Rainbow

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You're so fucking pretty, Potter. I've seen you in the locker rooms, showering after a grueling practice. You're all clean lines and bronzed flesh that fades to pale gold where your clothes have hidden you. You look so much younger without your glasses on.

I've seen you in my dreams as well, and you're always more beautiful than in real life, but the beauty is too surreal, too fake. In my dreams, my hands are at your throat. They look stark and almost silvery against you, and they leave behind a trail of bruises; purples and blues, yellows and grays. There are pink lines down your chest, where my nails have raked over your tender flesh, and your nipples stand out a shade or two darker than the rest of your pretty, tanned torso. Your lips are always cherry red and slick, parted for a glimpse of ivory teeth and pink tongue and the blackness beyond; there is a cut there, on the bottom lip, oozing the tarnished red of your blood where I have bitten you. The ceaseless ebony of your hair sticks with sweat into your green eyes, which always look glassy and unfocused.

You're a veritable rainbow, every color represented through the spectrum of this fascinated abuse. Without you, I would be nothing, and so I find myself worshipping the grating of your voice against my nerves, the way your teeth flash white when you snarl at me, the dreams of you that I've created to get me through this desire.

It will fade eventually, this yearning, the way your colors will fade over time. This feeling is only another incarnation of my loathing for you. In possessing you, I may crush you; or in crushing you, I may come to possess you; it hardly matters, so long as I get what I want.

Sometimes I wonder, Potter, what you would feel like wrapped around me. Would the Boy Who Lived feel any different -- any better -- squeezing around me than any other boy who lived? Or would he be exactly the same: warm and snug and easily manipulated?

This is the sort of speculation that keeps me up most nights, fisting myself so hard I should be raw and bleeding, then coming in a whirlwind of color that seems predominated by green and black.

But sometimes I wonder, Potter, what you would feel like wrapped around me. Your arms, I mean, and maybe one of your legs thrown over mine to keep me close. I can't help but wonder what it might be like to rest with your head tucked under my chin, giving me a crick in my neck that I'll refuse to acknowledge, because I like you so near to me. I wonder if your hair would be soft against my skin or if it would be just a bit prickly. I wonder if your hands would press the palms flat against me or if they would curl into loose fists. I wonder if you would shift a great deal and keep me awake or if your stillness and even breathing would be just the thing to lull me to sleep.

This is the sort of speculation that makes a feeling like unease coil in the pit of my stomach. It causes a pressure in my chest that I can't explain, and it sends my heart hammering painfully against my ribcage. It is hard to breathe sometimes, so I can't help but think that this is your revenge for the collar of bruises I give you in my dreams.

There is something dangerous about you, Potter, and it has nothing to do with prowess at Quidditch or spells or fighting.

You are dangerous to me, to my sanity, I imagine. Too much more of this unrelenting savagery will destroy one of us, and something tells me it's going to be me.

Sometimes, Potter, I think that I don't know what to think any more.