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Ishuca
To Ginny he smelled of dead crushed flowers, of violets that had begun to droop
and molder: sweet and deathly and crackling with the memory of warmth pressed
between sheets of paper and wax. He never warmed her in any way except for the
one way that mattered, and that was something she was glad of. Ginny could
barely remember what it was like to not
have numb fingers- for them to tingle and shudder as she brushed them against
him. For the sudden provocation of feeling that comes with the touch of fire. Nowadays
Ginny's body was only so much dead flesh, preserved by love (or its lie or
approximation or seeming, though none of that mattered) and the faint scent of
chicken blood. He smiled, eyes flickering like
candlelight, said, "Miss Ginny Weasley. I have
heard so much about you from Harry here," and kicked something out from
under his cloak. It rolled towards her, forward movement slowing before it
paused at her feet momentarily before squelching down the carpeted staircase.
Red on red, not a trace of blood to be seen. His lips are like slugs- no, more like
leeches, they cling and suck and drain her dry, emptying her of everything and
anything. He parts her mouth, her legs, nudging up and into her all at once,
and Ginny can feel him pressing at the very rim of her. His breath is molded
lace on her tongue, and she snakes forward for a better taste. She
always asked him about the smell, where it was coming from. And he would laugh
and press his fingers to her, probing at dampening lips as he whispered out the
truth: "There is no blood, He called it his gift to her, and from then
on he made it a point to present his 'gifts' every chance he could, waiting for just the right occasion. Sometimes his gifts
bounced, and sometimes they rolled, and sometimes they just sat, staring, as he
fucked her raw. He begins to move slowly now, leisurely
compensating for his flimsy bones, and her flaccid grip tightens around him as
she sucks at his tongue, digging her fingers into his back and wishing that the
brutality of it all would force out some feeling. Which
was a very cruel question indeed (and so, worthy of him), because she did
remember; but not really, not wholly. She remembered little of the in-betweens,
of the times when it had just been her and not them. There was the sadness that
had been like strangulation, the long hours. . . something.
Crying. . . for some reason. Loving
(but not real love, never that) someone else. And
always, always wanting him. Her want had been like splinters under the
nail, painful and impossible to remove. But those were feelings and not things.
The only 'things' Ginny remembered now were about Tom. She remembered Tom's
teeth at her throat, and the way he would dip her quill in red ink (it was ink, wasn't it?) and scrawl obscene
designs across her body. Ginny's nipples, the curve of her thighs- even the
secret places of her- had all been baptized by a red far deeper than that of
mere lips. She cried in the beginning, cried every
time another head was revealed, cried every time he shoved into her, the soft
head of his penis rubbing salt into her wounds. He takes a nipple into his lipless mouth,
and air rushes into her own as she is freed of his
suction. He bites down, his hands clawing her hips, and she is surprised to
discover that he's drawn blood. She hadn't noticed, wouldn't have seen if not
for the red rimming his mouth and teeth. He's like a piece of candy- all
scarlet swirling on an ivory palette. She
felt the drawings on her even now. Her body remembered them in ways her mind
never could, never wanted to. In the evenings Ginny's
skin was like an ocean, roiling and tumbling in his depths, touched by knobby
fingers whose bone-coldness could no longer be felt. But Ginny's body remembered,
and its memory made everything stronger than any real desire or thought she
might have struggled to make. In truth, she had made very little progress since
her first encounter with him. He pounded into Ginny, past what she
considered to be 'herself' and to the things that had been left behind,
forgotten, until she was rising against him and calling out to him. "Tom,
Tom." He turns her around and pins her down, his
still-cold genitals slapping against her, smooth and slick from hairlessness
and Ginny. She doesn't bother twisting up for a kiss, instead absently hums out
a nursery rhyme as he hisses into her neck, his hands pulling and yanking at
deadened skin. Him. Then came the day when someone with blonde
hair, someone Ginny used to know (to fear), entered with another head. It had
red hair, like hers, and Ginny wondered for a moment if she knew that freckled face
(and then, if she knew, whether she cared) before returning to the feel of fingers
twisting frigid inside her. He's deep inside her, sliding in and out
with lubrication that could easily be blood as anything else, kissing scars
into her hairline. He whispers things about flame and destruction, about
brothers dead and parents gone, and his whispers slam into her along with his penis-
too present to be ignored, too familiar to be painful. There
were days when she wondered what had become of him, her plush clever god. What
had turned him into this- and then he
would stare at her, crimson flashing from under carefully drooping lids, and
she knew. That no matter the shell her Tom was there, inside, trapped within a
waxworks figure. Or was it she who was trapped? And then finally there is nothing but her
hollow smile as she sits beside him, waiting for him to grace her with a spare
moment, with a memory of feeling. Between and after audiences his fingers
tangle in her hair; as he pulls her up to meet him the scent of dried flowers
and skin overwhelms her. But Ginny knows nothing of that, knows
nothing beyond the sudden movement of his pale, moonlight hand as it leaves her
throat and dips down, swirling between her thighs in a counterpoint to his
sudden jerking movements. Knows nothing but the sudden warmth and presence and thereness that flashes through her skin. They crash to the floor, him spooning
around her, and he raises his hand to Ginny's lips and lets her taste their
salt. It stings her cracked lips. The
shine of her skin makes Ginny wonder. |