A.N. Thank you so much for the reviews, they have spurred me on (And saved me from further housework hehe ;) ).
Monster
I think I will go mad watching you. Watching you and those pretty little lips curve into smiles, your pink tongue darting out to wet your lips before you speak, and only I know what that tongue can do, isn't that right sweetheart? Because I watch you watching him, I watch the carefully concealed desperation etched across your face, and it's the look of someone who wants something, and worse, now knows what she's missing out on, but can't have it, hasn't ever had it, not really. I know because it's how I look at you, staring at you when no one else is looking, and I know you would know, do know when he's not around, but when he is it's all you can see, breathe, think about, and I'm just a cheap second best isn't that right darling? Someone to keep you warm in the middle of the night, so you don't have to think about him, long for him, ache to feel his arms around you, kissing you, doing all the things I give you freely.
But you're in for a shock if you think it will be like what we do in the depths of the night, when everyone is sleeping, if you really think he will make you scream like I do, make you beg, make your hands claw at the sheets so fiercely they rip, he won't have the first fucking clue love.
I should have known when you came to me that first night, the desperation in your eyes, the dark circles under your eyes, and I knew even then it wasn't just sex you wanted, it was sleep, a respite from something, and know I know what, and Merlin do I wish I didn't.
And I find myself hating myself, because I hate you, hate you for loving him, hate you for wanting him, hate you hate you hate you for all of it, for the way my name sounds rolling off your tongue, for the way you whimper it just before you come, for the way you cling to me to help you hang on, to everything. Because I know I should be mature, I should want you to be happy, I should be encouraging Ron, I should be understanding, I should have found out what was wrong, consoled you, given you a drink of firewhiskey and put you to bed. But I didn't, I kissed you when you lent in to me when I could have just held you, I slammed you into the wall when I should have been asking you to tell me what was wrong, that I'd fix it for you, I fucked you and made you forget everything, I made you forget your own name, never mind his, I made you forget it all. I found out what your sweet creamy thighs feel under my rough hands, how you quiver when you're about to finally find release, how you moan and wriggle all the more when I don't let you, how you like to have someone else take control, be bigger and smarter and in charge for once, and do you for one fucking second think Ron will do that for you? Make your skin flush like I can, when I whisper things in your ear, things that make you clamp down on me, things that just you and I know.
But I know that the forgetting makes it worse, it's like taking some sweet drug that takes all the pain away, makes you forget, and forget you do in the hours of darkness in my bedroom, when all there is sweat and skin and lust, but when you wake up from your drug, when you start to put your clothes back on, when you creepy back to your own room, when you lie there alone and cold, reality is all the more painful, it hurts like a thousand knives tearing at your heart, your mind, your soul, and you realise all over again how awful it is, and you wonder if the stolen moments are worth the pain, and are they sweetheart? And then I hate myself all over again, for hurting you more, when I should be trying to help.
I hate myself because sometimes, when you come to me in the middle of the night, and I see the tear tracks on your face, the paleness of your skin, the dark marks under your eyes, I don't feel what I should feel, I don't feel sorry for you, I don't want to scoop you up into my lap and tell you how it's all going to be alright. I don't want to smooth your hair and kiss your head and feel you nuzzle into my neck.
Instead, I have to beat down the urge to hurt you, to throw you onto the bed, to hold you down, to revel in the wideness of your eyes, in the whimpers coming from your sexy little mouth, to grind into you, to pin you there so tight while I'm rubbing my cock against you that you hurt, that you struggle, that you beg me to let you go, and to not, to keep going, to kiss you and bruise your lips, to really make you forget about Ron, to make you cry over me in the middle of the night, to make you miss the love I give you, to hit you and knock some fucking sense into you.
And then I feel like a monster all over again, and worse, I know that I am.