Title:
Possession
Rating: Extremely heavy R
Pairing:
Draco/Harry
Summary: Hate is a pale and ineffectual word
for what Draco Malfoy feels for Harry Potter.
Warnings:
Extreme violence, metaphorical cannibalism, sexualized violence,
probably some insanity. Not for the faint of heart.
Author's
note: I don't know what the fuck this is. But it scares me, a
bit. o.O;; Also, herein lies the abuse of italics, just so you
know.
Hate is a pale and ineffectual word for what Draco Malfoy feels for Harry Potter.
It doesn't—it doesn't begin to cover the pus-festering boil-itch blossoming in the inflamed tissues of his chest—bloated and stark—wailing; screaming; gnashing and snapping razor-sharp cruel—too painful, too intense—a violence he couldn't ever—couldn't properly name, it would choke him to say it, it was too much to articulate properly, you couldn't imagine how much he—
There's something about Harry Potter that Draco wants to hurt—he wants to punch that stupid beautiful fucking face clear in and feel his fist slide, canon-quick and powerful, through brains and bone and flimsy cartilage and squelch out through the other side, and it still wouldn't be enough because. he. hates. him. But it's so much more than that.
Green eyes make Draco angry; goose-bumps pop out all over his skin and cold-hot shivers vibrate up his spine and make him sweat, and he wants the heavy-lidded flesh around those sickly Avada-Kedavra eyes to go puffy and purple and tender-delicate so his fist feels it for days—but Harry doesn't even look at him anymore, anyway, and that just makes things worse, and Draco, more than anything, wants to squeeze his fingers around Harry's matchstick-thin neck and slam that scruffy head against a wall and demand that he at least look at him, that dirty fucking half-breed—it was the least he could possibly do, after all he's caused Draco, after all he's done, after—he could at least acknowledge him!
The nerve of him—the insufferable nerve of him makes Draco see red—makes Draco blind with the bright, consuming crimson-wash of Gryffindor House, and Draco hates it, he—he—he fucking shakes with it sometimes, when he thinks about those dull Slytherin-green eyes buried unbelievably within that thick stupid skull, smothered and sick in the garish, overwhelming red of everything, and he won't even look at him, damn it, and Draco sometimes just wants to gouge them out, because he can't stand it—he won't stand it!
Thick, out-of-control mops too black to ever be pretty make Draco want to bury his hands into that mass and tear; he gets the urge to just yank it all out in scalp-cemented chunks, and the fact that Harry doesn't even know—wouldn't care—is killing him; his useless rage devours him right to the core, and the next thing you know Draco Malfoy has eaten himself right up, and Harry Potter doesn't fucking care, and something should be done about this, because it just isn't right.
What is right is the way Harry Potter flinches just so when Draco hits a nerve, brutally and without tact on a Tuesday morning, and he hadn't even expected it, hadn't known his careless comment would make Harry jerk alert and come alive—such a beautiful fucking surprise that something that could be hurt is still somewhere inside that horrible, apathetic boy—and, oh, Draco knows a bloody nose is a small thing to pay for this knowledge; Draco wants to slice Harry Potter open up-and-down his middle and press his face into the open, festering feast underneath that parted flesh—wants to gnaw on Harry's vulnerability; chew and scrape and masticate it all up with the exuberant force of his bared canines and swallow that mutilated mass into himself—lap up the sweet-smelling tang of victory from Harry's bitter defeat with a white-toothed smile, and fuck him, fuck him, fuckhimfuckhimFUCKHIM until he's got nothing left but blue-black hate and watering green eyes, and, oh, oh, oh, it would be so brilliant, so very brilliant to finally have Harry Potter hurt and hopeless under him, and, oh, and, oh, that rival loathing would be so fine and sour on his tongue, better than anything he could ever buy or provoke or imagine, and, oh—Harry Potter's trousers would be tangled around his ankles and his ratty underwear would grab at his knees, and that tiny Quidditch-toned arse would impaled so deeply on Draco's throbbing cock that the tip would tickle the back of his throat as he screamed, and, oh, Draco would come for days and days and days. That's what Draco wants.
Draco Malfoy hates—more-than-hates—Harry Potter far too much to ever give him over to Voldemort.
Because Harry Potter is his. Or he will be.