~~reena writes non-con! .....bleurgh.
Apr. 1st, 2003 02:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
reenkasometimes (okay, often)-- i write things when i should be doing something else. and i have a lot of "something else" to do. a lot. a lot, lot. a whole lot. damn my life.
anyway... i was like-- i'm not reading anyone's fanfic, because i need to study. i'm not replying in any depth, because i need to study. i'm not, i'm not....
and then this first sentence came into my head and it -tortured- me until i wrote it, and i wasn't going to post it (because, gah, this has no right to live, and it sucks, and i just-- well-- it has no excuses). but anyway. writing non-con is an issue for me, because i think it's such a difficult thing to tackle, and because i can't pretend i can do it justice, and because non-con pr0n is... well... it's just difficult, is all.
and i suppose it's because it's difficult that i want to know just how i've failed, even though this isn't betaed and... well. i mean, this is a short fic, and who cares, anyway, and i know it has no "plot", and. but i don't think a plot would make it that much more palatable to me, so. i dunno. i have issues. this probably sucks.
but, sara wanted me to write non-con, and obviously i can't. sigh.
disclaimer: not mine.
warning: non-con. slash. H/D. don't read if you don't like. I certainly don't like, and I wrote it.
author's note: for Sara, who knows why & how. and yes, just in case you missed it, I hate this fic. a -LOT-.
~~linger.
The only time he thought of him anymore was right before he went to sleep. And it wasn't even him, it was just his hands. They had been so soft. So soft, and dry, and they crackled along his skin as if with static. There was something about the memory he couldn't shake: it clung to him like sweat-dampened sheets, uncomfortable and relentlessly intimate. A second skin.
Potter, curled up against him, his chin tucked into Draco's shoulder. He'd drooled a little, and made faint snuffling noises. Draco had thought it quite hideous. Especially the completely unwanted attendant imagery that had to do with teddy bears and naughty children that it summoned to mind, all this time later.
It had been three years, two months and just about sixteen hours.
He could still feel those hands on him.
He didn't tremble for half an hour before falling into a restless sleep anymore. He didn't startle easily, or keep ten locking spells on every single door between him and the front entrance. He didn't expect any nighttime visitors, and he could make his own breakfast in the morning with steady hands. He was doing rather well, he thought.
When he dreamt, he may have remembered, but Draco didn't know, because the dreams never carried into morning, although for some reason the lingering scent of damp wood and wool wouldn't quite leave him.
The thing that he would have remembered, if he bothered to remember it, would be the fact that he never saw Potter's eyes. All he could discern was the faint flicker reflecting off the other's glasses, cold as moonlight.
He had been trained to resist Imperius for years, and yet he'd put up almost no struggle at all. He'd made a little gasp, mostly of surprise, and felt his eyes go opaque. His heart had been hammering inside his chest, but his breathing was even, and he didn't tremble or show the tiniest, most remote hint of hesitation.
He had been covered in a copious, slick sheen of cold sweat, rolling off him in waves.
Draco never knew how Potter had gotten there, and why he'd done what he did. His footsteps had been soundless as he walked down the hallway to Draco's room, and there had been no house-elf brave (or stupid) enough to announce the presence of a visitor to the Manor. One minute he'd been alone, and the next, his unlocked door was simply open.
His only thought was, "He won't kill me, he won't, he won't, he won't."
He repeated it inside his head again and again, no matter what Potter did. Potter wouldn't kill him. He couldn't, he wouldn't. He didn't.
He thought of that, later, when he thought about the five thousand and seven ways he was going to kill him-- slowly, deliberately-- as soon as he found him. He wouldn't say anything-- he'd just look into Potter's eyes, and smile, and cast the Curse to end all curses. Potter would kiss the ground, as soundlessly as he'd kissed Draco.
"Strip," he'd said, and Draco shivered, even though his room had been the perfect temperature. He thought he'd never stop shivering, but he did.
He felt Potter's eyes on him, slowly moving down his arms, across his stomach, slipping between his buttocks like a caress. He wanted to turn around, and he didn't know whether it was so that he could stop looking or so that Potter could continue.
Standing there, he thought it was an interesting intellectual exercise to imagine how he'd act if he -could- act. His body was moving without his participation being necessary, so he could consider the question fully.
He'd have his arms folded across his chest, and he would be sneering, daring Potter to make a move. He'd say he already had a girlfriend, thank you, and if Potter wanted to apply, he may as well get in line. He would stare meaningfully at the bulge in Potter's trousers, and Potter would blush and stutter and look away uncomfortably, not knowing what to do with himself. He would walk forward, his breathing deep and even, and his hand would casually cup Potter's balls, his thumb slowly rubbing at the outline of Potter's cock, making Potter squirm and gasp and moan. And then he'd stop, because he'd meant what he'd said about having everything that he wanted and needed already, and that could never, ever be Potter.
Draco was standing in his thin, very obviously distended boxers, and he thought he might be glaring, but he probably wasn't. He was aware his toes were cold, and that if he got any harder, he might pass out from lack of blood to his brain.
"Lie down," Potter had said, and it was merely a command. Nothing less, nothing more.
Draco lay down on his back on top of the covers, feeling very much on display. A piece of meat. He wanted to hate it more than he wanted anything in his life, ever.
Potter took off his glasses, slowly, setting them on the night-table with careful precision, blinking a few times. He was standing in shadow, and Draco couldn't see his face. And then he appeared to reconsider, and the glasses were back on. Potter took his clothes off instead-- pushing his trousers down, letting them pool at his feet. He jerked his shirt off in one smooth motion, revealing a tanned, muscular chest. His nipples were hard, tiny dark pebbles. A fuzzy line of hair ran down from his bellybutton, disappearing inside his boxers. Draco stared at it fixedly, refusing to look higher or lower. He felt a huge, disproportionate sense of heady triumph.
And then the boxers were off.
The cock was pointing straight at him, leaving no room for error. By that point, Draco's mind had taken a rather large detour into a soft, almost pleasant complacency. All it was was pain. He was used enought to pain for it not to matter. Potter was just going to throw Draco's legs over his shoulders and slam that large dick of his home, and that was all there was to it. It was going to burn, and he'll bleed some, and then it'd be over and he could start forgetting about it. Simple.
He started counting the seconds in his head.
One... two... three... four....
Potter's knees were to either side of him, bony and frail and he would've laughed if he could have. If not for the band of muscle, he would entertain thoughts of snapping them.
"Look at me," Potter said, and then he took Draco's cock in his mouth.
Suddenly, Draco couldn't breathe, and his heart was seriously threatening to burst out of his chest. He heard a rushing sound in his ears, and just as suddenly, everything in the universe seemed very far away and insignificant. Everything except the awful, delirious sensation of drowning in knife-sharp pleasure.
Potter's tongue was energetic, sliding all around his cock, circling and gliding and sweeping across, swirling quickly around the head only to take its time, casually exploring over and under and everywhere.
He was going to come, just a second more, just a minute, and all he could hear within his mind was a neverending litany of "No", swallowing all his yesses.
He felt a finger shoved inside him, at the same time as that tongue deserted him, and there were ruthless fingers suddenly clamped around the base of his cock.
Draco felt relieved. It was fine. He didn't. It was fine.
He kept thinking, "He didn't-- he didn't-- he didn't fuck me-- he didn't," even as Potter kept the spit-slick finger working in and out of his sore body, not quite hard enough to bleed.
It seemed to go on forever, and he began to feel overloaded, began to float away-- once again, everything was just fine. He didn't need to come. He didn't need to think. He could just lie there quietly, and think of nothing.
Then Potter stopped.
Maybe he wanted to make Draco beg for it. Which would be a laugh, because he couldn't. But Draco wasn't wondering why anything, he was just trying to pretend Potter wasn't jerking off while looking, for just a fleeting moment, like he was about to bloody -cry-, or something.
And for the next eight or ten months, every time Draco closed his eyes, he could see it-- Potter, sitting on his thighs, his eyes closed, face studiously impassive, a fist pumping his cock in a steady rhythm.
Draco had been so hard he thought the tiniest breeze would make him explode. If Potter had shifted, just a little; rocked back a bit, so that his arse would rub up against Draco's cock. If he would have looked at Draco as he came.
And this is what he remembered-- heavy droplets of white fluid, jetting in a high arc from Potter's fist. Being unable to blink, unable to move, throw Potter off him, wrap his hands around Potter's throat as he finally found his own release.
He remembered the only sound Potter had made-- a low, pained-sounding groan, almost a grunt, as the last shudder slid through his frame. The hot, sizzling sensation of the drops that landed on his nipple, in the hollow of his throat, right below his collarbone. His cock had twitched violently at that, and it was all he'd needed.
He didn't scream, didn't arch upwards, and his eyes finally slammed shut in an uncontrollable reflex. The orgasm, when it hit him, was almost painful. His cock pulsed, splattering come against the upper curve of Potter's backside. Draco saw no obvious reaction, no disgust or triumph or slight shiver of pleasure. It felt like a betrayal, but it was getting hard to distinguish yet another one from the many before it.
It wasn't his single-minded physical response that was the betrayal, of course.
As it happened, Draco had only one fantasy playing itself out behind his eyelids.
Breaking the curse. Seizing Potter's wrists, pinning them in place. Forcing himself up into that tight arse, without warning, without a word, certainly without an apology.
Thrusting faster and faster, making Potter wail disconsolately. The blood would run down his dick along with his own come, and Potter would remain very painfully unsatisfied. Potter's thighs would be trembling delicately, and his mouth would be hanging open in shock and want and a rising, impotent rage.
He'd never wanted anything more.
"Go to sleep," Potter said, before his cock had even softened to its unaroused state.
He had remembered his dreams that night. They had been so real. Draco tried to tell himself they were figments of his imagination, his masochistic mind out to get him, but he knew a lie when he heard one.
Potter had curled around him, ever so gently, after having washed in between his thighs, swiped carefully at his butt-cheeks with a warm washcloth. He lay quietly, an arm wrapped around Draco's waist, an ankle wound between the sleeping boy's. He whispered so quietly Draco couldn't even begin to imagine what he'd said, although he'd said it in a lilting, sad voice that made him miss things he knew he never had, or even wanted before.
He imagined Potter had been asking for his forgiveness, telling him that he hated himself, that he was now just as worthless as Draco had always said he was. He imagined Potter was really sorry, and he knew it wasn't enough for Draco, and he was offering Draco his life, if only Draco wanted to take it. He really was very sorry.
Or maybe he was telling him that his marriage to that Weasley girl was slowly driving him insane, and he needed to do the thing he'd always wanted before he killed himself and put himself, along with the wizarding world, out of its misery. After all, he'd been wanking off to Draco's smooth pale skin and cruel lips ever since he was sixteen. No, fifteen. Younger, even.
Maybe Potter was just telling him that he'd been a really good fuck, and he wasn't sorry at all, and maybe they could do it again sometime, only this time Draco would get to be on top. Potter was willing to undergo any punishment Draco wanted, he just couldn't live without Draco's cock up his arse for much longer. He might hurt himself in his frustration.
Draco knew he was better off not knowing.
He was better off asleep when Potter finally left, as soundlessly as he'd come.
Certainly, no muscle even twitched when that impossibly slick tongue flickered against his mouth, almost slipping inside. It wasn't really a kiss, more like Potter was tasting him, saying hello or goodbye or maybe nothing at all. The curse was gone by then, and Draco knew it. Still, he made no move to open his eyes, or part his lips, or even bite down on Potter's tongue, much as he wanted to. He heard that familiar rushing in his ears, the full-body shiver, which Potter must've noticed, since he straightened up immediately.
After a while, the ringing died down and all Draco heard was silence. And then he woke up.
There was no sign anyone had been there at all. The bed wasn't unusually rumpled, and the pillow next to him smelled fresh and vaguely sweet like May roses, just like always. He'd rolled over on his back, throwing an arm against his forehead, battling a huge, pounding headache.
He felt like he had a hangover, and maybe-- maybe the soreness in his arse was because he'd sat down spectacularly wrong.
Draco began counting the minutes, waiting for the feeling to go away. On his eight-hundredth minute, he decided to get up, move to the bed in the guest chambers. On his thirteen-hundred-and-tenth, he realized he was actually hungry again, and went to pick some carrots from the garden, until he remembered that the gardens got blasted along with the northwest hedges near the lake.
He was just waiting to get angry again. He waited to feel anything at all, but time passed, and he didn't. He only thought he might need a haircut, when the fringe began obscuring his vision and tickling the end of his nose.
When he was falling asleep, he felt the touches, everywhere on his skin, burning like fire-brands. He knew exactly where they'd been, exactly for how long. His skin felt raw, impossible to soothe. He thought he heard Potter saying something into his ear, and his moist breath was maddening and perfect and wrong, and he said, "Don't dream of me."
Draco didn't.
~~
anyway... i was like-- i'm not reading anyone's fanfic, because i need to study. i'm not replying in any depth, because i need to study. i'm not, i'm not....
and then this first sentence came into my head and it -tortured- me until i wrote it, and i wasn't going to post it (because, gah, this has no right to live, and it sucks, and i just-- well-- it has no excuses). but anyway. writing non-con is an issue for me, because i think it's such a difficult thing to tackle, and because i can't pretend i can do it justice, and because non-con pr0n is... well... it's just difficult, is all.
and i suppose it's because it's difficult that i want to know just how i've failed, even though this isn't betaed and... well. i mean, this is a short fic, and who cares, anyway, and i know it has no "plot", and. but i don't think a plot would make it that much more palatable to me, so. i dunno. i have issues. this probably sucks.
but, sara wanted me to write non-con, and obviously i can't. sigh.
disclaimer: not mine.
warning: non-con. slash. H/D. don't read if you don't like. I certainly don't like, and I wrote it.
author's note: for Sara, who knows why & how. and yes, just in case you missed it, I hate this fic. a -LOT-.
~~linger.
The only time he thought of him anymore was right before he went to sleep. And it wasn't even him, it was just his hands. They had been so soft. So soft, and dry, and they crackled along his skin as if with static. There was something about the memory he couldn't shake: it clung to him like sweat-dampened sheets, uncomfortable and relentlessly intimate. A second skin.
Potter, curled up against him, his chin tucked into Draco's shoulder. He'd drooled a little, and made faint snuffling noises. Draco had thought it quite hideous. Especially the completely unwanted attendant imagery that had to do with teddy bears and naughty children that it summoned to mind, all this time later.
It had been three years, two months and just about sixteen hours.
He could still feel those hands on him.
He didn't tremble for half an hour before falling into a restless sleep anymore. He didn't startle easily, or keep ten locking spells on every single door between him and the front entrance. He didn't expect any nighttime visitors, and he could make his own breakfast in the morning with steady hands. He was doing rather well, he thought.
When he dreamt, he may have remembered, but Draco didn't know, because the dreams never carried into morning, although for some reason the lingering scent of damp wood and wool wouldn't quite leave him.
The thing that he would have remembered, if he bothered to remember it, would be the fact that he never saw Potter's eyes. All he could discern was the faint flicker reflecting off the other's glasses, cold as moonlight.
He had been trained to resist Imperius for years, and yet he'd put up almost no struggle at all. He'd made a little gasp, mostly of surprise, and felt his eyes go opaque. His heart had been hammering inside his chest, but his breathing was even, and he didn't tremble or show the tiniest, most remote hint of hesitation.
He had been covered in a copious, slick sheen of cold sweat, rolling off him in waves.
Draco never knew how Potter had gotten there, and why he'd done what he did. His footsteps had been soundless as he walked down the hallway to Draco's room, and there had been no house-elf brave (or stupid) enough to announce the presence of a visitor to the Manor. One minute he'd been alone, and the next, his unlocked door was simply open.
His only thought was, "He won't kill me, he won't, he won't, he won't."
He repeated it inside his head again and again, no matter what Potter did. Potter wouldn't kill him. He couldn't, he wouldn't. He didn't.
He thought of that, later, when he thought about the five thousand and seven ways he was going to kill him-- slowly, deliberately-- as soon as he found him. He wouldn't say anything-- he'd just look into Potter's eyes, and smile, and cast the Curse to end all curses. Potter would kiss the ground, as soundlessly as he'd kissed Draco.
"Strip," he'd said, and Draco shivered, even though his room had been the perfect temperature. He thought he'd never stop shivering, but he did.
He felt Potter's eyes on him, slowly moving down his arms, across his stomach, slipping between his buttocks like a caress. He wanted to turn around, and he didn't know whether it was so that he could stop looking or so that Potter could continue.
Standing there, he thought it was an interesting intellectual exercise to imagine how he'd act if he -could- act. His body was moving without his participation being necessary, so he could consider the question fully.
He'd have his arms folded across his chest, and he would be sneering, daring Potter to make a move. He'd say he already had a girlfriend, thank you, and if Potter wanted to apply, he may as well get in line. He would stare meaningfully at the bulge in Potter's trousers, and Potter would blush and stutter and look away uncomfortably, not knowing what to do with himself. He would walk forward, his breathing deep and even, and his hand would casually cup Potter's balls, his thumb slowly rubbing at the outline of Potter's cock, making Potter squirm and gasp and moan. And then he'd stop, because he'd meant what he'd said about having everything that he wanted and needed already, and that could never, ever be Potter.
Draco was standing in his thin, very obviously distended boxers, and he thought he might be glaring, but he probably wasn't. He was aware his toes were cold, and that if he got any harder, he might pass out from lack of blood to his brain.
"Lie down," Potter had said, and it was merely a command. Nothing less, nothing more.
Draco lay down on his back on top of the covers, feeling very much on display. A piece of meat. He wanted to hate it more than he wanted anything in his life, ever.
Potter took off his glasses, slowly, setting them on the night-table with careful precision, blinking a few times. He was standing in shadow, and Draco couldn't see his face. And then he appeared to reconsider, and the glasses were back on. Potter took his clothes off instead-- pushing his trousers down, letting them pool at his feet. He jerked his shirt off in one smooth motion, revealing a tanned, muscular chest. His nipples were hard, tiny dark pebbles. A fuzzy line of hair ran down from his bellybutton, disappearing inside his boxers. Draco stared at it fixedly, refusing to look higher or lower. He felt a huge, disproportionate sense of heady triumph.
And then the boxers were off.
The cock was pointing straight at him, leaving no room for error. By that point, Draco's mind had taken a rather large detour into a soft, almost pleasant complacency. All it was was pain. He was used enought to pain for it not to matter. Potter was just going to throw Draco's legs over his shoulders and slam that large dick of his home, and that was all there was to it. It was going to burn, and he'll bleed some, and then it'd be over and he could start forgetting about it. Simple.
He started counting the seconds in his head.
One... two... three... four....
Potter's knees were to either side of him, bony and frail and he would've laughed if he could have. If not for the band of muscle, he would entertain thoughts of snapping them.
"Look at me," Potter said, and then he took Draco's cock in his mouth.
Suddenly, Draco couldn't breathe, and his heart was seriously threatening to burst out of his chest. He heard a rushing sound in his ears, and just as suddenly, everything in the universe seemed very far away and insignificant. Everything except the awful, delirious sensation of drowning in knife-sharp pleasure.
Potter's tongue was energetic, sliding all around his cock, circling and gliding and sweeping across, swirling quickly around the head only to take its time, casually exploring over and under and everywhere.
He was going to come, just a second more, just a minute, and all he could hear within his mind was a neverending litany of "No", swallowing all his yesses.
He felt a finger shoved inside him, at the same time as that tongue deserted him, and there were ruthless fingers suddenly clamped around the base of his cock.
Draco felt relieved. It was fine. He didn't. It was fine.
He kept thinking, "He didn't-- he didn't-- he didn't fuck me-- he didn't," even as Potter kept the spit-slick finger working in and out of his sore body, not quite hard enough to bleed.
It seemed to go on forever, and he began to feel overloaded, began to float away-- once again, everything was just fine. He didn't need to come. He didn't need to think. He could just lie there quietly, and think of nothing.
Then Potter stopped.
Maybe he wanted to make Draco beg for it. Which would be a laugh, because he couldn't. But Draco wasn't wondering why anything, he was just trying to pretend Potter wasn't jerking off while looking, for just a fleeting moment, like he was about to bloody -cry-, or something.
And for the next eight or ten months, every time Draco closed his eyes, he could see it-- Potter, sitting on his thighs, his eyes closed, face studiously impassive, a fist pumping his cock in a steady rhythm.
Draco had been so hard he thought the tiniest breeze would make him explode. If Potter had shifted, just a little; rocked back a bit, so that his arse would rub up against Draco's cock. If he would have looked at Draco as he came.
And this is what he remembered-- heavy droplets of white fluid, jetting in a high arc from Potter's fist. Being unable to blink, unable to move, throw Potter off him, wrap his hands around Potter's throat as he finally found his own release.
He remembered the only sound Potter had made-- a low, pained-sounding groan, almost a grunt, as the last shudder slid through his frame. The hot, sizzling sensation of the drops that landed on his nipple, in the hollow of his throat, right below his collarbone. His cock had twitched violently at that, and it was all he'd needed.
He didn't scream, didn't arch upwards, and his eyes finally slammed shut in an uncontrollable reflex. The orgasm, when it hit him, was almost painful. His cock pulsed, splattering come against the upper curve of Potter's backside. Draco saw no obvious reaction, no disgust or triumph or slight shiver of pleasure. It felt like a betrayal, but it was getting hard to distinguish yet another one from the many before it.
It wasn't his single-minded physical response that was the betrayal, of course.
As it happened, Draco had only one fantasy playing itself out behind his eyelids.
Breaking the curse. Seizing Potter's wrists, pinning them in place. Forcing himself up into that tight arse, without warning, without a word, certainly without an apology.
Thrusting faster and faster, making Potter wail disconsolately. The blood would run down his dick along with his own come, and Potter would remain very painfully unsatisfied. Potter's thighs would be trembling delicately, and his mouth would be hanging open in shock and want and a rising, impotent rage.
He'd never wanted anything more.
"Go to sleep," Potter said, before his cock had even softened to its unaroused state.
He had remembered his dreams that night. They had been so real. Draco tried to tell himself they were figments of his imagination, his masochistic mind out to get him, but he knew a lie when he heard one.
Potter had curled around him, ever so gently, after having washed in between his thighs, swiped carefully at his butt-cheeks with a warm washcloth. He lay quietly, an arm wrapped around Draco's waist, an ankle wound between the sleeping boy's. He whispered so quietly Draco couldn't even begin to imagine what he'd said, although he'd said it in a lilting, sad voice that made him miss things he knew he never had, or even wanted before.
He imagined Potter had been asking for his forgiveness, telling him that he hated himself, that he was now just as worthless as Draco had always said he was. He imagined Potter was really sorry, and he knew it wasn't enough for Draco, and he was offering Draco his life, if only Draco wanted to take it. He really was very sorry.
Or maybe he was telling him that his marriage to that Weasley girl was slowly driving him insane, and he needed to do the thing he'd always wanted before he killed himself and put himself, along with the wizarding world, out of its misery. After all, he'd been wanking off to Draco's smooth pale skin and cruel lips ever since he was sixteen. No, fifteen. Younger, even.
Maybe Potter was just telling him that he'd been a really good fuck, and he wasn't sorry at all, and maybe they could do it again sometime, only this time Draco would get to be on top. Potter was willing to undergo any punishment Draco wanted, he just couldn't live without Draco's cock up his arse for much longer. He might hurt himself in his frustration.
Draco knew he was better off not knowing.
He was better off asleep when Potter finally left, as soundlessly as he'd come.
Certainly, no muscle even twitched when that impossibly slick tongue flickered against his mouth, almost slipping inside. It wasn't really a kiss, more like Potter was tasting him, saying hello or goodbye or maybe nothing at all. The curse was gone by then, and Draco knew it. Still, he made no move to open his eyes, or part his lips, or even bite down on Potter's tongue, much as he wanted to. He heard that familiar rushing in his ears, the full-body shiver, which Potter must've noticed, since he straightened up immediately.
After a while, the ringing died down and all Draco heard was silence. And then he woke up.
There was no sign anyone had been there at all. The bed wasn't unusually rumpled, and the pillow next to him smelled fresh and vaguely sweet like May roses, just like always. He'd rolled over on his back, throwing an arm against his forehead, battling a huge, pounding headache.
He felt like he had a hangover, and maybe-- maybe the soreness in his arse was because he'd sat down spectacularly wrong.
Draco began counting the minutes, waiting for the feeling to go away. On his eight-hundredth minute, he decided to get up, move to the bed in the guest chambers. On his thirteen-hundred-and-tenth, he realized he was actually hungry again, and went to pick some carrots from the garden, until he remembered that the gardens got blasted along with the northwest hedges near the lake.
He was just waiting to get angry again. He waited to feel anything at all, but time passed, and he didn't. He only thought he might need a haircut, when the fringe began obscuring his vision and tickling the end of his nose.
When he was falling asleep, he felt the touches, everywhere on his skin, burning like fire-brands. He knew exactly where they'd been, exactly for how long. His skin felt raw, impossible to soothe. He thought he heard Potter saying something into his ear, and his moist breath was maddening and perfect and wrong, and he said, "Don't dream of me."
Draco didn't.
~~
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-04-01 04:22 pm (UTC)yep. i did mention i -hated- this, and it wasn't really because i thought i wrote it badly, so much as because i was -lying-.
you know what i mean?
you're absolutely, 100% correct. harry would never do this.
i'm left in a quandary. draco might do this, but-- harry would never allow it-- since he can resist imperius and basically since he could kick draco's arse, and also because he -would- were draco to ever try anything.
so i feel really bad having written something i don't believe in, something so dark and evil and wrong. you know?
so yah, it's a concept fic.
and basically, -i- couldn't believe it either. how can i get an explanation if i couldn't think of any? there is no good reason. there is simply no reason.
if you think there could be a reason-- i could rework the fic to fit that in, but somehow i just don't see it.
so um... on the level of-- is this fic in-character, a worthwhile fanfiction that explores the characters/world/etc, it fails utterly (as i mentioned).
i posted it simply because it's an interesting exercise.
i did try to just write non-con in a smutty way (for
sigh. non-con is pretty much impossible to do believably-- for me-- in this pairing. and i did kind of write it with my "ginny goes insane and polyjuices into draco to kill harry" fic. but that wasn't quite the same...
hmm.
but thank you for like, being honest and stuff~:)
i mean, i don't really know what kind of reaction i'm looking for-- certainly not a "leap of faith" one.
[accidentally pressed the post button here ><;;]
i think it's not meant in a realistic sort of way, not like my morning sex ficlet. this is more just an emotional piece, where i was... i dunno. imagining what it felt like, without really giving the event a lot of definite reality. you know?
so i wonder why you think the story -expects- this leap of faith.
is it merely because i don't explain it?
but how -would- i explain it? i mean.... it would be just that: an explanation. it wouldn't really change what happened, merely our ability to believe in it. and i wasn't looking for anyone-- even draco-- to believe in it. heck, -i- didn't believe in it. you know? so how to get around the fact that i'm writing about something i don't believe in?
i just wrote it. i just said, okay, this happened.
my mind simply can't wrap around -why- it would happen, so it just -did-.
you know?
which (like i mentioned) probably makes it a "bad story", but on the other hand, it's interesting, in its own way, as a ...study of some sort~:)
i keep wanting to write stories i believe in, stories that fulfill me, that say what i really have to say, that are -true-. and i just get side-tracked into these concept-fics because people encourage me and want me to do this or that and i like pleasing people (especially if they're my friends), and it motivates me to write, moreso than my own need to say what i believe (which i guess is sad). i say that anyway-- just, slower.
like, no one -wants- to see my "draco-as-tam-lin" story, so i don't write it (yet).
no one really wants that "the carnival of dreams comes to hogwarts" (except one person, but he doesn't tend to inspire me so much as some other people), so i don't write it. and yet, those stories mean something to me, and i would take care to set them up and wrap the plot around the characters and vice versa.
sigh. but thanks for this~:)
and i'll get to your fic (because i -want- to, mind) just as soon as i crawl from underneath this mountain of stuff "to do". *wibbles* ^^
~:)
wherein i ramble yet more ><;; eep!
Date: 2003-04-01 04:38 pm (UTC)you said bridges...
and okay... would it be better if.... this was a warfic? and draco was er... being held prisoner and tortured?
and...er... harry thought draco was some sort of evil monster and he no longer thought of him as a person?
or... -harry- was under a spell? or it wasn't really harry?
would it be better if this was a hallucination? (though that doesn't work)...
if harry was "set up" to be evil, somehow? like, he's... er... not the harry we used to know, because... er... everyone he loved is dead and he's just doing the worst possible things he can think of, just because he can?
on the other hand...
in a lot of stories, i feel "impossible" things are over-explained. like, "this is why this ridiculous thing is happening, because drakey-wakey was abused by his daddy, etc etc". you know? like, a bunch of writers would say, "see, harry has just been abused by the dursleys, and/or voldemort is controlling his mind, and/or dumbledore is having him have visions of how evil he can get just to harden him".
but. this is entirely draco pov for that reason-- because i don't know, and in a way, i don't -want- to know, because there is no excuse and nothing that would make it okay for me to write. i can myself making vague references to "the war" and "he remembered that harry was supposed to have gone insane after killing voldemort", whatever-- but.
hmm, i dunno. i suppose that's what you -do-, writing a fic. you start out with an idea, and you build a world to support that idea. you want to do X, and you build justifications just so that you can write X without sounding loony.
but... what if there can -be- no justification for X? or rather, what if everything you can possibly imagine sounds hokey and flimsy and wrong?
like, okay, i've read rapefic (of sorts), that rests on blackmail, for instance. i thought it was stupid and passe. i don't see harry blackmailing draco, and i'm sick and -tired- of seeing draco blackmail harry. it's a cheesy, stupid plot-device. and now to the "harry is evil and a war-hardened veteran" bit-- i mean. just how lame is -that-? at least, in my head.
first of all, i don't even find it believable that the war will continue past harry's 7th year. i dunno if -events- can be out-of-character, but there you go. secondly, i don't think harry can become this sort of person no matter -what- sort of thing he sees. in fact, i think war will make him more righteous, probably, less grey (and he's not that grey to start with).
and no matter -what- happens, -why- would he do this to malfoy?
on the other hand, i could've discarded the harry idea and gone with draco doing it. which is just....
i dunno. that's...
okay, easy explanation there.
see. draco is a death eater. draco wants harry. poof.
but.... i'm more invested in this scenario. whereas harry-as-evil is simply not workable in my head, i -hate- evil!draco, especially if he'd do this to harry, precisely because it's more plausible. and anyway, he can't cast imperius, so harry'd have to be captured, and it'd have to involve more plot (since voldemort would be involved, death eaters in general, etc). sigh. also, i'd just hate it even more, then, and the essential focus on the -act- rather than the motivation would be lost. and i hate the act, but i hate the motivation even more.
so. i was/am in a bind~:) and wah, i've rambled way too much.
forgive ><;;
Re: wherein i ramble yet more ><;; eep!
Date: 2003-04-01 04:43 pm (UTC)I think things like war and spells would help to explain, definitely. They could be bridges. I don't think you need to go into vast detail what happened. but bread crumbs are nice. hint at waht are possible explanations (of your choosing) and people will likely connect the dots.
BUT I'M NOT TELLING YOU TO CHANGE THE STORY. Don't feel obligated. If you are happy with how it is. If it feels complete to you, then you shouldn't.
Re: wherein i ramble yet more ><;; eep!
Date: 2003-04-01 04:44 pm (UTC)BTW. I wanted the next chapter of carnival of dreams. I never told you because I read it on snitchfiction and they don't have reviews. But it was a cute story, something just enjoyable and fun.
You should write the next chapter.
Re: wherein i ramble yet more ><;; eep!
Date: 2003-04-01 04:58 pm (UTC)*bounces*
yah, it was rather cute (in my head, anyway). although not fluffy. or at least, not -going- to be fluffy. more... sandman-ish. that mood, anyway.
also, if you've ever seen the alice cooper comic book collaboration with neil, where he's the head of the theater of dreams... or whatever it was called.
yah. it's all dream-like and bright-colored in my head, like a comicbook~:)
i'm not sure if one should only write the things that make one happy, but if i had to come up with a rule of thumb, that'd prolly be it ^^
no subject
Date: 2003-04-01 04:38 pm (UTC)How would you present this as believeable? I don't know. In general, I could not accept Harry in this position, but I'm sure somebody could think of an explanation I might begin to buy. But that would require some background information, which in all honesty, would almost shatter the mood of this story.
But in your explanation, you say this: "this happened" but you don't know why. And that is almost what I mean by my phrasing, "leap of faith." As a reader, you have to get over the why and accept. Does it make more sense if I talk about taking a step, blindly.
Like, you know that scene in Indiana Jones and the Final Crusade where Indiana has to take a step across this great expanse, even though he can't see the bridge that takes him to the other side? That's what I mean. That you simply accept that you can't see what the connection is, but you take that step from book to canon.
Really, bad phrasing likely.
But like i was trying to say , but I think i was too heavy handed in the end. I liked this story. I like the non-con aspect of it (i love non con.)
But do I feel that these characters necessarily needed to be Harry and Draco? No, no I don't. But like I said, that's a personal issue. Either you can let go of it and go along with the author for a ride into an interesting tale, or you can't.
no subject
Date: 2003-04-01 04:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-04-01 05:14 pm (UTC)*ponders*
it's a delicate thing, in this case. i've set it up so that draco doesn't know what's going on. if he did at the -time-, it would significantly change the dynamic and i'd have to rewrite a lot of it (and remember, i really kind of resent this fic for even existing). if he realized what was going on later, or if it was a hindsight sort of thing, that'd be another thing.
although a war wouldn't be something he could "not know". and a war would change pretty much everything-- it's not like, a small detail.
"and btw, there was a war going on, apparently...". heh.
hmmm. does it feel complete to me?
it feels as if i've got the scene down. as far as that scene and the actions within it, i don't think much else happened.
i mean, i could add dialogue (just to up the smut value), but it's not too needed, i don't think.
adding awareness to draco in this case seems synonymous to adding -power- to draco. he's lost and confused, completely taken aback. i dunno. i dunno why i wrote it like that-- maybe because to me, harry was a faceless demon sort of character (ie, the thing about not being able to see his eyes, etc).
as far as them not being necessarily draco and harry... sigh.
yah.
i dunno if an explanation would give them more in-character vibes, though. and yah. i do realize that a lot of my fic is like this-- atmospheric and rather non fanfictiony, unless it's an out-and-out character study (like my hermione/harry thing).
this is probably largely because of my frequent avoidance of plot (and in this case, any sort of characterization at all). so it's like, i don't get people jumping down my throat for making my characters ooc, simply because i don't characterize them that strongly one way or the other, i guess.
sigh.
i don't know if it really works as an "original fic", on the other hand, but maybe it does. certainly, if i actually -admit- that these aren't harry & draco to me, that sort of guts it already.
on the other hand, with my morning!smut fic, they -were- harry & draco to me (or maybe i just wanted them to be, i dunno), and i -still- got told they could be anybody. so maybe it's not something i could control 100% (in short fics, anyway).
yah, you either decide to believe or you don't. in this case, characterization and personality would counteract the sort of horrific atmosphere-- a draco in full possession of his faculties (and harry, likewise), would just never be -in- this situation, to me.
so if they were in-character and snarky and angry-- i mean.
yah.
wah. this fic is very much a "you want to see? go ahead and see", sort of fic. i wrote it for an audience who -wants- to believe this. does that make sense? i wrote it for hypothetical someone who wants non-con h/d. since -i- don't want it (because like-- rape makes me sad, and non-con in that "let's tussle and pretend we don't want this"-- which i -do- really like, is only grey-area non-con and not "the real thing", and i wanted to try "the real thing"), this present a difficulty in characterization and believability, probably.
but yes. we basically agree. hee :)
no subject
Date: 2003-04-01 05:31 pm (UTC)