Man, it’s been a while since I’ve written B/D.
Written for the first lines meme that was going around a while back. From longsunday’s first line. This got away from me a bit, as mad!Blaise has a tendency to do. Warning for character death and necrophilia.
Shadow of a Doubt
Blaise is mad, and he knows it. He knows it like he knows his shoe size, his wand core. It is something that’s always there in the back of his mind and mostly just thought about in passing and passed over as something that doesn’t much matter.
He knows he is mad when he feels the edges creeping in and his hands seem to belong to someone else when he turns them in the dim dungeon light and everything red is blood. And he knows, somewhere, in some little used corner of his mind, that it hasn’t always been so.
He knows that people, civilized people, aren’t meant to behave like this. But he has never been very good at doing what he’s meant to. And it is easy, so easy. Too easy. To just let it go, let that piece of him do as it pleases /teases/. Let it disregard the look of quiet terror in Draco’s eyes and the half choked what the fuck is your problem, as Blaise crushes both thin wrists together in one long fingered hand. Twists. Feels bone slip /trip drip/ against bone, beneath his palm.
He can see it out of the corner of his eye, that which is always just out of reach, that which he cannot explain and doesn’t want to. Blaise suspects the blond sees it too when Draco tries to scramble away, bird-quick kick and too bright hair /glare/. But Blaise is snake-quick and wouldn’t /couldn’t/ stop himself from pulling Draco back /and black and blue/ if he wanted to.
Blaise knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he is mad when Draco is still sprawled prettily on the floor in the morning, head haloed in red and silver and offers no resistance, no complaint, when Blaise slides in, all the way in. One clean cool thrust.
Shadow of a Doubt
Blaise is mad, and he knows it. He knows it like he knows his shoe size, his wand core. It is something that’s always there in the back of his mind and mostly just thought about in passing and passed over as something that doesn’t much matter.
He knows he is mad when he feels the edges creeping in and his hands seem to belong to someone else when he turns them in the dim dungeon light and everything red is blood. And he knows, somewhere, in some little used corner of his mind, that it hasn’t always been so.
He knows that people, civilized people, aren’t meant to behave like this. But he has never been very good at doing what he’s meant to. And it is easy, so easy. Too easy. To just let it go, let that piece of him do as it pleases /teases/. Let it disregard the look of quiet terror in Draco’s eyes and the half choked what the fuck is your problem, as Blaise crushes both thin wrists together in one long fingered hand. Twists. Feels bone slip /trip drip/ against bone, beneath his palm.
He can see it out of the corner of his eye, that which is always just out of reach, that which he cannot explain and doesn’t want to. Blaise suspects the blond sees it too when Draco tries to scramble away, bird-quick kick and too bright hair /glare/. But Blaise is snake-quick and wouldn’t /couldn’t/ stop himself from pulling Draco back /and black and blue/ if he wanted to.
Blaise knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he is mad when Draco is still sprawled prettily on the floor in the morning, head haloed in red and silver and offers no resistance, no complaint, when Blaise slides in, all the way in. One clean cool thrust.