the fishwhite underbelly of pleasure's perfect mirror of pain
Disclaimer: wow, i've never had to write one of these before because i usually don't write down any of my warped musings, but the usual standards apply and no i'm not making any money off this...and just so she knows: J.K. Rowling...you are a goddess
sometimes to see the real beauty of something beautiful it has to be broken. everyone always thought we were made to be enemies. that hatred was all we could feel towards one another, but sometimes hatred can be as powerful as love, maybe even moreso. i used to think i could survive without him, that he wasn't important, just a fly in the mix. but when he wasn't around i was hollowed out, cold, a shell of my true self. without him there was no passion behind the things i said, they were just words with no meaning. sounds forced to shatter a silence i couldn't maintain, and he was always so good at silence. if you looked at him long enough you'd know his whole life story without him ever having to say a word. it was all right there. in ebony, moonstone, and acid bright emerald. his beauty showed in the half starved frame draped in cast off clothes four sizes too big for his runty size, in the glasses that made him look like an owl blinking in too bright sunlight. in the brittle aching laugh of a child waiting for the next crushing blow. i watched him with his friends *insert sardonic sneer* as they danced about in all their gryffindor glory, but i knew. i knew what no one else did, what he himself wanted to hide. he never should have been one of them. from the beginning he was ment to be one of us. a slytherin. why he wanted so badly to be what everyone else thought he should be i can understand. he longed for acceptance. ached with the need to be someone other than the dirty little secret kept under the stairs. more than a tarted up whore on parade for light and goodness. he let them lead him around on a metaphorical leash to feed an addiction. and addiction is something i relate to all to well. my addiction started in third year. after that mudblood granger gave me a shot to the nose. beastly little bitch that she is it helped me notice something. something i had thought about but never really focused on before. i noticed the way his eyes lit up like fire sparking, the sharp little intake and hitch in breath, the tiny almost imperceptible jerk of his hips as she hit me. i noticed his pleasure at pain. i begin watching him more closely, waiting for more signs that i was right. that their little picture of perfection was warped and faded, that the beautiful mirror they all stared so hard at was actually cracked, scarred, chipped, and tarnished. and i found them. i found them and had to touch those cracks and scars and chips and tarnishes. had to rub against them till they made me raw and sore, and left me bleeding. needed to take those lost little slivers of him and slide them into my own flesh, binding him to me and me to him. had to feel my skin sliced open till i could fit him inside me. i was like a junkie needing a fix. just one more glance to see him shiver as another first year slipped on the damp steps and scraped a knee. just one more peek at that sneer he hid from his friends as the hufflepuff prefect ushered her "butterbeans" to their common room after dinner. just one more quick breath of acrid fear radiating from his flesh in terror of being discovered and cast aside. i watched and waited. saw him finally catch up in height to that flaming red arsed, i mean haired, bafoon of his. watched how his body gained muscle in all the right places. from the breadth of his shoulders to his lean calves. watched as his hollowed out stomach became flat and neatly defined. how his pelvis was like a cradle within his jutting hipbones. i noticed how even in winter when there was snow up to our tits his skin was still the color of caramel and it made me wonder if it would taste as sweet and tear as slowly when pierced with my teeth. when warm weather came back around i would watch him play football with the other muggle born twats out on the quidditch pitch. watch the bright crimson splatter of blood as he was elbowed in the mouth and become hard, shaking with heroine-sharp need to taste that blood. to make more flow from his mouth, his thighs, his back, his throat. the summer between third year and fourth was almost painful. full of aching, feverish dreams of liquid eyes begging for release as i pushed him farther and farther into his wants. as i scratched through his facade of wholesomeness to the oozing center of his blackist desires while i scratched through his tissure paper skin to the darkest red of his blood. i would wake up panting, covered in sweat, my cock still leaking cum across my belly and wonder if his dreams were anything like mine. was i chained down or strung up, legs spread wide, my eyes forced open to watch as i was degraded, defiled, stripped of my humanity and debased to animalistic need. did he hear me whimper with pain, could he smell the sharp tang of sex like burnt ozone just before a flash flood, did he taste my blood as it welled from my flesh and ran in rivers to gather in the apex of my thighs, the center of all that i am? i began to wonder if his cum was sweet or sour, strong like his long fingered hands, or was it watery like his fake smiles? his laugh was still brittle, but now there were bruises he tried to hide. thick fingers around his wrists, and heavy palms on his back and chest. there was a need to tear his abuser limb from limb. how dare someone else try to shatter my mirror. he was made to be mine to break and piece back together. they would pay for touching what belonged to me. i was an only child for a reason. i never did share anything well. those marks he wore should have been put there by me and no one else. that wince as he sat should have been because i tore him open, scared my name into the visera of his body where no one could ever remove it without first eviserating him. as the weeks went by i begin to notice other little idiocencries his friends would turn blind eyes too. like the way he would caress the sharp nib of his quill, slowly shredding the pad of his fingers. the way he'd stare at the knives at dinner like they were a lover he longed to have slipped under his flesh touching his marrow. the way he would keep his sleeves neatly pulled down over the slowly weeping wounds of his wrists. i longed to slap him. to rip his flesh in tiny strips. to make it true that he could not do that to himself. that only i could make his blood shine like heavy wine, mark his flesh with the white pearlesence of week old scars.
i'm afraid that's as far as i've gotten right now...and i know the grammer sucks but it was late and besides that's what i have bear for...to beta me. so anyway...hope it all made you as shivery as it did us.
sometimes to see the real beauty of something beautiful it has to be broken. everyone always thought we were made to be enemies. that hatred was all we could feel towards one another, but sometimes hatred can be as powerful as love, maybe even moreso. i used to think i could survive without him, that he wasn't important, just a fly in the mix. but when he wasn't around i was hollowed out, cold, a shell of my true self. without him there was no passion behind the things i said, they were just words with no meaning. sounds forced to shatter a silence i couldn't maintain, and he was always so good at silence. if you looked at him long enough you'd know his whole life story without him ever having to say a word. it was all right there. in ebony, moonstone, and acid bright emerald. his beauty showed in the half starved frame draped in cast off clothes four sizes too big for his runty size, in the glasses that made him look like an owl blinking in too bright sunlight. in the brittle aching laugh of a child waiting for the next crushing blow. i watched him with his friends *insert sardonic sneer* as they danced about in all their gryffindor glory, but i knew. i knew what no one else did, what he himself wanted to hide. he never should have been one of them. from the beginning he was ment to be one of us. a slytherin. why he wanted so badly to be what everyone else thought he should be i can understand. he longed for acceptance. ached with the need to be someone other than the dirty little secret kept under the stairs. more than a tarted up whore on parade for light and goodness. he let them lead him around on a metaphorical leash to feed an addiction. and addiction is something i relate to all to well. my addiction started in third year. after that mudblood granger gave me a shot to the nose. beastly little bitch that she is it helped me notice something. something i had thought about but never really focused on before. i noticed the way his eyes lit up like fire sparking, the sharp little intake and hitch in breath, the tiny almost imperceptible jerk of his hips as she hit me. i noticed his pleasure at pain. i begin watching him more closely, waiting for more signs that i was right. that their little picture of perfection was warped and faded, that the beautiful mirror they all stared so hard at was actually cracked, scarred, chipped, and tarnished. and i found them. i found them and had to touch those cracks and scars and chips and tarnishes. had to rub against them till they made me raw and sore, and left me bleeding. needed to take those lost little slivers of him and slide them into my own flesh, binding him to me and me to him. had to feel my skin sliced open till i could fit him inside me. i was like a junkie needing a fix. just one more glance to see him shiver as another first year slipped on the damp steps and scraped a knee. just one more peek at that sneer he hid from his friends as the hufflepuff prefect ushered her "butterbeans" to their common room after dinner. just one more quick breath of acrid fear radiating from his flesh in terror of being discovered and cast aside. i watched and waited. saw him finally catch up in height to that flaming red arsed, i mean haired, bafoon of his. watched how his body gained muscle in all the right places. from the breadth of his shoulders to his lean calves. watched as his hollowed out stomach became flat and neatly defined. how his pelvis was like a cradle within his jutting hipbones. i noticed how even in winter when there was snow up to our tits his skin was still the color of caramel and it made me wonder if it would taste as sweet and tear as slowly when pierced with my teeth. when warm weather came back around i would watch him play football with the other muggle born twats out on the quidditch pitch. watch the bright crimson splatter of blood as he was elbowed in the mouth and become hard, shaking with heroine-sharp need to taste that blood. to make more flow from his mouth, his thighs, his back, his throat. the summer between third year and fourth was almost painful. full of aching, feverish dreams of liquid eyes begging for release as i pushed him farther and farther into his wants. as i scratched through his facade of wholesomeness to the oozing center of his blackist desires while i scratched through his tissure paper skin to the darkest red of his blood. i would wake up panting, covered in sweat, my cock still leaking cum across my belly and wonder if his dreams were anything like mine. was i chained down or strung up, legs spread wide, my eyes forced open to watch as i was degraded, defiled, stripped of my humanity and debased to animalistic need. did he hear me whimper with pain, could he smell the sharp tang of sex like burnt ozone just before a flash flood, did he taste my blood as it welled from my flesh and ran in rivers to gather in the apex of my thighs, the center of all that i am? i began to wonder if his cum was sweet or sour, strong like his long fingered hands, or was it watery like his fake smiles? his laugh was still brittle, but now there were bruises he tried to hide. thick fingers around his wrists, and heavy palms on his back and chest. there was a need to tear his abuser limb from limb. how dare someone else try to shatter my mirror. he was made to be mine to break and piece back together. they would pay for touching what belonged to me. i was an only child for a reason. i never did share anything well. those marks he wore should have been put there by me and no one else. that wince as he sat should have been because i tore him open, scared my name into the visera of his body where no one could ever remove it without first eviserating him. as the weeks went by i begin to notice other little idiocencries his friends would turn blind eyes too. like the way he would caress the sharp nib of his quill, slowly shredding the pad of his fingers. the way he'd stare at the knives at dinner like they were a lover he longed to have slipped under his flesh touching his marrow. the way he would keep his sleeves neatly pulled down over the slowly weeping wounds of his wrists. i longed to slap him. to rip his flesh in tiny strips. to make it true that he could not do that to himself. that only i could make his blood shine like heavy wine, mark his flesh with the white pearlesence of week old scars.
i'm afraid that's as far as i've gotten right now...and i know the grammer sucks but it was late and besides that's what i have bear for...to beta me. so anyway...hope it all made you as shivery as it did us.