HP ficlet: Shattered
Okay, I've decided to start posting my completed stuff, even if I think it's bad. So here are the words everyone dreads: This is my first HP fanfic, ever!!!!!11one!! It's even been beta'd, by slytherinlinzi who I think goes by another username now. She gave me the thumbs up, then I put it away, thinking it was really too sick and weird. Nearly one year of fanfic later, a little psychotic wanking doesn't faze me quite as much. :-)
Fandom: Harry Potter
Title: Shattered
Summary: A twisted obsession with Harry. (or, after seeing “SP: B,L&U”: Damn, dude, that kid is fucked up!)
Rating: R.
Word count: 717
Warnings: Blood, auto-slash, and probably tons of clichés.
Potter had gotten tougher, and the usual digs didn’t work anymore. “Mudblood” still got a slight rise out of him, but Granger would talk him down from that. The Weasel King was almost too easy of a target, plus Potter’s attention would then be focused on that red-headed charity case; definitely the wrong direction. It was somewhat like making a potion, putting together the exact ingredients in the exact amounts, and achieving your desired result. He didn’t mind the process of experimentation and practice.
One day during class, the idea came to him, clean and simple, yet certain to hit the mark. He waited until it was just the four of them left in the hallway (those two never left Potter’s side) and kept his tone carefully casual as he made a sneering innuendo about Sirius Black and Potter’s parents.
The result was explosive and magnificent: Potter thrashing, screaming at him, green eyes full of fury, Granger fighting to calm Potter and force his wand hand down at the same time, Weasley holding him back by his robes, looking like he’d rather let him go.
He felt the arousal and satisfaction intertwine inside him, hearing the rough edge to Potter’s voice as he shouted, seeing the muscles bunch in his neck and his face turning red everywhere except that scar. He struggled to keep the smirk on his face, and not let it slide into a smile.
At that moment the window next to them cracked, then shattered, glass flying in every direction. All four of them ducked to avoid getting hit. He felt a sharp pain in his hand, and when the sound of falling glass had stopped, he lowered his arms to see what had happened. A large piece of broken glass had embedded itself in the palm of his right hand. He stared at the glass and the blood just starting to seep around the edges. Then he felt his shirt-front gripped and he was slammed against the wall.
Potter wasn’t red anymore, but nearly white, shaking with anger. He must have been hit by the glass as well, since a drop of blood was rolling from a cut above his scar down the side of his nose. He leaned forward, and the other boy felt his breath on his face as he whispered “you say that again, and it’ll be your head instead of a window.” Then Potter released his shirt, went to help his friends, and the three of them left.
The one who had started it all remained with his back pressed against the wall. Carefully, he pulled the glass from his hand and wrapped the shard in a handkerchief. He placed it in his book bag, then sucked at the blood that ran faster from his palm, imagining that he was licking the blood from Potter’s forehead. The idea of getting the cut healed in the infirmary never crossed his mind. He picked up his book bag with his uninjured hand and drifted back to his dormitory, revelling in the pain and the taste of the blood and the memory of Potter’s breath in his face.
He did his best to keep the wound open and the blood flowing, but it eventually stopped. Hours later the pain was no longer sharp, but it was still throbbing, taking up most of his attention that evening. He stayed in his room, turning the shard of bloody glass over and over in his hands, replaying the scene in the hallway. Exquisite; he had had no idea that Potter could lose control so badly, or that he himself could have caused that loss of control.
He wore pyjamas to bed that night. With his good hand, he gripped the front of the pyjama top near his neck, and whispered so that he felt his own warm breath on his lips. He slid his other hand down his stomach and into his pyjama bottoms, and felt the pain in his palm sing with every stroke. He recalled those green eyes blazing with anger, the whispered threats. He imagined Potter on top of him, rubbing and thrusting and losing control, just like he had today. He stroked harder, and when the cut on his palm opened and blood began to drip again, he gasped and shattered.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Title: Shattered
Summary: A twisted obsession with Harry. (or, after seeing “SP: B,L&U”: Damn, dude, that kid is fucked up!)
Rating: R.
Word count: 717
Warnings: Blood, auto-slash, and probably tons of clichés.
Potter had gotten tougher, and the usual digs didn’t work anymore. “Mudblood” still got a slight rise out of him, but Granger would talk him down from that. The Weasel King was almost too easy of a target, plus Potter’s attention would then be focused on that red-headed charity case; definitely the wrong direction. It was somewhat like making a potion, putting together the exact ingredients in the exact amounts, and achieving your desired result. He didn’t mind the process of experimentation and practice.
One day during class, the idea came to him, clean and simple, yet certain to hit the mark. He waited until it was just the four of them left in the hallway (those two never left Potter’s side) and kept his tone carefully casual as he made a sneering innuendo about Sirius Black and Potter’s parents.
The result was explosive and magnificent: Potter thrashing, screaming at him, green eyes full of fury, Granger fighting to calm Potter and force his wand hand down at the same time, Weasley holding him back by his robes, looking like he’d rather let him go.
He felt the arousal and satisfaction intertwine inside him, hearing the rough edge to Potter’s voice as he shouted, seeing the muscles bunch in his neck and his face turning red everywhere except that scar. He struggled to keep the smirk on his face, and not let it slide into a smile.
At that moment the window next to them cracked, then shattered, glass flying in every direction. All four of them ducked to avoid getting hit. He felt a sharp pain in his hand, and when the sound of falling glass had stopped, he lowered his arms to see what had happened. A large piece of broken glass had embedded itself in the palm of his right hand. He stared at the glass and the blood just starting to seep around the edges. Then he felt his shirt-front gripped and he was slammed against the wall.
Potter wasn’t red anymore, but nearly white, shaking with anger. He must have been hit by the glass as well, since a drop of blood was rolling from a cut above his scar down the side of his nose. He leaned forward, and the other boy felt his breath on his face as he whispered “you say that again, and it’ll be your head instead of a window.” Then Potter released his shirt, went to help his friends, and the three of them left.
The one who had started it all remained with his back pressed against the wall. Carefully, he pulled the glass from his hand and wrapped the shard in a handkerchief. He placed it in his book bag, then sucked at the blood that ran faster from his palm, imagining that he was licking the blood from Potter’s forehead. The idea of getting the cut healed in the infirmary never crossed his mind. He picked up his book bag with his uninjured hand and drifted back to his dormitory, revelling in the pain and the taste of the blood and the memory of Potter’s breath in his face.
He did his best to keep the wound open and the blood flowing, but it eventually stopped. Hours later the pain was no longer sharp, but it was still throbbing, taking up most of his attention that evening. He stayed in his room, turning the shard of bloody glass over and over in his hands, replaying the scene in the hallway. Exquisite; he had had no idea that Potter could lose control so badly, or that he himself could have caused that loss of control.
He wore pyjamas to bed that night. With his good hand, he gripped the front of the pyjama top near his neck, and whispered so that he felt his own warm breath on his lips. He slid his other hand down his stomach and into his pyjama bottoms, and felt the pain in his palm sing with every stroke. He recalled those green eyes blazing with anger, the whispered threats. He imagined Potter on top of him, rubbing and thrusting and losing control, just like he had today. He stroked harder, and when the cut on his palm opened and blood began to drip again, he gasped and shattered.