snapetoy (snapetoy) wrote in churchofsnarry, @ 2005-11-05 21:03:00 |
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Current mood: | did I really write this? |
FIC: Icon
Original poster: rantipole_
Warnings: Perversion of Religion, AU, non-con, chan, mild S/M, general wierdness
Rating: NC-17
Words: 2047
Notes: For sucial_fly, whose idea got me started, (though she can’t have been expecting anything like this!) And for chruchofsnarry, sine qua non.
His first memory was of incense, a smoke that tingled inside his nose, the most powerful scent he had ever smelled, spicy, lovely; it made his head spin. And he was convinced that he had gone to heaven, because he could not believe that such a thing existed in the ordinary world.
He felt fingers inside his chest, sliding into him gently.
And he recognized each thing they carried as soon as it entered him, recognized each thing as his own; his fingernails, his tears, a scrap of cloth impregnated with his semen, a few drops of his blood, relics of himself. He knew who he was, because he could feel them there, inside the hollow in his chest where a real boy’s heart would be.
And he knew then that he was not a real boy, that his body was made of wood and his eyes were made of glass. But his eyelashes and hair were real; he could feel them. They were real, and they were his own -- he recognized them the way he recognized the things inside his chest.
And he recognized the man in front of him, someone he felt he should know, speaking words he didn’t understand. But the voice made something in his chest tighten around those fingers, made him wish above all other things that he were a real boy.
~
There were flowers all around him, colors that swam before his eyes and sweetness piled on sweetness until he felt that he might drown. But there was also the warm soft scent of beeswax and the light of a hundred candles.
And there was a sudden pain in his forehead that deepened into pure agony, the knife slowly, carefully carving a zig-zag line, first in one direction, then the other, digging into the wood of his brow. His senses expanded to encompass this pain as it became his whole existence. But he refused to make a noise. Indeed, he could not make a noise because he was made of wood, but he was set against it because of something he could feel in that place inside his chest. He could feel how this man loved him; he knew it the same way he recognized himself.
Then it stopped, and he could see again, the man still holding the knife but speaking soft words to him, reassuring. And he wanted them never to stop, because the pain was even fiercer now, but the words were sweet, sweeter even than the smell of the flowers rising all around him. And he let himself fall into them, let them bear him away from the pain.
But all at once he felt blood welling up, dripping down around his eyebrows, falling onto his cheeks like tears, like soft rain on the dry earth of his wooden flesh. And the face before him filled with chagrin and astonished awe, one fingertip reaching out to touch his cheek. He felt it there for a moment, gentle, sweet like the scent of the flowers that made him dizzy, the man’s eyes dark and brilliant in the candlelight. Then the finger left him; and now he would have made a sound if he could, because of the pain of loneliness.
Very slowly, the finger moved to the man’s mouth. The dark eyes never left his face.
~
His sight was growing more clear, and he could see the room around him now, dark stone, smelling slightly of chill and damp, the vaulted ceiling curving away above him in the light of the candles. And there were rows of candles, banks of them in shining gilded stands, so many that he felt warm.
He could hear water trickling like a string of silver bells into the bowl. He could smell the scent of roses.
And then the man he loved was before him again, and he could feel a wet cloth moving over him, and the warmth of the hand inside it, bringing feeling into his skin, bringing pink into his cheeks, his lips. The cloth swept down his arms, not rough but gentle, careful. It warmed his fingers and the points of his elbows. He heard it dip into the bowl and smelled the scent of roses again as it brought heat into his nipples, his prick, and even there between his legs. It glided under his buttocks, around his knees, between his toes. When it left him, he knew that he was glowing.
“Beautiful,” said the man he loved; and he could feel himself blush under the gaze that skimmed his body.
A quiet rustle echoed against the walls, the bowl and the cloth being put away, the man who loved him vanishing from his sight, and he wanted to sigh, though he could not make a noise.
But suddenly that hand was touching him again, oh, completely bare this time, the dark eyes following it as it slid around his side, under his arm where it would not have fit a moment before, but it was so warm, and slick with the finest oil, and he could feel the perfume of it rising into him. Careful and thorough, both hands anointed each of his arms, his legs, his neck, his face, even sliding into his mouth, which opened for them now just slightly. He was touched everywhere by the hands that had made him, the hands that had created him, that owned him truly and forever.
And then again, they stroked warm and smooth over his limbs, softening his flesh until his elbows moved, and his fingers. They roamed over his back and his belly, softening him further, and even slid between his legs, because his legs would move slightly now, one hand holding him upright while the fingers of the other slid over him, and oh, inside him.
But he could see only the dark eyes that were watching his face, watching the change that came over it as one finger stroked into him again, very slowly, so warm, hot inside him and his flesh warming around it, the heat rising into his chest and his face with the scent of the flowers and the oil and the candles. He felt as if his eyelids were falling slightly closed, his lips falling apart slightly in pleasure, their corners turning up in a hint of a smile. But he could do nothing of his own because he had no will, could only gaze into the eyes before him and hope that Severus could see his expression.
Severus.
Yes, Severus could see it, because the touch inside him drew away, but the hand on his shoulder reached toward his mouth, just touching it. The dark brilliant eyes marveled. And that place inside his chest, the place that was the heart of him, was filled with joy.
~
He was being clothed, slowly, the shirt pulling snug across his chest as a button was fastened, then another, and another; snug around his neck as his tie was tightened, the collar flipping up, then down again in the old familiar motion. And he recognized the clothes, knew these garments were his by their smell. They smelled like him.
One of his feet was lifted, his leg strangely supple now with the constant touching of those hands. First his underpants, then his trousers, then his socks and shoes slid onto his legs, and he realized what that touch was; not just gentle, not just tender – it was reverent. He could feel the devotion in it as those fingers stroked his face, the corners of his lips, that secret smile they had created.
But he had no memory of his earlier life, no knowledge of anything outside Severus, who was backing away, staring at him, face desperate with an emotion he could not understand.
Severus voice was a whisper. “I’m sorry; sorry. I’m sorry.”
Severus was on the far side of the chamber now, his voice magnified by the echo and leaving him, Harry could feel it, because he knew now who he was, he knew his own name, just as he knew that he would die if Severus left him. It was simple fact. He knew that he would die, that he would become cold again without the hands that had touched him, that he would cease to feel and know without that gaze on him, the voice that had spoken to him, that he would lose all these things. But he looked as long as he could, his eyes stinging.
He was surprised by the first drop that slipped down his cheek. But it was enough, because Severus was coming back to him, slowly, as if drawn by a fisherman’s hook, reaching out his finger and touching the tear, bringing it back to his lips to taste just as before, so that Harry was comforted by the familiarity of it.
But then there was a hand under his chin, and those lips were touching his opened mouth, pressing against his own now to open them wider, a tongue slipping inside him and arms winding around him, holding him tight as he gasped his first breath, his eyes wide.
And somehow, of his own will, he could raise his hand, breathing into Severus’ mouth and feeling the breath come back into him, could raise his hand until it touched the side of Severus face, warm against his fingers, and his fingers warm themselves; a miracle.
~
Harry woke to find himself in the Hospital Wing, with the worried face of Madam Pomfrey above him.
And there were other faces, voices, all around him, so many, all calling him softly, looking to him for help, wanting so many things; looking at him as if he were not a boy, but a man. And he remembered what they wanted, remembered what he wanted, remembered that he had his own dreams.
He started to say something.
But he smelled incense and rose-water and the warm scent of beeswax.
He looked at Madam Pomfrey, but he felt gentle hands seeking inside his clothing, slipping off his pants and trousers together, quick and sure, moving his limbs, opening him.
He tried again to speak, but he heard a voice murmuring endearments that made him blush and close his eyes; “So soft, so ready for me.” It was the voice that wanted nothing more than to possess him. And all at once there was a shock of pain inside him that filled his belly and made his legs spasm, made his eyes open wide, brought him home, with his arms tightening around Severus’ neck, clinging and begging again with his eyes for him to make the pain go away.
And Severus knew exactly what he needed, spoke to him just as he had before, the sound of his voice against Harry’s cheek, against his lips, but never stopping, until he was floating, because now he could understand the words: “Mine; you are mine; you belong to me.”
Then when he was completely languid again, he felt Severus grasp his thighs and drive deeply into him, heard something fall to the floor, smelled the spilled wax and incense all around him, felt the flowers crushed under him on the linen of the altar cloth. He was back in that dark vaulted room again with the candles flickering; a boy, a boy preserved forever, never to grow old, never to know anything but this possession, to know only what Severus wanted him to know, the love that Severus had put inside his heart. He could feel it there, more real than anything, and beating like Severus’ cock inside him, beating with life of a different kind.
But as he fell open and craving, he was completely silent, because the substance of him was still wooden. Though he loved purely, he had no voice, and no way to show it but this: to let himself be worshipped and be the slave of his worshipper, as all deities are.
And he clung tightly, like a child, because he knew that this was what he wanted, that this was real, and everything else was illusion.
Feedback: Um (?) … (concrit welcome!)
(ETA: Now you’re probably thinking of Pinocchio, but actually? This fic is based on the imagines de vestir of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />