dark angel
He lays in the hollow, steep and massive cell. He is imprisoned by so many chains. His hair is jet-black and sweaty, growing profusely, it seems, everyday. His eyes are symbolism of his mother, the green eyes that glower with many emotions. I visit him everyday. It is on my master's orders. But my master need not know the games we play. The games we play in his cell. There is nothing more that I love than to visit him; his shirtless posture makes it more exciting. It's like an addiction that I have. I watch him while he sleeps, the blood pondering his lips and into his chin. His legs are pale and smooth, his body thin but tempting. The light hairs only spread on his back, his chest smooth and soft. I know because I touch him. I know because I can feel him writhe with both pleasure and pain underneath me.
I know.
"Stop it," he breathes. "Before someone hears you." I scream louder for him as he plunges into me. I want to torment him, and he knows it.
"Oh, ah," he groans every time I push into him.
I like him, eagle-spread with the chains crossed tightly against his ankles and wrists while I pull his pants down methodically, and pull him into my mouth, savoring the taste of Harry damn Potter. The first time, he came in less than seconds. But now it's getting harder to please him. It doesn't matter to me, though. I can go all night, tasting him is my favorite hobby. Kissing him is another. His lips are sweet and pure, never touched before, and now I am tainting him. I am making him weak; I am making myself hungry for him, I am taking his innocence away.
It's an addiction. I smell his sweat, I sink into his fears, and I brush against the blood. He screams and moans for me, even though he tries hard not to. The first time I had to force him, but now I think he enjoys it. We've had difficulty getting into position since he's chained, but I've managed. I love to hear him scream. I love to hear his methodic ragged breath against mine, his unwashed body against mine, we're both sweaty with heat and pain, and I can hurt him as long as I want to, my hands clutching the mass of his black strands.
I grind my teeth against his flesh, smelling the blood as it comes.
When he is done, I clothe him gently.
"When will you come again?" he asks eagerly every time it happens.
"The next time you see me," I say, smirking. "Is when you die."
He laughs. He laughs at death. "You promise? You promise he'll kill me? You promise the pain will stop? You promise?"
"I promise. You'll die. Nice and clean. No more pain."
"No more pain," he repeats in disbelief. He looks up at me and tells me those three words that I've longed to hear. I deepen the wand into his bare chest, poking it into his skin.
"Crucio!"
He struggles in the pain, but then the pain fades away...and his eyes are closed, asleep. I gently prod forward and brush my lips against his forehead, knowing the evil and heat that lingers in his flesh.
I leave the cell, knowing the next time, he'll get what he wants; but perhaps I'll make another visit a few hours later...
Oh, the games we play.
Dark Angel,
you come forth
playfully
wringing my heart
in two,
dark angel,
you're an obstacle course
that I must get through,
dark angel
will you stop tormenting me
and set me free
with my black wings
and shredded blood that fled
dark angel,
you're an addiction,
can you feel the friction,
between us,
when we play
the games we play
who's to know
and who's to say,
dark angel beckon me always,
oh the games
oh the games,
oh the games
we play.
-S.A.