Title: Black Roses
Author: of_bad_faith
Pairing: BL/GW, BL/NM, GW/LL
Rating: NC-17
It's complicated, really, the way you intrigue me. You're a little Gryffindor lion, not even worthy of my attention; and yet you interest me, make me want to know you. I want to know everything about you. I want to know you inside and out, as intimately as possible. I want to be your lover, friend, mother, goddess, mistress... I want to own you. I need to touch you silky bloodred hair, I ache to touch it everywhere. I shouldn't want you, shouldn't desire you, shouldn't even care about you. But I do. Maybe its because you're so much like me in theory and so utterly different in practice. I too have been touched by evil since an early age. The Dark Arts were my childhood; I never danced in gardens, unless you count Narci and I under the stars. You, you lived a homely life in a small cottage far away from Black Manor. You were a small, happy, giggling child. I was cold, reserved, and distant for everyone but Narci. For Narci, I was passionate, politic, and opinionated. Much like you, actually. The truth of you came out with Luna, your favorite, did it not? You played her like Narci played the flute, intensely, beautifully, and gracefully. You gave her a small part of you, and she held onto it like a clam to its pearl. You found her pearl, did you not? You licked it clean over and over again, til she collapsed from pleasure, did you not? You held it, watched her cry, and licked her tears, did you not? She loved you, did you love her?
fallen angels at my feet
I should hate you. My blood tells me to, and I can barely resist its delicious urges. I could kill you, dear, did you know that? With my wand of ebony wood, with my bare hands, with my fellow Death Eaters... the possibilities for your death are endless. I don't have to keep you here. I'm here, why should you be? I hate you--I love you--I can't stop thinking of you. It's so unutterably sad. I shouldn't care; I can't care. Don't want to, but I do. Why do I want to touch you again? Your soft red curls, lightly glossed lips, passion-darkened bronze eyes... You are electrifying my dear. You take me prisoner, and I steal you over and over again. Why? I can, I must, I need to. I trace your breasts lightly with my tongue, circling them, then finally biting the nipple so hard I draw blood. You love the pain, though, don't you? You love to give it, to receive it. You couldn't live without it, could you? When I bite you all over, you love it, don't you? When I take you by force, you scream and arch your back in passion. You little whore. I play you, you play Luna, and Luna has no one to play. My beloved Narci plays me like her violin, and coaxes beautiful sounds from me. I try to do that to you, sometimes I succeed, but no matter what you're off with someone else. You're such a fake tart, you vile, horrendous bitch.
whispered voices at my ear
I want to kill you, poisonous Gryffindor slut. You claim to be noble and just, but you're far from it, you shit. I hate you. I will kill you. I want your body, but never your love. Love is a lie, it'll only leave me. Your body can tell no lies, and I can read it just like a book. How should I kill you, little girl? Should I drain every drop of blood from your body, and watch you writhe in pain, screaming for deliverance at the top of your little lungs? Should I kill you quickly with my wand, an Avada Kedavra? Should I torture you until you draw your last breath? Should I have someone else kill you, and merely watch? What way would you like to die, my darling courtesan? You'd like me to touch you while you die? That's certainly fine with me. I'll wear gloves, so as not to taint myself any further with you. My baby whore, that's who you are. I caress your breasts through my silken black gloves, your nipples stiffen slightly, and you moan, tilting your head back. I love how reactive you are, my dear. I slowly slip off your white dress, taking the most time I possibly can. It fits your skin like a glove, and I love the feel of your freely liberated skin. Pure white alabaster skin dotted with brown-red freckles. How I've always loved the smooth feel, the gentle glide of your abundant curves. You are beautiful, you tiny tart. The dress is up, over your head, off your body. All you have left is your black bra, black knickers, and black garter stockings. You penniless, cocky twit. How you think everything is about you is just sickening, to say the least. I detest your ever-giggling girlishness. It's pathetic. Don't you know how to cast a spell, how to fight, how to talk, how to read, how to right? You don't give off that impression. You spin around in front of me, and I stop you when your back is to me. Slowly, I unclasp your bra, and cast it aside. I revel in your skin, in your dirt, in your invisible filth. You pitiful whore.
death before my eyes/lying next to me i fear
I touch you while I stand behind you, you moan softly and rest your head on my shoulder. You trust me, don't you? You don't believe my death warnings; you don't notice the approach of your death. Oh my darling whore, I wish you knew. I want to see your fear, not your compliance. I don't want your trust, I want your hate. You look up at me questioningly, passion-filled eyes looking so innocent. Oh, my darling, you make me want to ravish you so. Your innocent act is just that, an act. One that would cause even the most hardened Death Eater to take her, to pound her into the dust. That's how I feel now, my little tart. I slip my hands down from your breats, slowly cascading down your skin, smirking slightly as you moan. I reach a patch of curled red hair, and push a finger inside. You're explosively reactive, my darling courtesan. You arch into me incredibly, butt pressed into my back, head even further against my shoulders. I swish my finger around a little, feeling you clench around it. I pick a knife up off my desk and press the stainless steel to your backside. You stiffen, eyes darting frantically at the ceiling. You know now that I was telling the truth, don't you? I place one finger on your pearl, and you once again arch back. I trace a circle around your left breast, turning you around to lick the blood off you. You shudder, groaning as my tongue slowly moves over your blood, taking it into me. It tastes of you, my baby whore. The flavor is unique, dirty, pure, blue. I know not what to make of it. Its nothing like my Blackblood, or 'Meda's. I've never tasted Narci's; she always drinks mine in a small wineglass, toasting me with it.
she beckons me shall i give in/upon my end shall i begin
Author: of_bad_faith
Pairing: BL/GW, BL/NM, GW/LL
Rating: NC-17
It's complicated, really, the way you intrigue me. You're a little Gryffindor lion, not even worthy of my attention; and yet you interest me, make me want to know you. I want to know everything about you. I want to know you inside and out, as intimately as possible. I want to be your lover, friend, mother, goddess, mistress... I want to own you. I need to touch you silky bloodred hair, I ache to touch it everywhere. I shouldn't want you, shouldn't desire you, shouldn't even care about you. But I do. Maybe its because you're so much like me in theory and so utterly different in practice. I too have been touched by evil since an early age. The Dark Arts were my childhood; I never danced in gardens, unless you count Narci and I under the stars. You, you lived a homely life in a small cottage far away from Black Manor. You were a small, happy, giggling child. I was cold, reserved, and distant for everyone but Narci. For Narci, I was passionate, politic, and opinionated. Much like you, actually. The truth of you came out with Luna, your favorite, did it not? You played her like Narci played the flute, intensely, beautifully, and gracefully. You gave her a small part of you, and she held onto it like a clam to its pearl. You found her pearl, did you not? You licked it clean over and over again, til she collapsed from pleasure, did you not? You held it, watched her cry, and licked her tears, did you not? She loved you, did you love her?
fallen angels at my feet
I should hate you. My blood tells me to, and I can barely resist its delicious urges. I could kill you, dear, did you know that? With my wand of ebony wood, with my bare hands, with my fellow Death Eaters... the possibilities for your death are endless. I don't have to keep you here. I'm here, why should you be? I hate you--I love you--I can't stop thinking of you. It's so unutterably sad. I shouldn't care; I can't care. Don't want to, but I do. Why do I want to touch you again? Your soft red curls, lightly glossed lips, passion-darkened bronze eyes... You are electrifying my dear. You take me prisoner, and I steal you over and over again. Why? I can, I must, I need to. I trace your breasts lightly with my tongue, circling them, then finally biting the nipple so hard I draw blood. You love the pain, though, don't you? You love to give it, to receive it. You couldn't live without it, could you? When I bite you all over, you love it, don't you? When I take you by force, you scream and arch your back in passion. You little whore. I play you, you play Luna, and Luna has no one to play. My beloved Narci plays me like her violin, and coaxes beautiful sounds from me. I try to do that to you, sometimes I succeed, but no matter what you're off with someone else. You're such a fake tart, you vile, horrendous bitch.
whispered voices at my ear
I want to kill you, poisonous Gryffindor slut. You claim to be noble and just, but you're far from it, you shit. I hate you. I will kill you. I want your body, but never your love. Love is a lie, it'll only leave me. Your body can tell no lies, and I can read it just like a book. How should I kill you, little girl? Should I drain every drop of blood from your body, and watch you writhe in pain, screaming for deliverance at the top of your little lungs? Should I kill you quickly with my wand, an Avada Kedavra? Should I torture you until you draw your last breath? Should I have someone else kill you, and merely watch? What way would you like to die, my darling courtesan? You'd like me to touch you while you die? That's certainly fine with me. I'll wear gloves, so as not to taint myself any further with you. My baby whore, that's who you are. I caress your breasts through my silken black gloves, your nipples stiffen slightly, and you moan, tilting your head back. I love how reactive you are, my dear. I slowly slip off your white dress, taking the most time I possibly can. It fits your skin like a glove, and I love the feel of your freely liberated skin. Pure white alabaster skin dotted with brown-red freckles. How I've always loved the smooth feel, the gentle glide of your abundant curves. You are beautiful, you tiny tart. The dress is up, over your head, off your body. All you have left is your black bra, black knickers, and black garter stockings. You penniless, cocky twit. How you think everything is about you is just sickening, to say the least. I detest your ever-giggling girlishness. It's pathetic. Don't you know how to cast a spell, how to fight, how to talk, how to read, how to right? You don't give off that impression. You spin around in front of me, and I stop you when your back is to me. Slowly, I unclasp your bra, and cast it aside. I revel in your skin, in your dirt, in your invisible filth. You pitiful whore.
death before my eyes/lying next to me i fear
I touch you while I stand behind you, you moan softly and rest your head on my shoulder. You trust me, don't you? You don't believe my death warnings; you don't notice the approach of your death. Oh my darling whore, I wish you knew. I want to see your fear, not your compliance. I don't want your trust, I want your hate. You look up at me questioningly, passion-filled eyes looking so innocent. Oh, my darling, you make me want to ravish you so. Your innocent act is just that, an act. One that would cause even the most hardened Death Eater to take her, to pound her into the dust. That's how I feel now, my little tart. I slip my hands down from your breats, slowly cascading down your skin, smirking slightly as you moan. I reach a patch of curled red hair, and push a finger inside. You're explosively reactive, my darling courtesan. You arch into me incredibly, butt pressed into my back, head even further against my shoulders. I swish my finger around a little, feeling you clench around it. I pick a knife up off my desk and press the stainless steel to your backside. You stiffen, eyes darting frantically at the ceiling. You know now that I was telling the truth, don't you? I place one finger on your pearl, and you once again arch back. I trace a circle around your left breast, turning you around to lick the blood off you. You shudder, groaning as my tongue slowly moves over your blood, taking it into me. It tastes of you, my baby whore. The flavor is unique, dirty, pure, blue. I know not what to make of it. Its nothing like my Blackblood, or 'Meda's. I've never tasted Narci's; she always drinks mine in a small wineglass, toasting me with it.
she beckons me shall i give in/upon my end shall i begin
