Lyrical Muses February: Angel - 8mm.
Title: My Angel.
Song: Angel - 8mm
Character: Blaise Zabini.
Rating: R.
Pairing(s): Blaise/Tom.
Fandom(s): Harry Potter.
Author's Note: He isn't mine alas, if he was, he'd look like Hans Matheson.
Word count: 827.
Blaise hasn't felt like himself for a very long time. He spends hours walking with no real destination in mind, just walking the streets of London, head down, hair spilling into his face. He smokes as he walks, the hand not holding the cigarette stuffed in the pocket of his jeans, or if it's cold, into the pocket of his jacket. He walks so he doesn't have to feel, doesn't have to think. Inevitably, his walking leads him in a large circle, back to Diagon Alley, back to Knockturn Alley, back to Tom.
Sometimes, it rains. This being London, it's fairly frequent, and it's always that rain that isn't quite a storm, isn't quite a drizzle. It's more a steady flow of water as if the sky is sobbing and can't stop. The rain trickles down Blaise's face as it mingles with his own tears, as he wonders how the hell - how the fuck - to get himself out of his predicament.
He loves, and when he loves, he loves with everything he is, everything he has. He loves Tom so much that sometimes he feels physical pain from it. He knows he could wake up in any room on a dark night and point unerringly to the place Tom would be. He feels Tom everywhere - in his blood, in his brain, in his heart, beneath his skin. Tom doesn't understand love, and neither does Blaise, not really. They both understand obsession and power, both understand that each is obsessed with the other but in different ways.
Tom wants power. He doesn't want to feel helpless ever again, and a childhood in post war London has created that unbreakable determination to use whatever means necessary to ensure that he will not be in such a situation ever again in his life. Blaise doesn't want power. He doesn't care about it. What he wants is Tom. He wants Tom to leave his obsession with power behind and see Blaise the way that Blaise sees Tom himself. Neither fully understands the other.
In the velvet dark of night, they lay together, soft skin and warm hands, mouths connecting; hot kisses and soft moans and whimpers, and Blaise can forget his misery. He loses himself in that lean, pale body, loses himself in caresses that leave trails of fire on his skin, in kisses that make his blood burn. He loses himself in tight heat gripping him, soft, velvet skin encasing hardness in his hand. He loses himself in Tom's cries of pleasure, his noises of passion, his spunk on Blaise's hand when he comes. Blaise can pretend, when they fuck, that Tom really is his, and that nothing can ever come between them.
It's a lie, and with dawn, Blaise knows the truth, that Tom values his power and the quest for it more than anything, more than Blaise. Blaise may come second in Tom's list of priorities, and most of the time he can accept that. He's familiar with playing second best, after all. And he's familiar with the ache of loving someone more than they love him.
While Blaise walks the streets of London, the monkey on his back, the monkey that is his addiction, his obsession, Tom studies and gathers his power and his knowledge. Tom doesn't ask Blaise what he does during the day, Blaise doesn't volunteer the information. He knows that if Tom really did want to find out all he'd have to would Legilimens and all of Blaise's secrets would be laid bare. But Tom won't do that to Blaise - it's one of the few things he's sure about.
Blaise watches Tom grow more and more distant, tries to cling more and more to him. The nights are full of passion and lust and sated desires, kinks explored, hungers sated. The days are empty, grey like the dirty brick of London's walls.
Tom and Blaise are both blind - Tom is blind to Blaise's pain and Blaise's love, and Blaise is blind to Tom's fear. Tom hides it behind his aloof and disdainful attitudes; cuddles it to himself as he watches Blaise and wonders why on Earth the boy is still with him.
"I love you" never means what it should - it's a cracked and broken diamond, still beautiful but irrepable.
When Tom comes home late one night, Blaise is standing at the window, silhouetted against the darkness and the city lights. Blaise is smoking, and Tom watches him for long, quiet moments, wondering again why Blaise is still there, still with him. Blaise doesn't turn, but his voice, soft and gravely fills Tom's ears. "Hush little angel, won't you try, the devil hears you when you cry. Hush little angel close your eyes. Think of pleasant dreams and bluer skies."
Song: Angel - 8mm
Character: Blaise Zabini.
Rating: R.
Pairing(s): Blaise/Tom.
Fandom(s): Harry Potter.
Author's Note: He isn't mine alas, if he was, he'd look like Hans Matheson.
Word count: 827.
Blaise hasn't felt like himself for a very long time. He spends hours walking with no real destination in mind, just walking the streets of London, head down, hair spilling into his face. He smokes as he walks, the hand not holding the cigarette stuffed in the pocket of his jeans, or if it's cold, into the pocket of his jacket. He walks so he doesn't have to feel, doesn't have to think. Inevitably, his walking leads him in a large circle, back to Diagon Alley, back to Knockturn Alley, back to Tom.
Sometimes, it rains. This being London, it's fairly frequent, and it's always that rain that isn't quite a storm, isn't quite a drizzle. It's more a steady flow of water as if the sky is sobbing and can't stop. The rain trickles down Blaise's face as it mingles with his own tears, as he wonders how the hell - how the fuck - to get himself out of his predicament.
He loves, and when he loves, he loves with everything he is, everything he has. He loves Tom so much that sometimes he feels physical pain from it. He knows he could wake up in any room on a dark night and point unerringly to the place Tom would be. He feels Tom everywhere - in his blood, in his brain, in his heart, beneath his skin. Tom doesn't understand love, and neither does Blaise, not really. They both understand obsession and power, both understand that each is obsessed with the other but in different ways.
Tom wants power. He doesn't want to feel helpless ever again, and a childhood in post war London has created that unbreakable determination to use whatever means necessary to ensure that he will not be in such a situation ever again in his life. Blaise doesn't want power. He doesn't care about it. What he wants is Tom. He wants Tom to leave his obsession with power behind and see Blaise the way that Blaise sees Tom himself. Neither fully understands the other.
In the velvet dark of night, they lay together, soft skin and warm hands, mouths connecting; hot kisses and soft moans and whimpers, and Blaise can forget his misery. He loses himself in that lean, pale body, loses himself in caresses that leave trails of fire on his skin, in kisses that make his blood burn. He loses himself in tight heat gripping him, soft, velvet skin encasing hardness in his hand. He loses himself in Tom's cries of pleasure, his noises of passion, his spunk on Blaise's hand when he comes. Blaise can pretend, when they fuck, that Tom really is his, and that nothing can ever come between them.
It's a lie, and with dawn, Blaise knows the truth, that Tom values his power and the quest for it more than anything, more than Blaise. Blaise may come second in Tom's list of priorities, and most of the time he can accept that. He's familiar with playing second best, after all. And he's familiar with the ache of loving someone more than they love him.
While Blaise walks the streets of London, the monkey on his back, the monkey that is his addiction, his obsession, Tom studies and gathers his power and his knowledge. Tom doesn't ask Blaise what he does during the day, Blaise doesn't volunteer the information. He knows that if Tom really did want to find out all he'd have to would Legilimens and all of Blaise's secrets would be laid bare. But Tom won't do that to Blaise - it's one of the few things he's sure about.
Blaise watches Tom grow more and more distant, tries to cling more and more to him. The nights are full of passion and lust and sated desires, kinks explored, hungers sated. The days are empty, grey like the dirty brick of London's walls.
Tom and Blaise are both blind - Tom is blind to Blaise's pain and Blaise's love, and Blaise is blind to Tom's fear. Tom hides it behind his aloof and disdainful attitudes; cuddles it to himself as he watches Blaise and wonders why on Earth the boy is still with him.
"I love you" never means what it should - it's a cracked and broken diamond, still beautiful but irrepable.
When Tom comes home late one night, Blaise is standing at the window, silhouetted against the darkness and the city lights. Blaise is smoking, and Tom watches him for long, quiet moments, wondering again why Blaise is still there, still with him. Blaise doesn't turn, but his voice, soft and gravely fills Tom's ears. "Hush little angel, won't you try, the devil hears you when you cry. Hush little angel close your eyes. Think of pleasant dreams and bluer skies."