Liaison of a Wicked Man
He was unlike anyone I'd ever known; he was unapologetically beautiful, with a bitter sense of humor, its biting, dark and intelligent. He could watch the death of innocence with a crooked smile and hooded eyes. He took joy in being cruel. Reveling in the tears he brought, the sputtering of anger, and the way he could see their hopes and ambitions crumble behind their eyes.
He was elegant in everything he did, from the lighting of a cigarette, to the casting of a complex curse, to leaving a one night stand dirtied in a back street.
He liked to set them up, make them feel like they could rule the world. He stroked their egos subdue their doubts; make them feel like queens and the passersby their subjects. He charmed them with idle flattery, smiled enchantingly when they called him out, and told him they weren't that sort of girl.
He would smile with a glitter of white teeth and deep unfathomable eyes and nod, watching them step higher up on their self made pedestal.
He liked to set them up like royalty, just to watch them fall like common whores. To have them, withering and gasping at his touch, in a place of his choosing; as dirty and seedy and unwelcoming as he wished. To watch their sense of self shatter with each gasped breath and the realization in their eyes when he kisses them mockingly on the cheek and stride off into the darkness.
And they would remember him always, as an exotic beauty, with cool words of flattery, a smell of expensive cigarettes and a crackle of unnamed energy around his disappearing figure.
He would come to me, late at night, still smelling of cheap perfume and innocence. Crawl across the bed where I lay; like a predator tracking pray, and would whisper words of filth and wickedness in my ear; whisper of how he stroked their egos, praised them and watched them glow with the empty words, he whispered of how he took them, rough and unforgiving against the wall of some seedy back street. He laughed, trailing his cold lips against exposed flesh, watching me with hard, cold eyes as though asking me 'do you love me still?' and I would watch, wide eyed and transfixed, a shiver of disgust down my spine, and know only a shadow of the thrill he felt.
When I was with him I could be nobody and anybody, he didn't treat me with a confused mix of awe and fear, to him, the title bestowed upon me was a thing to be mocked. It sickened him how people places me above the rest, how they fawned for my affections and still isolated and idolized me like some sort of god. He wished to tear that down, to remind me of how terribly, horribly human I really was. He whispered words of desire, taunted me with images of his misdeeds, promised me dark back streets and dirty, clasping hands.
The memory of his fingertips like rose petals against my flesh; trailing across the planes of my body leaving the tingle of magic against my skin haunt me as we lay entwined on the tangled cotton sheets, the night air cool across exposed skins, and the stars framed in the cracked window. He tasted like ash and blood and his fingers tightened almost painfully where they held me. Pale skin against pale skin. He could make your world explode in shards of colour, so vibrant and beautiful there couldn't possibly be a name for them all. It's strangely liberating to have all aspects of your dignity stripped away so brutally, to be left, a withering heap, causeless and without devotion; a shadow of your former self, and at the same instant, more exciting and magnificent then you have ever been previously.
The mingled sent of cigarette smoke and cinnamon like a shadow of sensation, whispering, like the pale tendrils of his hair across my pillow. The golden wisps against white cotton and that delicate scent would haunt me in later years, when the memories of his touch begins to fade, and how his face looks, in the moment of climax slips from my fingers like so many grains of sand.
In the day he holds himself opposite me, standing straight backed and proud amidst the chaos of the ministry, he turned heads, not only with his reputation, but with the way he held himself as though he was a cut above the rest. surrounded by flying memos and fake windows he looked like some devilish supernatural god.
He conducted business with cool regard. Determined and intelligent, but his eyes watched me always, flashing with amusement when I returned to my humble, fumbling self. His smirk reminded me of the nights, where I became a creature of passion and pleasure, taking what I want and hungry for his debasement of me.
What we had was never love, never devotion. Our hatred and resentment for each other fuelled our passions, he wished to destroy me, sully me in a way nobody else ever had. He wished to unleash the demons I kept hidden, that taunted and whispered to me from the darkened recesses of my mind. And I hated him for knowing they were there, for knowing me seemingly better then even my closest friends.
My hunger for him grew with each whispered word of sin, each night he crawled across white sheets, fed and sated with his cruelties and wishing to feed me with them, till I grew warm and unresisting to him, his rough hands and deceptively gentle lips enraging me, till I was a wild, bucking animal for him to take his pleasures.
Relationships fell down around me, never twisted enough to hold my interest. Sweet Ginny, inexperienced and gentle, wanting tender words and the fairytale my presence seemed to promise her, a childhood fantasy made flesh. Yet she found my hunger frightening, my thirst for destruction shocking. So I bade her leave, and once more his pale body and cruel mind entered my sheets.
He needed me like I needed him, he needed his malice acknowledged and fed upon. He spoke of all those pretty girls who swore they'd never do what he made them beg for. A detached part of my mind marveled at his hatred of women, and abuse of muggles. But that part of me was shut off by the hunger that enveloped me, I fed off his words, wishing to feel the press of unresisting flesh against brick walls, to have the heady aroma of destruction and cheap perfume and tears, more then just a lingering scent on his clothes.
As the months and year past, he came to me more often, almost each night he crawled with grace across my sheets, fire blazing in his eyes and the words already on the tip of his tongue, a new hurt to whisper about, a new tear streaked young girl left with bruised skin and a crushed ego. His appetite grew, as did mine.
Clawed hands reaching to tear pale smooth flesh, rough mouths and shaking growls were the climax of our meetings. But it was his gentle fingers and delicate lips, luxurious trails across my skin as he whispered to me that I remembered most. He possessed my mind and soul, held it captive as he pushed me closer and closer to the edge of my own sanity. His wicked words that dripped with an unnatural grace from his twisted tongue painted images on the inside of my eyelids, and the bittersweet taste of young girls on his lips seared the flesh from my bones.
I wanted to hate him with my entirety like I once did, but even as Rowena packed her bags as I lay in bed and watched with idle interest, I couldn't find it in me to resent him. I hated him yes, but I hated him as my twelve year old self hated him, I longed to possess him far more then anything else.
Rowena's fiery looks and stubborn personality had been a cheap replacement, and it had dwindled before fading completely. The once strong woman now bit back sobs as she tossed clothes inelegantly into an over night bag. I felt a thrill at watching her strength crumble before me. And I couldn't help thinking is this what he loves so much?
That night as he lay in bed beside me, scratch marks across his marble skin and hooded eyes sated for the moment, he commented on her scent in the room as he flicked ash on a photo of us she had left on he bedside table.
Sara left in much the same manor, between muffled shouts that I was sick and wrong she hurried to collect her few possessions hiding the way her tears made her mascara run. He had laughed from the bed, a cold mocking laugh and I felt a thrill as it made her shudder.
The exits became shorter and shorter having less of an impression upon my life, with each girl never lasting as long as the previous before I grew tired with them, before they were driven away by one thing or the other. It became a game for us of sorts; see which one of us would inevitably drive them away. The shadow of him in the bed or my growing cruelty. And if that didn't work to drive them out, our entwined bodies and the heady smell of expensive cigarettes so often did.
My friends didn't understand, they watched the procession of women pass through my life, saw how unaffected I was. They didn't understand how my gentle kind nature they had always been witness to could drive so many women away. I would shrug sheepishly and murmur an excuse, the memory of muscle moving under pale skin as he moved like a cat towards me flickered briefly before my eyes and head flared through my body. I managed to keep our relationship, if you could call it that, a secret for nine years, by the time they found out I didn't care any more, I became reckless with our secret enjoying the thrill of almost discovery.
They had bumped into one of my old partners, Veronica, a shy, delicate girl who had charmed them instantly, as she did everyone. I heard later that they had gotten talking, and they were stuck my how utterly charming she was, \ were curious as to what made her leave me. Veronica had tensed, defensive and agitated at having to remember it. She said she had walked in on us, entwined together in my bed, she said I had known she was coming over and had looked at her when she entered, a gasp of shock on her lips, and I had smiled at her, leaning back into the embrace and watched her.
He had laughed when I told him, the shocked looks and repressed outrage on my friends faces imprinted in my memories. I felt elated at their confusion. I wanted to watch as their image of me crumbled around them.
His presence only improved with age, as did his hunger. It became more ruthless and terrible; he charmed his girls like he always had. Made them glow with pride and blush with flattery, but now he grew more wicked with his destruction of them. He whispered to me, hot breath against my ear and fingers lightly trailing, of how he humiliated them, made them cry with shame and horror at the things he made them do, made them beg for.
I knew that everyone of his women would worship him still, for his debasement of them, of his cruel smile and heartless demeanor. His girls would return to their lives, their boyfriends and families and pretend it never happened, that they didn't spend a night of their life on their knees in a dirty back street, exposed to the world and gasping for it. His presence would always be there for them, each time their lover clumsily embraced them, each time they passed a well dressed exotic beauty in the street, each time they screamed their climax, he would be there, with his cool words and flashing eyes.
Maybe they would be broken a little inside, would lose themselves, so young, in dirty bars and seedy establishments trying to recreate the horror he gave them.
I knew because I was like them, I craved him when he was gone, and worshipped him when he returned to me. He fed my wicked streak and overjoyed in my hunger. We didn't care anymore, about propriety, about how people perceived us. We understood what we needed, what we got from our hateful, twisted relationship.
He destroyed women. Broke their spirits and sense of self, took from them their innocence and replaced it with a twisted dark shadow on their soul, and he returned to me, to whisper his indecencies in my waiting ear.
A/N Well there you go, a short fic I knocked up the other night and cleaned up tonight,
I'm not sure where this one came from, it just kind of evolved from a small sentence I jotted down. Please tell me what you think, reviews inspire the writing, and make me happy.