*FIC: Beauty*
DARK! DARK! DARK! DARK!
Beauty
by S_Star
Disclaimer: If Rowling knew what I was doing to her creations in this little fic, my head would probably be on a pike outside the gates to her mansion. We can deduce from this that I am not Rowling and do not own the characters. Or the mansion.
Pairing: H/D
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sex, blood and a world of pain...he loves every second. An insight into the severely twisted mind of Draco Malfoy. DARK!
AN: For celtic_roisin. A fic which contains sadomasochism, vampirism, bondage, necrophilia and silk sheets. I couldn’t get cannibalism to fit in with what I was writing, but I hope this is okay for your request!
I can’t emphasise enough how dark this is. Dark and twisted. You have been warned repeatedly.
Beauty
Draco’s always thought Potter was beautiful.
He’s been haunted by ink black hair and creamy skin and Kedavra eyes and the picture of Gryffindor scarlet blood dripping down and staining him red with desire.
He fantasises and fantasises and when he adds bright white cum to the mix he has to admit that it’s perfect.
He doesn’t know how to fulfil his wishes, but the intensity of the dreams that take over his mind is almost enough to make up for it, and he’s sure - as he strokes himself desperately under the covers - that the real thing couldn’t be much better than this.
But then he and Potter are fighting one day and somehow Potter gets his teeth punched in.
Draco stares and stares as Potter’s eyes widen in shock, and then he looks down at his hand and sees blood trickling into the lines in his palm, and suddenly he doesn’t care that Potter’s standing right in front of him: he can’t help bringing one finger to his lips and licking it. And Potter’s looking at him in horror but he still moans softly and licks up the rest, and it’s almost as intoxicating as the taste of Potter’s lips is that first time.
Draco thinks he may be slightly obsessed, but that doesn’t matter because Potter doesn’t seem to mind when he bites his lip or pushes him just a little too roughly into the wall: in fact, if the gasps and sighs are anything to go by, Potter is just as turned on as Draco is, and swallows trails of blood just as eagerly when one of them bites too hard.
He sometimes stands and looks into the mirror, counting the blemishes on his skin: one bite, two scratches, three bruises, four gashes...on and on it goes, until one day so much of him is marked he almost loses count. He doesn’t like to scar Potter, though; the lightning bolt is enough, so he casts healing charms and protection charms and a million other handy spells to keep the alabaster blank for him to write on over and over before he wipes it off and starts again.
He is an artist, and Potter is his canvas, and with their blood and semen and spit they can create a masterpiece together, and Draco realises there were some colours missing from his original design, because it couldn’t be without the silver knife they use when teeth aren’t enough or the brown of dried blood caked under fingernails which is a hideous shade, really, but that hardly matters in such a composition because it’s a picture of hate, anyway.
The centrepiece isn’t Potter’s cock or eyes or hair after all, though, but his scar, standing out against a rainbow background of lust, and when Draco touches it Potter sighs, and when Draco licks it Potter keens, and when Draco cuts over the pattern with a blade Potter comes and comes and screams incoherent prayers to the god lying over him; and Draco feels like a god as he watches Potter’s swollen lips part and his eyes roll back and his head hits the pillow - or the desk, or the wall - because he can make and break Potter with a swish of the knife.
More than addictive, this power trip, and Draco finds that his entire life is about Potter and blood and the colours of his obsession against the background of the midnight sky, and in Potions he decides to show Potter how to skin a - something, he can’t remember facts like that anymore - by standing behind him and guiding his hand with the knife, and he has to grit his teeth to stop himself slashing both their wrists right then because someone would surely suspect something.
This is his life, he realises as he looks at the newest scars in the mirror: the lines that zigzag across his chest and his abdomen and his thighs and his arms and his back and everywhere as long as no one sees them but Potter and him. Life is blood and sex and stars and Potter’s eyes and life is wounds that he knows are beyond healing now and life is everything he’s ever wanted it to be and so, so much better than jerking himself off to pools of Gryffindor blood under the blanket of curtains and a silencing charm.
He’s failing his classes and losing his friends and quite possibly losing his mind as well, although Potter assures him it was lost a long time ago, and he frowns and wonders just how long, and whether it was before or after the first time he’d noticed that the contrast between Potter’s eyes and his Quidditch robes was the only thing right in the world.
He suspects that it happened years before.
Draco’s roommates, however much they resent him, still wonder why he doesn’t eat, and Blaise Zabini asks him and he just smiles and a jolt of fire passes through him as he remembers the taste of aphrodisiac blood and semen, and he doesn’t need anything else but that to fill him up, even though he knows he’s getting thinner and thinner and sicker and sicker and Potter’s a drug, he always has been, and he’s the addict and living on only Potter for so long is killing him slowly and surely but he can’t give up and he’s sure there aren’t twelve steps to ridding yourself of a shard of darkness fixed inside your heart, and anyway, why would he want to?
He doesn’t think that Potter’s dying like he is. He sees him laughing with his friends and catching the Snitch time and time again, and he’s eating just fine and he’s not losing weight and there are no marks on him and Draco is desperately jealous that he isn’t worth Potter’s life, because Potter’s more than worth his and he proves that every time they fuck and every time their eyes meet across the room and Draco feels that same fire inside him, and occasionally Potter acknowledges his presence and the elation comes close to the stinging relief of the blade’s first touch on his sweat-soaked body.
‘You’re sick,’ Potter says, ‘this is killing you,’ but Draco smirks a perfect smirk and slides a hand down Potter’s jeans and the hero-complex is suddenly forgotten because Draco knows his body so well and knows to move at just that pace and bite him in just that place, and Draco wonders how anything can be unhealthy when it gives him such a rush. He always forgets the drug analogy at that point, just like he’s forgotten the name of Potter’s Mudblood friend and who the fourth founder of Hogwarts was. He doesn’t think it’s important, anyway, not when he gets to chain Harry Potter to the Quidditch posts and fuck him hard while the stars look on in envy.
And then one day as Potter lies bruised and bloodied on silk sheets he uses Draco’s wand to Accio a box from his robes - which are lying somewhere on the floor - and Draco watches, entranced, as he flicks a thing that looks like his father’s device for putting out lights and makes a flame. Potter explains cigarettes to him, and the orange glow and the twisting, hypnotic cobalt smoke add another layer to his portrait. He also discovers that burn marks hurt more in the morning than knife-wounds and gains another obsession.
Draco doesn’t realise that NEWTs are next week until Potter asks him whether he’s revised for their Potions exam and he replies, ‘What exam?’
Potter laughs slightly and asks where he’s been for the past three months, and Draco wants to say, I was here with you, every second, but Potter’s now talking about how Hermione - is that really her name? He was sure it began with a ‘G’ - was making Ron study until two o’clock every morning and Draco smirks and says, ‘If you’re always down here fucking me, when do you have time to revise?’ and Potter says he manages and Draco hits him hard across the face because Potter's meant to be devoted to him only.
But of course, Potter's for the Light and for the Gryffindor Quidditch team and for house-elf liberation and probably does a hundred good deeds before breakfast, and Draco’s sitting on him and hitting him over and over with salty tears of rage burning the scratches on his cheeks because Potter doesn’t see that this means everything, that this is their love story and nothing else matters. And even as Potter tries to question, his eyes are going forest-green with lust and Draco grinds their hips together as he claws Potter’s cheek and punches him in the jaw again and this time he doesn’t heal the marks because this time it's all about possession. Potter has to understand, he thinks feverishly, and he tosses and turns and can’t sleep anymore because there isn’t enough time left for them and everyone’s talking about the end of school and what they’re planning and Draco can’t think anything but Potter, Potter, Potter and can’t see anything but the paint on his perfect portrait running down the canvas like tears.
Draco gets the Dark Mark in June and it doesn’t actually hurt at all until Potter comes to his room that night and peels of the bandages and hacks at the blackened skin until Draco begins to lose consciousness and bone peeks out through layers of ripped muscle and sinew, and Draco finally knows true pain. He loves every moment of it, especially in the last seconds before he blacks out when he sees Potter’s eyes speaking hate to him and only to him. He smiles slightly as his eyes fall shut and he doesn’t know that Potter then plunges that knife straight into his heart and watches as he bleeds, or that Potter kisses his cooling lips tenderly for the first time and fucks him gently for the first time before obsessively arranging him on the scarlet sheets, his torso a masterpiece in itself with lines and bruises that don’t heal and all the colours of his lust, his obsession.
With a satisfied smile, Potter pulls on his robes and shuts the door behind him, leaving Draco bathed in moonlight on a bed of blood.
Beautiful.
~fin~
Beauty
by S_Star
Disclaimer: If Rowling knew what I was doing to her creations in this little fic, my head would probably be on a pike outside the gates to her mansion. We can deduce from this that I am not Rowling and do not own the characters. Or the mansion.
Pairing: H/D
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sex, blood and a world of pain...he loves every second. An insight into the severely twisted mind of Draco Malfoy. DARK!
AN: For celtic_roisin. A fic which contains sadomasochism, vampirism, bondage, necrophilia and silk sheets. I couldn’t get cannibalism to fit in with what I was writing, but I hope this is okay for your request!
I can’t emphasise enough how dark this is. Dark and twisted. You have been warned repeatedly.
Beauty
Draco’s always thought Potter was beautiful.
He’s been haunted by ink black hair and creamy skin and Kedavra eyes and the picture of Gryffindor scarlet blood dripping down and staining him red with desire.
He fantasises and fantasises and when he adds bright white cum to the mix he has to admit that it’s perfect.
He doesn’t know how to fulfil his wishes, but the intensity of the dreams that take over his mind is almost enough to make up for it, and he’s sure - as he strokes himself desperately under the covers - that the real thing couldn’t be much better than this.
But then he and Potter are fighting one day and somehow Potter gets his teeth punched in.
Draco stares and stares as Potter’s eyes widen in shock, and then he looks down at his hand and sees blood trickling into the lines in his palm, and suddenly he doesn’t care that Potter’s standing right in front of him: he can’t help bringing one finger to his lips and licking it. And Potter’s looking at him in horror but he still moans softly and licks up the rest, and it’s almost as intoxicating as the taste of Potter’s lips is that first time.
Draco thinks he may be slightly obsessed, but that doesn’t matter because Potter doesn’t seem to mind when he bites his lip or pushes him just a little too roughly into the wall: in fact, if the gasps and sighs are anything to go by, Potter is just as turned on as Draco is, and swallows trails of blood just as eagerly when one of them bites too hard.
He sometimes stands and looks into the mirror, counting the blemishes on his skin: one bite, two scratches, three bruises, four gashes...on and on it goes, until one day so much of him is marked he almost loses count. He doesn’t like to scar Potter, though; the lightning bolt is enough, so he casts healing charms and protection charms and a million other handy spells to keep the alabaster blank for him to write on over and over before he wipes it off and starts again.
He is an artist, and Potter is his canvas, and with their blood and semen and spit they can create a masterpiece together, and Draco realises there were some colours missing from his original design, because it couldn’t be without the silver knife they use when teeth aren’t enough or the brown of dried blood caked under fingernails which is a hideous shade, really, but that hardly matters in such a composition because it’s a picture of hate, anyway.
The centrepiece isn’t Potter’s cock or eyes or hair after all, though, but his scar, standing out against a rainbow background of lust, and when Draco touches it Potter sighs, and when Draco licks it Potter keens, and when Draco cuts over the pattern with a blade Potter comes and comes and screams incoherent prayers to the god lying over him; and Draco feels like a god as he watches Potter’s swollen lips part and his eyes roll back and his head hits the pillow - or the desk, or the wall - because he can make and break Potter with a swish of the knife.
More than addictive, this power trip, and Draco finds that his entire life is about Potter and blood and the colours of his obsession against the background of the midnight sky, and in Potions he decides to show Potter how to skin a - something, he can’t remember facts like that anymore - by standing behind him and guiding his hand with the knife, and he has to grit his teeth to stop himself slashing both their wrists right then because someone would surely suspect something.
This is his life, he realises as he looks at the newest scars in the mirror: the lines that zigzag across his chest and his abdomen and his thighs and his arms and his back and everywhere as long as no one sees them but Potter and him. Life is blood and sex and stars and Potter’s eyes and life is wounds that he knows are beyond healing now and life is everything he’s ever wanted it to be and so, so much better than jerking himself off to pools of Gryffindor blood under the blanket of curtains and a silencing charm.
He’s failing his classes and losing his friends and quite possibly losing his mind as well, although Potter assures him it was lost a long time ago, and he frowns and wonders just how long, and whether it was before or after the first time he’d noticed that the contrast between Potter’s eyes and his Quidditch robes was the only thing right in the world.
He suspects that it happened years before.
Draco’s roommates, however much they resent him, still wonder why he doesn’t eat, and Blaise Zabini asks him and he just smiles and a jolt of fire passes through him as he remembers the taste of aphrodisiac blood and semen, and he doesn’t need anything else but that to fill him up, even though he knows he’s getting thinner and thinner and sicker and sicker and Potter’s a drug, he always has been, and he’s the addict and living on only Potter for so long is killing him slowly and surely but he can’t give up and he’s sure there aren’t twelve steps to ridding yourself of a shard of darkness fixed inside your heart, and anyway, why would he want to?
He doesn’t think that Potter’s dying like he is. He sees him laughing with his friends and catching the Snitch time and time again, and he’s eating just fine and he’s not losing weight and there are no marks on him and Draco is desperately jealous that he isn’t worth Potter’s life, because Potter’s more than worth his and he proves that every time they fuck and every time their eyes meet across the room and Draco feels that same fire inside him, and occasionally Potter acknowledges his presence and the elation comes close to the stinging relief of the blade’s first touch on his sweat-soaked body.
‘You’re sick,’ Potter says, ‘this is killing you,’ but Draco smirks a perfect smirk and slides a hand down Potter’s jeans and the hero-complex is suddenly forgotten because Draco knows his body so well and knows to move at just that pace and bite him in just that place, and Draco wonders how anything can be unhealthy when it gives him such a rush. He always forgets the drug analogy at that point, just like he’s forgotten the name of Potter’s Mudblood friend and who the fourth founder of Hogwarts was. He doesn’t think it’s important, anyway, not when he gets to chain Harry Potter to the Quidditch posts and fuck him hard while the stars look on in envy.
And then one day as Potter lies bruised and bloodied on silk sheets he uses Draco’s wand to Accio a box from his robes - which are lying somewhere on the floor - and Draco watches, entranced, as he flicks a thing that looks like his father’s device for putting out lights and makes a flame. Potter explains cigarettes to him, and the orange glow and the twisting, hypnotic cobalt smoke add another layer to his portrait. He also discovers that burn marks hurt more in the morning than knife-wounds and gains another obsession.
Draco doesn’t realise that NEWTs are next week until Potter asks him whether he’s revised for their Potions exam and he replies, ‘What exam?’
Potter laughs slightly and asks where he’s been for the past three months, and Draco wants to say, I was here with you, every second, but Potter’s now talking about how Hermione - is that really her name? He was sure it began with a ‘G’ - was making Ron study until two o’clock every morning and Draco smirks and says, ‘If you’re always down here fucking me, when do you have time to revise?’ and Potter says he manages and Draco hits him hard across the face because Potter's meant to be devoted to him only.
But of course, Potter's for the Light and for the Gryffindor Quidditch team and for house-elf liberation and probably does a hundred good deeds before breakfast, and Draco’s sitting on him and hitting him over and over with salty tears of rage burning the scratches on his cheeks because Potter doesn’t see that this means everything, that this is their love story and nothing else matters. And even as Potter tries to question, his eyes are going forest-green with lust and Draco grinds their hips together as he claws Potter’s cheek and punches him in the jaw again and this time he doesn’t heal the marks because this time it's all about possession. Potter has to understand, he thinks feverishly, and he tosses and turns and can’t sleep anymore because there isn’t enough time left for them and everyone’s talking about the end of school and what they’re planning and Draco can’t think anything but Potter, Potter, Potter and can’t see anything but the paint on his perfect portrait running down the canvas like tears.
Draco gets the Dark Mark in June and it doesn’t actually hurt at all until Potter comes to his room that night and peels of the bandages and hacks at the blackened skin until Draco begins to lose consciousness and bone peeks out through layers of ripped muscle and sinew, and Draco finally knows true pain. He loves every moment of it, especially in the last seconds before he blacks out when he sees Potter’s eyes speaking hate to him and only to him. He smiles slightly as his eyes fall shut and he doesn’t know that Potter then plunges that knife straight into his heart and watches as he bleeds, or that Potter kisses his cooling lips tenderly for the first time and fucks him gently for the first time before obsessively arranging him on the scarlet sheets, his torso a masterpiece in itself with lines and bruises that don’t heal and all the colours of his lust, his obsession.
With a satisfied smile, Potter pulls on his robes and shuts the door behind him, leaving Draco bathed in moonlight on a bed of blood.
Beautiful.
~fin~