This is my first story and I am totally jittery and freaked out to no end. I don't even
know how to write a freakin' disclaimer! Lol. Poor me. Well, here goes…
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters. Although, this is my universe and I wouldn't
mind owning Severus. *grins evilly* But alas, I do not. They belong to J. K. Rowling.
Fantasy writer extraordinaire.
Plot: I think so. It has a base at least. Otherwise, how could I write the story? Gah,
I'm so scafused (or, scared and confused).
Rating: R. I'm not sure if it should be this high. I honestly don't know. Isn't
this rating for graphic stuff? Is mine graphic? *sighs* Oh well, I'm being safe.
Warning: Slash! If you don't like sex between two guys then PISS OFF! I'm not
interested in hearing you rant and rave about how disgusting it is. You came in here
even though you were warned! If you don't like it, don't read it. It really is as
simple as that.
This Betrayal
I sometimes wonder if he ever looked at me with anything besides contempt and
resentment. It's not often that I come up with an answer that I am content with.
I've tried to regard his disgust with an air of indifference. God, how I've tried. But
no, when he set himself in my heart, he used a foundation the likes of which I've never
felt before.
Oh sure, I've had my petty, childish crushes. I don't think even he was exempt from
that phase. But this time… I don't know really. I wish I could explain it, even just to
myself if that's all I could manage, but I've found that I can't seem to produce any
thoughts that may result in the discovery of his dishonesty, his betrayal.
Christ, what a laugh that is.
His betrayal? No, that's nothing new to me. I know he's betrayed me. Deep down I'm sure
I know. But it seems my heart doesn't want to let go of the chance that maybe, just
maybe, there's something good in him. Something that wasn't shattered into thousands of
tiny pieces while he was growing up.
He had a rough childhood. This much he revealed to me. I know of all the psychological
trauma, not to mention the physical blows that he was subjected to.
I know how he was thrashed each time he failed to catch the Snitch before I did.
Funny, that something so small could bring someone so much pain. I remember basking in
the afterglow of those matches where I would walk triumphant from the Quidditch field.
It was hard to forget. With all the celebrations that were held in the common room
after I had successfully humiliated that 'arrogant, slimy Slytherin' yet again, how
could I possibly forget?
I know how he was berated and mentally tortured after every school year when he would
report that he had received the second highest mark in his year.
And not only that! But he had been beaten by a mudblood! Preposterous that a Malfoy
should ever be bested at anything. The fact that this (not to mention) girl was not of
a wizarding descent only added insult to injury. The Malfoy line was made of only the
purest of blood. Wizards and witches were the only acceptable people in Malfoy's family.
'No matter the cost,' he told me, and whether he knows it or not, I understood exactly
what he meant. For 19 generations, that blood has remained untainted.
And, with the beliefs that all Malfoy's treasure and respect, being anything but pure
is unacceptable.
Being anything but pure is disgusting and means nothing more than the dust that settled
on a book long ago abandoned.
Being anything but pure means that you could not possibly be in any way smarter than a
Malfoy!
So, with that as a Malfoy rule, he was beaten and verbally abused each time he failed
to show that he was the superior being.
Now, though? Well, I suppose, in some ways, he is showing his superiority. He has
topped me. Finally.
It's hard to call him inferior when he is about to shove his cock up my ass…
And as that thought brings me to an abrupt halt, mind and body, I realize that I am in
a forgotten, dirty old classroom and Draco Malfoy has me pressed forcefully up against
the wall of the aforementioned room.
I tremble slightly as he tears open the buttons of his ridiculously expensive silk
pants. I don't tremble in anticipation. No, I'd hardly call myself a masochist.
Although, some might suggest differently…
It's more likely that I'm trembling in fear. I don't go out of my way to look for pain.
I certainly wasn't looking for pain when he took me for the first time. Not just the
first time between us. Rather, my first time in general. I remember it quite vividly. I
also remember that the bleeding didn't stop for a number of days and that it was rather
uncomfortable to sit down on any kind of seat. Be it wooden or some plush material.
He is never gentle and I never expect him to be. It just isn't his thing. Control is
'his thing'. He needs to feel in control of a situation. And to feel in control he
needs to know that he is causing some sort of pain that he himself is not experiencing.
I cry out wordlessly as he enters me. It's always the same, but I never get used to it.
One hard thrust and he is buried to the hilt inside of me. No preparation. No
lubrication. And again, I know he has torn something. A delicate tissue that isn't
meant to have such force and pressure applied to it.
But does he care? Of course not. What a ridiculous notion. A Malfoy? Caring about the
health or safety of a fuck-toy?
I know that he can see the pain he has caused me. He'd shower himself in the cries and
pained groans that roll from the back of my throat if he could. Oh, how he loves the
fact that he can cause everyone's favorite Golden Boy pain. And he loves it even more
that I let him do it without reciprocation.
My thoughts are once again tossed askew as he grasps a hold of my wrists and smashes
them into the rough stone above my head with a brutal force. I'll have bruises there by
the time we're finished. I've always marked easily and he delights in it.
I cringe and I know that my grimace is showing on my face as he smirks in a way that
can only be called evil and pulls almost all the way out and thrusts in again violently.
God damn it it all! He is just ripping away at my body as he does that.
I wonder what has gotten into him today. I mean, this isn't unusual, well, it is, but
that's not what I'm saying. He should know that he is treading into dangerous territory
when he starts hearing the pain he is causing. Not actually hearing my insides ripping
like paper, but when I start voicing it… that's when the trouble starts.
I know I have to say something to him when I feel liquid running down my thighs in
copious amounts. I'm not deluded. I know it's blood. There is usually blood, but this
much? This could go from bad to ugly very quickly. Only thing is, I can't be sure
whether I'll be able to talk right now… Well, I have to try, my eyes are getting watery.
"D-draco? I t-think you s-s-should slow down a-a-a-a bit…"
I stutter on my 'a' as he shows his discontent at my talking with a vicious thrust
inside of my already bleeding backside. 'Not helping, Draco,' I mentally scold him as
the pain reaches what I would think to be its pinnacle.
I never have been able to comprehend why I handle pain with a higher tolerance than
most people. There is no explanation for it and that troubles me. No particular reason.
It just scares me to think about what lengths someone might go to if they really wanted
to hurt me.
"Why should I, Potter?" He practically spits my name. Oh yes, such a foul thing, isn't it?
"I think s-so-something's wrong." Congratulations, Harry, you have been officially
dubbed a moron!
I watch with shocked and pain filled, not necessary to mention tear filled, eyes as he
increases the speed and velocity of his thrusts.
How he decided this one, I'll never know. Perhaps he wasn't really thinking. But, as he
continues, he angles himself so that he brushes against that magical little gland
called the prostate.
I stare at a crack in the wall somewhere behind his head desperately, like it could
magically stop what Draco is trying to do, and I shudder at the halfhearted spark of
pleasure that momentarily courses its way through my veins.
'What the hell are you doing?' I scream at him. In my head of course.
Logically and literally I know what he is doing. But it causes a twang in my chest to
know that he is purposefully causing me this pain and that he is also trying to make me
get off while he's doing it. This is so completely depraved.
As he brusquely wraps his fingers around my, only very recently mildly hard, erection
and starts stroking me to full hardness with quick movements of his hand, I remind
myself that my hardening member is only a result of the natural physical reaction to
this sexual stimulus.
Those words become a mantra in my foggy brain as he continues moving his elegant hand
up and down my shaft, occasionally brushing his thumb over the head of my leaking cock.
But, even with this going on, I can't seem to shake myself of the pain in my ass. He
hasn't stopped moving inside me. He has taken his thrusts to an all time record of
sadism and my pain has reached its zenith.
And so, as I come, I can't prevent the muscles of my lower half from constricting,
which brings along with it more pain, pleasure for him, as he thrusts into my tight
passage. My climax is nothing close to what I should be experiencing. It is a bitter
and horrible thing.
I am vaguely aware of him muttering a cleaning spell on himself, to get rid of my blood
no doubt, as he rearranges his clothes and leaves quietly.
I slide down the wall, my backside connecting with the floor unpleasantly.
Now, as I sit here with salty tears tracking down over my cheeks while more continue to
flow, I feel the shame and degradation of what has just happened wash over me in a
tidal wave of self-loathing and general disgust.
It is hard for me to understand how I could let myself feel any kind of pleasure while
he was doing that to me, even though people would say I couldn't deny my bodies
reaction. I feel dirty. Dirty like I have never felt before. I imagine the dirt and
filth that must be on my skin and underneath it. I know that it will never wash off,
but I can still scrub until my skin is red and raw, and that alone makes me feel like
throwing up. By some kind of miracle I manage not to.
I moan loudly at the pain that is caused as I struggle to my feet. Walking isn't much
fun either I discover as I walk towards one of the desks and place upon it some tissues
from my robe and my wand.
I snatch up a handful of tissues and drag them up the inside of my legs. From my ankles
to the tops of my thighs, the tissues soak up a heck of a lot of blood. As I realize
that I should be dizzy from losing this much blood, I sway on my feet then chuckle
wryly at the not so coincidence.
"Easy there, Potter. Don't want to go breaking any bones. You'd really have to see
Pomfrey for that one."
Oh no, I'm not going to the medi-witch for this. Not a chance. She'd figure it out and
then she'd tell Dumbledore and, for some strange reason, the whole school would know by
tomorrow. Getting professional help is out of the question.
A shower, some quick research in the library, a couple of minor healing spells and a
heck of a lot of tissues and discomfort, then I should be fine.
I suppose I'll have to give everyone a reason as to why I can't sit down for a few days.
An accident with Quidditch should suffice. I do go out regularly to practice on my own,
so it's not that conspicuous.
I am sporting a terrifically noticeable limp as I walk slowly from the abandoned
classroom and I begin to wade through my thoughts of earlier this evening.
When he first came to me, it was with declarations of love and confessions of remorse
for all the mistakes he had made in his life. He made me believe that he loved me, and
that he knew what I was going through. He told me that he could help me through this.
But now what? A fuck-buddy is what I am, not a lover. Surely I deserve something after
all that I have done for this world, don't I? I saved them from a psychopathic,
homicidal schizophrenic that was out to take over the world and kill them all!
And then again, no, I shouldn't be complaining.
After all, I do deserve this. And I owe it to Draco. After everything he went through
with his Father because of me, I can, at the very least, let him use me for his own
carnal pleasures once in a while, right?
I figure I am getting my comeuppance for all the death and pain I have caused around me.
Cedric, my Parents, Snape's ongoing torture, the deaths of a myriad of Muggles and
Wizards alike that have encountered Voldermort's wrath because I'm still alive. That
kind of thing.
Yes.
Everything is as it should be.
I deserve nothing. I want nothing.
I have nothing.
_,.-~`*`~-.,__,.-~`*`~-.,__,.-~`*`~-.,__,.-~`*`~-.,_
Please review... *sighs* I don't see why anyone bothers with asking.
Someone is either going to review or they're not. So, review if you want. I'm not going to
bug you too much. I'm just interested in seeing what you people think of my first *completed*
fanfic.
Love you all, my little BubbleButts!
_,.-~`*`~-.,__,.-~`*`~-.,__,.-~`*`~-.,__,.-~`*`~-.,_
know how to write a freakin' disclaimer! Lol. Poor me. Well, here goes…
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters. Although, this is my universe and I wouldn't
mind owning Severus. *grins evilly* But alas, I do not. They belong to J. K. Rowling.
Fantasy writer extraordinaire.
Plot: I think so. It has a base at least. Otherwise, how could I write the story? Gah,
I'm so scafused (or, scared and confused).
Rating: R. I'm not sure if it should be this high. I honestly don't know. Isn't
this rating for graphic stuff? Is mine graphic? *sighs* Oh well, I'm being safe.
Warning: Slash! If you don't like sex between two guys then PISS OFF! I'm not
interested in hearing you rant and rave about how disgusting it is. You came in here
even though you were warned! If you don't like it, don't read it. It really is as
simple as that.
This Betrayal
I sometimes wonder if he ever looked at me with anything besides contempt and
resentment. It's not often that I come up with an answer that I am content with.
I've tried to regard his disgust with an air of indifference. God, how I've tried. But
no, when he set himself in my heart, he used a foundation the likes of which I've never
felt before.
Oh sure, I've had my petty, childish crushes. I don't think even he was exempt from
that phase. But this time… I don't know really. I wish I could explain it, even just to
myself if that's all I could manage, but I've found that I can't seem to produce any
thoughts that may result in the discovery of his dishonesty, his betrayal.
Christ, what a laugh that is.
His betrayal? No, that's nothing new to me. I know he's betrayed me. Deep down I'm sure
I know. But it seems my heart doesn't want to let go of the chance that maybe, just
maybe, there's something good in him. Something that wasn't shattered into thousands of
tiny pieces while he was growing up.
He had a rough childhood. This much he revealed to me. I know of all the psychological
trauma, not to mention the physical blows that he was subjected to.
I know how he was thrashed each time he failed to catch the Snitch before I did.
Funny, that something so small could bring someone so much pain. I remember basking in
the afterglow of those matches where I would walk triumphant from the Quidditch field.
It was hard to forget. With all the celebrations that were held in the common room
after I had successfully humiliated that 'arrogant, slimy Slytherin' yet again, how
could I possibly forget?
I know how he was berated and mentally tortured after every school year when he would
report that he had received the second highest mark in his year.
And not only that! But he had been beaten by a mudblood! Preposterous that a Malfoy
should ever be bested at anything. The fact that this (not to mention) girl was not of
a wizarding descent only added insult to injury. The Malfoy line was made of only the
purest of blood. Wizards and witches were the only acceptable people in Malfoy's family.
'No matter the cost,' he told me, and whether he knows it or not, I understood exactly
what he meant. For 19 generations, that blood has remained untainted.
And, with the beliefs that all Malfoy's treasure and respect, being anything but pure
is unacceptable.
Being anything but pure is disgusting and means nothing more than the dust that settled
on a book long ago abandoned.
Being anything but pure means that you could not possibly be in any way smarter than a
Malfoy!
So, with that as a Malfoy rule, he was beaten and verbally abused each time he failed
to show that he was the superior being.
Now, though? Well, I suppose, in some ways, he is showing his superiority. He has
topped me. Finally.
It's hard to call him inferior when he is about to shove his cock up my ass…
And as that thought brings me to an abrupt halt, mind and body, I realize that I am in
a forgotten, dirty old classroom and Draco Malfoy has me pressed forcefully up against
the wall of the aforementioned room.
I tremble slightly as he tears open the buttons of his ridiculously expensive silk
pants. I don't tremble in anticipation. No, I'd hardly call myself a masochist.
Although, some might suggest differently…
It's more likely that I'm trembling in fear. I don't go out of my way to look for pain.
I certainly wasn't looking for pain when he took me for the first time. Not just the
first time between us. Rather, my first time in general. I remember it quite vividly. I
also remember that the bleeding didn't stop for a number of days and that it was rather
uncomfortable to sit down on any kind of seat. Be it wooden or some plush material.
He is never gentle and I never expect him to be. It just isn't his thing. Control is
'his thing'. He needs to feel in control of a situation. And to feel in control he
needs to know that he is causing some sort of pain that he himself is not experiencing.
I cry out wordlessly as he enters me. It's always the same, but I never get used to it.
One hard thrust and he is buried to the hilt inside of me. No preparation. No
lubrication. And again, I know he has torn something. A delicate tissue that isn't
meant to have such force and pressure applied to it.
But does he care? Of course not. What a ridiculous notion. A Malfoy? Caring about the
health or safety of a fuck-toy?
I know that he can see the pain he has caused me. He'd shower himself in the cries and
pained groans that roll from the back of my throat if he could. Oh, how he loves the
fact that he can cause everyone's favorite Golden Boy pain. And he loves it even more
that I let him do it without reciprocation.
My thoughts are once again tossed askew as he grasps a hold of my wrists and smashes
them into the rough stone above my head with a brutal force. I'll have bruises there by
the time we're finished. I've always marked easily and he delights in it.
I cringe and I know that my grimace is showing on my face as he smirks in a way that
can only be called evil and pulls almost all the way out and thrusts in again violently.
God damn it it all! He is just ripping away at my body as he does that.
I wonder what has gotten into him today. I mean, this isn't unusual, well, it is, but
that's not what I'm saying. He should know that he is treading into dangerous territory
when he starts hearing the pain he is causing. Not actually hearing my insides ripping
like paper, but when I start voicing it… that's when the trouble starts.
I know I have to say something to him when I feel liquid running down my thighs in
copious amounts. I'm not deluded. I know it's blood. There is usually blood, but this
much? This could go from bad to ugly very quickly. Only thing is, I can't be sure
whether I'll be able to talk right now… Well, I have to try, my eyes are getting watery.
"D-draco? I t-think you s-s-should slow down a-a-a-a bit…"
I stutter on my 'a' as he shows his discontent at my talking with a vicious thrust
inside of my already bleeding backside. 'Not helping, Draco,' I mentally scold him as
the pain reaches what I would think to be its pinnacle.
I never have been able to comprehend why I handle pain with a higher tolerance than
most people. There is no explanation for it and that troubles me. No particular reason.
It just scares me to think about what lengths someone might go to if they really wanted
to hurt me.
"Why should I, Potter?" He practically spits my name. Oh yes, such a foul thing, isn't it?
"I think s-so-something's wrong." Congratulations, Harry, you have been officially
dubbed a moron!
I watch with shocked and pain filled, not necessary to mention tear filled, eyes as he
increases the speed and velocity of his thrusts.
How he decided this one, I'll never know. Perhaps he wasn't really thinking. But, as he
continues, he angles himself so that he brushes against that magical little gland
called the prostate.
I stare at a crack in the wall somewhere behind his head desperately, like it could
magically stop what Draco is trying to do, and I shudder at the halfhearted spark of
pleasure that momentarily courses its way through my veins.
'What the hell are you doing?' I scream at him. In my head of course.
Logically and literally I know what he is doing. But it causes a twang in my chest to
know that he is purposefully causing me this pain and that he is also trying to make me
get off while he's doing it. This is so completely depraved.
As he brusquely wraps his fingers around my, only very recently mildly hard, erection
and starts stroking me to full hardness with quick movements of his hand, I remind
myself that my hardening member is only a result of the natural physical reaction to
this sexual stimulus.
Those words become a mantra in my foggy brain as he continues moving his elegant hand
up and down my shaft, occasionally brushing his thumb over the head of my leaking cock.
But, even with this going on, I can't seem to shake myself of the pain in my ass. He
hasn't stopped moving inside me. He has taken his thrusts to an all time record of
sadism and my pain has reached its zenith.
And so, as I come, I can't prevent the muscles of my lower half from constricting,
which brings along with it more pain, pleasure for him, as he thrusts into my tight
passage. My climax is nothing close to what I should be experiencing. It is a bitter
and horrible thing.
I am vaguely aware of him muttering a cleaning spell on himself, to get rid of my blood
no doubt, as he rearranges his clothes and leaves quietly.
I slide down the wall, my backside connecting with the floor unpleasantly.
Now, as I sit here with salty tears tracking down over my cheeks while more continue to
flow, I feel the shame and degradation of what has just happened wash over me in a
tidal wave of self-loathing and general disgust.
It is hard for me to understand how I could let myself feel any kind of pleasure while
he was doing that to me, even though people would say I couldn't deny my bodies
reaction. I feel dirty. Dirty like I have never felt before. I imagine the dirt and
filth that must be on my skin and underneath it. I know that it will never wash off,
but I can still scrub until my skin is red and raw, and that alone makes me feel like
throwing up. By some kind of miracle I manage not to.
I moan loudly at the pain that is caused as I struggle to my feet. Walking isn't much
fun either I discover as I walk towards one of the desks and place upon it some tissues
from my robe and my wand.
I snatch up a handful of tissues and drag them up the inside of my legs. From my ankles
to the tops of my thighs, the tissues soak up a heck of a lot of blood. As I realize
that I should be dizzy from losing this much blood, I sway on my feet then chuckle
wryly at the not so coincidence.
"Easy there, Potter. Don't want to go breaking any bones. You'd really have to see
Pomfrey for that one."
Oh no, I'm not going to the medi-witch for this. Not a chance. She'd figure it out and
then she'd tell Dumbledore and, for some strange reason, the whole school would know by
tomorrow. Getting professional help is out of the question.
A shower, some quick research in the library, a couple of minor healing spells and a
heck of a lot of tissues and discomfort, then I should be fine.
I suppose I'll have to give everyone a reason as to why I can't sit down for a few days.
An accident with Quidditch should suffice. I do go out regularly to practice on my own,
so it's not that conspicuous.
I am sporting a terrifically noticeable limp as I walk slowly from the abandoned
classroom and I begin to wade through my thoughts of earlier this evening.
When he first came to me, it was with declarations of love and confessions of remorse
for all the mistakes he had made in his life. He made me believe that he loved me, and
that he knew what I was going through. He told me that he could help me through this.
But now what? A fuck-buddy is what I am, not a lover. Surely I deserve something after
all that I have done for this world, don't I? I saved them from a psychopathic,
homicidal schizophrenic that was out to take over the world and kill them all!
And then again, no, I shouldn't be complaining.
After all, I do deserve this. And I owe it to Draco. After everything he went through
with his Father because of me, I can, at the very least, let him use me for his own
carnal pleasures once in a while, right?
I figure I am getting my comeuppance for all the death and pain I have caused around me.
Cedric, my Parents, Snape's ongoing torture, the deaths of a myriad of Muggles and
Wizards alike that have encountered Voldermort's wrath because I'm still alive. That
kind of thing.
Yes.
Everything is as it should be.
I deserve nothing. I want nothing.
I have nothing.
_,.-~`*`~-.,__,.-~`*`~-.,__,.-~`*`~-.,__,.-~`*`~-.,_
Please review... *sighs* I don't see why anyone bothers with asking.
Someone is either going to review or they're not. So, review if you want. I'm not going to
bug you too much. I'm just interested in seeing what you people think of my first *completed*
fanfic.
Love you all, my little BubbleButts!
_,.-~`*`~-.,__,.-~`*`~-.,__,.-~`*`~-.,__,.-~`*`~-.,_