Writing again. Go me!
Title: A Day in the Life
Author: GMTH
Pairing: Lucius/OMC, but mostly it's gen
Rating: R for implied m/m sexual activity and one rilly disgusting prison guard.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: It feels like it's been about 100 years, but last night I actually put together a ficlet that is more than a few hundred words long. And I'm damn proud of that. ;-) I wasn't planning on posting it here but the feedback on theatrical_muse has been pretty good so I figured, what the hell. Written in response to this week's TM challenge: What is your typical day like? Thanks to maeglinyedi for looking it over for me and pointing out an error that would have ruined it completely.
August 1, 1995. 8:30 AM
I drift out of sleep slowly, loath to give up the pleasant dream flickering behind my eyelids, to feel the soft press of lips to my bare shoulder.
"G'morning," the boy whispers, nuzzling my ear. His lips are rough as a cat's tongue against the sensitized skin on my throat.
I don't answer him. He is, after all, only a whore; an exceptionally skilled one, yes, but a whore nonetheless. I've paid dearly for the privilege of having him spend the night, and I intend to make him work for his money.
I turn my head away from him, baring more of my neck to his touch. He leans up so half his body is covering mine and mouths his way along the cords of my neck, tongue dipping lightly into the notch at its base. Oh, yes. He does know his business. His fingers are as experienced as his lips, skating purposefully along the hardness burgeoning between my legs. His progress is slow and wonderful, and the tension builds until I cannot bite back a moan. I feel those amazing lips curl into a smile against my abdomen.
When I can stand it no longer, I roll him onto his back and take what I have paid for. Hard. Fast. I want it to hurt, and he squirms and cries out as though he is in agony. Perhaps he truly is.
I don't know. Nor do I care. The illusion is enough to make it a perfect start to a new day.
***
August 1, 1996. 8:30 AM
"Wake up, Malfoy."
I awaken with a start, thankful to have been pulled from yet another nightmare. The gratitude lasts only a moment, however, as I am immediately plunged into another, more horrible nightmare, one that will never end.
My mouth has a foul taste in it as I swing my legs over the side of the cot. The springs creak in protest and I shiver; it sounds exactly like the squeals I hear at night from the family of vermin living somewhere in or near my cell. I've never managed to catch a glimpse of them in the daylight.
Pugh leers at me through the window in my cell door. "Sleep well?" he says, sniggering. Even his voice sounds foul. Cretin.
I glare at him, then look away quickly. He's got a nasty temper, and as the time passes I find I'm less and less able to mount a defense against it. "No? Aw, 'tis a pity, that." He snorts and spits a gob of something onto the floor outside my cell. "Get up, then. Welcome to another day in paradise."
I sit on the edge of my cot with my head in my hands, trying to shut out the sound of his laughter echoing down the hallway as he moves on to the next cell.
***
August 1, 1995. 10:00 AM
The bath water is hot almost to the point of pain, just the way I like it, and I settle back against the edge of the tub with a contented sigh.
"Is good, Master Lucius?" A house-elf bobs into view, but I ignore it in favor of closing my eyes. I can hear it moving about behind me, but I pay it little mind until its hands tentatively touch the back of my head. I lean forward, and my mind finally clicks into place on the day ahead as it scrubs my back with a soapy flannel and washes my hair, rinsing the musk-scented potion from the long strands with liter after liter of warm water. It scurries to provide a towel as I finish washing myself, and then rushes into my bedroom to lay out my wardrobe for the day.
It doesn't go far. It knows I will be calling it shortly, once I am dry and have pulled on my dressing gown. And Merlin help it if it snags the comb on even one tangle in my hair this morning.
***
August 1, 1996. 10:00 AM
"All righ', then, up with ye."
Pugh tucks his wand into his belt and saunters into my cell. He scratches his prodigious belly with his ragged fingernails as I haul myself to my feet. Just a few weeks of inactivity, and I'm already finding it harder and harder to move. Merlin only knows what effect months -- or years -- of incarceration in this place will do to me.
I stand as straight as I can, refusing to meet his eyes as he shuffles closer. He looks me up and down, drinking in the sight of my filthy robes, his eyes lingering on the rip over my left nipple. He pokes his fingers through the fabric, ostensibly to feel the extent of the damage, I'm sure, but his filthy nails scrape over the exposed nub of flesh.
He steps closer and I stiffen as his nose grazes along my shoulder. Under any other circumstances, this man would not have been allowed to come within a kilometer of me. But here, as I have already learned in the most degrading way possible, I am entirely at his mercy.
Bile rises in my throat. But to my immense relief, all he does is take a deep sniff. I can feel his nostrils flaring as he snuffles along my neck and chest like a dog. Good. I smell foul and I know it. There is no one more deserving of wallowing in my stench.
He pulls away, adjusting himself. "Ye smell fine t' me," he rasps, and my heart plummets into my stomach as he turns away and shambles toward the cell door. It will be a week, at least, until I am given another chance at a cleaning charm.
***
August 1, 1995. 11:00 AM
The house elf goes off to punish itself as I finish dressing. I can still hear its squeals of pain as I descend the stairs into the sitting room. Breakfast is set, the dishes charmed to keep the food warm, the newspaper unfolded and waiting on my chair. Kippers, eggs, toast, tea, all prepared precisely the way I like them. I take my time over my meal, and read the paper from cover to cover.
***
August 1, 1996. 11:00 AM
My stomach feels like a vast, empty cavern by the time Pugh edges the door open and shoves a tray inside. A small bowl of watery porridge and a cup of cold, weak tea. Enough to keep me alive, but never enough to truly satisfy.
I force away thoughts of thick, blood-rare steaks, hearty rashers of bacon and the intricate twists and turns of my wine cellar as I choke back the food. They don't even give me a spoon. I have to tip the bowl against my mouth and when it is empty, I lick the bottom clean.
The first week after my arrest, I complained about the rations and got my first taste of Pugh's sadism.
"Ye don' like it?" he said, and there was something about the glint in his mean, piggy eyes that made my blood run cold. His smile was no comfort. He turned and leaned over to pick up the bowl of porridge. "Tha's a right shame, that is." He snorted and gagged for a moment, hacking something up from deep in his throat, and then spat into the bowl. "There, now," he said. "Now ye've really got something to complain about, haven't ye."
"This is an outrage," I sputtered. "Do you know who I am--"
"Ye'll finish that," he said, placing the bowl back onto the tray as though I had not spoken. "And ye'll not get anything more until ye do."
It takes me two days to break. It's amazing what hunger can do to a man's pride.
***
August 1, 1995. Noon to 9:00 PM
The afternoon passes in a whirlwind of activity. A trip to Diagon Alley to shop for Narcissa's birthday gift. A meeting with my solicitors. Tea with the Minister, and another meeting with Dolores Umbridge. Then back to the manor for an hour or so of work, followed by cocktails and a late supper.
By the time I retire to the bedroom with a snifter of cognac and peel off my wrinkled robes, I'm pleasantly exhausted. The house elves have turned back the bed linens and I crawl between them, balancing a book on my thighs. A plate of chocolate biscuits appears on my beside table and I study them for a moment before selecting one, then settle back against my pillows and give it an experimental nibble before finding my page.
***
August 1, 1996. Noon to 9:00 PM
The afternoon lasts an eternity. There is nothing to occupy the mind in this wretched place, and I pass the eons lying on my bed, watching the torchlight ebb and flow on the wall opposite me. It has 186 white stones in it. Three hundred fifty four black ones. Of those, 212 jut out from the surface of the wall; the rest are smooth. It takes four giant steps to cross from one end of my cell to the other, or eight normal ones. The cell is draughty, and the torch flickers about eight times with every slow, deep breath I take.
The only break in the monotony comes in what I suppose is the early evening, when the cell door cracks open and another pitiful meal is shoved through. My stomach is aching, but I wait to eat it as long as I can. Once it's gone, I have nothing more to look forward to that day, and that makes the long hours until it's time to go to sleep again even more unbearable.
***
August 2, 1995. Midnight.
I lose myself in the book for hours, reading until my eyelids have grown too heavy to trail across even one more line. A quick glance at the clock and I realize with a start that it is after midnight. I've stayed up far longer than I'd intended to. I mark my place and snap the book shut, then wave my wand to snuff out the candles. Turning my pillow to the cool side of the case, I settle into bed. The boy's scent still lingers on the duvet, and I smile sleepily before drifting off, hoping my dream from the night before will return.
***
August 1, 1996. 10:00 PM
"Lights out!"
Azkaban is always quiet now. They tell me it was a much louder place when the dementors were here, but now it is silent as the grave. In the darkness the quiet becomes almost oppressive, a palpable thing bearing down on me in my cell. I swear one day it will crush me in my sleep.
Astounding how doing nothing all day can be so tiring. The cot is hard and the blanket is threadbare; I shudder to think what it will be like here once winter settles in.
I pray my Master will not let me rot here that long. I hope against hope Narcissa has written to Fudge, as I instructed, and offered him my deal. One more day is gone, wasted, but it means I am one day closer to my release. That thought is the only thing that keeps me going.
I slip fitfully into sleep, hoping my dream from the night before will not return.
Author: GMTH
Pairing: Lucius/OMC, but mostly it's gen
Rating: R for implied m/m sexual activity and one rilly disgusting prison guard.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: It feels like it's been about 100 years, but last night I actually put together a ficlet that is more than a few hundred words long. And I'm damn proud of that. ;-) I wasn't planning on posting it here but the feedback on theatrical_muse has been pretty good so I figured, what the hell. Written in response to this week's TM challenge: What is your typical day like? Thanks to maeglinyedi for looking it over for me and pointing out an error that would have ruined it completely.
August 1, 1995. 8:30 AM
I drift out of sleep slowly, loath to give up the pleasant dream flickering behind my eyelids, to feel the soft press of lips to my bare shoulder.
"G'morning," the boy whispers, nuzzling my ear. His lips are rough as a cat's tongue against the sensitized skin on my throat.
I don't answer him. He is, after all, only a whore; an exceptionally skilled one, yes, but a whore nonetheless. I've paid dearly for the privilege of having him spend the night, and I intend to make him work for his money.
I turn my head away from him, baring more of my neck to his touch. He leans up so half his body is covering mine and mouths his way along the cords of my neck, tongue dipping lightly into the notch at its base. Oh, yes. He does know his business. His fingers are as experienced as his lips, skating purposefully along the hardness burgeoning between my legs. His progress is slow and wonderful, and the tension builds until I cannot bite back a moan. I feel those amazing lips curl into a smile against my abdomen.
When I can stand it no longer, I roll him onto his back and take what I have paid for. Hard. Fast. I want it to hurt, and he squirms and cries out as though he is in agony. Perhaps he truly is.
I don't know. Nor do I care. The illusion is enough to make it a perfect start to a new day.
***
August 1, 1996. 8:30 AM
"Wake up, Malfoy."
I awaken with a start, thankful to have been pulled from yet another nightmare. The gratitude lasts only a moment, however, as I am immediately plunged into another, more horrible nightmare, one that will never end.
My mouth has a foul taste in it as I swing my legs over the side of the cot. The springs creak in protest and I shiver; it sounds exactly like the squeals I hear at night from the family of vermin living somewhere in or near my cell. I've never managed to catch a glimpse of them in the daylight.
Pugh leers at me through the window in my cell door. "Sleep well?" he says, sniggering. Even his voice sounds foul. Cretin.
I glare at him, then look away quickly. He's got a nasty temper, and as the time passes I find I'm less and less able to mount a defense against it. "No? Aw, 'tis a pity, that." He snorts and spits a gob of something onto the floor outside my cell. "Get up, then. Welcome to another day in paradise."
I sit on the edge of my cot with my head in my hands, trying to shut out the sound of his laughter echoing down the hallway as he moves on to the next cell.
***
August 1, 1995. 10:00 AM
The bath water is hot almost to the point of pain, just the way I like it, and I settle back against the edge of the tub with a contented sigh.
"Is good, Master Lucius?" A house-elf bobs into view, but I ignore it in favor of closing my eyes. I can hear it moving about behind me, but I pay it little mind until its hands tentatively touch the back of my head. I lean forward, and my mind finally clicks into place on the day ahead as it scrubs my back with a soapy flannel and washes my hair, rinsing the musk-scented potion from the long strands with liter after liter of warm water. It scurries to provide a towel as I finish washing myself, and then rushes into my bedroom to lay out my wardrobe for the day.
It doesn't go far. It knows I will be calling it shortly, once I am dry and have pulled on my dressing gown. And Merlin help it if it snags the comb on even one tangle in my hair this morning.
***
August 1, 1996. 10:00 AM
"All righ', then, up with ye."
Pugh tucks his wand into his belt and saunters into my cell. He scratches his prodigious belly with his ragged fingernails as I haul myself to my feet. Just a few weeks of inactivity, and I'm already finding it harder and harder to move. Merlin only knows what effect months -- or years -- of incarceration in this place will do to me.
I stand as straight as I can, refusing to meet his eyes as he shuffles closer. He looks me up and down, drinking in the sight of my filthy robes, his eyes lingering on the rip over my left nipple. He pokes his fingers through the fabric, ostensibly to feel the extent of the damage, I'm sure, but his filthy nails scrape over the exposed nub of flesh.
He steps closer and I stiffen as his nose grazes along my shoulder. Under any other circumstances, this man would not have been allowed to come within a kilometer of me. But here, as I have already learned in the most degrading way possible, I am entirely at his mercy.
Bile rises in my throat. But to my immense relief, all he does is take a deep sniff. I can feel his nostrils flaring as he snuffles along my neck and chest like a dog. Good. I smell foul and I know it. There is no one more deserving of wallowing in my stench.
He pulls away, adjusting himself. "Ye smell fine t' me," he rasps, and my heart plummets into my stomach as he turns away and shambles toward the cell door. It will be a week, at least, until I am given another chance at a cleaning charm.
***
August 1, 1995. 11:00 AM
The house elf goes off to punish itself as I finish dressing. I can still hear its squeals of pain as I descend the stairs into the sitting room. Breakfast is set, the dishes charmed to keep the food warm, the newspaper unfolded and waiting on my chair. Kippers, eggs, toast, tea, all prepared precisely the way I like them. I take my time over my meal, and read the paper from cover to cover.
***
August 1, 1996. 11:00 AM
My stomach feels like a vast, empty cavern by the time Pugh edges the door open and shoves a tray inside. A small bowl of watery porridge and a cup of cold, weak tea. Enough to keep me alive, but never enough to truly satisfy.
I force away thoughts of thick, blood-rare steaks, hearty rashers of bacon and the intricate twists and turns of my wine cellar as I choke back the food. They don't even give me a spoon. I have to tip the bowl against my mouth and when it is empty, I lick the bottom clean.
The first week after my arrest, I complained about the rations and got my first taste of Pugh's sadism.
"Ye don' like it?" he said, and there was something about the glint in his mean, piggy eyes that made my blood run cold. His smile was no comfort. He turned and leaned over to pick up the bowl of porridge. "Tha's a right shame, that is." He snorted and gagged for a moment, hacking something up from deep in his throat, and then spat into the bowl. "There, now," he said. "Now ye've really got something to complain about, haven't ye."
"This is an outrage," I sputtered. "Do you know who I am--"
"Ye'll finish that," he said, placing the bowl back onto the tray as though I had not spoken. "And ye'll not get anything more until ye do."
It takes me two days to break. It's amazing what hunger can do to a man's pride.
***
August 1, 1995. Noon to 9:00 PM
The afternoon passes in a whirlwind of activity. A trip to Diagon Alley to shop for Narcissa's birthday gift. A meeting with my solicitors. Tea with the Minister, and another meeting with Dolores Umbridge. Then back to the manor for an hour or so of work, followed by cocktails and a late supper.
By the time I retire to the bedroom with a snifter of cognac and peel off my wrinkled robes, I'm pleasantly exhausted. The house elves have turned back the bed linens and I crawl between them, balancing a book on my thighs. A plate of chocolate biscuits appears on my beside table and I study them for a moment before selecting one, then settle back against my pillows and give it an experimental nibble before finding my page.
***
August 1, 1996. Noon to 9:00 PM
The afternoon lasts an eternity. There is nothing to occupy the mind in this wretched place, and I pass the eons lying on my bed, watching the torchlight ebb and flow on the wall opposite me. It has 186 white stones in it. Three hundred fifty four black ones. Of those, 212 jut out from the surface of the wall; the rest are smooth. It takes four giant steps to cross from one end of my cell to the other, or eight normal ones. The cell is draughty, and the torch flickers about eight times with every slow, deep breath I take.
The only break in the monotony comes in what I suppose is the early evening, when the cell door cracks open and another pitiful meal is shoved through. My stomach is aching, but I wait to eat it as long as I can. Once it's gone, I have nothing more to look forward to that day, and that makes the long hours until it's time to go to sleep again even more unbearable.
***
August 2, 1995. Midnight.
I lose myself in the book for hours, reading until my eyelids have grown too heavy to trail across even one more line. A quick glance at the clock and I realize with a start that it is after midnight. I've stayed up far longer than I'd intended to. I mark my place and snap the book shut, then wave my wand to snuff out the candles. Turning my pillow to the cool side of the case, I settle into bed. The boy's scent still lingers on the duvet, and I smile sleepily before drifting off, hoping my dream from the night before will return.
***
August 1, 1996. 10:00 PM
"Lights out!"
Azkaban is always quiet now. They tell me it was a much louder place when the dementors were here, but now it is silent as the grave. In the darkness the quiet becomes almost oppressive, a palpable thing bearing down on me in my cell. I swear one day it will crush me in my sleep.
Astounding how doing nothing all day can be so tiring. The cot is hard and the blanket is threadbare; I shudder to think what it will be like here once winter settles in.
I pray my Master will not let me rot here that long. I hope against hope Narcissa has written to Fudge, as I instructed, and offered him my deal. One more day is gone, wasted, but it means I am one day closer to my release. That thought is the only thing that keeps me going.
I slip fitfully into sleep, hoping my dream from the night before will not return.