Fic/Art collaboration...Harry/Draco...This is how my heart breaks...
Title: This is how my heart breaks
Author: jamie2109
Artist: saoni
Rating: R
Pairing: H/D
Word Count: 867
Summary: But it is not a smile of lovers or friends; it is bitter and twisted and speaks of nothing and everything that lies between us, and I hate him all over again.
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Not Ours, only the story is.
A/N: For the hp_synergy fic/art collaboration.
This is how my heart breaks.
Slowly
He allows me to sit beside him as he plays, the notes staining his fingers with deceptive sentiment. Fluid streams of these lies wrap themselves around me and draw me in. They’re chains; they coerce and intimidate my resolve, speak to it of love and longing and desire and the possibility of truth. To act on the infinitesimal spark of hope would be to bare myself in entirety, to admit the emptiness in which he has me imprisoned.
But the melody tightens its gentle wrap and weaves its magic and once more I am lulled into thinking… Though I fight, or try to, I cleave to his side, I need to feel his skin under my lips, to smell his scent and wrap it up with the music and give it worship. As I draw near, he doesn’t even falter, the music surges and spins around us both in a spiral of passion. Then, silence.
When I hear his voice, the echoes scrape past as shadows to underscore the emptiness. I watch his lips; those fucking pink lips that sneer and snarl and blind me with a desperate longing that’s an abomination to everything that I hold dear. Even now, after years of peace, he verbalises the same expressions as in our youth with a vitriol that sears my yearning and leaves it scarred, distorted.
He tells me it’s just sex, it means nothing, and his treacherous mouth smirks over the wretchedness of mine own eyes. Denial is futile and thus unspoken. It’s a well-trodden path we travel, and proves the lie; absence really doesn’t make the heart grow fonder.
Painfully
His lips then, they’re incongruously soft, pliant under mine, they yield to me, to my desires, to my needs. But it’s a falsehood, a lie, and exasperation makes me dangerous. At every inhalation I’m there, fighting, stealing it back from him until I am lightheaded and dancing to the fire of his breath.
These kisses have been with me, part of me for a thousand dreams and I am repulsed by my own weakness, searching fruitlessly for meaning behind my need for them, so readily given, yet so hollow. I want my freedom, but instead I sink willingly, demandingly into them, like I need them to breathe.
Piece by piece.
Rhythmic beating under my fingertips and I press down harshly, wanting only to hurt, to stop this travesty of passion that makes a mockery of the purpose of that muscle. He groans then and I press harder; he’s killing me with this want. But it’s just hate and sex. Hate and sex and lust and a twisted cruelty that allows this to happen again and again.
He pulls my glasses off and those wicked lips are whispering depraved threats into my ear that chill me as they thrill me. His hands are frantic in their eagerness to unclothe me, to peel away the layers of me to crunch my heart under this vile onslaught. I’m helpless in the face of this addiction and I rip away his coverings to expose the most perfectly hateful body to my downfall.
All at once.
Offensive, beautiful hands slide over me and are guided to my shameful need. I push against him, heated breath joining sharp teeth at his neck. I am finally and irretrievably lost when I enter his slick body from behind. I cannot look at him while I do this, my needs and emotions too near the surface and my thousand dreams shatter and dissolve in the face of this heat, familiar and yet ultimately meaningless.
The piano I have bent him over, that he wantonly spread himself across, thrashes loud discordant notes at every thrust. They hang in the air, testament to the falsehood of this coupling. His blond hair is damp and sweaty at the base of his neck and with his head buried in the crook of his elbow, the moans he allows are muffled and base.
To him I am insignificant, available, an easy touch, though if he touches me now I might disappear. If I don’t have to look into his face, I can endure this. If he can’t see my face, he can’t witness me breaking, needing him, wanting only for him to love me back. If he can’t see that, he can’t use it against me to break me further.
Then as I come, his hated name on my silent lips, tears of distress coursing my cheeks, I vow, never again. I tell myself that the tears are tears of goodbye. I know better. My palm feels the pulsing of his completion, his body arching back into me and his hands have gripped the piano so hard his knuckles are white.
When he is done he pushes me away and dresses quickly. As he leaves, he smiles at me, the only time during this whole session. But it is not a smile of lovers or friends; it is bitter and twisted and speaks of nothing and everything that lies between us, and I hate him all over again.
I love him and I hate him.
And so, this is how my heart breaks.
Author: jamie2109
Artist: saoni
Rating: R
Pairing: H/D
Word Count: 867
Summary: But it is not a smile of lovers or friends; it is bitter and twisted and speaks of nothing and everything that lies between us, and I hate him all over again.
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Not Ours, only the story is.
A/N: For the hp_synergy fic/art collaboration.
This is how my heart breaks.
Slowly
He allows me to sit beside him as he plays, the notes staining his fingers with deceptive sentiment. Fluid streams of these lies wrap themselves around me and draw me in. They’re chains; they coerce and intimidate my resolve, speak to it of love and longing and desire and the possibility of truth. To act on the infinitesimal spark of hope would be to bare myself in entirety, to admit the emptiness in which he has me imprisoned.
But the melody tightens its gentle wrap and weaves its magic and once more I am lulled into thinking… Though I fight, or try to, I cleave to his side, I need to feel his skin under my lips, to smell his scent and wrap it up with the music and give it worship. As I draw near, he doesn’t even falter, the music surges and spins around us both in a spiral of passion. Then, silence.
When I hear his voice, the echoes scrape past as shadows to underscore the emptiness. I watch his lips; those fucking pink lips that sneer and snarl and blind me with a desperate longing that’s an abomination to everything that I hold dear. Even now, after years of peace, he verbalises the same expressions as in our youth with a vitriol that sears my yearning and leaves it scarred, distorted.
He tells me it’s just sex, it means nothing, and his treacherous mouth smirks over the wretchedness of mine own eyes. Denial is futile and thus unspoken. It’s a well-trodden path we travel, and proves the lie; absence really doesn’t make the heart grow fonder.
Painfully
His lips then, they’re incongruously soft, pliant under mine, they yield to me, to my desires, to my needs. But it’s a falsehood, a lie, and exasperation makes me dangerous. At every inhalation I’m there, fighting, stealing it back from him until I am lightheaded and dancing to the fire of his breath.
These kisses have been with me, part of me for a thousand dreams and I am repulsed by my own weakness, searching fruitlessly for meaning behind my need for them, so readily given, yet so hollow. I want my freedom, but instead I sink willingly, demandingly into them, like I need them to breathe.
Piece by piece.
Rhythmic beating under my fingertips and I press down harshly, wanting only to hurt, to stop this travesty of passion that makes a mockery of the purpose of that muscle. He groans then and I press harder; he’s killing me with this want. But it’s just hate and sex. Hate and sex and lust and a twisted cruelty that allows this to happen again and again.
He pulls my glasses off and those wicked lips are whispering depraved threats into my ear that chill me as they thrill me. His hands are frantic in their eagerness to unclothe me, to peel away the layers of me to crunch my heart under this vile onslaught. I’m helpless in the face of this addiction and I rip away his coverings to expose the most perfectly hateful body to my downfall.
All at once.
Offensive, beautiful hands slide over me and are guided to my shameful need. I push against him, heated breath joining sharp teeth at his neck. I am finally and irretrievably lost when I enter his slick body from behind. I cannot look at him while I do this, my needs and emotions too near the surface and my thousand dreams shatter and dissolve in the face of this heat, familiar and yet ultimately meaningless.
The piano I have bent him over, that he wantonly spread himself across, thrashes loud discordant notes at every thrust. They hang in the air, testament to the falsehood of this coupling. His blond hair is damp and sweaty at the base of his neck and with his head buried in the crook of his elbow, the moans he allows are muffled and base.
To him I am insignificant, available, an easy touch, though if he touches me now I might disappear. If I don’t have to look into his face, I can endure this. If he can’t see my face, he can’t witness me breaking, needing him, wanting only for him to love me back. If he can’t see that, he can’t use it against me to break me further.
Then as I come, his hated name on my silent lips, tears of distress coursing my cheeks, I vow, never again. I tell myself that the tears are tears of goodbye. I know better. My palm feels the pulsing of his completion, his body arching back into me and his hands have gripped the piano so hard his knuckles are white.
When he is done he pushes me away and dresses quickly. As he leaves, he smiles at me, the only time during this whole session. But it is not a smile of lovers or friends; it is bitter and twisted and speaks of nothing and everything that lies between us, and I hate him all over again.
I love him and I hate him.
And so, this is how my heart breaks.