ff.net has been pissing me off lately, which makes me lazy when it comes to
updating. However, when I once thought that this would only be a one hit,
type thing has formulated into something more, I already have the next
chapter written and the juries still out on when that will be posted. As
for fans of my fic Stitches, I do have the next chapter written, but the
censorship-happy fascists at ff.net will not let me change the rating to an
R, (as of yet there is no nc-17 parts) so I'm going to have to reupload it
sooner or later, *scowls* more then likely, I'll just write the nc-17
parts, but not post them at ff.net, chances are they will be available at
another site. Any offers? LOL. Anyway- sorry to bore you with such a long
author's note, but without further a due, I present to you. *make's bowing
motion* The 2nd chapter of Thoughtless.
It seems like every day's the same And I'm left to discover on my own I feel the dream in me expire And there's no one left to blame it on - "Fine Again" by Seether
The cut on my cheek hadn't healed. When Harry and the others had woken up, they had immediately clamored around me, and Harry had insisted I see the nurse, saying that if I didn't get the proper ointments it would be a scar.
I ended up there, alone of course, Harry had hurried off shortly after we arrived, mummering something about Quidditch practice, never bothering to ask how I had gotten the cut, only plainly giving me the impression that the reason he was going with me was because he felt obliged to do so.
I couldn't help but feel some vestige of hatred and bitterness rising inside of myself as I watched the small black clothed figure diminish into the hallways.
Unknowingly my hands had clenched into fists when I thought about him out there, flying and zigzagging crazily on that broom of his, sunlight burning those colorless cheeks.
And here I was, waiting for Madame Pomfrey to find the correct bandages and antibiotics. She was in the magic medication supply room, and I could hear her rummaging around frantically.
Dumbly, I held my hand up to my cheek, my index finger tracing the smooth line. She came into the room.
"Ron Weasley," She said sternly, sounding a lot like my mother. "You really shouldn't touch that cut until it's healed, and that means after I have put the proper medications on it. Unfortunately, I believe I may have to track down Mr. Filch. to errr, help me locate the 2nd magical medications closet, see we seem to have run out of bandages, after poor, poor Thomas Weans had that accident in defense against the dark arts." She appeared to trail off, and then noticing my edgy glare, quickly added, "I'll be back in a min. . . Well perhaps a little longer, Ron, if you like, you may lay out on one of the patient beds." Without a backward glance she was out of the room, robes swishing, the sound getting softer and softer by the second.
Yawning and rubbing my swollen lips, I was standing up to stretch, then falling almost simultaneously upon the bed.
Sprawled on the bed, I flipped over, hands beneath my head, staring up at the ceiling.
Tiredness had crept back into my mind sometime during the day, and already I could feel my eyes dangerously close to fluttering shut, but an implication of concern had gathered at the back of my mind.
What would my dreams be like now, when I couldn't even see the birds again? What type of peace could they possibly hold for me now?
I tried to envision the tree, with the perfect birds, beautiful and celestial glacier beauty touched by hints of frost. But instead it was gone. The tree, still majestic, but the birds hanging there in ruined jagged little broken imperfections; the sparse grass had shiny pieces of glass littering the expanse.
And when I pictured it that way, I had to picture Draco inside the thought, obstructing the perfect melting colors of the sunrise across the horizon, half slouching, but still managing to have his nose up in the air. Delicate hands stuffed into pockets. Crystalline eyes and skin, a shock of white blonde hair, tousled and yet precise and those beautiful lips that I had so abruptly became familiar with curled into a sardonic sneer, he was somehow inviting and forbidding, dangerous and innocent all at once. Fucking paradox.
It was almost like he was setting forth a challenge, in the way his body spoke to me, the way his eyes watched.
Almost tentatively, I took a step closer to him in my fantasy.
A small noise from the real world coaxed me to stir from my daydream.
My eyes cracked open, even though that hadn't even been a real dream, waking up always seemed like something I would regret later.
Surveying the surroundings, I guess I was trying to figure out what had happened and the source of the noise I had heard, I noticed one thing exceptionally out of place amid the cheerful clutter inside Madame Pomfrey's office. Draco Malfoy.
But I wasn't surprised strangely. Only worried.
He had a honey blonde eyebrow curved elegantly in my direction, a purposefully sexy half- smile gracing his lips. He was wearing normal Hogwarts standard edition robes, black and perfect.
For some reason my inner being was panicking, my hands had clenched, then unclenched, hovering besides my hips, unsure what to do.
"I was watching you sleep." Came Malfoy's voice, somehow a shock to the uneasy silence.
"What- what?" I said stupidly.
He looked at me for a second longer, smile slowly fading, to a look of utter perplexity. He inspected the room carefully, eyes lingering here and there, then finally capturing my face.
I do not look back at him, I lower my eyes, and so they cannot gaze into his.
I had not moved an inch from the sprawled position on the bed I had assumed earlier, I was afraid too.
He was gliding closer to the bed, his eyes smoldering expressively into mine. He was close enough to touch.
"Are you mourning the loss of you birds Ron?" He asked softly.
I said nothing. It felt like blasphemy to even talk about it with him, even to look at his eyes, that were burning with barely repressed passion, approaching the surface of his emotions.
"Talk to me." He whispered. I turned my head away, mentally forcing my hands away from my face, the stinging tears in my eyes blurring and contorting my vision.
"I can't." I say, but I still refuse to look at him, I can't. Every fiber in my soul is warning me against it.
I feel his gentle hand cupping my chin, tilting my head back to his direction. It's a pull, a calling that I can't resist.
Our eyes meet, and then our lips are touching, pulled together like magnets; his free hand is caressing my cheek, a finger trailing over my cut gently.
I'm kissing him now and he's *letting* me, and it seems this kiss is the one thing in my life I have some sibilance of control over, I've already lost the comfort of my family, my friends, my dreams . . . why not this too? I'm the one who wants, who needs, and I'm devouring Draco's mouth without a hint of self-control.
My tongue meets his; and I'm sucking on his lower lip, pulling it into my mouth, biting. Draco is kissing back, just as hard, fighting for control. I moaned against his mouth, but he showed no sign of hearing me. His hand was tangled in my hair, tugging it harshly.
Somehow he ended up on the bed with me (God, he's sitting on my fucking lap) and our bodies are crushed against each other, creating a satisfying type of pain.
His hips are pressing into mine, driving our groins together. This time, I knew that Draco heard my moan, for he bit down on my lip hard, and thrusted even more firmly against me. As much as I tried to fight it, I could feel heat contracting and swelling inside my jeans. Wildly, I began to press back, needing more, crying out for further contact, aching for some moment of release.
He pulled away, his gray eyes locking into mine. His lips are kiss swollen and his gasps for air matches mine.
His hand is still firmly gripping my chin.
"Ron," he asks. "What do you think death is?"
"What?" I ask, I'm still breathless, unable to understand.
"Death." He says slowly, as if I'm too stupid to realize. "What do you think it is?"
He's still perched on my goddamn lap and I'm silent.
"What do you think happens?" He pushes. His hand is a pressure on my lap, tracing intricate, invisible designs on my denim-clad knee, fingers feeling my skin through the worn holes, moving slowly up to my thigh.
"I guess I believe the same everyone else does." I say, for some unnamable reason, I'm uncomfortable, flustered and lying.
His eyes seem to penetrate my soul-just for the briefest instant, and then retreats. Maybe he knows that I've stopped believing my family's ideas on the more theological points of life. Then again, maybe he doesn't.
His index finger is moving upwards, tracing my lips, there's a look of utmost concentration on his face.
I open my lips and I'm sucking his finger deep into the velvet slickness of my mouth. I give each long, finger equal treatment. There is not an inch of his hand that is not explored by my tongue.
I kiss his curled up hand, licking the bumps and indents of his knuckles and his skin is sweet there.
I remove his slender hand from my mouth and ask him the same question. My hand still languidly stroking his. I feel a strange sense of intimacy towards him; it's uneven with our pasts.
"What do you think death is?" My voice sounds husky, whoreish. I hate myself for it.
"I think. . . it's like when you dream, and there's nothing there. . . just a black abyss, a dark void to take you over. . ." His voice trails off wistfully.
I can't help it. I shiver at his description; his idea of death seems a confirmation of my worst fears. I can't help but notice how his eyes gauge my reaction carefully.
Blinking, I lower my head, and he's leaning forward again, our lips melding together, just for one sweet, lingering moment.
His mouth moves over to the curve of my cheekbone, then over my ear. I hear his voice, hot and wet in my ear.
"I hear that bitch Pomfrey coming back." He says.
And sure enough, craning my neck to listen, I hear her echoing footsteps down the hall, moving closer and closer.
Still Draco hasn't moved, he's balanced on my lap, arms wrapped around my neck. Does he want to be caught?
"Get out of here!" I hiss, shoving him off of me. He falls gracefully off the bed, and glares up at me under his lowered fair eyelashes from the tiled floor.
His scathing scowl continues, as he languidly brushes himself off, standing up and slowly edging closer towards the door. His hand is on the knob, but before he can twist, it is turned beneath his palm, the door opened and Madam Pomfrey was standing there, just in time to see Draco blow me a kiss, she's starring with an open mouth, rolled up bandages dropped and unraveling on the floor.
She's taking in both Draco's and my disheveled appearances.
"You boys. . . you weren't fighting were you?" Her voice comes out uncertain and shocked, she must *know* what we were doing. Women's intuition or whatever.
Draco doesn't dignify her with an answer, simply pushes past her and gives me a last hateful sneer over his shoulder.
I can't help but wonder what I did wrong. I just don't seem to understand anything anymore.
That night I cannot go to sleep.
It seems like every day's the same And I'm left to discover on my own I feel the dream in me expire And there's no one left to blame it on - "Fine Again" by Seether
The cut on my cheek hadn't healed. When Harry and the others had woken up, they had immediately clamored around me, and Harry had insisted I see the nurse, saying that if I didn't get the proper ointments it would be a scar.
I ended up there, alone of course, Harry had hurried off shortly after we arrived, mummering something about Quidditch practice, never bothering to ask how I had gotten the cut, only plainly giving me the impression that the reason he was going with me was because he felt obliged to do so.
I couldn't help but feel some vestige of hatred and bitterness rising inside of myself as I watched the small black clothed figure diminish into the hallways.
Unknowingly my hands had clenched into fists when I thought about him out there, flying and zigzagging crazily on that broom of his, sunlight burning those colorless cheeks.
And here I was, waiting for Madame Pomfrey to find the correct bandages and antibiotics. She was in the magic medication supply room, and I could hear her rummaging around frantically.
Dumbly, I held my hand up to my cheek, my index finger tracing the smooth line. She came into the room.
"Ron Weasley," She said sternly, sounding a lot like my mother. "You really shouldn't touch that cut until it's healed, and that means after I have put the proper medications on it. Unfortunately, I believe I may have to track down Mr. Filch. to errr, help me locate the 2nd magical medications closet, see we seem to have run out of bandages, after poor, poor Thomas Weans had that accident in defense against the dark arts." She appeared to trail off, and then noticing my edgy glare, quickly added, "I'll be back in a min. . . Well perhaps a little longer, Ron, if you like, you may lay out on one of the patient beds." Without a backward glance she was out of the room, robes swishing, the sound getting softer and softer by the second.
Yawning and rubbing my swollen lips, I was standing up to stretch, then falling almost simultaneously upon the bed.
Sprawled on the bed, I flipped over, hands beneath my head, staring up at the ceiling.
Tiredness had crept back into my mind sometime during the day, and already I could feel my eyes dangerously close to fluttering shut, but an implication of concern had gathered at the back of my mind.
What would my dreams be like now, when I couldn't even see the birds again? What type of peace could they possibly hold for me now?
I tried to envision the tree, with the perfect birds, beautiful and celestial glacier beauty touched by hints of frost. But instead it was gone. The tree, still majestic, but the birds hanging there in ruined jagged little broken imperfections; the sparse grass had shiny pieces of glass littering the expanse.
And when I pictured it that way, I had to picture Draco inside the thought, obstructing the perfect melting colors of the sunrise across the horizon, half slouching, but still managing to have his nose up in the air. Delicate hands stuffed into pockets. Crystalline eyes and skin, a shock of white blonde hair, tousled and yet precise and those beautiful lips that I had so abruptly became familiar with curled into a sardonic sneer, he was somehow inviting and forbidding, dangerous and innocent all at once. Fucking paradox.
It was almost like he was setting forth a challenge, in the way his body spoke to me, the way his eyes watched.
Almost tentatively, I took a step closer to him in my fantasy.
A small noise from the real world coaxed me to stir from my daydream.
My eyes cracked open, even though that hadn't even been a real dream, waking up always seemed like something I would regret later.
Surveying the surroundings, I guess I was trying to figure out what had happened and the source of the noise I had heard, I noticed one thing exceptionally out of place amid the cheerful clutter inside Madame Pomfrey's office. Draco Malfoy.
But I wasn't surprised strangely. Only worried.
He had a honey blonde eyebrow curved elegantly in my direction, a purposefully sexy half- smile gracing his lips. He was wearing normal Hogwarts standard edition robes, black and perfect.
For some reason my inner being was panicking, my hands had clenched, then unclenched, hovering besides my hips, unsure what to do.
"I was watching you sleep." Came Malfoy's voice, somehow a shock to the uneasy silence.
"What- what?" I said stupidly.
He looked at me for a second longer, smile slowly fading, to a look of utter perplexity. He inspected the room carefully, eyes lingering here and there, then finally capturing my face.
I do not look back at him, I lower my eyes, and so they cannot gaze into his.
I had not moved an inch from the sprawled position on the bed I had assumed earlier, I was afraid too.
He was gliding closer to the bed, his eyes smoldering expressively into mine. He was close enough to touch.
"Are you mourning the loss of you birds Ron?" He asked softly.
I said nothing. It felt like blasphemy to even talk about it with him, even to look at his eyes, that were burning with barely repressed passion, approaching the surface of his emotions.
"Talk to me." He whispered. I turned my head away, mentally forcing my hands away from my face, the stinging tears in my eyes blurring and contorting my vision.
"I can't." I say, but I still refuse to look at him, I can't. Every fiber in my soul is warning me against it.
I feel his gentle hand cupping my chin, tilting my head back to his direction. It's a pull, a calling that I can't resist.
Our eyes meet, and then our lips are touching, pulled together like magnets; his free hand is caressing my cheek, a finger trailing over my cut gently.
I'm kissing him now and he's *letting* me, and it seems this kiss is the one thing in my life I have some sibilance of control over, I've already lost the comfort of my family, my friends, my dreams . . . why not this too? I'm the one who wants, who needs, and I'm devouring Draco's mouth without a hint of self-control.
My tongue meets his; and I'm sucking on his lower lip, pulling it into my mouth, biting. Draco is kissing back, just as hard, fighting for control. I moaned against his mouth, but he showed no sign of hearing me. His hand was tangled in my hair, tugging it harshly.
Somehow he ended up on the bed with me (God, he's sitting on my fucking lap) and our bodies are crushed against each other, creating a satisfying type of pain.
His hips are pressing into mine, driving our groins together. This time, I knew that Draco heard my moan, for he bit down on my lip hard, and thrusted even more firmly against me. As much as I tried to fight it, I could feel heat contracting and swelling inside my jeans. Wildly, I began to press back, needing more, crying out for further contact, aching for some moment of release.
He pulled away, his gray eyes locking into mine. His lips are kiss swollen and his gasps for air matches mine.
His hand is still firmly gripping my chin.
"Ron," he asks. "What do you think death is?"
"What?" I ask, I'm still breathless, unable to understand.
"Death." He says slowly, as if I'm too stupid to realize. "What do you think it is?"
He's still perched on my goddamn lap and I'm silent.
"What do you think happens?" He pushes. His hand is a pressure on my lap, tracing intricate, invisible designs on my denim-clad knee, fingers feeling my skin through the worn holes, moving slowly up to my thigh.
"I guess I believe the same everyone else does." I say, for some unnamable reason, I'm uncomfortable, flustered and lying.
His eyes seem to penetrate my soul-just for the briefest instant, and then retreats. Maybe he knows that I've stopped believing my family's ideas on the more theological points of life. Then again, maybe he doesn't.
His index finger is moving upwards, tracing my lips, there's a look of utmost concentration on his face.
I open my lips and I'm sucking his finger deep into the velvet slickness of my mouth. I give each long, finger equal treatment. There is not an inch of his hand that is not explored by my tongue.
I kiss his curled up hand, licking the bumps and indents of his knuckles and his skin is sweet there.
I remove his slender hand from my mouth and ask him the same question. My hand still languidly stroking his. I feel a strange sense of intimacy towards him; it's uneven with our pasts.
"What do you think death is?" My voice sounds husky, whoreish. I hate myself for it.
"I think. . . it's like when you dream, and there's nothing there. . . just a black abyss, a dark void to take you over. . ." His voice trails off wistfully.
I can't help it. I shiver at his description; his idea of death seems a confirmation of my worst fears. I can't help but notice how his eyes gauge my reaction carefully.
Blinking, I lower my head, and he's leaning forward again, our lips melding together, just for one sweet, lingering moment.
His mouth moves over to the curve of my cheekbone, then over my ear. I hear his voice, hot and wet in my ear.
"I hear that bitch Pomfrey coming back." He says.
And sure enough, craning my neck to listen, I hear her echoing footsteps down the hall, moving closer and closer.
Still Draco hasn't moved, he's balanced on my lap, arms wrapped around my neck. Does he want to be caught?
"Get out of here!" I hiss, shoving him off of me. He falls gracefully off the bed, and glares up at me under his lowered fair eyelashes from the tiled floor.
His scathing scowl continues, as he languidly brushes himself off, standing up and slowly edging closer towards the door. His hand is on the knob, but before he can twist, it is turned beneath his palm, the door opened and Madam Pomfrey was standing there, just in time to see Draco blow me a kiss, she's starring with an open mouth, rolled up bandages dropped and unraveling on the floor.
She's taking in both Draco's and my disheveled appearances.
"You boys. . . you weren't fighting were you?" Her voice comes out uncertain and shocked, she must *know* what we were doing. Women's intuition or whatever.
Draco doesn't dignify her with an answer, simply pushes past her and gives me a last hateful sneer over his shoulder.
I can't help but wonder what I did wrong. I just don't seem to understand anything anymore.
That night I cannot go to sleep.