New chapter! A short day in Dolohov's head...
Sorry for the delay, life just happend!
The Taste of your Fear
Chapter 6
December 17th, 2001, 07:21 am.
I am not a patient man, Hermione. What you're doing to me is killing me slowly. I don't know why you seem to be avoiding me now, going to great lengths to do so, to the point where your workaholic self has taken time off work. Unheard of, from what every person I've questioned about your whereabouts has said. My letters return unopened, making the rejection leave a bitter taste in my mouth, where previously it was only the taste of your tongue that I could feel.
I can't help myself but think back to our kiss, multiple times a day, cock in hand. You have no idea what it did to me to finally kiss you, after having fantasised about you from afar for a couple of years. It felt like coming home. It felt like this is what I'm meant to be doing for the rest of my natural life. It felt so right, in a sinful way. I've dreamt about that moment for so long, but nothing I could think up could have ever prepared me for the intensity of one real kiss. If making out with you felt that good, I don't think I'd last more than a minute if I were to be balls deep inside you.
Are you my soulmate? Could you be? I've never put much stock in that type of belief, I thought it was more of a way for people to validate their partner and their relationship, making it seem more grandiose than it will ever be. Like a dick-size contest about who's got the biggest. Oh, you love your partner? Well, I love mine more AND they are my soulmate. Lucius liked to refer to his wife as such. I could believe that he loves her more than words could ever describe just from the way he looks at her, or how his whole body language changes when she enters the room. Now would I have called them soulmates? Maybe, maybe not. But I know how you make me feel. It feels pretty damned close to how one would feel about their soulmate.
Can you tell? With how my brain seems to empty itself of any coherent thought when I'm near you, can you tell that I would worship the ground you walk on, that I would stop at nothing to make you happy, that I would travel to the end of the world just to be blessed by your smile for yet another day? Can you see that, when I look at you with a stupid smile on my face?
But now you think you can just withdraw from me, Hermione? Do you think you can give me a taste and then hang me out to dry? Do you think you can ignore my letters, and that I wouldn't be angry at you?
Oh yes, I am angry. So angry in fact, that despite the affection I hold for you, I could just snap your neck with my bare hands and feel no remorse about it whatsoever. I've spent all my life without the need of a woman by my side, I can do the rest of it without you, believe me. Knowing you changes nothing on that front. If I can't have you, no one will.
How's that for a compromise, soulmate? Be mine or be no ones.
December 17th, 2001, 06:45 pm.
Another dreadful Monday at work. If I had you to come home to, I don't think the days would be as unbearable. This isn't what I envisioned at all. The work in itself is interesting, but it isn't interesting enough to keep my attention all day.
I picture myself clocking off work and making my way over to your office, giving you a heated kiss full of promises, before walking hand in hand with you to the lifts and the apparition point. I picture us coming home, me rutting on you as you attempt to open the front door. Our clothes instantly off the second the door is closed behind us. Making up for a whole day without you wrapped around me.
You live in my head like a parasite, poisoning every waking moment with your absence. I'm starting to forget what your voice sounds like. I have a hard time remembering your eyes' exact shade of honey. A month is simply too long to keep a man starved.
I am not a patient man.
I am not a patient man.
I've tried doing 'the right thing' and given you time to figure out what your next move will be. I've let you have free reign on how long you'll be staying away from me until you've resolved your issues with that man-child that is your ex. I could deal with him, kill him, make him disappear without a trace, but I've chosen to let you handle it.
I shouldn't have.
I'm not a patient man.
I'm not a patient man.
I'm not a patient man.
What did you ever find in him anyways? His red hair is an abomination. It's not even a pretty shade, it's just, orange. His freckles are so prominent that they look like dirt on his nose. He doesn't know how to dress; his robes are always untidy and dirty. I've watched him eat in the cafeteria; how did he make it through infancy without choking on the food he inhales without even chewing? He only ever talks about Quidditch, as if all other areas of life are inexistent. He is self-centred, so full of himself, and basks in the glory of a war he did nearly nothing to help win. Yet he thinks he can have you as a war prize?
So, really, what did you ever find in him that made you think you would be a good pair? You need someone who will engage you in conversation, debate Magical Theory with you, challenge you mentally, and verbally spar with you. You need someone who takes care of himself, dresses properly, and knows to chew with his mouth closed. You need someone that will lift you up. Someone at your level of class and decorum. Someone like me. Or rather, just me. You need me. I'm the perfect match for you, can't you see that?
I made it home, somehow. I can't even remember how I got here. You haunt me, constantly. A long shower might help clear my thoughts. I catch a glimpse of my body in the mirror as I'm done undressing. I think you would like it. Lithe but defined, muscles from years of training make my 42-year-old body look like it could belong to a 20-year-old. It's littered with scars, I've never wanted to cover those before, but with you, I might have to. I could hardly explain them to you, you would get suspicious, and you'd catch me in a lie. The biggest one of all is on my forearm. I found a way to remove the Dark Mark. It nearly killed me. But it left in its wake a very ugly scar, it's an inch thick, and goes down the entirety of my forearm. You can hardly tell what caused it, and you cannot tell the outline of the Dark Mark anymore. It looks old enough to date back to my childhood. I'll make something up about climbing the cursed tree in my old little magical community back home. It would explain why it never healed.
My eyes roam down my chest as if seeing my body for the first time., I've got a long cut below my navel, travelling across my left thigh. You gave me this one. You probably don't even know you have. I think of you licking the length of the scar. It's making my cock twitch. Fuck. Fuck. Now I need to jerk off again. My dick will fall off. It will all be your fault. You've turned me into a horny teenager. I'm soon to be forty-three for fuck's sake. Whatever. It doesn't matter. It won't go away until I take care of it so it's time to turn the shower on. Scalding hot is how I like it. Now, about you licking the scar you gave me…
Not even a minute. Not even a fucking minute of imagining you kneeling in front of me as I stroke my cock, and I'm already gasping for air, my toes curling, moaning your name until I'm coming hard on the shower wall and my hand. I spread my spaff up and down my length, massaging it until I stop twitching and the last drops are out. I wish I had coated your womb instead, my beautiful Hermione…
December 17th, 2001, 08:04 pm.
I disillusion myself before walking out of the shadows. It's only a short walk from your house, but I don't want you to think me to be creepy for showing up unannounced. It took a lot of restraint not to show up here before now, but the more I thought about it, the weirder the situation seemed. Something must have happened to you, and I'd much rather see you with my own two eyes to make sure you're fine.
The lights are on in most of the rooms. You're home, at least. I can feel my heart thundering in my chest as I walk over to the living room window to peek inside. It's been too long since I've seen you. I can hardly contain my excitement as I prepare myself to catch a glimpse of you.
Except it's not you that is sprawled out on the couch. It's fucking Weasley. He's wearing pyjamas. Why is he wearing pyjamas? Is he staying here? Is this why you've been avoiding me? Because you're back with him? After everything you've told me, about how inadequate you two were? What made you change your mind? What happened to 'we have different goals and wants'?
God help me because I'm so fucking close to marching in there and killing this cunt. I might break my knuckles from the sheer strength I'm holding the windowsill with. Deep breaths. I need to take deep breaths. I really, really, want to kill him, but I can't. No. I need a plan. I need to get rid of him, in a way no one would suspect me to be behind it all.
I walk to the next window and the next. Finally, I see you. You're in the kitchen, sitting at the table, facing me. I can't even appreciate the sight of you, something seems off. You are gazing unseeingly at a blank piece of parchment, quill in hand. But there is no ink pot. Why is there no ink pot, milaya? Why do you look… different, troubled? I watch you for a few minutes, you've barely moved at all. Is your body not getting stiff?
I walk over to the entrance, and remove the concealing charm, before ringing the doorbell. I hear him ask you to check out who's at the door. Who the fuck does this wart think he is, ordering you around? But you open the door, and now I remember. Your eyes, light amber honey. Tiny flecks of gold and deeper brown. Wide with surprise. Void of recognition. You ask me who I am and how you can help me.
What did the fucking cockroach do to you?
