Frozen Bridges; Gift for une_jeune_fille!
Recipient: une_jeune_fille
Title: Frozen Bridges
Author: whisperings
Beta: latex_muffins
Pairing(s): Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): EWE, adult language, sexual content, potentially disturbing themes. Highlight to read: [cross-dressing, talk of suicide/suicide attempts]
Word Count: 2,328
Summary: He was sick, and was, undeniably, getting sicker. Neither could turn away from the other. Neither truly wanted to.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction set in the Harry Potter universe - all recognizable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
Author's Notes: This is probably one of the more weirder stories. I'll let you be the judge of that, though. Also, the quotes that have anything to do with frozen bridges (information-wise) are taken from this website.
Frozen Bridges
We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us. - William Butler Yeats
He keeps the liquor on the kitchen counter and you cannot help but notice that none of them have been opened. You also cannot keep yourself from seeing Draco Malfoy in a dress, but that is an entirely different story and it is actually nothing new. He has a twitch in his limbs, it seems, and he can't seem to stop moving around, and it isn't until you take his hands and tell him that everything is okay (nothing is okay) does he (somewhat) relax.
You sit down on the couch and look around you; nothing familiar to you even though you've been here countless times before, and you have encountered Draco in the same situation, same way of presenting himself. Tonight it's the little black dress, only it's not so little since the skirt reaches down to his ankles. The sleeves go past his fingers and there is nothing to hide his broad, milky shoulders. You almost wish you could sink into his skin and be lost forever, even though you know he'd reject you faster than a donor patient's body would an organ transplant.
His eyes are focused solely on everything but you, and the fact that they are rimmed with kohl makes your spine shiver with delight, as his irises are dramatically intense; more so tonight, it seems, than any other night that you've been with him.
“I'm too afraid to drink them,” he says plaintively. “I buy them and I think I'm going to get absolutely wasted, but then I start thinking something horrible will happen if I do it.” He brushes his hair out of his face and plants his hands on his jutting hips. “I suppose I'm just paranoid.”
You nod and let out a nervous laugh, and he stares at you, which shuts you up almost immediately. You look down at your awkwardly shaped knees, your hair falling in your face. You reach up and push your glasses back up the bridge of your nose, even though they'll be coming off in a few minutes or so. You dare to look up and he is still staring at you, and you find that you're brave enough to meet his gaze. His eyes are still intense, the color mottled with gray and bright blue and flecks of white, like thick ice upon a frozen bridge.
Almost a fitting situation to match the snow outside.
There is no fireplace, no candles. The room is dim, save for the kitchen light. The living room is silent as you sit there, and you nearly have a heart attack when you feel thin, soft fingers on the underside of your jaw. The thick material of his dress cannot mask his growing erection, and you swallow hard, as though this is your first time with him, even though this is probably the sixth or seventh - or maybe it's the hundredth, and you've just been lost in the clouds with thoughts of how satisfied and needful he left you.
You don't know why you continue to come back to him. He is vicious, prideful, and insulting. He is sick, mentally, and he refuses to wear normal clothing. He claims that women's clothes make him feel much more powerful than he normally would in regular trousers. Draco thinks he can take over the world - or else, just his own little world, in which everything has spiraled out of control. His flat is bare and holds no Christmas ornaments, no tree - not even a small one. Draco doesn't care about Christmas.
He refuses to listen and it's a wonder he can still live alone. He owls you almost every day, talking about how his day his going, and he will sometimes suddenly write long paragraphs in which there are many ink spots and (what looks like) teardrops on the page - not sad tears, angry tears, and his handwriting becomes increasingly erratic. He wants to die, he wants to live, he doesn't know what the fuck he wants.
It's almost sickening in the way he describes how he feels; his head is like an empty birdcage filled with white noise, and there is nothing to take away the horrid silence in his body. The only thing he is able to fill up the day with is soft music, with no words. Words clutter his mind; words make him hurt. The only words he considers worth reading are yours and yours alone. He does not recognize anything from the past except for his family and you.
You are the sole link to everything else that has happened. The one thing he will never, for the life (or death) of him, forget.
His legs are suddenly incredibly close to your hands, and you reach up and grasp the side of his left thigh, the material of his dress soft, cotton. He moans audibly and you lick his lower lip almost unconsciously, without warning. Draco closes his eyes and his hands find your shoulders. He rubs them, his hands - his entire body - hot, and shaking.
You don't want to startle him, but you feel like you need to see them again. His eyes rake over your scar and you feel a whirlpool of frozen bridges penetrating your brain, you feel like he is a frozen bridge, the ice slick and unseen and potentially fatal, yet you're one of those gluttons for punishment and you love to get hurt by him, love to hurt him, and maybe that's why you will never be with him.
The freezing wind strikes the bridge above and below and on both sides, so it's losing heat from every side.
You reach to your shoulders and take Draco's thin hands into your own, and thumb the sleeves. You push one up and he shudders, and you take your time examining every pink ridge and every inch of flaking skin (he scratched when he thought you weren't looking) that's illuminated by the kitchen light. He bites his lip and inches closer to your face (if that's possible) and breathes on your neck, his eyelashes fluttering on your face.
“Wanna make me feel better?”
“I could never make you feel better.”
It's a cold remark but Draco doesn't react; he sits on your lap and cards your hair through his fingers, his mouth meeting yours in a rough, bruising kiss, and you think you feel blood well up on the side of your mouth somewhere. You lick the space in between his lips and yours and taste a salty, metallic liquid. Yes, he's definitely made you bleed again, and it's going to take a lot of explaining to Ginny as to why your mouth looks so bruised up again this time around.
He's getting up and moving to the bedroom, and you slowly follow, your shoes treading the carpet carefully, the material plush and clean beneath your steps. The bedroom door has become an omen of sorts, a threshold that led to a place where sweat shines on every pore and heavy guilt and satisfaction and need settles in your writhing stomach. The doorway itself is dark and looming, and the moonlight offers little comfort.
You carefully step inside, your shirt and trousers feeling uncomfortably tight for some reason, and not because you're aroused - by all means, you've been aroused since you set foot into the flat - but because for some reason Draco feels slightly different tonight and you're stuck wondering why.
“Don't be a stranger. I'm right here,” he says, his form suddenly clear to you. His hips are slightly jutted and he's playing with his sheets, picking at the cotton. His dress is haphazardly placed around his upper thighs, and the very sight makes you go cold with the sudden realization that there is a pale mad boy waiting for you to tear off his clothes and make him yours and let him make you his over and over and over, even if for but a night.
You shut the door behind you and toe off your shoes and slip off your shirt, your chest pounding incessantly. It feels as though your heart is about to beat its way out of its place between your heaving lungs and aching ribcage, and you can almost picture the sight of blood and cartilage and crackled bone hanging out of your chest, and your heart is in Draco's hands, still beating and still deliciously red with blood and lust and anger.
Anger at what you will never be able to have.
The road is only losing heat from its surface.
Draco's breath suddenly hitches, and that is what sets you off as you climb onto his overheated body and take his mouth, a strong hope to make him bleed as you did. He runs slender white hands up and down your bare back, over your shoulder blades. Something crawls along your skin and you know it's the want, the desire, and you kiss his neck as you feel underneath his dress, your hand palming his erection. You stare at his eyes and it's though the ice has increased tenfold, tough as steel, yet something in them is cracked and leaking and it says something along the lines of you are the only one who can fucking save me, and it makes your heart slow and your brain stutter. You hate being depended on, despite your past and despite what you've done to save the Wizarding world, you hate people looking up to you. Which, of course, makes you ungrateful and depressing, but there's only but so much admiration you are able to withstand until you wish that everyone would just go away.
You hate being overwhelmed.
He flips you over and you cry out almost involuntarily, but you revel in the feeling of your voice ripping through your throat and echoing in the empty, black space around you. His hips are grinding into your cock, making you harder by the second. He unzips your trousers and you help him shove them off of your pale legs and onto the floor, and he wastes no time in lowering his mouth and taking you in, the heat of his tongue and saliva surrounding the head. Your moans are loud and long, almost obnoxious, but he doesn't let you come and he lets you take control once more, so that you can come inside of him.
He needs help. He needs professional help, and he is seeing someone now but he is reluctant and almost resistant to the help he is being offered; his claim is that you know what it's like, and you want to scream in his face, “I've never known what it's like, I don't cross-dress, I remember my life, why the fuck are you so mad.” But there is no real answer - at least, not one that you know of.
Draco moans against your neck and you ripple back to life, and become aware of your fingers curled inside of him, stretching him out, making him buck against you. You bite your lower lip and drink in the smell of his skin as you slowly enter him, that familiar hiss snaking out of his mouth and into your ear, almost completely shutting down everything in your body. The sound of his voice makes you quiver, and while you want to shake him, to slap him, you also feel the need to hold him close to you and make him better all over again, although that can never happen, and you know the impossibility all too well.
“I need you so much,” you whisper against him, “I need you so much and I can never have you.”
He says nothing, just rocks in tempo with your body, his breath and his raw, ragged moans filling your eyes and ears and mouth and throat, and you want to capture it all in one single kiss, let it slide and settle somewhere inside of you, where he can always reside and melt and become stable and whole again. You're slipping and holding on with all of your might, the proverbial ice even more dangerous in this state, ironically enough.
You feel as though you will break your neck from all of the feelings and emotions and pure rage crushing and slapping against you.
Bridges have no way to trap any heat, so they will continually lose heat and freeze shortly after temperatures in the atmosphere hit the freezing point.
Your bodies collide once again, and you come violently, your spine shuddering to the point of perhaps one or two pieces of bone in danger of snapping. His drawn-out cry is the last of it, and you hold onto him, his body slowly starting to cool down.
“Harry, why can't you stay,” he whispers, and it almost makes you scream in agony. “Why can't you just stay with me, Harry?”
You stay silent for the longest of time, the dark of the moon becoming clear and yet still giving off some kind of illumination. His features are rigid and pale. His eyes seem too big, his fingers too shaky. His dress is wrinkled and nearly torn, and you just realize that he has been wearing it this whole time. Even when you are making love, he still refuses to shed the one thing that he feels most comfortable in; like a second skin.
His personality is icy and weathered, and even you cannot save him now.
“I could never love you,” you whisper, your voice shaking horribly. He does not answer, but his face morphs slowly into a look of hurt. You turn away and pretend to fall asleep, and it hurts even worse when you don't hear the sounds of sobbing, or even a rage-filled scream; it is deathly quiet. The air is cold, his skin is cold, and oh no, oh God, it is so horrifyingly cold.
Title: Frozen Bridges
Author: whisperings
Beta: latex_muffins
Pairing(s): Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): EWE, adult language, sexual content, potentially disturbing themes. Highlight to read: [cross-dressing, talk of suicide/suicide attempts]
Word Count: 2,328
Summary: He was sick, and was, undeniably, getting sicker. Neither could turn away from the other. Neither truly wanted to.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction set in the Harry Potter universe - all recognizable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work. Please observe your local laws with regards to the age-limit and content of this work.
Author's Notes: This is probably one of the more weirder stories. I'll let you be the judge of that, though. Also, the quotes that have anything to do with frozen bridges (information-wise) are taken from this website.
Frozen Bridges
We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us. - William Butler Yeats
He keeps the liquor on the kitchen counter and you cannot help but notice that none of them have been opened. You also cannot keep yourself from seeing Draco Malfoy in a dress, but that is an entirely different story and it is actually nothing new. He has a twitch in his limbs, it seems, and he can't seem to stop moving around, and it isn't until you take his hands and tell him that everything is okay (nothing is okay) does he (somewhat) relax.
You sit down on the couch and look around you; nothing familiar to you even though you've been here countless times before, and you have encountered Draco in the same situation, same way of presenting himself. Tonight it's the little black dress, only it's not so little since the skirt reaches down to his ankles. The sleeves go past his fingers and there is nothing to hide his broad, milky shoulders. You almost wish you could sink into his skin and be lost forever, even though you know he'd reject you faster than a donor patient's body would an organ transplant.
His eyes are focused solely on everything but you, and the fact that they are rimmed with kohl makes your spine shiver with delight, as his irises are dramatically intense; more so tonight, it seems, than any other night that you've been with him.
“I'm too afraid to drink them,” he says plaintively. “I buy them and I think I'm going to get absolutely wasted, but then I start thinking something horrible will happen if I do it.” He brushes his hair out of his face and plants his hands on his jutting hips. “I suppose I'm just paranoid.”
You nod and let out a nervous laugh, and he stares at you, which shuts you up almost immediately. You look down at your awkwardly shaped knees, your hair falling in your face. You reach up and push your glasses back up the bridge of your nose, even though they'll be coming off in a few minutes or so. You dare to look up and he is still staring at you, and you find that you're brave enough to meet his gaze. His eyes are still intense, the color mottled with gray and bright blue and flecks of white, like thick ice upon a frozen bridge.
Almost a fitting situation to match the snow outside.
There is no fireplace, no candles. The room is dim, save for the kitchen light. The living room is silent as you sit there, and you nearly have a heart attack when you feel thin, soft fingers on the underside of your jaw. The thick material of his dress cannot mask his growing erection, and you swallow hard, as though this is your first time with him, even though this is probably the sixth or seventh - or maybe it's the hundredth, and you've just been lost in the clouds with thoughts of how satisfied and needful he left you.
You don't know why you continue to come back to him. He is vicious, prideful, and insulting. He is sick, mentally, and he refuses to wear normal clothing. He claims that women's clothes make him feel much more powerful than he normally would in regular trousers. Draco thinks he can take over the world - or else, just his own little world, in which everything has spiraled out of control. His flat is bare and holds no Christmas ornaments, no tree - not even a small one. Draco doesn't care about Christmas.
He refuses to listen and it's a wonder he can still live alone. He owls you almost every day, talking about how his day his going, and he will sometimes suddenly write long paragraphs in which there are many ink spots and (what looks like) teardrops on the page - not sad tears, angry tears, and his handwriting becomes increasingly erratic. He wants to die, he wants to live, he doesn't know what the fuck he wants.
It's almost sickening in the way he describes how he feels; his head is like an empty birdcage filled with white noise, and there is nothing to take away the horrid silence in his body. The only thing he is able to fill up the day with is soft music, with no words. Words clutter his mind; words make him hurt. The only words he considers worth reading are yours and yours alone. He does not recognize anything from the past except for his family and you.
You are the sole link to everything else that has happened. The one thing he will never, for the life (or death) of him, forget.
His legs are suddenly incredibly close to your hands, and you reach up and grasp the side of his left thigh, the material of his dress soft, cotton. He moans audibly and you lick his lower lip almost unconsciously, without warning. Draco closes his eyes and his hands find your shoulders. He rubs them, his hands - his entire body - hot, and shaking.
You don't want to startle him, but you feel like you need to see them again. His eyes rake over your scar and you feel a whirlpool of frozen bridges penetrating your brain, you feel like he is a frozen bridge, the ice slick and unseen and potentially fatal, yet you're one of those gluttons for punishment and you love to get hurt by him, love to hurt him, and maybe that's why you will never be with him.
The freezing wind strikes the bridge above and below and on both sides, so it's losing heat from every side.
You reach to your shoulders and take Draco's thin hands into your own, and thumb the sleeves. You push one up and he shudders, and you take your time examining every pink ridge and every inch of flaking skin (he scratched when he thought you weren't looking) that's illuminated by the kitchen light. He bites his lip and inches closer to your face (if that's possible) and breathes on your neck, his eyelashes fluttering on your face.
“Wanna make me feel better?”
“I could never make you feel better.”
It's a cold remark but Draco doesn't react; he sits on your lap and cards your hair through his fingers, his mouth meeting yours in a rough, bruising kiss, and you think you feel blood well up on the side of your mouth somewhere. You lick the space in between his lips and yours and taste a salty, metallic liquid. Yes, he's definitely made you bleed again, and it's going to take a lot of explaining to Ginny as to why your mouth looks so bruised up again this time around.
He's getting up and moving to the bedroom, and you slowly follow, your shoes treading the carpet carefully, the material plush and clean beneath your steps. The bedroom door has become an omen of sorts, a threshold that led to a place where sweat shines on every pore and heavy guilt and satisfaction and need settles in your writhing stomach. The doorway itself is dark and looming, and the moonlight offers little comfort.
You carefully step inside, your shirt and trousers feeling uncomfortably tight for some reason, and not because you're aroused - by all means, you've been aroused since you set foot into the flat - but because for some reason Draco feels slightly different tonight and you're stuck wondering why.
“Don't be a stranger. I'm right here,” he says, his form suddenly clear to you. His hips are slightly jutted and he's playing with his sheets, picking at the cotton. His dress is haphazardly placed around his upper thighs, and the very sight makes you go cold with the sudden realization that there is a pale mad boy waiting for you to tear off his clothes and make him yours and let him make you his over and over and over, even if for but a night.
You shut the door behind you and toe off your shoes and slip off your shirt, your chest pounding incessantly. It feels as though your heart is about to beat its way out of its place between your heaving lungs and aching ribcage, and you can almost picture the sight of blood and cartilage and crackled bone hanging out of your chest, and your heart is in Draco's hands, still beating and still deliciously red with blood and lust and anger.
Anger at what you will never be able to have.
The road is only losing heat from its surface.
Draco's breath suddenly hitches, and that is what sets you off as you climb onto his overheated body and take his mouth, a strong hope to make him bleed as you did. He runs slender white hands up and down your bare back, over your shoulder blades. Something crawls along your skin and you know it's the want, the desire, and you kiss his neck as you feel underneath his dress, your hand palming his erection. You stare at his eyes and it's though the ice has increased tenfold, tough as steel, yet something in them is cracked and leaking and it says something along the lines of you are the only one who can fucking save me, and it makes your heart slow and your brain stutter. You hate being depended on, despite your past and despite what you've done to save the Wizarding world, you hate people looking up to you. Which, of course, makes you ungrateful and depressing, but there's only but so much admiration you are able to withstand until you wish that everyone would just go away.
You hate being overwhelmed.
He flips you over and you cry out almost involuntarily, but you revel in the feeling of your voice ripping through your throat and echoing in the empty, black space around you. His hips are grinding into your cock, making you harder by the second. He unzips your trousers and you help him shove them off of your pale legs and onto the floor, and he wastes no time in lowering his mouth and taking you in, the heat of his tongue and saliva surrounding the head. Your moans are loud and long, almost obnoxious, but he doesn't let you come and he lets you take control once more, so that you can come inside of him.
He needs help. He needs professional help, and he is seeing someone now but he is reluctant and almost resistant to the help he is being offered; his claim is that you know what it's like, and you want to scream in his face, “I've never known what it's like, I don't cross-dress, I remember my life, why the fuck are you so mad.” But there is no real answer - at least, not one that you know of.
Draco moans against your neck and you ripple back to life, and become aware of your fingers curled inside of him, stretching him out, making him buck against you. You bite your lower lip and drink in the smell of his skin as you slowly enter him, that familiar hiss snaking out of his mouth and into your ear, almost completely shutting down everything in your body. The sound of his voice makes you quiver, and while you want to shake him, to slap him, you also feel the need to hold him close to you and make him better all over again, although that can never happen, and you know the impossibility all too well.
“I need you so much,” you whisper against him, “I need you so much and I can never have you.”
He says nothing, just rocks in tempo with your body, his breath and his raw, ragged moans filling your eyes and ears and mouth and throat, and you want to capture it all in one single kiss, let it slide and settle somewhere inside of you, where he can always reside and melt and become stable and whole again. You're slipping and holding on with all of your might, the proverbial ice even more dangerous in this state, ironically enough.
You feel as though you will break your neck from all of the feelings and emotions and pure rage crushing and slapping against you.
Bridges have no way to trap any heat, so they will continually lose heat and freeze shortly after temperatures in the atmosphere hit the freezing point.
Your bodies collide once again, and you come violently, your spine shuddering to the point of perhaps one or two pieces of bone in danger of snapping. His drawn-out cry is the last of it, and you hold onto him, his body slowly starting to cool down.
“Harry, why can't you stay,” he whispers, and it almost makes you scream in agony. “Why can't you just stay with me, Harry?”
You stay silent for the longest of time, the dark of the moon becoming clear and yet still giving off some kind of illumination. His features are rigid and pale. His eyes seem too big, his fingers too shaky. His dress is wrinkled and nearly torn, and you just realize that he has been wearing it this whole time. Even when you are making love, he still refuses to shed the one thing that he feels most comfortable in; like a second skin.
His personality is icy and weathered, and even you cannot save him now.
“I could never love you,” you whisper, your voice shaking horribly. He does not answer, but his face morphs slowly into a look of hurt. You turn away and pretend to fall asleep, and it hurts even worse when you don't hear the sounds of sobbing, or even a rage-filled scream; it is deathly quiet. The air is cold, his skin is cold, and oh no, oh God, it is so horrifyingly cold.