kinder than man, athea davis
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kinder than man, athea davis
Draco Malfoy x you, birthday wish.
Synopsis:( A story where both of you are engaged since kids). one night before his seventeen birthday you give him an special present *wink*.
Note: It's me again I hope you like this new chapter.
Happy Birthday.
The days were warm, yellow with orange. Scraped knees, endless laughter, baby blue mornings. Birds singing lullabies at midday, strawberry and lemon shaved ice while sitting on a bench with an umbrella. Little hands dirty from playing in mud, hair pulling, crying, and sneaking candy as an apology at night.
That's how he grew up by your side, your best friend, your partner in childish crimes, like stealing cherry-filled chocolates and eating them secretly from an abandoned table in the back room, your companion, sometimes your enemy, other times your hero. If there was anything you were sure of, if there was a clear and transparent certainty, more so than your own existence, it was the fact that you and he were soulmates, born of the same star, perhaps. Your favorite person, with the same destiny in the end; a door that led to a room decorated with your favorite flowers, violin music filling everything around you, a white dress, petals falling on you both. Yes, I acept.
His happiness was your happiness, his laughter your joy, his sadness your sadness, his tears your pain. Like a ship rocking with the waves, he is the ocean, you are a boat, a fish. He is the sun, you a planet drawn to him, obeying his laws of gravity.
âââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ
You push open the heavy oak door to your room, the one thatâs been yours for as long as you can remember. Itâs directly across from Draco´s of course. Narcissa had insisted years ago, when you were both children running through these halls, that you should have a proper room. Your room. As if she knew youâd never really leave.
The space is warm, familiar. Your books stacked neatly on the shelf beside the window. Your trunk already waiting at the foot of the four-poster bed. A few dresses hang in the open wardrobe, and your potions kit sits on the vanity where you left it last summer.
You unpack, folding, hanging, and placing a few parchments and books in your desk.
The manor is quiet. The clock ticks somewhere in the house.
You sit in front your desk to start studying a little more before Draco arrive, youâre halfway a particularly tedious theory on gampâs law when your door swings open, no knock, no warning.
Draco leans against the door frame, arms crossed, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and disbelief.
âStudying?! He says flatly. âYouâre studying. On the night before my birthday.â
He steps inside, letting the door click shut behind him.
âWe had exams after the holidays, Draco. And I donât you know how to---â
But heâs already past you, fingers trailing over the items on your vanity, your perfumes, your lipstick, picking up a hair ribbon and letting it slip through his fingers. By the time you turn fully, heâs crossed to your bed and launched himself onto it with a grace that seems almost unfair for someone acting like a child.
He lands sprawled across your soft duvet, blonde hair mussed, grey eyes gleaming up at the ceiling. One arm folds behind his head. His long legs hand off the edge, feet still on the floor. He looks ridiculously out of place, to tall, too sharp, too Malfoy for the white bedding with frills and the fluffy pillows.
And yet.
He turns his head, catching you staring. A slow, sly smile spreads across his lips. âWhat? Never seen me in a bed before?â
He pats the space beside him, and invitation, wrapped in arrogance.
âCome here, Iâm bored. You can study later.â
As if your exam notes matter less than his whim. As if they always have.
âYou have your own bed, Draco.â
He keeps tapping the duvet beside him. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each one deliberate, patient, Insufferable. His grey eyes donât leave yours, that lazy smile still curving his lips.
Tap. Tap.
âDraco---â
You sigh. The sound of a battle youâve lost a hundred times before.
âMove over, then.â
He shifts just enough to make room, and you climb onto the bed beside him, settling into a familiar dip of the mattress. The canopy hangs about you both, velvet and dark. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The fire pops in the grate and the clock tick, outside is quite almost dusk.
You are painfully aware of him beside you, the warmth radiating from his arm. The slow rhythm of his breathing. Heâs too big now, for this bed that used to be too big for two children. His shoulder presses against yours, a solid, real weight.
He turns his head, blonde hair brushing the pillow. âRemember when we used to do this? Read under the covers until my mother caught us?â His voice is softer now. Stripped of the usual sharpness.
âI remember you used to steal all the blankets.â You canât help the smile thugs at your lips as you turn your head to face him. âBut you werenât this ridiculously tall.â
âItâs not my fault you didnât grow more, shorty.â He says.
You shove his shoulder, but he barely moves. He just grins, that infuriating, handsome grin, and shifts closer, shoulder pressing warm against yours, the scent of him filling the space between you.
His fingers find yours on the duvet, casual, like he doesnât notice. But you feel the deliberate brush of his thumb against your knuckle, once, twice, before he stills.
Your heart stumbles.
He stares at the canopy above, but he stays. Warm. Intentional.
âDonât overthink it.â He murmurs, voice a low rasp in the dim room. âJust⌠stay. For a bit.â
You shift onto your side, the duvet rustling beneath you. The movement is slow, deliberate, and when you settle, your eyes find his profile in the firelight.
The sharp line of his jaw. The slight hollow of his cheeks. The ways his pales lashes rest against his skin when he blinks. Heâs not the boy you used to wrestle with in these sheets, the one whoâd pull your hair and laugh until Narcissa threatened to separate you both.
Heâs different.
Your eyes trace the broad line of his shoulders, the way his chest rises and fall beneath his shirt. The room feels smaller suddenly. Warmer. The space between you crackles with something unnamed.
He must feel your gaze, because he turns his head, meeting your eyes. Something flickers in those grey eyes, awareness, maybe. Heâs close enough that you can see the ring grey around his pupils.
âwhat.â He asks, voice quieter than before. Not demanding. Almost⌠uncertain.
You realize youâve been staring. That your face is inches from his, that his hand is still loosely tangled with yours.
He doesnât pull away. Neither do you.
Then he moves. A fraction of an inch, barely perceptible. Except you feel it in the shift of the mattress, in the warmth that blooms between you as the distance shrinks. His breath ghosts across your cheek, soft and even. The scent of him, expensive cologne, cedar, something clean and male, fills your senses until you cants breath pass it.
His eyes trace your face like heâs memorizing it. The curve of your brow, the sweep of your lashes, the bow of your lips. Slow. Deliberate. The silence between you is thick, charged, full of things neither of you will say.
His hand, still tangled with yours. His thumb drags across your palm a slow, deliberate stroke that sends heat racing up your arm.
The whole world narrows to the space between his lips and yours, breath mixing in the dark.
âDracoâŚâ
The name leaves your lips soft and trembling. Your eyes drop to his mouth, the pale curve of his lips, slightly parted. He doesnât move, doesnât breathe, it seems.
Just watches you with those grey eyes, gone dark in the firelight, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths.
Heâs a gentleman. A Malfoy, he knows the rules.
But you donât.
You close the distance before you can talk yourself out of it, your lips meet his, clumsy, eager, bold. Itâs not perfect. Your nose bumps his, and youâre not entirely sure where to put your free hand, and your heart is slamming so hard youâre certain he can feel it.
But his lips are soft. Warm. And when he makes a small, surprised sound against your mouth, his hand tightens around yours.
He doesnât pull away.
Instead, his free hand comes up, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face into the kiss. He takes over slow, deliberate, the way he does everything and the kiss deepens, turns from clumsy to something that steals the air from your lungs.
When he finally breaks away, itâs only inches. His forehead rests against yours, breath uneven, grey eyes searching yours in the dim light.
Your name in his lips rough. Barely a whisper. âWhat--? â He stops. Swallows. His thumb traces your cheek like heâs reassuring himself youâre real.
You answer him not with words, but with your lips. This time youâre bolder. Your hand slides into his hair, fingers threading through the soft blonde strands, tugging gently as you press your mouth to his with a confidence that surprises even you. Thereâs a heat behind it now, curiosity turned hunger, the dam breaking.
But Draco⌠Draco kisses you softer, slower. Like heâs savoring every second, like heâs afraid youâll vanish if he rushes. His lips move against yours with patience thatâs almost cruel, drawing the moment out until youâre breathless and aching for more.
Then his composure cracks.
A low sound escapes his throat, something between a groan and a sigh and his arm hooks around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The movement is sudden, desperate, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like he needs to anchor himself to you.
Your knee brushes against him, and you feel it the hard press of his arousal through his trousers. He gasps against your mouth, breaking the kiss for just a second.
He says your name in a wrecked voice, his hand slides up your spine, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you close but not quite looking at you. âYou have no idea what you do to me, how long Iâve been waiting. â
His lips finds yours again, hungrier this time, less restrained, like heâs given up pretending. And you answer him with action, pulling him back into the kiss before the space between you can cool.
This time thereâs no hesitation, no shyness, just heat and want, your lips moving against his with hunger that surprises both. Your hips roll against his side, instinctive and eager, and a broken sound escapes his throat, swallowed by your mouth.
His composure shatters.
His hands slide down your back, gripping the curve of your waist, pulling you tighter against him until thereâs no space left between bodies. His mouth leaves yours, trailing fire down your jaw, your throat, settling in the hollow, where your pulse pounds frantic against his lips. He presses a kiss there. Then another. Then his teeth graze your skin, gentle, teasing, and you arch into him, fingers twisting in his hair.
 The world narrows to the heat of his mouth, the weight of his hands, and the sound of his uneven breathing against your neck.
Your name as a whisper. A prayer. Lost against your collarbone.
âDraco?â Narcissaâs voice floats up from somewhere on the first floor, distant, but clear, cutting through the haze like cold water, the house carries it through the corridors, upstairs, seeping under the door.
âDraco are you upstairs? I need to speak to you about tomorrowâs arrangements.â
Draco freezes against you.
For a long, charged moment, neither of you moves. His breath is warm in your skin, his hands still firm on your waist, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. You feel him exhale slow, controlled, as if pulling himself back from the edge.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. His lips are swollen, his hair disheveled, his grey eyes dark and hazy. He looks absolutely wrecked, and heâs staring at you like youâre the most beautiful thing heâs ever seen.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Swallows.
Then he presses a quick, almost apologetic kiss to your forehead, and rises from the bed, straightening his shirt with practiced ease.
âComing mother!â His voice is steady remarkably so, for someone who was just devouring your neck.
 He looks back at you from the doorway, firelight catching the sharps lines of his face. A faint, crooked smile touches his lips.
âDonât go anywhere.â A quiet intimate promise.
Then he slips out, closing the door softly behind him, leaving you alone I the dim room with the echo of his lips on your skin, his scent lingering in your bed and the crackling fire.
I loved your story! I'm writing a fanfic too in AO3, it's a Draco Malfoy x OC interaction. I invite you to take a look if you can and if you want to, no biggie. Thanks, anyway! đđđźđ
@calesvilaiwriter thank you so muchđŤśđťâ¨ of course I will, anything Draco Malfoy related I'm in, send me link or give me the name to look for it plsđ¤â¨
One of the best things about being a writer is thinking of something small you can add to your work thatâs just. Devastating. Like youâre sitting there going. Oh. That would be diabolical. People would get really riled up about that. Exquisite. Letâs do it.
musings on June
1. anne sexton (âthe truth the dead knowâ), 2. anne sexton (âsuicide note poemâ), 3. mary oliver (âaugustâ), 4. l.m. montgomery (âanne of the islandâ), 5. morgan parker (âthe black saint & the sinner lady & the dead & the truthâ), 6. found poems: sylvia plath / peter k. steinberg (âpercy key among the narcissiâ) artwork by hugo grenville
missing something i never had
healed enough to close the door, but human enough to still look at it sometimes
Draco Malfoy x you, ice cream in the summer.
Synopsis:( A story where both of you are engaged since kids). eating ice cream, and masturbating yourself while thinking of him.
Note: It's me again I hope you like this new chapter, it's a little bit more spicy and short *blushes*. I was listening "Everybody here wants you by Jeff Buckley." while writing this one.
Ice cream.
Summer has arrived, bringing soft, warm breezes that are perfect for enjoying an ice cream in the manor's gardens.
"I don't understand why you prefer to be out in the garden sweating in the heat when we could eat it inside," Draco says annoyed. If there's one thing he detests, it's the heat; sweating is something mundane and unpleasant according to him.
âItâs for greater pleasure, Draco. How is it possible to enjoy ice cream in a cold environment?â
He resigns himself and continues eating his ice cream. Even though he detests the heat, he would do anything to spend time with his beloved, even sweat under a chair with a parasol.
And like a ritual, one tablespoon at a time, you eat the ice cream. Vanilla with pistachios, shredded coconut, and cherry. Your tongue licking the last bits off the spoon. One more spoonful, and a little ice cream melts and falls onto your breasts. You donât notice, but he does, and he watches as you carelessly continue enjoying your ice cream, oblivious to what a little ice cream on the curves of your breasts is doing to him between his legs.
You continue carefree, enjoying the flavor, when you notice his gaze, deep and predatory on you. Without worrying, you look at him and ask, âIs something wrong?â
Draco clears his throat, feeling nervous. âNo, nothing.â "Keep eating your ice cream, I want to go inside already."
Then, as you continue eating your ice cream, a little more fall onto your breasts, and you finally realize the reason for his nervousness. You keep your eyes on Draco, and with one finger you wipe the melted ice cream off and slowly lick your finger without taking your eyes off him. He just swallows as the tips of his ears begin to turn slightly pink.
âââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ
Your room is cool and quiet, very different from the summer heat outside. You push the door of your room closed behind you, the latch catching with a soft click. The bed welcomes you as you fall backward into its soft embrace, the white cotton dress rides up your thighs as you stretch across the silk sheets.
Your eyes drift shut. And there he is. Grey eyes and sharp jaw. The way his throat moved when he saw the ice cream melting, falling on your breasts, while you pretended not to notice his fixed gaze on you. The way his eyes traced the path of the melted ice cream down your skin.
Your hand slides down your stomach, fingers trailing over the fabric of your dress. You imagine itâs his hand. Long fingers. Pale. Calloused from Quidditch. The sound he made while tracing kisses all over you, his warm, and his perfume soft-woodsy, musky, and warm with floral notes.
 You imagine the pushing the fabric up, higher, you slip your hand beneath the hem. Your breath catches as your fingers find warm skin, moving slowly, tracing lazy circles. The tension that has been built through the years between both of you is there, the tension of what happened two days ago before his birthday, coiled tight in your belly, waiting to be released.
Your back arches slightly. Your thighs part. The silk of the dress rustles as you touch yourself, your mind filling in the gaps his breath against your neck, his voice low and rough in your ear, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress.
Your breathing quickens. Soft gasp scape your lips, muffled as you press your free hand against your mouth.
You wonder if heâs thinking about you too. If heâs in his room, across the hall, doing the same thing. If heâs remembering the way he touched you two days ago, if he feels the same way you feel, if he longs for you, your body, the same way you long for him.
The thought pushes you over. Your body tenses, a soft cry swallowed by your palm, waves of release washing through you as you shudder against the sheets.
You lie there, breathless, limbs heavy, the afternoon light warming your flushed skin. Gradually your breathing slows. The tension dissolves from your muscles, one by one.
It the half-dream state, you feel it.
A shift in the air. A weight. That subtle change in pressure that comes when someone enters a room. You feel a warm, intense gaze on you, tracing the curve of your shoulder where the strap of your dress has slipped down. You feel it lingering on the bare skin of your thigh, exposed because the fabric has ridden up in your sleep.
You want to open your eyes. You try. But the dream holds you, heavy and soft, pulling you back under.
When you finally stir, the light in the room has changed. It is golden and low; the afternoon is slipping towards evening. The air is still. Youâre alone.
But the doorâŚ
The door is slightly ajar.
You sit up slowly, the silk in the sheets pooling around your waist. Your skin tingles. The room feels the same, but something is different. The air still carries a trace of something, cologne, maybe. Musky, green, familiar.
Youâre alone now. But you werenât, were you?
there's art inside me trying to get out
Lauren Berlant on the Freudian model of love, Desire/Love
(thatâs romantic âloveâ and here it sound more like terror- there are other loves, worthier of the name)
Draco Malfoy x you, birthday wish.
Synopsis:( A story where both of you are engaged since kids). one night before his seventeen birthday you give him an special present *wink*.
Note: It's me again I hope you like this new chapter.
Happy Birthday.
The days were warm, yellow with orange. Scraped knees, endless laughter, baby blue mornings. Birds singing lullabies at midday, strawberry and lemon shaved ice while sitting on a bench with an umbrella. Little hands dirty from playing in mud, hair pulling, crying, and sneaking candy as an apology at night.
That's how he grew up by your side, your best friend, your partner in childish crimes, like stealing cherry-filled chocolates and eating them secretly from an abandoned table in the back room, your companion, sometimes your enemy, other times your hero. If there was anything you were sure of, if there was a clear and transparent certainty, more so than your own existence, it was the fact that you and he were soulmates, born of the same star, perhaps. Your favorite person, with the same destiny in the end; a door that led to a room decorated with your favorite flowers, violin music filling everything around you, a white dress, petals falling on you both. Yes, I acept.
His happiness was your happiness, his laughter your joy, his sadness your sadness, his tears your pain. Like a ship rocking with the waves, he is the ocean, you are a boat, a fish. He is the sun, you a planet drawn to him, obeying his laws of gravity.
âââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââââ
You push open the heavy oak door to your room, the one thatâs been yours for as long as you can remember. Itâs directly across from Draco´s of course. Narcissa had insisted years ago, when you were both children running through these halls, that you should have a proper room. Your room. As if she knew youâd never really leave.
The space is warm, familiar. Your books stacked neatly on the shelf beside the window. Your trunk already waiting at the foot of the four-poster bed. A few dresses hang in the open wardrobe, and your potions kit sits on the vanity where you left it last summer.
You unpack, folding, hanging, and placing a few parchments and books in your desk.
The manor is quiet. The clock ticks somewhere in the house.
You sit in front your desk to start studying a little more before Draco arrive, youâre halfway a particularly tedious theory on gampâs law when your door swings open, no knock, no warning.
Draco leans against the door frame, arms crossed, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and disbelief.
âStudying?! He says flatly. âYouâre studying. On the night before my birthday.â
He steps inside, letting the door click shut behind him.
âWe had exams after the holidays, Draco. And I donât you know how to---â
But heâs already past you, fingers trailing over the items on your vanity, your perfumes, your lipstick, picking up a hair ribbon and letting it slip through his fingers. By the time you turn fully, heâs crossed to your bed and launched himself onto it with a grace that seems almost unfair for someone acting like a child.
He lands sprawled across your soft duvet, blonde hair mussed, grey eyes gleaming up at the ceiling. One arm folds behind his head. His long legs hand off the edge, feet still on the floor. He looks ridiculously out of place, to tall, too sharp, too Malfoy for the white bedding with frills and the fluffy pillows.
And yet.
He turns his head, catching you staring. A slow, sly smile spreads across his lips. âWhat? Never seen me in a bed before?â
He pats the space beside him, and invitation, wrapped in arrogance.
âCome here, Iâm bored. You can study later.â
As if your exam notes matter less than his whim. As if they always have.
âYou have your own bed, Draco.â
He keeps tapping the duvet beside him. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each one deliberate, patient, Insufferable. His grey eyes donât leave yours, that lazy smile still curving his lips.
Tap. Tap.
âDraco---â
You sigh. The sound of a battle youâve lost a hundred times before.
âMove over, then.â
He shifts just enough to make room, and you climb onto the bed beside him, settling into a familiar dip of the mattress. The canopy hangs about you both, velvet and dark. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The fire pops in the grate and the clock tick, outside is quite almost dusk.
You are painfully aware of him beside you, the warmth radiating from his arm. The slow rhythm of his breathing. Heâs too big now, for this bed that used to be too big for two children. His shoulder presses against yours, a solid, real weight.
He turns his head, blonde hair brushing the pillow. âRemember when we used to do this? Read under the covers until my mother caught us?â His voice is softer now. Stripped of the usual sharpness.
âI remember you used to steal all the blankets.â You canât help the smile thugs at your lips as you turn your head to face him. âBut you werenât this ridiculously tall.â
âItâs not my fault you didnât grow more, shorty.â He says.
You shove his shoulder, but he barely moves. He just grins, that infuriating, handsome grin, and shifts closer, shoulder pressing warm against yours, the scent of him filling the space between you.
His fingers find yours on the duvet, casual, like he doesnât notice. But you feel the deliberate brush of his thumb against your knuckle, once, twice, before he stills.
Your heart stumbles.
He stares at the canopy above, but he stays. Warm. Intentional.
âDonât overthink it.â He murmurs, voice a low rasp in the dim room. âJust⌠stay. For a bit.â
You shift onto your side, the duvet rustling beneath you. The movement is slow, deliberate, and when you settle, your eyes find his profile in the firelight.
The sharp line of his jaw. The slight hollow of his cheeks. The ways his pales lashes rest against his skin when he blinks. Heâs not the boy you used to wrestle with in these sheets, the one whoâd pull your hair and laugh until Narcissa threatened to separate you both.
Heâs different.
Your eyes trace the broad line of his shoulders, the way his chest rises and fall beneath his shirt. The room feels smaller suddenly. Warmer. The space between you crackles with something unnamed.
He must feel your gaze, because he turns his head, meeting your eyes. Something flickers in those grey eyes, awareness, maybe. Heâs close enough that you can see the ring grey around his pupils.
âwhat.â He asks, voice quieter than before. Not demanding. Almost⌠uncertain.
You realize youâve been staring. That your face is inches from his, that his hand is still loosely tangled with yours.
He doesnât pull away. Neither do you.
Then he moves. A fraction of an inch, barely perceptible. Except you feel it in the shift of the mattress, in the warmth that blooms between you as the distance shrinks. His breath ghosts across your cheek, soft and even. The scent of him, expensive cologne, cedar, something clean and male, fills your senses until you cants breath pass it.
His eyes trace your face like heâs memorizing it. The curve of your brow, the sweep of your lashes, the bow of your lips. Slow. Deliberate. The silence between you is thick, charged, full of things neither of you will say.
His hand, still tangled with yours. His thumb drags across your palm a slow, deliberate stroke that sends heat racing up your arm.
The whole world narrows to the space between his lips and yours, breath mixing in the dark.
âDracoâŚâ
The name leaves your lips soft and trembling. Your eyes drop to his mouth, the pale curve of his lips, slightly parted. He doesnât move, doesnât breathe, it seems.
Just watches you with those grey eyes, gone dark in the firelight, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths.
Heâs a gentleman. A Malfoy, he knows the rules.
But you donât.
You close the distance before you can talk yourself out of it, your lips meet his, clumsy, eager, bold. Itâs not perfect. Your nose bumps his, and youâre not entirely sure where to put your free hand, and your heart is slamming so hard youâre certain he can feel it.
But his lips are soft. Warm. And when he makes a small, surprised sound against your mouth, his hand tightens around yours.
He doesnât pull away.
Instead, his free hand comes up, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face into the kiss. He takes over slow, deliberate, the way he does everything and the kiss deepens, turns from clumsy to something that steals the air from your lungs.
When he finally breaks away, itâs only inches. His forehead rests against yours, breath uneven, grey eyes searching yours in the dim light.
Your name in his lips rough. Barely a whisper. âWhat--? â He stops. Swallows. His thumb traces your cheek like heâs reassuring himself youâre real.
You answer him not with words, but with your lips. This time youâre bolder. Your hand slides into his hair, fingers threading through the soft blonde strands, tugging gently as you press your mouth to his with a confidence that surprises even you. Thereâs a heat behind it now, curiosity turned hunger, the dam breaking.
But Draco⌠Draco kisses you softer, slower. Like heâs savoring every second, like heâs afraid youâll vanish if he rushes. His lips move against yours with patience thatâs almost cruel, drawing the moment out until youâre breathless and aching for more.
Then his composure cracks.
A low sound escapes his throat, something between a groan and a sigh and his arm hooks around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The movement is sudden, desperate, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like he needs to anchor himself to you.
Your knee brushes against him, and you feel it the hard press of his arousal through his trousers. He gasps against your mouth, breaking the kiss for just a second.
He says your name in a wrecked voice, his hand slides up your spine, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you close but not quite looking at you. âYou have no idea what you do to me, how long Iâve been waiting. â
His lips finds yours again, hungrier this time, less restrained, like heâs given up pretending. And you answer him with action, pulling him back into the kiss before the space between you can cool.
This time thereâs no hesitation, no shyness, just heat and want, your lips moving against his with hunger that surprises both. Your hips roll against his side, instinctive and eager, and a broken sound escapes his throat, swallowed by your mouth.
His composure shatters.
His hands slide down your back, gripping the curve of your waist, pulling you tighter against him until thereâs no space left between bodies. His mouth leaves yours, trailing fire down your jaw, your throat, settling in the hollow, where your pulse pounds frantic against his lips. He presses a kiss there. Then another. Then his teeth graze your skin, gentle, teasing, and you arch into him, fingers twisting in his hair.
 The world narrows to the heat of his mouth, the weight of his hands, and the sound of his uneven breathing against your neck.
Your name as a whisper. A prayer. Lost against your collarbone.
âDraco?â Narcissaâs voice floats up from somewhere on the first floor, distant, but clear, cutting through the haze like cold water, the house carries it through the corridors, upstairs, seeping under the door.
âDraco are you upstairs? I need to speak to you about tomorrowâs arrangements.â
Draco freezes against you.
For a long, charged moment, neither of you moves. His breath is warm in your skin, his hands still firm on your waist, his forehead pressed to your shoulder. You feel him exhale slow, controlled, as if pulling himself back from the edge.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. His lips are swollen, his hair disheveled, his grey eyes dark and hazy. He looks absolutely wrecked, and heâs staring at you like youâre the most beautiful thing heâs ever seen.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Swallows.
Then he presses a quick, almost apologetic kiss to your forehead, and rises from the bed, straightening his shirt with practiced ease.
âComing mother!â His voice is steady remarkably so, for someone who was just devouring your neck.
 He looks back at you from the doorway, firelight catching the sharps lines of his face. A faint, crooked smile touches his lips.
âDonât go anywhere.â A quiet intimate promise.
Then he slips out, closing the door softly behind him, leaving you alone I the dim room with the echo of his lips on your skin, his scent lingering in your bed and the crackling fire.
Mesalina (1884), de Eugène Cyrille Brunet
âTact, like empathy, is based on a certain form of mutual understanding. But while empathy implies the idea of entering someone elseâs mind inasmuch as it is linked to the presumption that âI know how you feelâ, tact exists to create a form of bonding between individuals that is not based on the idea of intrusion but, conversely, on the respect for existing boundaries, and on a willingness not always to assume that one knows. While empathy requires resonance and proximity, tact is there to restore distance, and to accept the diďŹerence between the individuals involved in order to protect and preserve their dignity. Tact is based on an attention towards otherness.â
â Katja Haustein, âHow to Be Alone with Others: Plessner, Adorno, and Barthes on Tactâ (via mehreenkasana)
At risk of getting too pedantic up here, one thing Iâve noticed is that often when we talk about metaphor, weâre actually talking about simile. Weâre poetically likening one thing to another thing. And similes are very handyâI myself have bandied about more than my fair share along the way. But Iâve come to prefer the quiet authority of a true metaphor. Not saying that something is like another thing, but saying that it is that thing. And performing this feat of semantic transmutation so vividly and so concretely that the reader accepts it as truth. [âŚ] simile requires little more than imagination and intelligence. Simile by dint of its phrasing seems to doubt itself. Itâs polite and socialized and it leaves room for the possibility that others see the world in a different way. Semantically speaking, metaphor doesnât apologize or try to justify itself. A proper metaphor hurtles its audience deep into the private mythological landscape of the writer. It imparts upon its audience a sudden, bracing fluency in the writerâs private symbolic language. Metaphor is artless and unaffected and feral. You could say itâs raised by wolves, but more to the point, itâs raised outside of words. A good metaphor makes me shiver, as if a ghost has passed through my body, because in a way it has. Metaphor is a kind of immortal certainty. You might not agree lastingly with the words youâre reading, you might not even be able to later recall the electric sensation of summoning and possession and resurrection that shot through you when you encountered this writerâs words. But in that one moment, you walked freely within their symbolic domain, preserved and untouched and momentarily more tangible than your own. In that moment, the fog never could have rolled in on anything besides little cat feet.
â Joanna Newsom, City Council, Nevada City declares May 27th 'Joanna Newsom Day'
I love the way you write
it's just so perfect đ
Thank you so much!!đ¤ I'm glad you like it!đ¤
Draco Malfoy x you, first kiss.
Synopsis:( a story where both of you are engaged since kids) but neither of you have experience, and you are both two teenagers finding difficult to express your feelings.
Note: it's my very first fanfiction i hope you like it, sorry if I misspell a word english it's not my first language.
Has he been loyal?
You donât know and not knowing eats you up inside, a doubt that burrows like a thorn in the middle of your chest, throbbing, keeping your eyes wide opened in the darkened room. The fire pops downstairs. Somewhere, a door creaks.
Sleep refuses to claim you. Every time you close your eyes all you can see is his face. The dormitory is quiet all the other girls breathe slow and even. You pad barefoot across the cold stone easing the door open, and slip down the spiraling staircase.
The common room is empty. The fire has burned slow, casting long shadows across the armchairs. Embers glow like scattered rubies in the grate.
You sink into the armchair, pulling your knees to your chest. The leather is cold against your bare legs. The green glow of the lake filters through the windows, casting rippling patterns across the stone floor.
Has he been loyal?
The question consumes you from within, gnawing at you like a thorn you can't find. Sharp and persistent⌠Youâve kept to yourself- keep your heart guarded, your lips untouched- because the engagement was always a certainty. A sealed fate. You never thought to question it.
But Draco has been here at Hogwarts, surrounded by pretty girls who throw themselves at him. Your fingers tighten around your knees.
Has he let them kiss him? Touch him? More? What kind of conversation he has had with them? Conversations that you will never know about it.
Does he even care about the engagement at all or is just and obligation to him, a box to check, a name on a contract?
The fire pops, sending a spark spiraling up the chimney. You watch it fade in to the darkness, feeling very small in the hollow quiet of the common room.
You stare at the dying embers, their orange glow the only thing holding back the darkness. The questions spiral, relentless, each one sharper than the last.
Then you hear footsteps.
Soft. Deliberate. Descending the spiral staircase from the boyâs dormitory.
Your breath catches. You donât turn. You keep your gaze fixed on the fire, but your senses sharpen, tracing the sound as it draws closer. The steps pause at the bottom of the stairs. A beat of silence.
Then they continue towards you.
Draco appears at the edge of your vision, padding barefoot across the cold stone floor.
His white shirt is untucked, the top with a few buttons undone, revealing a sliver of collarbone. His hair mussed, sleep-rumpled, and he is carrying a half empty glass of water.
He stops when he sees you.
For a long moment neither of you speaks. The fire pops. The green light of the lake pulses softly through the windows.
âYouâre awake.â He says. His voice is rough with sleep, stripped of its usual polish.
âCouldnât sleep.â You reply without looking at him.
He hesitates. Then, instead of retreating to his dormitory, he moves to the armchair across from yours and sit. The leather creaks under his weight. He sets the water on the side table, and leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped.
The firelight carves shadows across his face, softening the sharp lines.
âMe neither.â
You keep staring at the fire as if it holds secrets, as if somewhere in those dying embers lies the answers the questions clawing at your chest.
Across from you, Draco shifts. He follows your gaze to the flames, then lets out a low breath.
âYouâve been staring at the fire for five minutes straight.â He says. His voices carries that sleep roughed edge, quieter than usual. âIf youâre trying to divine something in the ashes, youâll have better luck with tea leaves.â
You donât smile.
The silence stretches. The fire pops. The green glow pulses through the windows like a slow heartbeat.
Then you speak. Your voice is quiet, steady, your eyes still fixed on the flames.
âHave youâve been loyal?â
Draco goes still.
You feel the shift in the air, the way his breath catches, the way his fingers stop their idle tapping on his knee. He doesnât answer. Doesnât move.
You press on, the words spilling like water through cracked stone. âTo the engagement. Have youâŚâ you trail off, your jaw tightening. The fire flickers, and you watch it as if will save you from saying the next part.
You swallow.
âHave you been kissed?â
The words hand in the air between you, fragile and terrifying.
The fire pops. A log shifts, sending sparks spiraling up the chimney. The silence stretches so long you think maybe heâs gotten up and left without a word. But you heard him breathe a shaky exhale, barely audible.
Then Dracoâs voice, low and rough.
âNo.â
The words hang in the air, single and absolute. No.
 A breath you didnât realize you were holding leaves your lungs in a slow, shuddering exhale. The tension thatâs been coiled in your chest for so long finally begins to unravel.
You feel lighter, a weight you didn't know you were carrying has finally dissipated.
Your body relaxes in the armchair, your knees loosen slightly, and your shoulders soften. You keep staring at the fire, but its flames feel different, warmer, gentler, and its dance less frantic.
Across from you, Draco watches. He can see the shift in your posture, the way the rigidity drains from your frame.
None of you speak for a long moment. The fire pops. The lakeâs green glow pulses.
Then, quietly, Dracoâs voice cut through the stillness.
âNow your turn.â
 You glance at him, heâs leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his grey eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip.
âHave you?â
âNo.â
The words leaves your lips softer than his did. Barely a whisper, carried by the crackling fire. Youâre still staring at the flames, watching them dance, but you feel the weight of his gaze on you, grey eyes searching, reading the lines of your profile.
He doesnât speak. The quiet stretches but itâs not uncomfortable, itâs the kind of silence that holds more than words could.
Then, so quietly that you almost miss it:
âGood.â
A single word. But the way he says it, relieved almost vulnerable, makes your chest tighten.
You finally turn to look at him. The fire has burned low, casting his face in shadow and amber. His grey eyes catch the light, and for a moment, he doesn't look like the arrogant prince of Slytherin. He looks like the boy who grew up with you, sharing secrets and cherry-filled chocolates under the table, like the kid who laughed when you fell and your knees got muddy, like the boy who saves you a seat next to him and remembers that strawberries are your favorite.
The fire pops, somewhere in the castle, a clock chimes a late hour, too late for either of you to be awake.
Minutes pass or maybe seconds. The time feels meaningless in the dim glow of dying embers and dark water.
Your gazes hold. Grey meeting the color of your own eyes. What did he call them once, years ago? Like the sea before the storm. Youâd pretended not to hear, but the words had lodged in your chest and stayed there.
He breaks first.
His throat works. He looks down at his hands, then look back at you, and when he speaks, his voice is stripped of every layer of arrogance, every shred of Malfoy pride.
âDo you want to try?â
The questions is soft. Polite, almost tentative; a word you never thought youâd associate with Draco Malfoy. His grey eyes holds yours, open and unguarded, in a way that makes your heart stumbled.
The fire pops. The clock chimes again, making the passage of another quarter-hour. The world holds its breath.
âTo kiss.â He says, and his voice has gone soft almost shy. His grey eyes drop to your lips, linger there for a heartbeat, then lift back to meet yours. The firelight catches the faint flush creeping across his cheeks.
The word hangs between you, fragile and electric.
Your heart stumbles in your chest. The common room, the fire, the lakeâs green glow, the distant creaking of the castle, all of it fades into a distant hum. Thereâs only him, watching you with an openness youâve never seen on his face before.
The silence stretches. A breath. Another.
Then you feel yourself lean forward, almost without deciding. The leather creaks beneath you. The distance between you shrinks.
Your lips meets his.
Soft and tentative, the barest brush of contact, like asking a question.
His breath catches against your mouth. Then his hand lifts, trembling slightly and cups your jaw, gentle, so gentle and he kisses you back like heâs been waiting years to do it.
Maybe he has.
The kiss breaks like the dawn breaking over the horizon- slow, reluctant and inevitable.
You pull back and for a moment you forget where you are, the common room, the fire, the lake pressing against the windows, it all blurs into a haze of sensation. Your lips tingle. Your breath comes shallow, uneven, as if youâve just surface from deep water.
Dracoâs hand is still against your jaw, his thumb resting against your cheek. Heâs close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his grey eyes, close enough to catch the way his chest rises and fall faster than usual.
Neither of you speaks.
The fire pops and a log crumbles, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney, and the sound grounds you back in the moment.
You become aware of your hand. When did it move? Resting against his chest, the fabric of his shirt warm beneath your fingers. You can feel his heartbeat, rapid and real, drumming against your palm.
He swallows, his thumb traces the gentlest, most feather light patch across your cheekbone. His eyes search yours, asking a question he doesnât have words for.
Your name in his lips, breathless barely audible.
The fire burns on, the only witness to the two of you suspended in this moment, hearts racing in the quiet dark.
A sketch for a future painting...
(I have a few ideas about what kind of style to use)
Andrea Gibson, The Madness Vase