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Sunday, June 9th, 2002
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10:17 am - We now return to your regularly scheduled fuckups
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Harry followed as Snape entered the bathroom, unconscious perhaps that he was reaching out for anything, a fold of his master's robes, a glimpse of naked skin. In the bathroom Snape stood over the basin, splashing water on his face, seeing Harry through a film of water that stung his open eyes.
Naked, hungry gaze. Open, starved. For a moment Snape wondered what Harry wouldn't give him at this moment, then that segued into wondering what it was Harry had that might tempt him.
He smiled at the answer and splashed the back of his neck as a reward.
Cool water trickled down his back as he reached out for a towel. It was in Potter's hands and for a moment their fingers met.
It became a longer moment when Harry wouldn't relinquish the towel.
"What are you doing?" Snape was uncomfortably aware that dignity did not lend itself to a dripping face. Without answering, Harry reached out and gently began wiping the moisture away. Snape reached up and snatched at the cloth.
Harry dropped his hand and moved back slightly. Snape began towelling his face vigorously.
- Through a glass, darkly, part 6, here.
current mood:  amused
current music: Linkin Park - The Edge (Dracula 2000)
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(38 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, May 27th, 2002
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6:44 am - Enchantment
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I'm enchanted by the thought of Snape lying spoon-wise with Hermione, her hand cupped protectively over his stomach, feeling the swell and translucent burden of it, trying to sense their child. I'm enchanted by the feel of her body, smooth and sensuous and so, so slender while his burgeons and becomes soft, his face a twisted mask of neutrality because he can't allow himself to crack with what is happening to him. I'm in love with the way she slips down his body, kissing, caressing it, but I won't say 'loving it' because what's between them is bigger, deeper, sadder and very unlike the word love. I love the way his cock swells against her hand, warm and full of pulsing life and he cups his abdomen with a pained expression because it's too much, echoed within his own frame.
I love the way her hair falls, clouding her expression and he wants to reach down and bind it back except he can't, his body prevents him. I love the look in her eyes, the queer exultation because sex is now her prerogative, the dominance all his. I love the way their faces set during coitus; the silence that neither will break.
I'm also enchanted by the feel of the touchpad against my fingers. I don't know how I lived with the common mouse before. This is truly like creation; the way my fingers are echoed on the screen.
current music: Linkin Park - The Edge (Dracula 2000)
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| Saturday, May 25th, 2002
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1:16 pm - Books of Magic meet Books of Potter
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Sotto Voce
He knew how young the Merlin was, but he hadn't really been prepared for it, not really prepared for the concentrated energy radiating from the slim, goateed young man who dressed in the worst tradition of slothful punk but still managed to attract every slightly magically inclined creature from Liverpool to Northampton and a few dimensions beyond.
The air around Timothy Hunter crackled. It tasted like being alive, just coming within a mile of him. Standing in the same room had been like hearing Voldemort speak for the very first time.
No. Multiply the anxiety, awe, nausea and delirious worship of that encounter about a hundred times and it would approximate the sensation of being close enough to shake the Merlin's hand.
"No thanks," Timothy told him, speaking in his head when Snape was barely at the door of a bookshop which had suddenly attracted twice its usual run of business, "Whatever it is you're selling, I'm not interested."
Snape nodded. Sending back, "I know John Constantine."
He felt Hunter sigh in his mind. "That and a pound will buy you a cup of tea."
current mood: amused
current music: Jars of Clay: Love Song for a Saviour
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| Sunday, May 19th, 2002
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5:24 am - When I was a child
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So how does Spyke write Snape/Granger? She makes the man fuck Harry Potter.
~*~
"Perhaps one of you will be so good as to enlighten the class. Finnegan?"
"Could you repeat the question sir?"
Snape nodded and snapped his fingers. The latest edition of ‘Broomstick Parade’ flew to his fingertips as Finnegan flushed. "A week’s detention, Finnegan. Mr. Malfoy. How much asphodel would you deem too much in the Fiatrus serum?"
"Any asphodel would be too much, sir. The Fiatrus serum induces insomnia. Asphodel would nullify the effects."
"Two points to Slytherin." Draco smirked. "Miss Parkinson, why then are you crushing these herbs and adding them to your serum?"
Snape waited, eyebrow raised, as Parkinson looked down at her ingredients, sideways at Malfoy, who had no book open to help her today, and then back up at her housemaster, shrugging helplessly.
"Because you told us to, sir."
"I’m disappointed." Next to her, Malfoy did a slow burn. Snape wondered if that was for Parkinson’s benefit or his. Young Malfoy appeared to have a genuine affection for Parkinson but then she certainly did him little credit in Potions class. "Perhaps Mr. Longbottom might be able to tell us,"
"Crushing asphodel removes its somniferous properties." Snape turned his head as the voice rang out. Granger met his gaze clearly.
"It’s a dummy step."
Which it was but - he felt the faint thrill of challenge and almost smiled at her. She looked steadily back at him.
He could feel Potter’s gaze burning into the back of his robes.
"One point from Gryffindor for speaking out of turn." Five given for the right answer, six taken for insolence. It seemed a fair sum.
"Excuse me sir." She didn’t sound sorry. He nodded at her, turning back to the rest of the class, almost missing the flash as firelight glinted off Potter’s spectacles.
"Granger may be ill-mannered, but she is right. Crushing the asphodel nullifies it, so you may add it to your potion without detracting substantially from its properties. Zabini, cite me two reasons you may need to add a dummy step to a recipe."
"Sir. In case you want to add scent or texture to a cosmetic-"
"I would have expected that kind of answer from Patil, not from you, Zabini." Titters again, mainly Slytherin, but in shared fun. Zabini grinned back while the Gryffindors shifted uncomfortably. "Nullifying the properties of a herb means reducing its effect to an absolute zero. Try to keep a lexicon on hand."
"As some of you may not know, you may very well expect trick questions in your NEWTs." Groans all around. Snape found he was rather enjoying himself and took a quick walk around the classroom to compose himself, talking all the way. "They will give you ten ingredients, eight of which you may be fortunate enough to recall are essential for preparing a Lirimus counter-solution." Malfoy had his lexicon out and was making a note of the name. Excellent. Snape smiled proprietarily at him and shook his head to dislodge the afterimage of Potter glaring.
"The other two, however, you know to be essential antagonists to the potion. You have exactly two courses of action then. Either you recall enough about the two ingredients to create dummy steps, or,"
Flash of light again. Potter was actually turning his head to follow his progress around the classroom. Snape wasn’t sure if he found that irritating or not.
"Or having admitted to yourself that you should have studied harder, you blow up the examination hall and most of your fellow-students as well. Longbottom,"
The plump boy jumped slightly.
"Unfortunately, whichever course of action you choose, the results will be the same. Might I convince you, Longbottom, not to attempt a Potions NEWT at all? They’re still resurfacing the roof after your OWL."
~*~
'Through a glass, darkly' Part 5.
I love my life.
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| Wednesday, May 1st, 2002
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7:07 am - Sleeping Beauty
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There had been a woman, once, he might have loved. Except she had loved another. Old, old story.
An older story still. Oedipus, blinded by love for his mother, later blinded by his own hands, wandering the forests, tended by his daughter. Almost, but not quite his story
... she had been married for love. Had joined them for love.
Had stayed. For love.
Rotted to death in Azkaban. For love.
While he. Cold, silent, vampirish in robes buttoned to his neck to prevent anyone touching him, remained safe in a kindly prison cell, concocting potions and plans to make the world burn.
For two reasons. One, her. She had not loved him.
Two, him. He had loved her and not him.
And now Voldemort has risen again, they say carved of flesh from the willing sacrifice's hand. But there are other rumours, that of another resurrection. A woman brought back to life by a dry skull's kiss.
And in his dungeon, Snape shivers. Remembering the touch of lips to lips as though they had been his.
~*~
He missed her mouth the most. The slash of red as she lifted her face after taking a tiny kiss from their latest victim. The awesome joy and splendour in her features as she held, for the first time, a man's spine in her hands and used it to carve furrows in paling, spongy skin.
He missed her mouth. The words it spoke.
"Lord...love," exquisite coalescence. He had heard how she tore the heart from her breast savagely in public, screaming to the last that he would rise again. That he would come for her.
And so he had. He had always treasured her words.
Azkaban is a dead place with noxious fumes and decaying hopes festering in the air. But around Anita Lestrange's cell there was only quiet and a space of cool damp as though the dementors feared to go near her.
Knowing the content of her vicious little mind, having tasted her biting, sharp nailed kisses, he was perfectly aware of the reasons why. And as he clenched his fingers, feeling them tear his skin, he savoured the anticipation of once again knowing that mouth against his.
He'd missed that mouth. How he'd missed that mouth...
... and his naked skull pressed to her starving lips.
~*~
current mood:  sad
current music: Enigma - Beyond the Invisible
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(comment on this)
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| Sunday, April 28th, 2002
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2:38 am - Lovelorn
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I'm attempting fluff, yo.
~*~
"How was the forest?" Her words were quick but gentle, not to scare him off.
He hissed anyway, arching his back and retreating two paces, claws
outstretched with each step, warning her away.
(Back)
"Ssh." She kept her palms open in front of her and the cat took a heated
swipe, raising three red lines down the centre of her right hand. When she
didn't move, he remained crouched defensively, nose quivering at the scent
of fresh blood.
The lines around Minerva McGonagall's mouth smoothed with an effort. Her
hands remained steady, cupped in offering. When she spoke, her voice was
honeyed, echoing other words she'd heard a long time before. Her own first
time, in fact.
"Little cat. Grey cat. You can come back now. You're safe now."
The cat hissed suspiciously. She sat back suddenly, and he reared in
suspicion. She smiled calmly.
"Tom cat." She shook her head indulgently. "Wild cat, you're free to go,
free to stay." She extended the unmarked hand to him again, then more
deliberately, exposed scratched flesh. "*Free*, little grey cat."
(Back)
This time when he sprang, he slammed into a wall of protection and her
glittering eyes were frustrating feet away. The cat-who-was snarled, pawing
the air with a sound like claws screeching over glass and the woman winced.
But she didn't move. Her right fist clenched on the table and the cat could
feel the tremor through wood, warming and glowing. A... spell...of some
sort. Something... he should know.
"Wild cat, free cat..."
Outlines blurred and the cat shook his head, sneering, feeling the world
shift from monochrome into the dizzying hues of firelight and shadow. Red,
red, red and gold everywhere, colours he knew from a long time ago, red like
blood and gold like... eyes glistening under the moonlight that gleamed off
the knife, the knife wet and stained with blood...
He screamed and turned into ninety pounds of gangly man, nails raking across
the Deputy Headmistress' table.
"Welcome back Severus."
Too tired to do anything else, he moved his head slightly and hissed at her.
Her forehead wrinkled in irritation.
"Do get off my table."
~*~
I'm attempting fluff, yo.
"Lovelorn", also part of the Snape FF challenge will be up on that website pretty damn soon.
~*~
current mood: discontent
current music: Enigma - Sadness
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(comment on this)
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| Friday, April 19th, 2002
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8:00 pm - Stories I forget to tell
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We paint the stories on temples, walls, our hearts and homes. We've shared the tales in the dark and then around campfires, and now intelligent electrons buzzing between telephones carry the same words, the same figures, the same deeds again and again and again.
The whores. The then-hated. The now-loved. These are the stories told.
Samson and Delilah. Hercules' cock up Iphicles' throat. Ares and Athena locked in sex and hate.
God, despised.
God, always and forever despised. Either lover of Satan or repressed commodity. A figure of fun despite the awesome wrath everyone knows he expends undeservedly.
They mock God. We mock God. The one supposedly eternal, unchangeable, holy perfection.
They forget. We forget.
Or rather, we remember.
The stories told are of pain and darkness and love, one body finding fulfilment in the other, expending lust and rage and hate. Finding redemption. Finding love.
There was a reason the earliest churches found the passion of Christ... sexual.
Our heroes have cunts and asses and mouths, wet-open for the taking and sucking, leaking and praying, crying intensity and squeezing pain. Our heroes are not pure. They never were. Only and always human. Smeared in our filth and hope and need, they transmute us. Lift us. Away.
Seems truer to be bathed in warm, sticky jets of come than be cleansed in holy fucking light, feels more right to sing songs that slide deliciously over neurons like a blade over wrist veins than to sway deliriously under church rhythms and feel warm fuzziness shoot from the heart, taking over the brain. Seems necessary, to be immersed in a sea of hot need, wanting, more real that than the promise of eternal harmonies sung in chorus to the greater glory of a man who hung crucified as blood and shit pooled around his naked feet.
We forget. I forget.
Perhaps in that is hope for redemption.
current mood:  groggy
current music: Enya - Orinoco Flow
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| Thursday, April 18th, 2002
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8:48 am - Thwarting Heaven. Averting Hell.
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Angels are supposed to love. Demons are supposed to tempt. That was Crowley's justification.
Angels do not justify themselves. But yes, angels are supposed to love.
With that lighting Aziraphale's face like a holy beacon, what could one snake do but justify his rather long and intriguingly forked tongue?
Later, on the bed.
Aziraphale said, I will always love you. I will never leave you. Kissing the words into the black feathers splitting Crowley's back into anguished, arching wings.
So said your boss and look what happened. But Crowley kept that thought internal, only smiled and turned over. Rolled over, smiling wider at the gasp. Waiting for the touch.
He waited.
And waited.
Then half-turned, asking irritatedly, is there a reason for the delay, angel?
Smooth book-calloused fingers ran the ridges of skin and bone, tracing the tiny pinions jutting out from the crevice where skin ended and bird wings began.
Crowley muffled his face with the pillow. Bit it, bit through the cloth and styrofoam. Wishing it were feathers.
Pure white feathers exploding into his face.
Later, Aziraphale would ask and he would say - nothing, or maybe kiss the outline, run his hands over the wings the way the angel was worshipping him now, delicately, tenderly. Let his lips flow smooth and distant, far away from the pulse of white-hot electricity that passed for angel blood, animating Aziraphale's wings and arms. Far away from temptation. Because -
Angels avert. Demons tempt.
Crowley bit into the pillow trying not to pretend they were Aziraphale's wings.
Later. On his back again. Aziraphale glowing with holy, sacrificial light. Blessed light. The joy that came from pure, pure giving.
From love.
Crowley waited. Slit-yellow snake eyes gleaming, waiting for the surge of red, pure lust.
Aziraphale's face flushed as he lowered himself that crucial inch.
Crowley smiled. And widened his eyes, startled, as he realized the glow of white wasn't coming from Aziraphale's eyes.
Closed his eyes as Aziraphale rocked. Bit his lip, then to heck with it, moaned despite the odd clumsiness of this flesh-to-flesh slide.
Crowley, Aziraphale whispered, arching, doubling forward onto the snake's chest. Wetness a thin stream being massaged into Crowley's chest by the combined motion of their still rocking frames.
As Crowley came. Inside the angel. Cold-hot like he had always dreamed.
Later. Spooned. Holding Aziraphale in his arms, feeling his wings beat soundlessly against his chest, granting him huge, great mouthfuls of soft, tickling feathers.
Crowley said.
He said In Hell there's no divorce
Angel wings fluttered for an instant, then beat softer, retreating. Back into the angel's frame, leaving Crowley with a single pinion on his lips for luck. It dissolved, tasting of nothing. Or maybe of angel light. Candyfloss in the sun. Sweetness condensed, just right when bite sized, worse when bigger.
Crowley kissed Aziraphale's back because it gave him something else to do.
I'll take that offer, Aziraphale said, voice muffled by skin or the pretense of tears.
Yours'll do too, the snake replied.
~*~
current mood: happy
current music: Cheb Khaled - Abdel Kader
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| Sunday, April 14th, 2002
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4:44 am - mirrors reflections are not opposites of ourselves
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The boy panted. But he didn’t struggle.
The desk was hard against the back of his legs, annoyingly so. Snape’s grip tightened.
“The first rule of combat,” he whispered into Potter’s ear, “Is never to turn your back on an enemy. Never.”
He felt the boy attempt to sag in his arms and smiled, pressing his lips against Potter’s hair.
“If I let you go, what will you do?”
He heard Potter breathing, felt the slight movement against his chest as the boy swallowed. Potter was small, easily tucked under his neck. His bones were fragile. A Seeker’s build, bird-light and thin.
Snape experimented, pressing in and feeling the slight strain in cartilage.
Surprisingly thin. Had the lad eaten nothing all the holidays?
Possibly. Ah yes. Possibly.
“Please let me go.”
Snape shook his head, not quite able to avoid getting a mouthful of the boy’s hair every time he moved. “I think not, Mr. Potter.” His hand crept around the thin waist, seeking for the telltale hardness in his robes. Ah. Ah yes.
Potter’s breathing quickened and he went rigid as Snape reached inside his robes and brought out his wand. Tossed it quickly onto the desk
“If I let you go now, Mr. Potter, what will you do?”
The lad tried to tilt his head back but the increased pressure on his neck decided him against that. He spoke instead.
“Apologise?”
~*~
Through a glass, darkly, the fanfic that wouldn't die. Part four to be found right - here.
current mood:  refreshed
current music: Delerium & Sarah Mclachlan - Silence
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| Thursday, April 11th, 2002
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7:38 am - through a glass, darkly
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The dungeon air is old and damp with pockets of freshness when the wind blows through hollow rooms as they change in their seasons. Snape knows the texture of the atmosphere in his rooms and it is a better safeguard than any Watcher alarm or Sneakoscope.
Here, an invisible crackle, as of electricity and a soft sound that could be an intake of breath. He moves away, always looking from the corner of his eye so he is fully cognizant of the air rippling, moving as a figure glides through the room, trailing invisibility like a quiet corona.
He smiles a little, tired as he is, his mask dangling from his wrist. Considers his move and thinks the fireplace is best.
"Incendio"
Flames shoot up and the air trips, startled. Snape pretends not to notice, though his fists clench. Stupid, stupid. A slip like that in reality would have cost the boy his life.
He sits by the fire, fists smoothed into palms held loosely on his lap.
Texture, the subtle shift and swirl of motion as invisibility ripples towards him cautiously. Side and step and side and pause. Snape's eyes ache as he stares into the fire, but he does not give up on his sidelong vigil.
The clock he knows will read 'past your bedtime' but he can miss breakfast. The boy can't, growing lad as he is, needing nourishment aplenty for his shrunken little frame.
Ripple, glide, soft sigh and swirl as air coalesces softly and hair soft as raven feathers brushes against his loosely cupped hands.
Snape uses his thumbs to smooth over invisible ears, tug at invisible locks of hair and gently touch invisible temples.
"Yes," he says before Potter can say, "You knew."
"I've been thinking of you all day," young Harry says, kissing Snape's palms softly, a caress the Potions Master allows.
"As have I," Snape says, wondering if Harry will take his truth as a lie. But,
"I know," Harry says, his lips tickling Snape's palms. "Was it worse than usual tonight?"
"Tolerably," Snape answers, feeling a slight glow of pleasure warm him better than the fire. "Tolerably worse."
The cloak slips off and Potter's owl eyes look up at him worshipfully. Too tired to worry about treachery, Snape touches the hollows under little-boy eyes.
"You haven't been sleeping."
"I've been afraid."
Delicate skull beneath translucent skin. He doesn't eat enough. Good.
"Good."
Harry bends his neck and kisses Snape's palm as it rests against his cheek. Brings his own palms up to Snape's lap and leaves them open against the older man's thighs. The bandage on one is an obvious pressure against Snape's robes. The hand has not healed yet.
There have to be easier ways for us to hold hands in class, Snape thinks about joking but jokes do not serve his purpose.
This does.
Thumb pressing into the eye socket just lower than and dangerously close to the eyeball that could pop out if just a little bit more. Fingers cruel against the back of the boy's head, making imprints and finding the soft place where the bone joints are most fragile. Death, death in hands, death cupped around a young boy's skull.
Death-Eater. It's at moments like this Snape could almost kiss Harry.
Harry has learned not to try. So he waits, eyes misting slightly, hands loose on his master's lap, waiting for the moment when Snape will release him and say,
"Good."
Tonight because he's tired, Snape presses just a little harder and the boy whimpers so sweetly that he ends up taking a kiss.
In reparation, though, he bites the boy's lip and licks the blood from it. Pain. and Pleasure.
Later, with the fire silhouetting their bodies, he will don another mask that feels almost like a face.
current mood:  relaxed
current music: Vanessa Carlton - A thousand miles
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| Thursday, April 4th, 2002
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9:23 pm - time enough for a cup of tea
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There's time enough for a cup of tea while the world falls apart above and behind. There's time to sit still in the tiny shop, a slowly cooling mug between old enemies, watching the vapour curl up and wistfully die while outside the wind echoes a banshee's scream.
Time enough to lean forward and pretend to only have been reaching for the forlorn drink when your companion takes it as his cue to take the next step, with parted lips. Time to drink slowly then, lingering on the cool liquid, almost bitter with over-steeping. Take time because of all things in the world, it's the one thing for which you're most heavily in debt.
current mood: tired
current music: Jars of Clay - Frail
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| Monday, April 1st, 2002
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7:18 am - Family is made through more than one flesh
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The last sound he remembers hearing was the centaurs’ scream.
~*~
Dumbledore’s wards took effect five minutes after he left the Forest. The conflagration was spectacular. Later he will hear the Muggle Meteorological society thought it was a meteor sighting, and the Ministry of Magic had to cast several Confundus charms to prevent hordes of science hungry Muggles traipsing over the scorched remains of the Forbidden Forest. Later he will shudder at the thought of his lord, broken, bleeding and - warm.
Later he will touch his mask, gently, at the lips.
Now he stands before Dumbledore, quietly heaving, his face incomplete, dangling from his wrist. Accusing him.
"You knew he would send me back."
"I hoped." (YOU knew)
So you didn't send me there to die.
Child. Child. Should I have asked that of you?
He can hear Dumbledore's pain in the words that are not spoken. So he answers.
"You should have."
It is Dumbledore who leaves.
current mood:  hungry
current music: OST - Queen of the Damned
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| Wednesday, March 27th, 2002
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10:10 am - Through a glass darkly
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In a certain context love is ashamed of desire. In a certain context desire cannot be held in common with love. Death Eaters never retire, they are digested. And among the less clear swirling thoughts in his mind is the taste of smooth bone sliding against his lips, tapping at his teeth and entering, fucking his mouth, the taste of a Riddle that has no soul.
The taste of forever is smooth clean death. What else could it be? It is a part of him, unalterable, unshakeable, impossible to be disloyal to, just as Dumbledore's command causes a knee jerk response to do or die.
Spy for me, against him. Spy against them, for me. Words are imprecise and Potions is an exact science. Snape hates words, he always has, which is why he regurgitates them, tames them, lets them slip from his mouth in carefully timed phrases to do his bidding. Pretending to play team against team, master against master, knowing both his lords know him, have searched his weaknesses, using cruelty as kindness, kindness as cruelty. It doesn't matter. What matters is holding on to the shred of him left after they're both done, after Dumbledore and Voldemort have had their say and refashioned his bones to make of him a puppet dancing to their tune.
What matters is that he is true to himself, on his knees licking the filth from slowly re-embodying skeletal fingers, or sitting calmly over a cup of steaming mint tea that he loathes, recounting dispassionately how he took a breastbone and made a harp of it, strung it with bloody guts and played the Battle Hymn of the Republic
"A Muggle tune the Dark Lord particularly favours."
Absolution. He doesn't look for it. Dumbledore is kind and does not pretend to grant it. Later.
In his chambers, biting his nails, licking dry encrusted filth and blood and remains of skin, he relives the night, the events, the pain. Brings his arm to his mouth in a near impossible contortion, dislodging his shoulder, savouring the pain
And bites down hard, releasing bloody pus into his mouth.
This, my benediction. I will always be with you.
And I. With you.
They will never leave him alone. Is it any wonder he cannot smile?
This, my body. Broken for you, disembodied. Renewed by your sacrifice.
And I would do more, for you. Severus, my child, you know this.
No. He knows nothing except that wizard vows cannot be broken. Ever.
None of his vows. Dare be broken.
Unless he breaks first.
It would be his only hope, except his masters will not let him die. Dumbledore regenerates torn tissue and heals broken bone, Voldemort crooks his finger inside his servant's mouth, displacing Snape's jaw so he cannot speak. It doesn't matter. He has always hated words anyway.
Actions speak. So much louder.
And the reflection in his mirror looks back at him darkly.
~*~
Why did I never see that Snape is a mere tool in this huge homoerotic dance Voldemort and Dumbledore have been playing out for seventy years? Pretty little Thomas Riddle...
current mood:  cynical
current music: OST - Queen of the Damned
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| Tuesday, March 26th, 2002
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9:59 am - The Virgin Suicides
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You don't know what hate is, Potter. You say you've never lived with love, but you don't understand hate.
I hate you. I will die to save you. But you cannot make me love you.
Not even with your sudden willingness to die.
~*~
current mood: tired
current music: Linkin Park - The Edge (Dracula 2000)
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| Monday, March 25th, 2002
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7:04 am
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I thought about dying on a Monday. I thought about blood and blades and a cold, clean death. I even thought of a very beautiful plan.
I thought about slashing my wrists while soaking in a tub of warm water. I thought it could be very pretty and relatively painless. I thought I might do it on Monday, except it seems to be Tuesday now.
No. No.
My hands are shaking so badly I have to clasp them together, tight, and see the fingers almost pop under the strain, watch as little red and blue clots begin to form under the breaking skin. If I squeeze hard enough, bone might crack, might pierce the veins and then I wouldn’t have to be worrying about dying on a Monday, some Monday in a tub of hot water, watching little red swirls come out from my veins and colour the water. Though that could be very pretty. I’ve even managed to dismantle a safety razor, which is bloody hard to do. There’s all these rubber safeguards surrounding the main steel, leaving only a tiny cutting edge. It’s not easy to take razors apart but I managed it on Sunday. I thought very seriously about dying on Monday.
It’s Tuesday now and the pain in my bleeding hands reminds me I’m very much alive. I thought about dying on Monday, but maybe this Tuesday will do just as well.
current mood: enraged
current music: Linkin Park - The Edge (Dracula 2000)
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| Sunday, March 24th, 2002
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7:21 am - Despair
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~*~
Desire's sister has pendulous breasts and a heavy heart that she hides in the sagging folds of her abdomen. When Desire trails a red rose around the drooping nipples, Despair's head sinks even lower into the cradle of fat that cushions her head.
Her teeth are monstrous tusks, her eyelids pierced with her fingernails to weep blood tears. It's been centuries since Despair wept pure salt water. Her eyes have calcified with distaste; her face seems etched as a stone gargoyle. When Desire kisses his sister, sometimes the pure black flint at the centre of Despair's eyes flickers and she closes her eyes.
Desire has always loved this sister best.
Despair is quiescent beneath his hands, lying on the bed in his kingdom - Despair has no mattress that is not wood with sharp nails sticking out - and she sinks into the mattress, fat puddling in odd corners where her limbs impress the padded fabric. The rose Desire plucked for her is red against her grey chalk skin and when he brushes the petals against her closed eyes, the dew mimics teardrops and joins with her blood to pearl red.
Despair is always naked, not just for him but always. Desire clothes hirself because the forbidden and unknown are what spawn lust. He envies Despair her simple clarity of naked skin. He has never asked her if she is ashamed of this body. Sometimes in dark night clubs, tight spandex against his crotch, male-female sweaty arousal surrounds him and he responds to the quick, hard pleasure-release of groping, just for fun. But when he comes its only with the image before him of a stunted pygmy in perpetual torment. Despair and Desire, forever entwined, hand in hand.
Despair reminds him so much of their mother. If they'd ever had a mother, that is. Dream says he might have imagined her once, but Desire knows Dream was only saying that to make Delirium feel better and stop tearing out her hair in bloody clumps. Dream is convinced the Endless were spawned of dreamstuff, cheap mortal way to pass the time, just like Desire knows it was lust that had a hand in their creation. As did Destruction, Delight and Despair, forming long after Destiny appeared to make Death's pale hands acceptable to mortal minds. It's a tacky kind of creation story, but it makes awful sense. And it's ironic and also metaphorical.
When Desire bends to kiss Despair on the lips he has to teach her, every time like it's the first time, again and again, the slow coaxing and cozening until her mouth moves, ever so slightly, letting him inside. Her hair is still in tight knots and his fingers tighten painfully in them, yanking slightly, trying to unsnarl. He has never asked if Despair likes the pain. She is Despair. How can she? How can she not?
"I love you," Desire will tell his sister and she will close her eyes, raising her hands slightly to her face so she can pierce the regrowing skin of her eyeballs and cry for - joy? shame? - at his words. Destiny will appear as he always does, a shadowy figure at the head of his bed, noting their copulation in his big book with a curl of his lips that Desire has never tried to decipher. Is it anger? Shame? Envy? Lust?
Or paranoia? Everyone remembers Delight and how her union with Destruction became Delirium and Change. Another orouborous, forever linked. To be of the Endless is to have no reprieve from your family.
When Desire kisses Despair it's always like the first time he fell in and out of love. He does not want to know what it's like for her. Of all his family, Desire has always loved this sister best. He is perfectly certain it may not be reciprocal and Desire is, after all, the most fragile of them all.
Sometimes however, Despair kisses him back, her breath of rotting monuments and harsh, unheaving stone moving strangely against his softer, perfumed skin. Strangely enough it is at these times that Desire feels most alive. And afterwards in his solitary bed, as Despair pierces her flesh in her own kingdom, Desire wonders if this is what it's like to be lonely.
It's all metaphorical, he knows that, especially the relationship he has with Despair. It's ironic and metaphorical and some might say he deserves it.
Desire says...
Desire says nothing, just imagines himself in tight flowing leather, some young dark goth fantasy, and apparates in a dark corner, waiting for his duty to begin. And when he finds and kisses the first sacrifice of the evening, he knows Despair is only a step behind, scratching out her eyes.
It's ironic, really, and all metaphorical. Sometimes though Desire wishes mortals could have had better dreams in the first place.
~*~
(based on 'The Sandman' by Neil Gaiman. yes, I know it needs work)
current mood:  blah
current music: OST - Queen of the Damned
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(5 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, March 20th, 2002
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11:48 am - Four Days till Tuesday
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She screamed in his mouth.
~*~*~
He stares at himself in the bathtub, flannel forgotten in his hand, mesmerized by the sight of gently rippling water covering his genitals. It's been a while since he's considered them this way.
(Smeared in her juices. Against her thighs.)
When he makes himself reach down and touch, the movement cups water, adding pressure just before the contrast of flannel and it actually hurts, reminding him as he begins to bathe the stickiness away. His face whitens slightly and there's a moment of weakness when he wants to take his lower lip between his teeth.
She is asleep on his bed as he cleans himself with water. At least he hopes she is asleep.
He drags the cloth out of the water, trailing light wisps of bubble, and reaches out to add more soap to the flannel. Drags that over his torso, the still raw nipples, the tiny marks where her teeth and nails scratched his shoulders, burnt into his chest.
He lingers over those, especially, ignoring the remnants of the Mark on his arm which actually seems - cleaner than these other marks.
Made. In weakness.
Soap burns into his skin.
Soap burns into his skin, cleansing, alkali reacting with human acid, her saliva, her warmth still residual in his flesh. With hands that could be shaking if he allowed them to, he holds the flannel against the rips and tears in his flesh, ignoring the hardening of his flesh below water. Ignoring the taste of her screams still in his mouth.
She is... used to this, it seems. Not a child, apparently a woman. He's happy, he supposes. He needn't rank 'paedophile' amongst his list of accomplishments.
When she screamed. Into his mouth.
He wonders. Did she notice?
It was her scream that dragged him over the edge.
The burn is too sweet and he hisses, putting the flannel on the side of the tub, sinking under cold, clean water, letting it flame against him too and wash the sin away. The skin away. His skin, that feels tight now and used, and Snape wonders if he could flay himself and recreate the flesh, if that would simply erase the events of the past hour and make his hatred go away.
He hates her. Himself too, but mainly. her.
For doing this to him. For letting him do this to her.
Water laps against his cheek and yes, it appears it has been too long. His hand fists cruelly around sagging flesh, willing it into submission. Hard enough and he will bleed. Doesn't blood wash away sin?
Which is what this is, regardless of what he tells himself. Darkest, blackest, midnight sin. Such a pity he doesn't believe in redemption.
She sleeps in his bed now, and he can see her in his mind's eye, child's hunger sated, woman's body wrapped in midnight sheets, her fist in his mouth when earlier it was his prick. His hand. His shoulder. Some, any meaty part of him.
Soon, he knows, she will search for his heart, bring it bloody and beating to her lips, devour it. With his life still staining her lips then she will kiss him and call it love.
Because Hermione Granger has kissed her teacher. And Snape wonders if he will ever find peace again.
current mood:  predatory
current music: Linkin Park - My December
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Monday, March 18th, 2002
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1:23 pm - Granger-Snape
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Thank you, thank you - (takes a bow) - I have now addressed some of my issues regarding t/s relationships in a satisfactory manner. Well, I'm satisfied!
+Sixty Mondays+
Whew. That was... long. Thanks Susanna!
Ooh, Teanna, look, my first new story in my new home! squeal! Hee!
I'm just excited by how easy the upload was. *huge grins*
*smooches Teanna*
current mood: pleased
current music: Vanessa Carlton - A thousand miles
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(comment on this)
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9:32 am - Snape moments
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I just received my Snape-Granger fic back from beta. I agree with someone who said onlist that the problem with the Potter fandom is the lack of shaggable females of the same age. I suspect a large part of this is due to the fact that Minerva McGonagall in the movie is portrayed by a middle-aged woman, unlike the black haired witch referred to in 'Philosopher's Stone'.
I've finally managed to address my issues on the teacher-student relationship by writing 'Sixty Mondays'. Will post link later. For now, know that my inspiration is the old Arthurian tale of Nimue and Merlin, in which Merlin's apprentice, Nimue, becomes his lover, surpasses her master and locks him in a glass tower/oaken tree. I have a theory that schools of wizardry were therefore established in order to prevent these sort of co-dependant, abusive relationships, also to give the student exposure to more than one sort of wizardry. As a consequence, I imagine that there is some sort of magic built into these schools that ensures anyone taking advantage of or abusing a student suffers a ghastly fate. This theory is actually borne out by canon. Sirius goes to Azkaban for a crime he did not commit, though he was never punished for a crime he did intend to commit. Quirrell/Voldemort are defeated by the Potter child and Quirrell quite literally breaks apart.
I need to write a story where Snape's obvious bipolar disorder is addressed. He swings from coldly mature and sensual to a spittle-flecked, demented bastard, possibly a consequence of the tremendous stress he's under as a spy in Dumbledore's pay.
Which reminds me, the Quirrell knowing Snape's loyalty thing could be addressed as Snape telling Voldemort, 'Sir, I had NO idea at the time and couldn't risk compromising my position at the school'. While Voldemort is still weak, he needs all the help he can get and I'm certain he would accept Snape's 'help', regardless of his suspicion.
Oh lord. Oh lord.
Riddle/Dumbledore slash.
This I must do.
But first - Granger-Snape.
current mood:  thoughtful
current music: Richard Marx - Hazard
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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9:32 am - Snape moments
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I just received my Snape-Granger fic back from beta. I agree with someone who said onlist that the problem with the Potter fandom is the lack of shaggable females of the same age. I suspect a large part of this is due to the fact that Minerva McGonagall in the movie is portrayed by a middle-aged woman, unlike the black haired witch referred to in 'Philosopher's Stone'.
I've finally managed to address my issues on the teacher-student relationship by writing 'Sixty Mondays'. Will post link later. For now, know that my inspiration is the old Arthurian tale of Nimue and Merlin, in which Merlin's apprentice, Nimue, becomes his lover, surpasses her master and locks him in a glass tower/oaken tree. I have a theory that schools of wizardry were therefore established in order to prevent these sort of co-dependant, abusive relationships, also to give the student exposure to more than one sort of wizardry. As a consequence, I imagine that there is some sort of magic built into these schools that ensures anyone taking advantage of or abusing a student suffers a ghastly fate. This theory is actually borne out by canon. Sirius goes to Azkaban for a crime he did not commit, though he was never punished for a crime he did intend to commit. Quirrell/Voldemort are defeated by the Potter child and Quirrell quite literally breaks apart.
I need to write a story where Snape's obvious bipolar disorder is addressed. He swings from coldly mature and sensual to a spittle-flecked, demented bastard, possibly a consequence of the tremendous stress he's under as a spy in Dumbledore's pay.
Which reminds me, the Quirrell knowing Snape's loyalty thing could be addressed as Snape telling Voldemort, 'Sir, I had NO idea at the time and couldn't risk compromising my position at the school'. While Voldemort is still weak, he needs all the help he can get and I'm certain he would accept Snape's 'help', regardless of his suspicion.
Oh lord. Oh lord.
Riddle/Dumbledore slash.
This I must do.
But first - Granger-Snape.
current mood: thoughtful
current music: Richard Marx - Hazard
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(comment on this)
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