A/N: *engages in a sissyfight with livejournal* The bastard wouldn't post
this fic until I tried for the, ohhh, 50th time? Daft sonomabitch. *ahem*
Yes, well.
This is your typical Draco/Harry slash fic. Nothing much other than some
mentioning of "doing the deed". But that's it. *laughs* Style over
substance, my friends. Yeah, so this piece of madness was inspired by
Sundress!Draco, who was inspired by the great amythest! Bless, you're so
talented.
Disclaimer: I do not own HP nor any of the characters, I just fancy the idea of Draco and Harry banging like bunnies in heat.
Note to self: work on "tact".
--- Crucify ---
"Move it, Potter."
The words come out as a snarl, tumbling past my lips in a tidal wave of acid and poison. My tongue is forked as I spit them at you and hiss like the serpent I am, coiled and wound and bound by my own vicious devices. The look I receive in return is dark and deadly, like cold emerald flames that capture my cool and composed crystal for just a moment, just a fraction of a second, before releasing me violently.
I carry on, undaunted, unmoved by your hatred and unwavering, as expected, as I move gracefully through the door and into the room. The hall is cavernous in size, and yet I seem to permeate every corner of the room, like an icy chill that traces up your spine.
Do my fingers move like a chill, Potter, when your back is arched and they seek out that long, sloping expanse of backbone? Do you feel that sudden jolt of spastic cold every time I take you in my arms? Does it smother your fire?
I feel like an ice sculpture, moving with perfect, unwavering posture, taking my place among my thieves and my hoodlums and hooligans, from the "right" side of the tracks and wonder, suddenly, what it's like to be you. In the midst of misfits, you who smiles and belongs, more than I ever could with my pure-bloods and dark children.
I catch your eye from across the room and we are once again ensnared in our battle that transcends through a piercing gaze. You are so blindingly brilliant; your eyes, I mean. Like leaves, backlit by warm sunlight, that filters down to the chilling core of my soul. My eyes become glacial water, melted in your warmth.
But only a moment, precious, only a moment, before they harden again, towering, like a fortress. Your eyes darken, shadowed, and we are back to our senseless violence. How long will it continue, I wonder? How long will this ridiculous chain of events occur? How long must I spit and hiss and growl like a mad cat to all these peering, insisting eyes, only to find myself pinned beneath you in the dead of night? How much longer must we begin in an argument, and end in a twisted, tangled pile of limbs and bruised lips and tender skin?
How much longer can you persevere, Potter, sleeping with the enemy? How much longer can we survive, Potter, in this tangled web of hatred and passion?
How much longer must I crucify myself, Potter, until you believe I am the only martyr for a fallen angel?
Disclaimer: I do not own HP nor any of the characters, I just fancy the idea of Draco and Harry banging like bunnies in heat.
Note to self: work on "tact".
--- Crucify ---
"Move it, Potter."
The words come out as a snarl, tumbling past my lips in a tidal wave of acid and poison. My tongue is forked as I spit them at you and hiss like the serpent I am, coiled and wound and bound by my own vicious devices. The look I receive in return is dark and deadly, like cold emerald flames that capture my cool and composed crystal for just a moment, just a fraction of a second, before releasing me violently.
I carry on, undaunted, unmoved by your hatred and unwavering, as expected, as I move gracefully through the door and into the room. The hall is cavernous in size, and yet I seem to permeate every corner of the room, like an icy chill that traces up your spine.
Do my fingers move like a chill, Potter, when your back is arched and they seek out that long, sloping expanse of backbone? Do you feel that sudden jolt of spastic cold every time I take you in my arms? Does it smother your fire?
I feel like an ice sculpture, moving with perfect, unwavering posture, taking my place among my thieves and my hoodlums and hooligans, from the "right" side of the tracks and wonder, suddenly, what it's like to be you. In the midst of misfits, you who smiles and belongs, more than I ever could with my pure-bloods and dark children.
I catch your eye from across the room and we are once again ensnared in our battle that transcends through a piercing gaze. You are so blindingly brilliant; your eyes, I mean. Like leaves, backlit by warm sunlight, that filters down to the chilling core of my soul. My eyes become glacial water, melted in your warmth.
But only a moment, precious, only a moment, before they harden again, towering, like a fortress. Your eyes darken, shadowed, and we are back to our senseless violence. How long will it continue, I wonder? How long will this ridiculous chain of events occur? How long must I spit and hiss and growl like a mad cat to all these peering, insisting eyes, only to find myself pinned beneath you in the dead of night? How much longer must we begin in an argument, and end in a twisted, tangled pile of limbs and bruised lips and tender skin?
How much longer can you persevere, Potter, sleeping with the enemy? How much longer can we survive, Potter, in this tangled web of hatred and passion?
How much longer must I crucify myself, Potter, until you believe I am the only martyr for a fallen angel?