(no subject)
I only got one drabble done today, since work was unexpectedly entertaining (ice cream with sprinkles and Anchorman!), but the others should be done tomorrow. Again, anyone who wants something need only ask.
For snowflake_star:
Scandalous
Blaise shoved Draco against the rough stone wall that lined the corridor leading to Slytherin house, fists twisted into the sumptuous material of the pale boy’s robes and mouth grinding against easily bruised lips. Sometimes delicate skin would rip against hard teeth, sometimes Draco would bite him, quick and hard, letting pure blood flow between panting mouths.
Blaise thought the blood tasted sweeter when it mingled, identical shades of red against very different mouths.
Draco would never attack him in a hall, ferociously kissing and angrily ramming him into the wall to leave bruises. Draco held in his passion, attempting to be regal in their aristocratic dungeon of subtle power plays and even subtler relationships. Draco held the image of his cruel, impassive father deep within his heart and clumsily mirrored everything his father would have done, with vivid moments of failure that were the only times Draco was himself.
Draco would never be as crass as to do something public and tawdry unless Blaise kept firm grip on him, leaving him no other option.
Draco would instead slide obscure hints into conversation, a reference only Blaise would understand in front of the entirety of Slytherin house. Blaise felt even more exposed listening to Draco casually say something Blaise had cried out the night before than he ever would kissing Draco Malfoy with violent abandon in the well-traversed hallway.
Blaise believed in extravagance and passion, hopeless love and indulgence. Draco believed in control and power, domination and elegance. Whenever they met, they struggled against the very core of the other’s being, opposite and alike in too many ways to have any contact that wasn’t heated.
Their classmates saw them as the same - rich and beautiful, scandalous and confident - but they saw themselves as being very different. Blaise didn’t want to see himself in Draco’s sneers, didn’t want think of what Draco hated to see reflected in himself.
Sometimes Blaise thought that it was easier to bruise Draco than it would be to fix himself. The purple marks, the faded yellow stains of near-forgotten passions and vented frustrations suited the pale boy. Blaise didn’t acknowledge the marks on his own body, deliberate, calculated scabs that spoke of a cloudy-eyed boy’s hate and fear.
Sometimes he remembered his jealousy of the boy, of the ancestry of cruel infamy that surrounded him like a black halo, that stole his thunder and made his own heritage seem almost innocent.
Sometimes he remembered schoolboy friendships, forged from shared experience and backgrounds and dispositions.
Sometimes he wondered what they looked like together, a tangle of lightness and darkness, tenderness and ferocity. He wondered if they looked like love or hate or indifference, because he couldn’t tell.
Sometimes, he simply allowed himself to let their trysts stand as nothing more and nothing less, and was content with the idea that he wasn’t as alone as he might have been.
For snowflake_star:
Scandalous
Blaise shoved Draco against the rough stone wall that lined the corridor leading to Slytherin house, fists twisted into the sumptuous material of the pale boy’s robes and mouth grinding against easily bruised lips. Sometimes delicate skin would rip against hard teeth, sometimes Draco would bite him, quick and hard, letting pure blood flow between panting mouths.
Blaise thought the blood tasted sweeter when it mingled, identical shades of red against very different mouths.
Draco would never attack him in a hall, ferociously kissing and angrily ramming him into the wall to leave bruises. Draco held in his passion, attempting to be regal in their aristocratic dungeon of subtle power plays and even subtler relationships. Draco held the image of his cruel, impassive father deep within his heart and clumsily mirrored everything his father would have done, with vivid moments of failure that were the only times Draco was himself.
Draco would never be as crass as to do something public and tawdry unless Blaise kept firm grip on him, leaving him no other option.
Draco would instead slide obscure hints into conversation, a reference only Blaise would understand in front of the entirety of Slytherin house. Blaise felt even more exposed listening to Draco casually say something Blaise had cried out the night before than he ever would kissing Draco Malfoy with violent abandon in the well-traversed hallway.
Blaise believed in extravagance and passion, hopeless love and indulgence. Draco believed in control and power, domination and elegance. Whenever they met, they struggled against the very core of the other’s being, opposite and alike in too many ways to have any contact that wasn’t heated.
Their classmates saw them as the same - rich and beautiful, scandalous and confident - but they saw themselves as being very different. Blaise didn’t want to see himself in Draco’s sneers, didn’t want think of what Draco hated to see reflected in himself.
Sometimes Blaise thought that it was easier to bruise Draco than it would be to fix himself. The purple marks, the faded yellow stains of near-forgotten passions and vented frustrations suited the pale boy. Blaise didn’t acknowledge the marks on his own body, deliberate, calculated scabs that spoke of a cloudy-eyed boy’s hate and fear.
Sometimes he remembered his jealousy of the boy, of the ancestry of cruel infamy that surrounded him like a black halo, that stole his thunder and made his own heritage seem almost innocent.
Sometimes he remembered schoolboy friendships, forged from shared experience and backgrounds and dispositions.
Sometimes he wondered what they looked like together, a tangle of lightness and darkness, tenderness and ferocity. He wondered if they looked like love or hate or indifference, because he couldn’t tell.
Sometimes, he simply allowed himself to let their trysts stand as nothing more and nothing less, and was content with the idea that he wasn’t as alone as he might have been.