Just Like Blood

Just Like Blood

I Say I Say I Say
Anyone here had a go at themselves
for a laugh? Anyone opened their wrists
with a blade in the bath? Those in the dark
at the back, listen hard. Those at the front
in the know, those of us who have, hands up,
let's show that inch of lacerated skin
between the forearm and the fist. Let's tell it
like it is: strong drink, a crimson tidemark
round the tub, a yard of lint, white towels
washed a dozen times, still pink. Tough luck.
A passion then for watches, bangles, cuffs.
A likely story: you were lashed by brambles
picking berries from the woods. Come clean, come good,
repeat with me the punch line 'Just like blood'
when those at the back rush forward to say
how a little love goes a long long long way.

-- Simon Armitage


A gentle hand slid down hips into the waistband, stroking skin in swirls, until it reached a heated patch of skin at the thigh. The skin was hot to touch, warmer than the rest. The light fingertips moved over scratched skin…fresh lines of cut skin, old smoothed lines and scabbed scratches. Scars. A breath caught in his throat and he pulled away from her lips. His hand still laid inside her jeans. Hermione’s gaze drew upwards to meet his eyes, glazed and still. She placed her hand over his and held it there, it was cool against the warmth, soothed the stinging pain.
Remus found her glare hypnotic, from her deep dark eyes set into her peculiar face, her nose crooked and her small pink lips and china pale skin, he almost forgot to take another breath. Almost.
“What?...”
“You think you are the only one with scars Remus?” Hermione traced the fingertip of her index down his back, along a thin, pale line around his shoulder blade that she had seen once. The lightness of her touch made him gasp. He moved his free hand to her face, to stroke the arch of her brow and moved it to the base of her skull, to stroke her neck.
“No dear, I only hoped.”

He freed his hand from beneath hers, and slipped her jeans down her legs, kneeling before her. If Remus hadn’t have been staring at the scar stained skin just beneath her hip he would have noticed her long, slender legs and shapely hips. As he examined her scars, Hermione stared at the ceiling, her mouth moving in silent prayers.
How long had it taken them to get here, surely it could not end here, surely this would not be the last time they would touch.
He ran a fingertip over each one, the old keloid ones, smooth and purple, and the new ones, scabbed and raw. He tried to keep up with the number of times she had taken a blade to her lovely soft, ivory skin, but lost count and placed a gentle kiss on the freshest cut. The skin reeked of blood, and its heady scent intoxicated him. He ran his tongue over a cut, and moved it gently up her body, over her hip and along the side of her stomach up to her rib cage.
“We all have to cope Remus. We all have to survive, what other choice do we have?”
“To live my dear, to live.”
His eyes watered but he did not cry. Hermione traced an unshed tear from his face onto her lips and down across her chest. She undid the clasp of her bra and let it fall away. Wrapping a desperate arm around his neck to hold Remus close to her.
She held his hand in hers and placed it on the patch of skin by her thigh, drawing it up where his tongue had been over her stomach to the side of her breast, where he felt more scars, where more blades had been, where more pain had been felt.

She unbuttoned his shirt, as he kissed at her neck and breathed warmly over her skin. She slid it over his shoulders, and placed a flat hand against his chest, where he too had scars. Of old and new, scars inflicted by the wolf and worn by the man, the marks of his curse.
“You see Remus, we all have demons.”
Hermione knew how sensitive scars could be, knew how they could burn and sear at a gentle touch, and with this she kissed a scar that moved from his clavicle to the centre of his chest. He stroked her back as she did this, through her thick dark wavy hair, moving over the small of her back, bringing her closer. She flicked her tongue at the scars over and over, teasing gently, painfully slowly, made them tingle, made them good, made him glad they were there.

They stood both topless, Hermione’s jeans wrapped around her ankles, and they kissed, it was not a gentle kiss, hot, demanding, raging with sadness and hunger. She bit at his lip and grasped at his hips to pull him closer so his cool skin would soothe hers and their scars could rub at each other. Then she place her mouth at his shoulder and clamped her teeth down over his skin, it broke and slowly dripped blood down his torso. She placed her hand in it, and then against her chest, so a broken shape of a hand print was marked on her chest. He retaliated by slamming her against the wall of the room and causing her to squeal in shock and her pulse to race and her breath to become fast and loose so her breasts rose and fell against his skin, pressing into him. He undid his trousers, pressing against her with need and desire.

As Remus ground Hermione into the wall, she pleaded for more, to be hurt more, to be fucked harder and longer. She could take the pain, he knew that, but with each cry he slowed down, stroking her hair and body, her sides, her scars, lifted her up and gently rested her head against his as she rode him, let her cry into him, in his arms. And laid her down by his side, to sleep with him, so she would never be alone.


A/N: Feed the author, reviews and feedback. I know there are a few cheesy lines, I wrote this a few years ago. Sorry!