Disclaimer: Based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling and various publishers. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
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Disarm
By Elysian Shades
His eyes were blank.
It wasn't very often that somebody's eyes revealed something of what they were feeling, even eyes as exquisite as Draco's, but it was the muscles around them, the ones that controlled the facial expression that ultimately revealed emotion. The slight downward movements of eyelids that skillfully narrow the eye by just a fraction speak more than that glibly lying tongue ever could.
"Tell me, Potter," he slides over the request so smoothly that it seems not a request at all. "What is it that you want from me?" Fair question, though one you would not expect to slither from his lips. But you've learnt enough to know that asking one's desires isn't the same as giving into it and that suggestions can suggest something else entirely. You don't trust that polished velvet voice and those eyes, strangely slipping obsidian, enough to push the words that tumble to your mouth.
"Why do you ask?" you question.
The ends of his lips draw faintly downwards in the merest hint of a frown, and his expression flashes glassy annoyance. "It's not polite to answer one question with another. Didn't those barbaric Muggles of yours teach you anything?"
"Oh, they've taught me plenty," you whisper. His presumptuousness is annoying you, and patience has never been one of your virtues anyway. Your voice is harsh and grates against his not-quite steel nerves.
You accentuate your words by pushing him backwards and he is pinned to the door, the ridges in the finely carved wood digging into his back and causing him to flinch just the slightest bit. Your hand is warm against the clammy coolness of his throat and you apply pressure so that his breath is shallow, palm over trachea and you can feel his pulse, quickening in a thud-thud-thud rhythm.
You crash your lips against his and suddenly it is all a mess of clashing teeth and tongue and lips. His nails are vicious, drawing crimson lines down the length of your forearm, and you push your leg roughly between his in retaliation.
You steal the breath that catches in his throat, and slam him against the wall again, and he is all sharp bones and smooth skin sliding under your hands. His blood is a drop on your tongue, sweet ambrosia, and the velvet metal tang of it seduces you, awakes a pressing thirst in your throat. Elbows and bruises and cuts and blood, tiny crescent moons, red and gleeful in the delicate impression of his collarbones that reflect the glinting lashes dusted on his cheekbones.
Gathered crimson dots on his jugular scream possessive. It's your mark on his paper-thin skin and the imprint of your hipbones tattooed in a crush-brand-push on his and his eyelashes tremble like light on the lake surface, and they might be wet; you aren't quite sure.
This (what is this?) is entirely too easy, so you laugh and stop, and he gives you a violent shove that jostles the table edge into the base of your spine. That's his mark, too, like the print of his teeth on your tongue and the blood dried sticky at the corner of your bruised lip.
"Fuck, Potter, you're more twisted than I thought," he hisses and slips out the door like water, his fury and embarrassment seething.
The faint taste of Polyjuice and Draco linger on your tongue, and you wonder whether he'll notice that the black hairs on his robe flashing copper in the morning.
