Last year it was The Official Unwritten Slash Month, this year it's the Official Challenge Month. The similarities? A month of fics by one author. The difference? This time, YOU are in control.
Each fic will be written based on a challenge. This can be any type of challenge, from a single word to a full-blown challenge. The rules are simple, they must be Harry Potter and they must be slash. So get involved, get reviewing and together we'll make November the Challenge Month.
(Challenges can be submitted either via Reviews or PMs. If your submission is anonymous, please leave an email address so I can contact you if I chose to write your fic, this address will also be kept private.)
Okay peeps, this one comes with a serious "ANGST, DARK FIC" warning. Nothing evil, just a bit painful. Nice and vague, perfect for 3:30am.
Challenge "You know he's only using you, right?" From WWOMB, author unknown.
Using
"You know he's only using you, right?"
The words pound in my head as he pounds into my body. A dick, a fist, a tongue. "Using you, using you, using you." A steady, constant mantra. He's using me, over and over. And I'm letting him. Letting him thrust into me, more in the manner of a Knight thrusting his sword into his opponent's belly that a lover's cock into his partners arse. Letting his anger spill out into my body, into the bruises, the cuts, the tender areas that take weeks to heal as he enjoys returning to them for a few days.
"Using you, using you, using you." The mantra continues. I lose myself, lost in him, in his violent attack on my body. Sometimes I can't tell if it's his fists or his dick or his words digging into me. Sometimes it's all three. Sometimes it's none.
I hate those times the worst. There have been those times, before. When I looked to be getting serious with Hermione. Nothing, three painful weeks of nothing, before I was back in his bed, under his body, his fists. Where I belong. I avoid them as much as possible, avoid the cruel indifference I see in his eyes. When he's not using me, taking his anger, his frustration, his fear, his grief out on me, he's pouring no emotion into me at all. I only exist to him as a vessel for his pain, so that others, innocents, would be spared. I don't want that, can't handle that.
"You know he's only using you, right?" Tender, caring words, spoken in the quiet of night, in a quiet bedroom, wrapped around a tender, caring girl.
"I know." I'd murmured, stretching around her a little and feeling the lightness of having no bruises, or sore spots that I couldn't move without pain. His mark on me, conspicuous in this place by it's absence.
I'd returned to Harry the next day, breaking it off with Hermione. I didn't care if he was only using me, as an outlet for his anger, as a vessel for his grief. Because in the dark of our bedchamber, in the ringing silence after loud screams had finally ceased rending the air, he also uses me as an object for his love. He holds me, he's the one forced to stretch around my body. He murmurs sweet sayings in my ear and he makes tender, tentative plans for the future. Our future, together. Because she could only see the pain, she never saw the pleasure. The hope. The love.
A/N; I don't own these boys (and girl). They are owned by the wonderful JK Rowling, so don't sue me for the evilness I produce in them. Not my doing.