at the man before him, whose mischievous glint doesn’t leave his eyes. How can he know about the lock on one of his drawers? Did Junior put him up to this?
Continuing to throw the young man puzzled glances, Crouch Snr scrambles to pick up the key from the cupboard behind him and unlocks the upper left drawer. There, tucked away between old letters and photographs, lies a Polaroid, almost untouched and possibly taken not too long ago.
What the Polaroid depicts, however, has the older man quickly look away and clear his throat uncomfortably. His pulse quickens, and beads of sweat build up on his forehead. No decent man would ever allow such a picture to fall into the wrong hands.
“Barty,” the young man clarifies, unfazed, as if this explains everything. And, truthfully, it sort of does. Yet, it doesn’t make the seen unseen, regardless of his pretending. So, nodding jerkily, the older man hands the Polaroid upside down to the young man, whose very likeness he has just held in his palm.
But it will be impossible to forget — those dark, smart eyes staring back at him, burning with lust and arousal, as the young man’s naked body is bent over and taken apart from behind by one of his sons at the very desk Crouch Snr is currently sitting at.
He regards the young man before him, who slides the Polaroid into the back pocket of his jeans, appearing composed despite the other man having seen him in such a compromising position. Perhaps even too composed, truth be told. Did Junior put him up to this? Crouch Snr certainly wouldn’t put it past him.
The older man’s eyes wander over the blonde one’s frame: the tight, powder blue crop top — colours similar to those his late wife used to wear — which hugs the muscles of the blonde man’s chest and biceps, as well as the slope of his waist, sinfully tight, paired with the pair of jeans that hang a little lower than necessary, and the stretch of stomach and trail of hair these clothes reveal.
Briefly, Crouch Snr closes his eyes, memories of nights spent with boys like this flashing before them. He always tried to ignore his sons’ inclinations to the same sex, as a responsible father would. But it is of no use. Their inclinations are his fault, after all.
He chuckles grimly to himself, reaching over for the pack of cigarettes he keeps lying on his desk. Striking a match, he lets the nicotine calm his nerves. With his head tilted like a curious bird, the young man watches him, making no move to leave the office now that he got what he wanted.
“You know, your sons are quite a handful,” he says, stepping closer to the desk. “I would know. I dated both of them.”
“They’re good men,” Crouch Snr replies gruffly. The lie does not go unnoticed.
“Sure.” The young man narrows his eyes, a cryptic smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. Once again, he nods in the older man’s direction. “Can I have a hit?”
Crouch Snr sighs, giving in without ever putting up a fight, and motions vaguely to his desk. “Be my guest.”
However, the young man might have taken his words too literally, as he moves to sit at the corner of his host’s desk, shoving aside pen and paper alike to make room for himself. And he doesn’t take the pack of cigarettes either. With an air of naturalness, he steals the cigarette from the older man’s lips and places it between his own, a teasing sparkle in his eyes.
Crouch Snr swallows, visibly taken aback. Something stirs inside him at the young man’s boldness and spine; a certain heat trickles down the muscles of his back. Everything about this reminds him of wilder, more rumbunctious times. Times when he himself was younger and coveted by many. It is a flattery of a hitherto long-forgotten kind.
“But they’re quite handsome, I must admit,” the young man hums, taking a drag and blowing out the smoke right into Crouch Snr’s face. Mesmerised by the way his lips wrap around the filter, the older man doesn’t dare move.
“I imagine you, too, must have been quite handsome once, haven’t you, Mr Crouch?”
A slow smirk spreads over the older man’s lips.
“Once?” he replies, haughtily, like he used to do in another, better life.
The young man chuckles, letting his eyes drift deliberately from his host’s mouth to his chest down to his lap, where they remain at last. Crouch Snr takes note of it with benevolence and, yes, perhaps a conceited sort of pride, too.
Equal parts intrigued and playful, the young man bites his lower lip. “Still.”
He takes another drag of the cigarette, then extinguishes the smoke in the ashtray that has not been emptied for a long time. Looking up at his host through long, fluttering lashes, he leans forward. Crouch Snr hums appreciatively as he wraps his hand around his tie, tugging him closer.
“I think your sons could use a lesson, no?” the young man murmurs, continuing to play with the tie in his grasp, his flirtatious gaze stuck to the older man’s mouth. “Something to put them back in their place. Nothing truly lasts forever, does it? They should be reminded of this.”
“What is it that you offer, Mr…?”
“Rosier.” The blonde one smiles. “Evan Rosier.”
He props his foot onto the chair the older man is sitting on, pressing the tip of his shoe against his crotch. It is light, not much pressure behind the motion, but it has his host hard in seconds. Mr Rosier’s mouth twitches, and he moves his foot ever so slightly, teasing the erection so shamelessly presented to him.
Crouch Snr exhales slowly, a little unsteady. It’s been years since he’s been touched like this.
“I don’t know,” Mr Rosier continues, shrugging. “Whatever it is that you desire. We can start easy, or you can bend me over your desk. Right here, right now. Just like in the picture.”
And, oh, wouldn’t he love to do exactly that? He has wondered what this wicked mouth would be capable of; how it would look wrapped around his length? Would he stare at him with wide-eyed innocence, an adoring gaze, like Annabella used to do? Or would he be mean, fierce, like Liza once was? How would his back arch once he bends him over that desk? How sweetly would he moan? How much would he be able to take?
In seconds, Crouch Snr is out of his chair, leaning over the pretty blonde sitting at the corner of his desk. One hand cups Mr Rosier’s jaw, dragging his thumb over his lips, while the other searches his desk for the portrait of his late wife. With utmost care, he places it face down. She doesn’t need to be a part of this.
Mr Rosier tries to follow his motions, but Crouch Snr carefully guides him back by his jaw. He wants those smart eyes on himself, and nowhere else.
His hand winds into the young man’s hair, accidentally undoing the tie. Easily, the locs cascade over Mr Rosier’s back and shoulders, framing his angelic face beautifully. Crouch Snr smiles, the now free hand sneaking below the fabric of Mr Rosier’s top, teasingly exploring the skin and muscle on his sides and back. Mr Rosier moves closer, opening his legs wider, and pressing their bodies flush against each other. Hungrily, the older man leans down, tasting the warm breath ghosting over parted lips before he brushes his mouth against the young man’s wicked one.
“What is the meaning of this!?”
“I’m—I’m sorry, Sir. I—I tried to stop him, but—”
Crouch Snr looks up, displeased, his hand remaining against Mr Rosier’s jaw. In the middle of the room stands his eldest son, Belshazzar, a file tucked beneath his arm that he must have intended to hand to his father just like Crouch Snr requested hours ago. His secretary watches the scene from the doorway with unease.
Belshazzar Crouch. He is everything Crouch Snr has ever wanted in a son: intelligent, studious, well-mannered. The two of them could have been unstoppable — father and son guiding their country to a new and shining future — hadn’t the boy’s mother gotten to him first. He doesn’t know with what kind of fairytales Liza has poisoned his mind, but Belshazzar has been regarding his father with nothing but contempt and disdain ever since. He tries to hide it, of course, but it didn’t take long for Crouch Snr to figure out how little he holds of his old man.
And, right now, his contempt couldn’t be more blazing. It’s in the subtle shake of his hands, the paleness of his face, the feathering muscle in his jaw. His father can only begin to imagine what would provoke such a violent reaction, but Belshazzar is Liza’s son just as much as he is his, and Liza has always been a jealous woman.
Crouch Snr lets his hand fall from Mr Rosier’s face and steps away. Without another word, the blonde man slides off the desk and leaves the office as if nothing had occurred. Belshazzar stares after him, practically burning holes into the back of Mr Rosier’s head. For only a second, he looks back over his shoulder, but the look the two of them are exchanging is too loaded with hatred, disappointment, grief, and vengeance not to mean anything. Mr Rosier knew exactly what he was doing, and it only occurs to Crouch Snr then that he has been nothing more than an instrument to a far greater scheme.
As soon as Mr Rosier has rounded a corner and vanished from sight, another figure emerges from the shadows. His mouth curling into a snarling grin, Bartemius Crouch Junior watches from afar. While his expression reads as a malevolent kind of joy, his eyes drill into his father’s gaze with nothing but murderous intent. Who knows what master plan of retaliation is forming inside that demon’s mind?
Crouch Snr sighs, the interaction leaving him even more exhausted than before, depleted of all his energy. At once, he sinks back into his chair, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face.
“Leave or stay”, he tells his eldest son, who has yet to make a move, with as much concrete authority as he can muster. “Either way, close the door behind you.”
for @vanitatum-vanitass | based on this post | 535 words
c/w: references of explicit sexual content
„B! Pizza‘s here!“
„For fuck’s sake, Rosie! You did it again!”
Grumbling, Barty looks at the picture he’s just taken. It’s a good one, an excellent one even. The light is hitting just right to reveal the V-line peeking out from underneath his low-rising jeans and the ‘lucky you’ tattoo he got tatted right above his crotch; a little treat for all the people regularly throwing their money at him. It might have even been his best one yet if there wasn’t one teeny, tiny problem: Evan.
Once again, he has managed to appear in the background of his selfie, casually leaning against the doorframe with his calm gaze levelled at Barty, who was kneeling in front of the mirror, legs spread, and shirt tucked between his teeth. Yeah… He can’t post that now, can he?
“Did what?” Evan asks, unaware of the trouble he’s causing yet again. “Stopped you from flashing your dick at everyone? Oh, how terrible.”
“Actually,” Barty gets back to his feet, “it is.”
He steps over, opening the messages he received the last time Evan walked in on one of his pictures. Without another word, he shoves his phone into his boyfriend’s face.
“You’re stealing my spotlight, Rosie!” he laments. “The people want you more than they want me. And this is my fucking audience!”
Evan’s brows knit together as he reads the messages.
“‘Can you oil him up?’ ‘I need to see him bound and gagged.’ ‘He should milk you dry’ — Hm. I would have expected something more creative. Those are like… the most basic of thirst comments.”
Barty groans, snatching the phone away again. Clearly, Evan doesn’t get it.
His boyfriend blinks once in bewilderment. Then, a sly smile flickers over his lips.
“You’re jealous, B, aren’t you?”
“Me?” Barty huffs derisively. “Never.”
But it is of no use. Evan’s got him figured out. He always does.
Evan is his Rosie — and no one else’s. Only Barty is allowed to think like that.
Unless…
“Oh, fuck off, B. Absolutely not!”
Recognising the lewd grin on Barty’s face for what it is, Evan turns to leave. Barty holds him back by the wrist, tugging him back into the room.
“Aw, c’mon, Rosie,” he says sweetly, reaching out to wrap one of Evan’s locs around his finger while he crowds him against the wall. “We could make so much money out of this! Besides, we haven’t crossed ‘releasing a sextape’ off our list yet. Two birds with one stone, that’s what I think. And it’s way better than hiding it in one of these rental film cassettes for old people, too. Even though I still believe that idea is hilarious.”
Evan mulls over Barty’s words. However, with his arms crossed above his chest and his gaze cast somewhere to their left, he still does not look entirely convinced. Therefore, Barty tries a different approach.
Placing both his hands on Evan’s waist and sliding them up and down, he leans in, whispering into his ear, “I’ll even let you cut open and prod around my kneecap while we do it. If that’s of any condolence.”
Evan remains silent, but by the way his eyes flash up in intrigue, Barty knows he’s won him over.
always the fucking problem - a rosekiller microfic
„We’ve got to stop doing this,” Evan says, throwing Barty a pack of ice. He grunts, pained, as it lands in his lap.
Tilting his head to the side, Barty spits out: blood, saliva, and a tooth that clatters somewhere on the ground. There’s a cut above his brow, blood leaking into his eyes, and a bruise is starting to form right above his jaw. Evan rubs his own. Yeah, that uppercut was a mean punch.
“Doing what, Rosie?” Barty croaks, his breath coming out ragged. When he peers up at him, his pale blue eyes are sharp and clear, crystalline. Evan recognises the challenge in his look.
“This, B!” He gestures between them, the space cluttered with broken glass and shards of furniture. “Whatever this is, we need to stop.”
Barty huffs and grins, all bloodied mouth and missing tooth.
“Yeah, right,” he mocks. “We had this talk before, more than once. And see where it’s gotten you: back to me, as always. You cannot escape this, Rosie. You know this. You like it.”
He picks up the pack of ice Evan’s thrown him and presses it against his jaw, groans as the coldness burns into the wound. Exhaling shakily, he closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall behind him. Evan shakes his head.
“No,” he denies. “Not like this.”
His hand finds the half-empty bottle of vodka standing near his chair, and he takes a large, messy gulp. The liquor spills everywhere. Evan welcomes the sting it leaves on the small cuts on his skin.
Again, Barty huffs. He doesn’t believe him, of course. And how could he? For five years, this has been going on: the lies, the scorn, the always going behind each other’s backs. Evan is tired. Tired of these constant fights, this... broken furniture, the chasing and running, only to end up in the other’s arms, anyway. It used to be fun. It no longer is. Hasn’t been for quite some time.
“What do you want, Rosie?” Barty murmurs, as if he’s reading his mind. Carefully, he studies him through one cracked-open eye. It’s the most serious Evan has ever heard him. “Really?”
Evan stares up at the ceiling. It’s like admitting defeat, even if only to himself.
“You.” He laughs, without humour, then downs another swig. “And that’s the problem, B. Always the fucking problem.”
„Hardly. You missed another card. A seven beating a nine? Your poor mother, raising a donkey instead of a son.”
Sasha grunts, cigarette at the corner of his mouth, and a light sway in his movements as he leans forward to check his hand of cards again. The aluminium bin he’s using as a makeshift chair groans and curves under his weight.
“Yeah… Right…”
He scratches his head, focusing on the numbers that are surely blurring before his eyes. Stupid ox couldn’t handle his liquor again.
Bénja reaches for the beer standing by his feet. It’s lukewarm and tastes flat. Only the Fisherman knows how long it’s been standing there. It might have been opened at the last party and forgotten. Maybe even the one before that.
Nevertheless, Bénja doesn’t much care. He’s in high spirits and comfortably sloshed. The air in the room is a dense concoction of cigarette smoke, staleness, and liquor of any kind. Someone put on the old folk songs played at the pubs and inns back at home, and Kostya is hitting the keys on his accordion alongside them. Tomorrow morning, Bénja will most likely wake up with a pounding head and a mouth as dry as sand, but that’s a worry for when that morning arrives. Right now, not ending up as the fool — that is what matters.
Easy, considering how drunk Sasha already is.
“Arse. I don’ thing I can defen’ that, Бэньюша.”
Bénja smacks his lips, smiling remorsefully. It is a mocking, playful sort of pity. He leans over, thumbing his best friend on the back.
“You’ll get it next time, old chap.”
Sasha snorts. “Sure will.”
Bénja claps him on the back one more time, a little harder, for good measure.
“Well, gentlemen. It has been my utmost pleasure to best all of you.”
“Pish off — utter dunce.”
The other blokes who have joined the game of fool chuckle, amused, and raise their beverages to their lips or light another cigarette in anticipation of the next round. Smirking, Bénja takes the bottle of beer he had been drinking from and excuses himself from the table. Then, he makes his way through the small cluster of bodies.
Kostya is striking up another classic, and soon everyone is joining in on his singing, clapping and whistling to the rhythm. As the song picks up speed, some of the girls get up to whirl one another around what little space is still left, laughing and giggling while doing so. Bénja has to stop twice on short notice to avoid accidentally bumping into them. He pushes past, mumbling apologies.
His friends call his name, clap him, too, on the back as he passes by, but he doesn’t turn to listen. His mind is set on a different destination.
Rosier is out on the balcony, which has been carved out of the rock the Academy is built into and overlooks the sea. He’s talking to Henwood, the current head of the student council — an upstanding and fair young fellow. While others of the council would grimace in distaste at the prospect of the council’s boardroom being used for such bashes, Henwood never took issue with them. Once he’s graduated in two months, Bénja is set to take his place as the council’s leader. The votes are already in his favour.
“Well, it was a fucking disaster. The room kept smelling like burnt carpet for the rest of the month, and Wilkes had to sleep next to his desk. I swear, the halls were only this abandoned because everyone else kept steering clear of our door.”
“I always wondered what had happened. It sure is a lesson to never experiment in one’s dorm, I must give you that. Perhaps you’re not wrong in assuming one would be better off breaking into the laboratories for some… late-night experiments.”
It’s quieter out here, less overwhelming. Most of the party’s noise is muffled by the curtains and door leading outside, and the crushing of waves against the rock and shore has a calming effect.
Bénja leans against the handrail, next to Rosier. He doesn’t speak, merely listens to their conversation. The sea’s salt burning his numbed tongue, and the cotton-like feel of his head are only more indicators of how drunk he is. One always realises it more effectively once they take their first breath of fresh air after a long night out.
Rosier has not acknowledged him yet, but Bénja knows he’s noticed him. Their arms rest against each other on the handrail, and their hips brush when they move. Half a year ago, Rosier would have withdrawn from the touch, but now he appears comfortable with it, searching for it even. Whenever he raises his arm to emphasise his words, he always places it back against Bénja’s. A lot has happened since they first started working together. A lot has changed.
Bénja smiles. He doesn’t even realise that he does.
“What? No insight from the great Belshazzar Crouch? That’s a new one.”
A humoured snort escapes him, and he turns around to mimic Rosier’s position with his back turned towards the sea. Henwood has gone back inside, checking whether ‘everything’s in order’, but Bénja knows it is only half the truth. He has seen the head of the student council eye interestedly the cocaine Jamal has procured from somewhere unknown.
“Sometimes, it is better to observe,” he answers. “It’s a lesson I learned all thanks to you.”
Another half-truth. Not because Bénja doesn’t mean what he says, but because he likes listening when Rosier speaks. He’s grown accustomed to his voice due to all those hours locked together in either the library or his room. Those days when he’s not met with at least one of the other man’s dry remarks or blunt jabs that are aimed at his person somehow feel less complete, as if something is missing.
Rosier lifts his brow, but the corner of his mouth curls up into that subtle and shrewd smirk of his. He’s not buying it, of course, but that doesn’t stop him from taking the compliment. There is a particular sparkle in his eyes.
“If you say so.”
He lights another cigarette, using one hand and tilting his head slightly to better reach the flame. Bénja watches him; the curve of his neck, the shimmer of his blonde hair under the pale moonlight. It surrounds him like a halo, the way it stands out against the night. Like the flicker of a candle, the beacon of a —
Lighthouse.
“Huh?”
“Hm?” Did he say this aloud? “Oh, nothing. Nothing, really. Just a… drunken thought.”
“Drunken thought, yeah? Gotta say, I was impressed when you kept up with that weird little dance Travnikov dragged you into. Right after downing four shots of vodka, too. I firmly believed you would land flat on your arse back there.”
“You? Impressed?” Bénja laughs, loud and heartily. “Who is full of surprises now, hm?”
Rosier takes a drag from his cigarette, the smile lingering.
“Don’t let it get to your head, you big oaf.”
He holds his hand out, offering Bénja a drag from his smoke. It’s a habit they developed during one of their many all-nighters when Rosier misplaced his own pack of cigarettes. Bénja cannot explain why exactly they stuck to it, but he never questioned it to begin with. It simply felt natural.
Leaning forward, he accepts the offered smoke right from the back of the other man’s hand.
His lips almost brush his fingers.
“Do you want to leave?” he asks, blowing out the smoke.
“Ditching now, too, huh?” Rosier chuckles. “Shouldn’t you help clean up that mess, Mr ‘future-head-of-the-student-council’?”
Bénja shrugs, empties his beer. “There is always the next morning.”
“Sure. It’s your name on the line, not mine.”
“My ego can suffer a small blow.”
At that, a curious noise escapes the back of his classmate’s throat. He regards Bénja with an almost disbelieving sort of glance, like an experiment that has shown a new set of unsolved quirks. Bénja swallows, his heart suddenly pounding in his throat. He has never been looked at this intensely before.
“Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”
The halls of the Academy are abandoned. And why wouldn’t they be? As long as no one else is throwing a party, which they could, there is no reason to be drunkenly stumbling from one door to the next at this late hour.
“Your turn.”
“My brother once cut a hole in every shirt I own. I used to dye my hair. And my mother took me to the Opera every week from the ages of three to fifteen.”
“Dying your hair, obviously.”
“You seem very sure of that, Rosier.”
“Yeah, because you’re too vain to dye your hair a different colour.”
“Perhaps I am dying my hair to hide any greying hairs. Wouldn’t that fit my supposed vanity just the same?”
Roser huffs a laugh, his eyes darting up to Bénja’s hair. He shakes his head, decidedly.
“Nah. I would have noticed if you did.”
Bénja grins. “Careful, you might feed into that ego you despise so much.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Certainly, but first, it is your turn—”
They come to a sudden halt at Bénja’s door. He didn’t realise how quickly the time had gone by.
Rosier smiles. It looks sad in the dim light of the hallway. “Guess we have to reserve that for next time.”
“Or,” Bénja licks his lips, weighs his words, “we don’t. Join me. I still have a bottle of wine lying somewhere, surely.”
“Well, who am I to deny such an offer?”
They enter, and Bénja turns on the standing light in the corner. While he searches for the promised bottle, Rosier takes a seat at his desk, turning the chair so that it faces the set of bunkbeds of which only one is being used.
“Oh, wow. Are you sure you want to share that? This looks expensive as hell.”
“I can always request that my mother send another. See it as a moment to celebrate the success of the project we almost killed one another over.”
He sits down at the edge of his bed, using his teeth to pull out the cork sealing the bottle with his teeth. With a quiet plop, the bottle opens, and Bénja hands it over to Rosier to take the first sip.
“There is something I want to show you,” he admits once the bottle has found its way into his wind and the wine has wet his throat. “It’s a most peculiar find, and I would love to hear your opinion on it.”
“All right. Let me give it a shot.”
Bénja leans forward, trying to open the drawer of his desk to fish for the glowing orbs he found stranded on the beach, caging Rosier with his arm. Only inches separate their faces now. Rosier studies him intently, his lips parted, and the warm light of the lamp dancing in his dark eyes. His gaze is attentive, intense in the same way as it had been out on the balcony. A question lingers between them, a tension unbroken. There had been many moments such as these in the past months: when Rosier dropped his pen, and both reached down to grab it; when the crowd accidentally shoved them together at the welcome back ceremony a few weeks prior; when Bénja fell and almost crushed him during that volleyball match at the beach.
It would be so easy to lean in and kiss him, and yet, Bénja hesitates. He, who is always so sure of himself, so confident in everything he says and does, hesitates, because this is a moment of significance. If he leans in and kisses him, everything will change. He isn’t sure whether he is ready to destroy what has only started to bloom.
“What’s wrong?” Rosier mumbles, breaking the heavy silence.
“It is hard to read you,” Bénja replies, smiling weakly. “You read me so easily, and yet… Just once, I wish I knew what it is that you are thinking about.”
Rosier nods. It is barely a jerk of his head.
His eyes flick down to Bénja’s lips just for a second, but Bénja catches it. His breath hitches in his throat.
“You want to know what I am thinking?”
Bénja exhales slowly, nods too. “Yes, if you’d like to indulge me.”
“Right now, I wonder what it would be like to kiss you.”
His heart skips, his head spins. He’s fucking drunk, cannot think clearly. Too much is at stake, too much at risk. One wrong move, and he will lose something he cannot even name.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“We could… couldn’t we?”
Rosier’s eyes keep clinging to Bénja’s lips, and every thought dissolves into nothing. He cannot take back his idiocy, never gets the chance to. He’s captivated by Rosier’s dissecting gaze and the lick of his lips. As he leans in, Bénja closes his eyes on instinct.
At first, it is only a soft brush of lips, chaste and cautious; the faintest idea of a kiss. But then, Rosier’s mouth presses against his, and whatever tension had been building up between them rips like a wave through a weakened bow.
The restraint Bénja had tried to practice fails at once, and he chases Rosier’s lips as if his life depended on it. He tastes of wine and smoke, soft and firm at the same time. His tongue is rough against his own, hungry, as if kissing him is not enough. He tests and explores, always in the search for more, and Bénja is willing to give him everything he has.
He moans into his mouth, presses his hands to the back of his neck. Rosier gasps as he moves his lips along his jaw and throat, his hand fisting and tearing at his shirt. Not long, and Bénja pulls him into his lap, holding onto his hips. His hands wind up his back, tracing every muscle and curve of his spine. Rosier shivers under his touch, kissing him once more before ridding Bénja of his shirt altogether.
Soon, Rosier’s shirt joins his own on the ground, revealing the scars on his chest.
But Bénja doesn’t care about those. He has only eyes for him.
“We—we really gonna do this?” Rosier pants out, back arching slightly as Bénja maps out his collarbones with his tongue. Bénja is hard beneath him.
“Not if you don’t want to,” he assures him between kisses.
“Fuck. Yeah, okay. But this is a one-time thing, yes?”
“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
Bénja would have agreed to anything just to keep Rosier in his arms.
The blonde man dips his head and tilts Bénja’s up to meet him in another starving kiss. Then, it is his mouth that is moving downward, kissing all over Bénja’s chest and the trail of hair below his navel. Suddenly, Rosier is between his legs, looking up at him with dark eyes clouded by lust, and makes quick work of his belt and boxers.
Bénja can only stare back, slack-jawed, mesmerised.
When Rosier takes him into his mouth, he groans gutturally, his head tipping back. The blonde man’s mouth is tightening around him, his tongue swirling and teasing his length as he swallows almost everything in one go. It’s certainly not the first time he’s done something like that, and Bénja is gritting his teeth and clawing his hands into the sheets.
He’s never felt so unravelled in his entire life.
“Shit. Evan—”
Struggling, he tries to sit up, even though he’s aware that once he sees that beautiful man devouring him with such ease, it will be his undoing. But his arms are weak, and the weight of his own body drags him back down into the cushions. Only with much effort, he manages to straighten up, chest heaving and moaning through clenched teeth.
Evan — he is beautiful, always has been. His blonde hair is wild and loose, swaying with every bop and jerk of his head. Bénja reaches down, cupping his jaw, pressing his thumb into his skin. He wants to see him enjoy this, too.
And he does, by the looks of it.
Evan’s eyes are burning with desire. His hand has found its way into his own boxers, pleasuring himself hard enough for a wet spot to have formed on his crotch.
“No—no, wait. This isn’t how this is supposed to be. Come here. It is my responsibility to satisfy you, too.”
Evan stops, gasping for breath as he lets go of his cock.
“You—you sure? I am not like the others you had before.”
“No,” Bénja chuckles, breathless, still high on both liquor and being sucked off. “You certainly are not. But neither am I.”
Leaning down, he kisses him again and slowly guides him upward. There, he removes his trousers before kicking off his own. Evan’s right. He is not like anyone Bénja had before, but he’s slept with both men and women. This is hardly any different.
He rolls him onto his back and settles right between his legs, trying to make do with what little room they have. Gently, he sucks and nibbles at the heated skin of Evan’s throat and jaw. His moans reverberate against his mouth as he rubs his length against him. Once he enters, a unified moan escapes them both.
Evan arches his back again, pressing his body flush against Bénja’s. He wraps his arms around his middle in return, keeping him locked in a tight embrace. Sloppily, he presses his mouth against Evan in another attempt at a kiss, but he’s barely aware of what he’s doing. All he feels is Evan around him; Evan as a part of him.
Not even in his wildest dreams could he have imagined something as altering as this.
Altering, and yet so utterly and completely right.
They melt into each other, lose themselves in the process. Bénja moves inside him with the deliberation of someone making sure the other’s needs are met. While he’d usually chase his own satisfaction, he now puts Evan’s first, relishing in every appreciative twitch and shiver of his body. What he himself wants is merely an afterthought to him. He doesn’t realise that, like this, he is handing Evan his heart, unaware that he will never want it back.
The next morning is a cruel awakening. Not because of the pounding headache or the dryness of his mouth, but because of the emptiness he feels: beside him on the bed, deep down in his heart.
Evan must have slipped out from underneath his arms in the middle of the night, never addressing what had occurred.
Fuck. Yeah, okay. But this is a one-time thing, yes?
Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t it be?
Oh, how stupid he has been! How blind! He should have known Evan was only trying to save himself the heartbreak of waiting for someone who would never make up his mind.
He moves to sit on the edge of the bed, slowly working through everything he still remembers from last night, the rightness he had felt throughout all of it.
No, he must prove him wrong, fall on his knees and beg him to change his mind if he has to. Because Evan is more to him than just a quick fuck or a classmate, even more than a friend. In all these hours they spent isolated and locked away with their final project, Evan had been what brought lightness to his days, the sharpness he often misses in others, the challenge Bénja had needed.
In all these hours, Evan had been not just his partner, but his —
Lighthouse.
Bénja is up on his feet in seconds. Never in his life has he been both sure and unsure at the same time. What if it is already too late? Evan Rosier is not known to wait. If he made up his mind about something, he’ll stick to that decision, come what may.
Regardless, Bénja has to try. He knows he will never be the same if he’d lost the one thing that made him someone better.
Throwing on the first clothes he can find, he rushes into the town at the feet of the Academy.
He must be standing there like a fool: hair tousled, shirt rumpled, unshaven, hungover, with not even his teeth brushed, and a massive bouquet in his hands. Whoever opens that door now is going to laugh at his expense. Belshazzar Crouch, the heir, the better son, a mess standing in the halls of an esteemed Academy.
But he finds that this doesn’t matter. His looks are no longer of importance, not when someone that matters so much more is waiting for him at the other side of that door.
He practices the words inside his head: the apology, the plea. Nevertheless, once the handle tilts, and Rosier appears before him, all those words, too, no longer matter. It is action that speaks.
The bouquet falls from his hands, petals drifting as the flowers hit the ground. Bénja grabs Evan by the neck, kissing him so hard it knocks their teeth together. They both stumble backwards and into Evan’s room.
“Forgive me. For everything I said and didn’t say,” he begs between kisses, cupping Evan’s face with his hands. The words tumble out of his mouth like a well doomed to burst at the seams.
“I was a fool, an idiot. I shouldn’t have let you go. When I woke up and you weren’t there, I realised the gravity of the mistake I had made. I don’t want this to be a one-time thing, not when you mean so much to me. You are the one I look for in every room. If I were a sailor cast out at sea, you’d be the rock I cling to, the beacon of light I’d search for in a storm. You are my lighthouse, Эванэчка. And—and I don’t believe I ever want to wake up without you by my side again, not after I know now this kind of loss this would mean.”
“All right, all right!” Evan chortles, but there is a blush on his cheeks and a softness in his eyes as he meets Bénja’s gaze. He circles Bénja’s wrists, squeezing gently. “You’re laying it on a little thick.”
A crunch followed by a rustle rips them out of the moment. Wilkes is standing in the room, eating oats straight out of the package, and looking utterly entertained. Anger flares up beneath Bénja’s ribs. He always pegged Wilkes to be more of a simple background, but does this man truly have no manners?
The man in question grins, mouth still full of oats. “Oh, sorry. Don’t let yourself be bothered by me, sure. Go on. Continue. This was gettin’ interestin’.”
“Piss off, Wilkes,” Rosier snaps, but it’s not as venomous as Bénja knows he’s capable of being. Regardless of Bénja’s dislike for him, Wilkes remains Evan’s best friend.
Wilkes raises his hand defensively.
“Don’t twist your knickers, Rosier. I’m already out of the way now.”
Once the lock clicks shut behind him, and only a trail of oats marks where he stood a few seconds ago, Evan turns back to Bénja, raising an amused brow.
“You were saying?”
“Give me another chance. To make up for my mistake.”
“And you’re really willing to settle? For me? You could have anyone you want.”
Bénja chuckles, fond and soft, and rests his forehead against Evan’s. “What is the point if it would never be the same? My heart already belongs to you, Эванэчка. I simply had not realised it yet. For that, I apologise, too.”
“Do you actually mean that? You won’t go looking elsewhere?”
“Of course not,” he replies firmly, pressing a kiss to Evan’s forehead, holding him in his arms. “I could never break your heart.”
And, in that moment and many moments onward, he truly believes that to be true.
a Dracula-inspired series of microfics | prompt list used: rosekiller microfics
@rosekillermicrofic | howl | 670 words | content warnings: mild depiction of fear and violence
For his own safety, Barty is not permitted to leave the chateau on his own. There are vicious and murderous beasts living amongst the woods, the Countess has told him, and it would grieve her most greatly if something were to happen to him.
Surely, Barty has his doubts about this tale, just as much as he has doubts about the servants supposedly working in this home, yet he decided to heed her warning. At least, for a little while. After all, wanting to wander the grounds would mean Mr Rosier would have to accompany him, and this alone is reason to entertain the Countess in her request. Whether or not the man in question would like it does not much matter to him.
So, as Mr Rosier seeks out Barty at his own accord, inviting him to join him for a hunt, it is a more than pleasant surprise. Only a fool would say no to that.
The fog is thick and impenetrable that afternoon. Not a ray of sunlight makes it through the denseness of the mist. Barty can see no further than a few feet and even less where he leads his stallion, and the clammy cold is slowly freezing his hands and creeping into his bones. Nonetheless, he continues to follow the obscured figure of Mr Rosier, who is riding a few feet ahead of him, and the continuous howl of the pack of French White and Black Hounds is springing ahead to chase rabbits and pheasants in their name.
Soon, Barty manages to lose both man and dogs. He slows his stallion, trying to make out a way back to the chateau, but without success. The fog remains too dense, and the trees of the forest are too indistinguishable. He wouldn’t be able to separate North from South.
“Seems like we have no other choice but wait, do we, old boy?” he tells his stallion light-heartedly, petting its flank.
For a long time, the forest is quiet. The rustle of birds and small mammals scampering up and down the bark of trees and coppice to their feet is the only thing disrupting the silence. To entertain himself, Barty begins to whistle a cheery tune.
Suddenly, the stallion’s muscles begin to flex and shiver, and it throws around its majestic head in fright. Barty tries to soothe it, to pet its muzzle until it is calmed, but this, too, is without success. Terrified, the animal paws and neighs and tears at its reins until they come loose, allowing it to flee into the vastness of the woods. Barty, now utterly on his ownsome, can only call after it helplessly as its body merges with the thickness of the fog.
Then, something blinds him. A hand, a shawl, a jute sack used to store potatoes. He cannot tell as his body stiffens, and all sensation drains from his limbs. His blood rushes through his veins, and his mind is clouded with the adrenaline of the chase. Hot, wet breath ghosts over the nape of his neck and a hand, ice-cold and hardened like stone, snakes around his throat, squeezing.
Perhaps the story of vicious and murderous beasts is true, and now they have come to kill him; to devour both his heart and soul. Barty suspects as much as teeth, sharp and pointed, grace the skin below his ear like two needles meant to pierce his skin. Yet, whatever it is, it might be no beast at all as its chuckle, deep and condescending, is of the nature only a human being could produce.
Barty sucks in a sharp breath, tilting his head sideways so as not to resist the fangs of whomever is holding him in their grasp. If death has come to take him, he will so go willingly. There is no heaven awaiting him either way. And no amount of atonement could redeem his crimes.
So, in his last moments on earth, there is only one plea that falls from his lips:
a Dracula-inspired series of microfics | prompt list used: rosekiller microfics
@rosekillermicrofic | bitter | 609 words | content warnings: none
“So, what is it that you do for a living?” Barty inquires once tea has been served inside the study, lighting a pipe himself.
Dinner turned out to be more of a bore than anything. Whereas the Countess, her husband, as well as Mr Rosier joined him at the table, only the Countess appeared interested in engaging in conversation. She asked him about his previous investments, the procedures regarding his work, and requested proof of the integrity of his business, making it clear where her interests lay.
Usually, Barty loves nothing more than to charm his patrons, flatter them, and sweet-talk them into entrusting him with all their funds to use for his latest venture. After all, they needn’t know that this is all a fraud, and, once the money has been transferred to his name, he will scram without ever offering up the dime he has promised in return. Nevertheless, that evening, talk of business and false promises of fortune couldn’t be further from where Barty’s interests lay.
Ever since being introduced to Mr Rosier, his mind cannot get enough of him. His ears beg to hear him talk, and his eyes search for him every second spent within the same room. Mr Rosier did well to ignore him then, and he certainly wishes to ignore him now. But Barty is nothing if not persistent. It is one of his greater qualities. So, once the opportunity arose to request a bit of intimacy at the study, he grabbed it by the scruff.
A good host wouldn’t want their guest to feel lonely, would they? Naturally, the Countess would ask her brother to fulfil the wishes of their visitor.
“I am a physician,” Mr Rosier replies, his accent just as predominant as his sister’s.
He has traded his pipe for a cup of strongly-brewed tea, staring out one of the windows while nipping on his drink with stiff, mechanical movements. No ordinary man would behave this way, not even if he yearns to escape his company as keenly as Mr Rosier does now. What a cruel thing to force a hermit of this kind into conversing with an unfamiliar face, but Barty is not kind. These are qualities he treats no more than he does the clothes fitting his frame: chosen to suit the occasion.
“Or something of the sort,” Mr Rosier adds indifferently.
“Something of the sort, eh?” Barty smiles, leaning back in his chair and crossing his leg at the knee. “So, you don’t really cure people then, is that what you do?”
“More or less, yes.”
A low chuckle escapes Barty, and he sets aside his pipe to take a sip of his cup of tea. The leaves have made the beverage bitter.
Rosier is good at giving him nothing.
“If you are more or less not really curing people as a physician, then you’re either not a good physician or no physician in the traditional sense,” he muses. “Are you overseeing a lunatic asylum, perhaps?”
At that, his company snorts, and a small, arrogant smirk curls his lips. It reveals one of his canines as long and pointed, and, subconsciously, Barty leans in, trying to get a better glimpse of it. He and his sister both truly are people unlike anyone Barty has ever met before, from their odd eyes and complexion down to their pointed ears and sharp teeth.
“My patients are not of the living,” Mr Rosier explains, watching his guest attentively. “Surely, this won’t frighten you, will it?”
“Pff.” Barty waves a dismissive hand. “Who doesn’t have skeletons in their closet these days?”
a Dracula-inspired series of microfics | prompt list used: rosekiller microfics
@rosekillermicrofic | dusk | 960 words | content warnings: none
As the carriage pulls into the courtyard, dusk has already begun to settle. After such a long and tedious journey, Barty cannot wait to be welcomed by a warm meal and sink deeply into velvety cushions.
He hops off the carriage, taking in the chateau before him. Against the blue and purple hues of an approaching night, it appears a ghost: pale and looming. No candle lights the windows, and an oppressive silence haunts the courtyard like the chateau haunts these grounds. Only the huffing and pawing of the steeds that have drawn him up here can be heard.
Every other man might have shivered at the sight of this ghostly marble and the eeriness of the scene, but Barty cannot help the excited grin from spreading. Whoever lives here must be wealthy enough to earn him a fortune.
The driver hands him his luggage and, as he stretches forward his hand with the demand for payment, Barty shakes it enthusiastically and with a wide, charming grin.
“I thank you most graciously for the ride, good Sir,” he says. “I am sure Her Excellency will pay you well for all your troubles.”
Then, he starts for the small and shallow set of stairs leading up to the chateaus’ entrance, not paying the driver, now disgruntled and confused, any mind further.
He makes it as far as to reach for the heavy iron knocker, which is welded into the shape of a rose’s bulbous bloom, before the portals swing open seemingly by themselves. A man and a woman appear in their stead.
“Mr Crouch,” the woman welcomes him, her strong French accent predominant in her words. “It pleases me that we meet at last.”
Barty bows with grandeur, making a point to gently take the hand the woman is reaching out to him and place a kiss above it. “Countess, the pleasure is all mine.”
The countess is a strange persona, more so in her appearance than in her demeanour. Her features, albeit soft and graceful, have a self-assuredness to her that is rare in women of her age and heritage. Her complexion is tanned but with a sickly greyness to it, as one would expect in a dying child rather than someone as healthy as her. The hair, which flows over her shoulders and back in voluminous waves, blends with the moonshine creeping up behind the chateau, and her eyes, alighting the darkness as intensely as a pair of fireflies do at the end of June, are of a peculiar and odd lilac colour.
“I figure your travels will have left you exhausted,” she assesses correctly. “A dinner has been prepared for you, so please come and eat. But forgive us, for we have dined already and will not dine with you. My husband, Xenophilius, will lead you to your quarters afterwards.”
Reminded of his exhaustion and hunger, Barty eagerly follows as the Countess and her husband guide him along the extensive halls and corridors of their home. The tapestries are delicately ornamented and painted in cool shades of navy, green, and silver. Portraits of lords and ladies long gone line the walls, and the flickering shadows that the candelabrum Xenophilius carries make their eyes appear to move. Here and there, the fragile threads of cobwebs glitter in the sparse light, and when Barty traces the surfaces of the furniture, his finger comes up thickly coated in dust.
“Could use some dusting up, couldn’t it?” he jokes, holding up his finger for the Countess to see.
“Do not concern yourself with such frivolities, Mr Crouch. Our servants will take care of it soon,” is the sole reply.
However, it becomes apparent that what this chateau has in size, it lacks in servants. Room after room came up inhabited and covered in more dust and dirt. If anything, this place looks empty, abandoned, as if no living soul has walked these halls and floors in centuries.
Inside the dining room, there is not only his meal waiting, but the only other sign of life, too: a man.
Pensively, he stares into the flames of the fireplace that cackles at the head of the dining table, smoking a pipe. He doesn’t notice them at first. At least, he ignores their presence. Only as the Countess introduces him as her brother, Evan Rosier, does he turn to meet them.
He is just as strange as the place he’s living in. The spitting image of his sister, his white-blonde locs are tied at the nape of his neck, and his skin is the same ashen tan shade as hers. He wears a suit just as elegantly as his next of kin, yet, where his sister’s eyes are a blazing lilac, his are dull and dark. There seems to be no joy in his feature, no intrigue, and no distaste either. He is strangely void of emotion; a blank canvas, a ghost. Barty is fascinated with him immediately.
“Sadly, my husband and I cannot be present at all times, given our duties. Therefore, Mr Crouch, in case of our absence during your stay, my brother agreed to bear you company.”
A sparkle of excitement flickers through Barty’s eyes, and he looks at the Countess as he replies, “Oh, I am sure we will be great friends. Won’t we, Mr Rosier?”
Mr Rosier, however, does not react. Not even as Barty throws him a wink like he would an old confidant instead of someone he just met. Briefly, Mr Rosier looks the flirtatious man up and down before disregarding him entirely and returning to the musings left behind in the fire.
Nonetheless, Barty remains unperturbed. Valuables and treasures — that is what he came here for. And, as it seems, he already found the first one.
