Disclaimer: All this belongs to the goddess that tops all goddesses J.K. Rowling and as much as I wish they were mine, well they aren't.
Draco's P.O.V.
Cold. Unfeeling. Numbing.
I'm ice.
Fragile. Beautiful. Pure.
You're glass.
I've spent a lot of time thinking about us. And right now as your hands move over my body and as I gasp and moan into your mouth, I can't help but compare us and put us together.
Who would have thought that we would ever be together, son of deatheater and saviour of the wizarding world. But, as cliché as it sounds, opposites attract so I really shouldn't be that surprised.
I'm ice. You marvel at my hand's coldness as the ghost over your nipples and head for your cock. My skin is pale and cold and my white blond hair falls over your thighs as I engulf you in my mouth.
You're glass. I watch as your hands clench the sheets and for a moment I really think they'll break but it doesn't happen as you murmur my name and writhe beneath me. I must be careful. Words can hurt you easily. You take them to heart and they break you.
You slide into me and immediately hit that spot. I'm ice. When I was little, I was poured into a mask and set. Now I'm formed like this. Thrusting, pumping. Harder now, oh so good. You're glass. People marvel at your beauty and think you to be weaker than you look. Your scar just helps to add to the image.
One last thrust and you spill into me then over me and I come without even being touched.
And as you curl up to me and we wrap our arms around each other, my last coherent thought before I fall into oblivion is:
I'm ice. You're glass.
And as simple as that seems it's actually quite complicated.
Ice vs. Glass.