Sixth Year
Short, scratchy fingernails. Gritty smiles and tanned skin.
Dom's eyes are the colour of dead seaweed on the bottom of a dirty ocean.
Dom has cold hands and dead lips, both of which I prefer wrapped around my dick.
Tropical storms cannot even begin to explain Dom.
Sometimes I like to fuck Dom into oblivion and sometimes I like to stare at him from across a crowded classroom.
Dom sees me like a light from a distant window, only approaching when the frame is open.
Dom likes to smash glass bottles on walls, and I like to catch them before they shatter.
When he explodes I like to admire the colours in the stormy sky.
Sometimes I push Dom too far, just because when I do, his eyes sparkle like the sun kissing the deepest part of a muddy lake.
Dom likes old records and astronomy, and I like blow jobs, so I like old records and astronomy too.
Dom likes to point out my namesake in the sky. He likes to admire the dog star, as though he can't see the way Orion always lurks close by, ready to pounce.
I like dusky breezes and the velvet folds of the atmosphere, and I like the way my whiskey burns as it trickles down my throat.
I like the way Dom's lip curls around the edge, and the sound his knuckles make when he flexes his fingers.
When I sneezed a curse across Dom's delicate cheekbones, I liked the way his tears melted into red streaks and turned him into something otherworldly.
I liked the way the bright white bandages looked across his nose, and the way he trembled when I ran my finger across the damages.
I like the fear in Dom's eyes then blue pressure bandages can't stop the flow of ruby from my wrists, but I like his masking jokes even more.
I like it when Dom talks to me like I'm a piece of shit.
When Dom whimpers from underneath me when I fuck him, I give him lines of hickeys down his thin neck.
I want people to know that Dom is mine.
Dom has a dark cloud hanging above his head which blackens his mouth and lowers his eyebrows, and steaks of lightning from it make him collapse with anxiety whenever someone that he doesn't trust ventures too close.
I like to take him out in public, my right arm draped around his shoulders, because as long as I do, not so much as a breath catches in his throat.
Last time a thunderstorm struck, I stole a bottle of whiskey and Dom and I went outside to marvel at the purple forks of electricity and drink ourselves into oblivion.
I fucked him under an oak tree four hundred metres away from the castle, and prayed for the lightning to hit all the way through.
I thought about Dom with electricity coursing through his body, hundreds of volts making him convulse, and I came harder than I've ever came before.
The last time Dom got angry, he threw me down the stairs, breaking three of my ribs.
The only reason I didn't descend into fits of hysterical laughter was because air seemed oddly hard to come by at the time. I always did have a knack for laughing at the worst times. Maybe that's why Dom threw me down the stairs.
I like the cigarettes that Dom rolls the most.
I like the way his thin fingers curl the paper, the way his clipped fingernails cling to the tobacco, the bend of his fingers as he licks the finishing touches.
Dom's eyes always glimmer with playfulness as he watches me watching him.
When Dom and I collide, it's like throwing two Charms together, a multitude of bright sparks and a huge blaze.
Dom likes to steal my clothes and spray my cologne in the air. He likes to run his fingers across my cheekbones and stare into my eyes.
Sometimes I flirt with other girls in front of him because his eyes explode in emerald flames.
I like the way his hands shake when I brush their hair back, when I let my hands linger on the collar of their shirt after I pretend to straighten it.
I especially like the way he drags me away and throws me against the bathroom wall, heatedly kissing me, his hands travelling rapidly all over my body.
I like hand jobs from Dom, because broken hand jobs in deserted bathrooms from broken boys are the best orgasms.
But my favourite thing of all, when it comes to Dom, is forcing him to be around my friends.
Dom is seven hundred different shades of red, but when it comes to being around my second family, he turns into a bland grey colour.
Sometimes Dom is my mirror, sometimes Dom is my saviour. And then, in times like this, Dom becomes my existential crisis.
Where I lounge, he perches. Where I smirk, he smiles tensely. When I wink, he blushes.
And whilst I talk, his eyes remain fixed on the ground.
James thinks that Dom is uptight and annoying.
Peter thinks that Dom is boring and one-dimensional.
But Remus thinks that Dom is a coiled-up cobra, ready to strike.
Remus never did understand.