This is to TheRealDeal:
Fuck. You. All I have to say to you is this, shut up.
Faggot:
(Variant of fagot) noun
1. A bundle of twigs, sticks, or branches bound together.
2. A bundle of pieces of iron or steel to be welded or hammered into
bars.
verb, transitive
fag·ot·ed also fag·got·ed fag·ot·ing fag·got·ing fag·ots fag·gots
1. To collect or bind into a fagot; bundle.
2. To decorate with fagoting.
[Middle English, from Old French, from Old Provençal, possibly from Vulgar Latin *facus, from Greek phakelos, bundle.]
You have my permission to kill yourself now, because, no matter what you do, and no matter what you say, I won't stop writing, so you can kiss my fat ass. On another note, I'd just love to see how you write, I mean, since, apparently I'm shit at it. But you're the coward, remember? You're the one who signs insulting reviews under annonymous names. So, next time, prove something that you can do better than me and I'll give it to you.
On a happier note, to MustIBeAMalfoy, because she has given me support (and is an awesome slash writer)
I lay on the floor, not moving, not feeling, cold.
Tests. Training. Pain.
He is only testing my endurance. This is not punishment, no, this is forgivness, this is telling me he is pleased with me. This is what goodness feels like. This is why I'm glad that I'm not Potter.
At night, these days, I am confused.
I used to know what to feel. Until I was fifteen, father never layed a hand upon me. I was supposed to be kept soft and angelic, for Voldemort. I was meant to be his, if you catch my drift.
Then, on a whim, one day the Dark Lord told father to beat me for all of my previous sins. Not that many, but father always was one for the dramatics.
Turns out Voldemort didn't like seeing me in pain as much as he thought he would, nor did he like the scars that he knew would appear. Turns out our *beloved master* was a fucking Hufflepuff.
He told the other Death Eaters to take me, the disgusting wretch, out of his sight. He said he never wanted to see me again, and that my –services- would not be needed.
If this is what goodness tastes like, I've had enough, I wanna be bad.
But...Potter.
He-he's so innocent and pure, how can he stand this, this goodness?
Is this what goodness really is?
"No..."
"What did you say, boy?"
"This isn't it..."
"What? Fantasy? No, young man, this is love."
Cruel, mocking laughter. Biting me, clawing me, hurting me.
Goodness sucks.
Fuck. You. All I have to say to you is this, shut up.
Faggot:
(Variant of fagot) noun
1. A bundle of twigs, sticks, or branches bound together.
2. A bundle of pieces of iron or steel to be welded or hammered into
bars.
verb, transitive
fag·ot·ed also fag·got·ed fag·ot·ing fag·got·ing fag·ots fag·gots
1. To collect or bind into a fagot; bundle.
2. To decorate with fagoting.
[Middle English, from Old French, from Old Provençal, possibly from Vulgar Latin *facus, from Greek phakelos, bundle.]
You have my permission to kill yourself now, because, no matter what you do, and no matter what you say, I won't stop writing, so you can kiss my fat ass. On another note, I'd just love to see how you write, I mean, since, apparently I'm shit at it. But you're the coward, remember? You're the one who signs insulting reviews under annonymous names. So, next time, prove something that you can do better than me and I'll give it to you.
On a happier note, to MustIBeAMalfoy, because she has given me support (and is an awesome slash writer)
I lay on the floor, not moving, not feeling, cold.
Tests. Training. Pain.
He is only testing my endurance. This is not punishment, no, this is forgivness, this is telling me he is pleased with me. This is what goodness feels like. This is why I'm glad that I'm not Potter.
At night, these days, I am confused.
I used to know what to feel. Until I was fifteen, father never layed a hand upon me. I was supposed to be kept soft and angelic, for Voldemort. I was meant to be his, if you catch my drift.
Then, on a whim, one day the Dark Lord told father to beat me for all of my previous sins. Not that many, but father always was one for the dramatics.
Turns out Voldemort didn't like seeing me in pain as much as he thought he would, nor did he like the scars that he knew would appear. Turns out our *beloved master* was a fucking Hufflepuff.
He told the other Death Eaters to take me, the disgusting wretch, out of his sight. He said he never wanted to see me again, and that my –services- would not be needed.
If this is what goodness tastes like, I've had enough, I wanna be bad.
But...Potter.
He-he's so innocent and pure, how can he stand this, this goodness?
Is this what goodness really is?
"No..."
"What did you say, boy?"
"This isn't it..."
"What? Fantasy? No, young man, this is love."
Cruel, mocking laughter. Biting me, clawing me, hurting me.
Goodness sucks.