[morsvmordre]

melancholya​.

            fear  grips  her  tightly,   it  has  been  invading  her  veins  for  some  nights  now,   under  the  darkness  of  it,   eyelids  were  heavy  with  exhaustion  but  they  stubbornly  stayed  open  as  thoughts  run  through  her  mind,   as  memory  kept  assaulting  her.   with  tired  eyes,   she  is  now  examining  old  memories,   trying  to  examine  them  in  a  new  light,   trying  to  find  reasons  behind  his  actions,   trying  to  find  reasons  to  forgive  him.   for  he’s  hurt  her,   hurtful  words  thrown  at  her  face  with  glee,   self  confidence  cracking  the  already  shaky  foundations  she  was  standing  on.   draco  had  been  a  cruel  boy,   hate  pouring  in  waves  toward  her      &&      she  had  thought  herself  better,   had  ignored  every  barb,   turned  her  nose  up  at  his  taunts      /      she  had  thought  ignorance  the  best  way  but  every  word  had  been  a  thorn  in  her  side.   draco  had  been  a  bully,   a  truly  awful  kid  and  now  his  hands  had  been  upon  her  flesh,   sweet  words  upon  his  tongue  and  she  can’t  quiet  down  the  little  voice  that  whispers  in  her  ear      :      𝑠𝘩𝑒’𝑠  𝑙𝑒𝑡  𝑎  𝑠𝑛𝑎𝑘𝑒  𝑖𝑛.

           but  that  terrible  thought  feels  like  a  betrayal  for  she’s  discovered  his  goodness,   the  tilt  of  a  soft  smile  directed  at  her,   he’s  shown  her  his  scars      &&      has  admitted  his  shortcomings      /      how  dare  she  throws  past  mistakes  in  his  face.   saint,   golden  girl,      brightest,   they  all  put  her  up  on  a  pedestal  for  hermione  granger  is  fair  and  understanding,   they  don’t  see  her  failures,   the  cracks  in  her  soul  that  he  fills,   the  distrust  in  the  pit  of  her  stomach  when  she’s  all  alone.   heart  has  been  broken  and  cracked,   she  can’t  be  perfect,   she  is  riddled  with  scars  on  her  own,   she’s  too  scared  she’ll  break  this  time      /      if  he  lets  her  fall  like  the  careless  child  he  used  to  be.   brown  hues  dart  to  the  offered  hand,   empathy  already  knowing  the  fear  in  his  heart,   empathy  making  her  reach  for  it.         ❝  there  are  questions  i  can’t  ask.  for  i  know  they  will  break  the  both  of  us.  ❞         &&         maybe  she  cares  too  much  about  him  to  care  about  herself.

it stings more than it should , the implication that there are still ways for them to break one another. like they hadn’t agreed to disarm on their way into — this. had he not laid himself bare at her feet , metaphorically and otherwise , to prove his devotion? but hermione is a smart woman , and most days , he’s still a foolish boy , and he can’t say he doesn’t wake up with a very tangible fear sitting upon his ribs each morning. he is afraid he might ruin it. more than that , he is afraid it is inevitable. 

and he wants to believe as much as she wants to believe that he has shed his old skin , leaving it to rot somewhere beneath the earth. he wants to believe that he has changed and his life holds promise and his father is a good influence and his mother is a better woman and that lucius was wrong and... well , if he looks too closely at all these things , it feels impossible for them all to be true. 

❛ then what will you do , hermione ? ❜ he pulls her closer , but still , he touches her hand and only her hand. ❛ pretend , for the rest of your life , that you don’t need the answer ? you always need the answer , and apparently , this is one you can’t just run to the library and look up , so tell me. what are you going to do when you can no longer keep yourself from asking it ? will it come back to blow up in our faces later ? if we - make it , will you wake up next to me one day and regret it ? ❜

yet , in all of that , he is asking only a single question he doesn’t know how to form with his lips : what do you need from me ? 

❛ we can’t do that , can we ? and maybe - maybe i need the answers too. ❜

[morsvmordre]

HOZIER SENTENCE STARTERS | accepting.

@melancholya​ said: ❝  there  are  questions  i  can't  ask. ❞  from hermione to draco

❛ i cannot imagine a single question you couldn’t ask. then again, you don’t need to ask many , do you ? you already know most of the answers. ❜

but he sobers when he realizes this is serious , the smile falling from his sharp face. he catches her look , unable —or unwilling— to decipher what it could mean. he supposes he’s still growing used to her being a normal person , not in the way he used to try and make her feel before but in the way that needs as much understanding as he does. she isn’t immune to the mundane and monotonous. neither is he. 

❛ alright. what kinds of questions would those be ? are they the kind i need to offer the answers to on my own without prompting , or . . . ? ❜

those were the only kinds of questions lucius ever answered , the only kinds of questions his mother never asked. he crosses his arms because old habits are hard to break and turns to face her fully. 

❛ if not , i’d ask them for you if i needed to. all you would have to do is say the word. ❜ he takes a step toward her , wondering if he’s reading too much into it. or maybe he’s just saying too much. his mind hasn’t let him rest in months , but it’s easier to be cryptic than it is to be decent. it’s easier to be confusing than to be confused. 

❛ what is it you still need to know , hermione ? ❜ he raises a brow and extends a hand. ❛ what is left for you to ask ? ❜

[mercysought]

@ourpyrrhicvictory​​​ . @morsvmordre​​​ : [ look ] for your muse to catch mine staring - draco @ maxima from word prompts compilation ( selectively accepting )

It had been the same feeling as she had had it when she was younger, still in school. Wearing her uniform, carefully prepared hair (not unlike what she did now, almost twenty years later — had it truly been that long?), perfect badge over her chest and her full attention on the professors. It hadn’t been the first time then that she had felt eyes glued on the back of her skull in specific classes. As the years had gone by she had made a silent game of it, counting the seconds before looking over her shoulder and giving the one guilty of staring but a glance. A reward, or a challenge.

A warning: I know that you have been staring.

It gave her pause that they had only been fourteen the first time that she had caught him staring. Not long before the incident with the professor Against the Dark Arts in the courtyard. After that, he had seemed far shyer to be caught starring at anyone else, or perhaps that was simply what she had told herself that. It was actually mindboggling now to think that she that something as small had bothered her given the circumstances. Given that they really hardly spoke outside of their family events. Being in two different houses made it all the harder and those that were in Slytherin often had learnt one way or another that she was not the Hufflepuff that they wanted to find on a bad day. Or they had already learnt of that fact and two things happened: an attempt at dialogue or keeping their distance.

It had been then, after a particular class where he had stared that she had decided to take a more direct approach. Truth was that she could say that she had grown out of the games; that she had become a better person and moved beyond measuring acts that demonstrated affection and devotion, beyond making a game out of that too. She could say it, but she would be lying.

Like much in her life on her younger years, their relationship too had been up and down and she remembered much of it as fun, though she also remembered the many screaming matches, the mind games, the attempts at jealousy. If Maxima was to pour now into those memories, she only felt sorry for the things that they both had put Pansy Parkinson through. She had regretted them at the time and even now she wasn’t hard-pressed to apologise for it, but it hadn’t been right to do that.

No, the newest Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation knew very well that throughout school, when it came to interpersonal relationships — or having any semblance of true stability, hadn’t been her strong suits.

And now she found herself with the same familiar feeling at the back of her neck. Found herself waiting and pausing, continue the conversation that she had started with the French Minister of Magic, holding her drink in hand. Dark green eyes move, gliding across the room and faces until landing on one that is familiar. Surprise lifts her eyebrows, leaving her to pause for a second that she hadn’t accounted for in the conversation.

Draco looked different, though not so much that he looked unrecognisable. Healthier. Their last year in Hogwarts hadn’t been the last time that they had seen each other. Maxima was never an emotional person and that had always been something that she knew that Draco needed. Something that she could truly not provide, that she didn’t want to. When she had found out about the dark mark — first through rumours, then demanding to see it, she had been terrified, disgusted, scared.

Scared, perhaps was the closest and loudest one among them all. Things didn’t end well, but unlike the many other times where they hadn’t ended well, they didn’t restart. There is a tinge of guilt there too, more than the bad and ugly things she had done to some people. A Hufflepuff that refused to stand with another, even if another was Slytherin but she could not do it. He didn’t understand, wouldn’t, that by having that mark upon his skin that meant that her life, in his eyes, meant nothing. If Voldemort had won, she would have been dead.

The worst perhaps is that she saw the fear in his eyes then and still chose to walk away. To say that she could not do this because she couldn’t. She felt fear for him, but first? First, she felt fear for herself. In earlier conversations, they had discussed running away, and it had been a good fantasy to indulge in but that was all that it had been. And Maxima could not live on fantasies, could not plan and protect herself knowing that. She had tried to be there, to help him, but he sunk deeper and deeper and she was afraid she would sink too.

Things changed, of course. And they had tried, had they not? After school they had given it a fair shot, an attempt to fix not only their own issues but also to try — seriously try, to see what they could manage.

The time that they had spent together had been good. But she focused more on her own work. And he on his and himself. He wanted to move to France with his family and she… well. She held no ties to her family, not truly, but she didn’t want to leave. Things were different and yet she still felt fear when standing around his mother, around the man that he eventually discovered to be his father.

Maxima would understand if he kept the relationship because he was afraid because he needed to keep appearances. She would understand because she did the same. But he seemed to truly love them, to continue visiting them more and more. She could forgive him because she knew him, she knew that he had been scared then, as scared as she had. Maxima had a much harder time doing the same for Narcissa and Rabastan, regardless of how much she tried to twist her mind to do it. And she had tried.

The surprise smooths itself over and her cup is raised in his direction, a small nod given. A grin hides behind the cup as she returns once again to the conversation at hand.

[mercysought]

@ourpyrrhicvictory​​​​​​​ said: ( SECRET ) arriving where they both agreed to meet in secret in the dead of night. draco @ maxima from Seduction Starters ( not accepting )

   “Well,” Maxima hums. In the empty corridors of the school, her voice was as soft as the steps over the carpet that she walked on, slowly heading towards where the Slytherin Prefect stood. He looked thinner and even his hair seemed to lose its golden colour in the past few passing months. He didn’t tell her why, but Maxima could gather enough to know that it looked bad. She knew enough to know that he was trying to keep her in the dark because one way or another he felt that it was safer for her and maybe even for him. Still, his posture was still the same where the pride still held onto his shoulders, that much was clear, but there was a dullness in his eyes, the signs of fatigue all around them. Her smile remains on her lips because they are trained to do so, even as she approaches more and more “What a curious sight to see in the middle of the night.”

A joke that requires no landing and no laughter. It is more of a comment and a way of relieving the heavy tensions than anything else. This was the first time they were meeting since the beginning of the year after all. Even the agreement to meet had been almost a surprise from both sides. To say that this meeting was almost as dangerous as it was foolish would be a serious understatement. They were both there all the same, were they not? Her hands find her pockets as she comes to a stop.

They had never really had anything official. Official took time and took too many strings that neither of them could really afford. If Maxima was to be truthful, it was mostly because she could not afford, nor had she wanted. The thought of what would be of her if they were involved in any official manner made her throat tighten. Then again, if Draco was ever to truly find out her blood status, he might curse her until the day that he dies. Maybe, but that hardly mattered now. The smile on her lips turns slowly into a frown and a slight furrow of her brows “You look like you have not slept for days.”

[lizzyisameme]

literary sexts vol. 1 poetry meme

Literary Sexts is a modern day anthology of short love poems with subtle erotic undertones edited by Amanda Oaks & Caitlyn Siehl. Hovering around 50 contributors & 124 poems, this book reads is like one long & very intense conversation between two lovers. It’s absolutely breathtaking. These are poems that you would text to your lover. Poems that you would slip into a back pocket, suitcase, wallet or purse on the sly. Poems that you would write on slips of paper & stick under your crush’s windshield wiper. Poems that you would write on a Post-it note & leave on the bathroom mirror. Treat yourself, a crush or a lover with this lush gift!

source and amazon buy link.  

I will be providing select short, sometimes edited, poems for a texting/”sexting” meme, but not the whole book itself.  If you enjoy the poems provided, please support the collection whether it’s the first volume or the second.   Or look into the works of the various contributors and see if anything else they’ve written is to your liking!  

Feel free to add to and/or edit these sentences to better suit your needs—but remember, many of these work best in the context of texts and/or love notes instead of spoken dialogue.    —Lizzy.  

Mark me like a passage from your favorite book, then open me there again and again.

My skin is full of flowerbeds and you know every way to make them bloom.

I am tracing the knobs of your spine like the map of my favorite continent. You are all the places I haven’t visited yet and I mark each one off with my teeth.

Your hands unzip me one breath at a time; there is not room beneath my skin for all of you and I spill over the edges with a sigh.

You take apart my heart in pieces with your mouth, but the splash of your tongue against mine feeds it back to me. It tastes sweeter coming from you.

You opened your mouth and spoke the language in my blood.

You kiss me and there aren’t sparks. There’s an entire orchestra in my chest, playing staccato on my heart strings.

My hands are nomads, my dear desert. May they never find rest.

Being small things, we understand this as our humble attempt at thunder, at setting the world to shake.

Delicate work. Like peeling kiwis. My tongue across your skin. Mellow flesh against my lips. Your taste always in my mouth.

How a storms needs to feel the earth how the earth wakes to the pelt of rain how the ground is quenched is how I need you… 

My hands were glaciers I never dared to move freely, my fingers icicles. Your touch thawed me to excavation. I want to dig into your warmth.

Kiss me like white bread, stick to my teeth even after the whiskey. I want memories of your mouth lodged beneath my tongue to wake me at two in the morning, hungry.

I want you next to me, in my bed, your clothes making friends with my floor. Love me hard enough so we wake up the neighbors.

Your hands peeling that onion, thumbs and forefingers pulling skin from skin—they are sacred. Let me kiss them. Let them bless my sinning chest, let them peel my lips apart.

I don’t want to be your harmonies anymore; I want to be the melody you scream when your heart is starving for love. I want to satisfy your hunger.

Show me the parts of you that nobody else ever wanted to sleep with. Show me it all with the lights on.

You, darling, are Vesuvius. I won’t see you coming. Erupt. Wreck me. Leave me ashes leave me Pompeii, leave me outlined into your history forever.

It’s not so much that I want to kiss you. I want to relearn vocabulary words from the shape of your mouth. All my poems are yours first.

Kiss me blossoms in the summer, lover. I want to taste the succulent sweet of your peach tree smile. This time let Adam take the fruit from the garden.

Surge into me as a downpour, as the pounding waterfall which makes swollen rivers flood, as the sea.

The happy ending to this night: you tug my hair and lightly brush your hand across my lap. Don’t forget how resilient I am and how I would bend for you.

Even my lungs are in love as we breathe together.

I don’t just want to take your breath away. I want to rip it from your mouth and keep it locked away between my teeth. You can only have it back if you kiss me again.

The gentle friction of your hand on my thigh is enough to strike a match inside me. I lean into your lips and the fire blooms and spreads.

You are an undiscovered continent. I trail my fingers down your mountainsides. Ten explorers digging for buried treasure, I want to take it all.

My body is a gospel and you are my first quivering hallelujah. Your breath leaves your mouth like a prayer and washes over me like faith.

My hands are hungry for your flesh, desperate in the way that rivers empty themselves over waterfalls.

I peel back your skin to see if we have the same scars. I follow the map of your veins back to your heart and press my palm against yours to tangle our lifelines.

I hope to breathe in you. I hope my body will be the blood your roots drink.

We commit sins in holy places, fold ourselves between pews like dirty pictures tucked into a bible. Pant each other’s names until they sound like scripture.

My tongue collides with your collarbone like a meteor careening across the cosmos, and I taste the stars you are made of.

You kiss me with your mouth wide open like you’re not afraid of swallowing poison. I taste the good and bad in you and want them both. We call this bravery.

You, benevolent god, legs splayed like instruments of creation. I, blank slate of the universe, kneel in wait for you to fill me with your hot, honeyed light.

My hands are suntanned tourists without a map whose desire compels them onward to explore your golden cities by the light of the stars.

The moment between your thighs where I become a devout follower of your existence. That hour which passes in slow seconds of soft skin, as I lay my head against you, drifting, drowsy with love.

Your grin is a flash of primal fire in the dark. Somewhere deep inside me, something hungry wakens and shifts, uncurls its insatiable tongue.

I have been thinking of how I want to be touched by you, with hands that will play me like piano keys, with fingers that will make a symphony out of me.

You till the soil of my need, my lips a blood-red flower bursting open with the first wet flush of your heat.

When it comes right down to it, all that nonsense about hearts syncing up feels like a hallelujah with our bodies pressed together like praying hands.

Every time, you peel back my skin, pry open my ribs, and feast on my insides. Every time, you make a meal of my heart, and every time, I let you.

You’re not one for poetry or sentimentality, so I’ll just say that I’ve dreamt of being the motor oil trapped in the grooves of your weathered hands.

I ache for your hum between my legs, the purring of motorcycles on winding highways: wind in my hair, and romance in losing myself to the sweet, revving vibration of the engine again and again.

You smile and it’s like sunrise. Something inside me Wakes up, stretching.

I float away in cool sheets against my burning skin, and you are the sea guiding me beyond the realm of earthly things.

My lipstick spills over your mouth and trickles down to your chin, your neck, pooling into your collarbones. We love like crushed grapes in wine country.

You’re kissing a wildfire up my thigh and I am tracing the landscape of your jawbone like a sculptor. My hands were made for this.

The rush you give me: The way a blade of grass must feel when splashed with a cloud’s cry after days of screaming for rain.

We are the fall of Rome, all fire and fighting. We collapse into each other like the pieces of the Parthenon, kissing like gladiators, loving like rebuilding.

You creep into my head like a river rushing for the sea & a cosmic digit of fingertips flash over me.

You are pressing against me like I press flowers against the pages in my book. You are kissing my neck and it feels like the start of forever. I want to touch you until my palms burn.

The wet of your mouth rains down my neck like frame, the soft heat of your tongue burns the apple in my throat. We are practiced at this love that asks angels to cover their eyes and turns devils shy.

I melt into the gentleness of your fingertips. Your tongue presses me open like the summer fresh flesh of a perfectly ripe fig, all juice, seeds and pulp.

The small of your back is refuge, is veldt, is summer heat. And I am predatory snarl.

I can’t brush out the taste of you; coffee breath, cigarette smoke, and all. Mouth to mouth; Our shared vices linger on each other. Your salt still lives in my tongue.

I’ll take you quiet as the bones in your closet, love as softly as a whisper. Holding your tongue like a secret.

You smiled and lit up like the dusk. I sank to your lips like the sun against the horizon. We made the day stand still.

I want to kiss you until you melt into me, ice turning to water. I want to drink you deep, and warm you from the inside.

[morsvmordre]

diaferon​.

               the  whole  world  has  disappeared,    as  if  everything  that  isn’t  them  doesn’t  exist,    as  if  their  whole  world  is  limited  to  their  body,    they  are  the  entire  world    &&    its  extremities.    and  she  is  fine  with  it,    more  than  fine,    the  other  world,    the  one  where  they  both  suffered,    where  they  are  both  judged  is  too  harsh,    too  cold,    she’s  adrift  in  it,    so  alone.    but  in  this  world  of  two,    his  arms  the  oceans,    his  chest  the  very  earth,    his  eyes  the  sky,    in  this  world  of  two,    she’s  never  alone,    hermione  knows  exactly  who  she  is  there.    she’s  a  girl,    a  bit  broken,    a  bit  lost  but  he’s  a  boy  who  is  a  bit  broken    &&    a  bit  lost  too    ;;    they’re  not  alone  if  they  are  together.

               brown  eyes  are  wide  as  they  look  up,    as  they  catch  the  softness  in  his  gray  ones,    his  laugh  echoing  in  the  space  between  their  flesh  as  his  fingers  go  through  her  hair.    his  flesh  is  pale  as  it  weaves  through  her  hair,    her  smile  is  timid  but  humorous,    she  remembers  a  time  when  he  hated  it,    that  mane  of  hair.    but  they  got  broken  between  those  moments,    they  got  crushed  or  they  wrecked  themselves,    she’s  unsure,    &&    in  the  aftermath,    hermione  finds  herself  chocking  on  the  dust,    on  the  blood,    on  the  smell  of  death.    but  draco,    draco  gives  her  space  to  breath,    gives  her  the  chance  to  let  it  behind    ;;    because  he  knows  the  darkness,    feels  it  in  his  bones,    doesn’t  blame  her  for  it  coating  her  bones  too.

                there’s  a  smile  that  slowly  blossoms  into  a  sly  grin  before  she  pushes  herself  on  the  tip  of  her  feet,    fingers  leaving  his  back  to  creep  up  toward  his  neck,    his  head  needed  to  bend  down  so  she  could  push  her  lips  against  his.    it’s  tentative,    her  eyes  immediately  closing  as  her  mouth  finds  his  in  a  soft  kiss.    his  dark  hair  is  soft  against  her  fingertips,    the  contact  between  them,    flesh  against  flesh,    it  makes  her  feel  like  she  belongs  there.        ❛  does  that  answer  your  question  ?  ❜        &&    there’s  a  thrill  in  her  guts,    excitement  in  her  blood  as  it  colors  the  apple  of  her  cheeks  crimson.

the world had told them all this time that they were not meant to be. not friends, not lovers, not even schoolmates. they have defied odd after odd however , both together and apart , and he sees no reason to discontinue the cycle now. it may be selfish in nature , but he’s never claimed to be anymore than what he is , what everyone has always believed him to be. old habits die hard , but that doesn’t negate the fact. he’s fallen rather hard —and substantially fast— for hermione granger. 

her lips on his are nothing he expected and everything he could hope for. all those cliche observations about the first kiss flit across his mind , but none of them are able to encompass the sheer RELIEF that fills him. he feels whole. he feels safe. he feels SEEN. and he cannot understand how he hadn’t seen it before , and while he knows it’s illogical , he still wonders what could have been long ago if he had just paid attention. if he’d just looked past himself just once. or if he’d grown up with his father and not lucius. but that’s simply not the case, and at least they’re here now , right ? 

she’s gone too soon , but he holds her still , hand cradling her neck while his other arm winds around her waist. ❛ yes, i suppose it does. but - i wouldn’t mind reiterating. ❜ he leans again, sweeping her up off of her feet this time so she need not strain. it’s such a reckless thing to do here , but that suits him just fine. he’s waited long enough for this. he’s going to enjoy it for as long as he can. yet even then , it doesn’t feel like enough , and when he sets her down , he feels it. his expression sobers as he looks between them. ❛ so . . . what now ? i mean , i promise i - i’ll show up from now on. always. ❜

[morsvmordre]

diaferon​.

            smile  pulls  on  her  lips  as  he  speaks,    his  words  oxymoron  for  he’s  questioning  the  knowledge  of  the  know  it  all.    she  missed  that,    missed  those  teasing  words  of  his,    the  easy  way  with  which  he  questions  her,    always  questioning  her,    testing  her.    among  her  friends,    hermione  has  to  admit  that  no  one  truly  challenges  her,    maybe  luna  but  the  witch  can’t  seem  to  take  her  seriously  most  times.    oh,    she  likes  luna,    likes  her  strength,    the  lost  look  in  her  big  blue  eyes    &&    the  dreamy  smile  she  sports  while  saying  the  most  random  things.    she  envies  her,    luna,    she  envies  her  lightness,    the  way  she  looks  at  the  world  for  she’s  ethereal  her  friend,    nothing  can  seem  to  shake  her  at  all.    but  draco  is  not  luna,    draco  is  rooted  in  the  ground,    he’s  strong    &&    unmovable,    his  voice  not  airy  but  sharp,    venomous  sometimes.    he’s  strong  in  a  way  she  is  not    &&    she  feels  safe  by  his  side.

            his  voice  is  soft  now  though,    soft  as  it  seems  to  chastise  her,    soft  as  he  seems  to  criticize  her  choice  but  she  hears  what  he’s  not  saying,    what  she  believes  him  to  feel.    but  she  doesn’t  utter  a  thing,    just  closing  her  eyes  in  relief  as  his  arms  finally  close  around  her,    hugging  her  gently,    as  if  he  was  scared  to  break  her.    &&    she  wants  to  tell  him  to  hold  her  tighter,    to  hold  her  more  if  possible,    she  wants  him  everywhere,    she  wants  to  only  feel  him  for  she’s  already  in  pieces  you  see    &&    maybe,    maybe  he  is  what  holds  her  together    –    she  wants  him  so  bad  she  might  be  holding  herself  together.    she  doesn’t  realize  the  way  her  arms  tighten  around  him  at  the  thought,    she’s  not  afraid  he’ll  leave,    she  just,    merlin,    she  just  feels  more  herself  with  him  there.    but  perhaps  she  might  be  scared  he’d  leave  if  he  knew  how  much  it  matters  to  her.

             lips  lay  the  softest  kiss  upon  her  forehead  before  he  finally  yields,    before  he  finally  stops  the  ugly  monster  that  whispers  in  his  ears    –    things  she  guesses  to  be  bad  about  him,    things  that  would  make  him  run  away  from  her.    hermione  doesn’t  ask  though,    she’s  not  sure  she  wants  to  know  but  she  guessed,    guessed  his  views  on  her,    guessed  his  views  on  himself    &&    she  can’t  guess  how  those  are  conflicting.    it  does  not  matter  to  her,    not  now  at  least.    ear  is  pressed  against  his  ribcage,    the  feeling  of  his  heartbeat  reassuring,    he  feels  steady  under  her  hands    &&    she  wonders  if  he  could  be  steady  for  her.    she’s  not  fool  enough  to  ask  it  of  him  though.        ❛  see  ?  it’s  better  when  you  just  accept  what  i  say,  ❜        she  quips,    smile  upon  her  lips  as  brown  eyes  dart  up,    taking  him  in.    she  searches  for  something  there,    in  those  grey  hues,    something  that  would  quell  whatever  doubt  she  might  have  but  it’s  only  a  question  of  trust,    a  question  of  willingness  to  risk  your  heart.    heart,    she  thinks,    a  bit  surprised.

despite this most shallow submission , he still hasn’t put his scales down , continuing to weigh the pros against the cons and the costs against the benefits. but logistics seem so foreign to the concept of emotion , and he feels foolish even attempting to make sense of what it is he is feeling. he’s only just emerged from a world where the only feeling he knew was fear. of lucius , of the dark lord , of his own inclinations. he’d been wrestling with this guilt since the end of it all , and she’d just waltzed in here and put it all to a halt as if she had every right. as if she believed that he did too. 

❛ oh , is that right ? ❜ he laughs , and it is drenched in relief , fingers brushing through her hair in time with the sound. he isn’t at all oblivious to the fact that her arms around him make him feel whole for the first time in his life. they aren’t going to heal in the street here overnight , but draco would like to believe that , at the very least , they can begin to. and even if he’s broken until the day he dies , he would like to commit this feeling to memory so that he knows what he’s missing. so that he knows what he’d lost. a masochist , maybe , but that doesn’t negate the fact that he doesn’t want to hurt anyone else. and that comes first. ironically or not , the two have become synonymous with each other. 

and he was always a lover of fleeting things , but that was before he knew how beautiful stability could be. it was a lesson learned only when the stone began to crumble under his feet , but he will never forget it. and if it happens here , with her , he doubts he’ll have a single regret because this is already more than he deserves and beyond what he’s entitled to. it doesn’t mean it’s enough. now that he’s opened his big mouth and his gluttonous heart , how is he to shut them again without requesting the one thing he wants most ? 

❛ if i kiss you , on the lips , are you gonna punch me again ? i’ll ask nicely if you want , but i just wanna know first. ❜

[morsvmordre]

@cosmiicsouls​​ said: 57) things you said when no one else was around - Draco & Allison

❛ We weren’t prepared for this. None of us were. ❜ 

The words are so quiet , his lips barely moving , that it’s as though he hasn’t spoken at all once the silence swallows his words. It’s thick as syrup and just as inhibiting , having been settling around them for hours. People wonder where they go when it’s like this , quiet , as if Draco won’t retreat inside his own head in a room filled with people and stay there until said room empties out. But right now , that isn’t enough. And retreat isn’t required. Soon there will be no place to retreat. it’s all falling down around them. 

❛ I know I said I was , and I really believed it. More so , no one else did , and that pissed me off , but — they were right. All of them. I wasn’t ready. I’m NOT ready. ❜ 

When she walked in here, he had no intention of speaking , of spilling truths and leaving them like stains upon her lap. But she’d sat there with him so long , blending into the walls , that he’d forgotten all of that. Half of him has convinced himself that he’s alone , that he’s okay , that he’s SAFE. It’s the biggest lie he’s ever told himself. Whether she’s here or not , he will never be safe. 

❛ But we can’t take it back. Can we ? ❜ 

[morsvmordre]

diaferon​.

                there  are  so  many  words,    she’s  not  sure  she’s  even  heard  him  speak  for  so  long  before.    he  speaks  of  feelings,    he  speaks  of  feelings  for  her.    he  speaks  of  being  good  enough,    he  speaks  of  his  worth  next  to  hers.    he  speaks  of  healing,    he  speaks  of  what  one  deserves  and  what  one  is  unworthy  of.    he  speaks  of  so  many  things  but  she  only  cares  about  one  thing,    he  has  feelings  for  her.    for  her.    he’s  seen  more  of  her  than  others  did    &&    it  all  appeared  to  him  at  first  glance.    he’s  seen  the  cracks,    seen  the  broken  shell  she’s  become  and  still,    in  spite  of  all  of  that,    he  has  feelings  for  her.    she  knows  him,    hermione  knows  draco,    she’s  seen  him  at  his  worst,    seen  the  kindness  he  bestowed  upon  others  even  if  he  tried  to  hide  that  softness.    she  knows  him,    he  knows  her    &&    still,    still,    he  wants  her.    in  a  way,    in  some  ways  at  least.

                his  fingers  tighten  around  hers,    his  fingers  find  the  mess  of  her  hair    &&    he’s  so,    so  tender,    so  gentle.    he’s  beautiful,    with  his  sharp  jaw,    aquiline  nose,    his  pale  flesh  and  his  beautiful,    beautiful  dark  grey  hues.    he’s  so,    so  tall    &&    tortured,    he’s  so  cultivated,    so  smart.    she  has  to  crane  her  neck  just  to  look  at  him,    his  cold  fingers  around  hers.   and  she’s  just,    well,    she’s  just  hermione  granger.    she’s  just  that  girl  who  is  friend  with  harry  potter,    who  was  once  the  brightest  witch,    who  helped  defeat  a  dark  wizard.    but  now,    now  she’s  that  girl  who  lost  herself,    who  did  things  she’s  not  proud  of,    who  lost  parts  of  herself  because  it  was  needed.    she’s  scared  that  she’s  lost  so  much  she  can’t  give  anymore.    &&    he  deserves  better,    better  than  some  empty  girl  who’s  lost  in  her  grief  for  she  needs  him  too  much,    more  than  he  does.    draco  has  his  own  stuff  to  deal  with,    his  own  trauma  to  manage    &&    his  own  wounds  to  heal    –    she  can’t  get  in  the  way  of  that,    she  can’t  bring  him  down  with  her.

                 but  she’s  tired.    tired  to  fight,    tired  to  be  in  pieces,    tired  to  drown  in  loneliness.    &&    she  likes  him,    likes  his  warmth  at  her  sides,    likes  them  having  conversations,    likes  the  way  his  mind  works.    and  hermione  thinks,    she  thinks  that,    for  once,    she  can  be  selfish    –    just  this  once.    small  arms  find  his  waist,    cheek  pressing  against  his  chest  as  she  presses  herself  against  him,    pressing  herself  against  his  warmth.    she  inhales,    his  sweet  scent  filling  her  nose    &&    she  feels  safe  there,    not  whole  but  safe  and  it’s  enough,    it’s  more  than  enough.        ❛  you’re  more  than  enough,  draco.  ❜        she  doesn’t  have  anything  to  add,    she  doesn’t  believe  they  must  drown  in  words.    her  fingers  fist  the  fabric  of  his  jumper  that  covers  his  back,    eyes  softly  closing.    he’s  so  tall    &&    strong,    she’s  small  against  him,    she  wishes  she  was  small  enough  to  crawl  under  his  skin    &&    be  forever  safe  there.    but  she’ll  take  his  arms  for  now.

THIS IS WHAT IT MEANS TO BE GOOD. the sacrifice , the sorrow , the waiting for it all to end. he thinks that if he closes his eyes when he lets go , it will be easier. it will be kinder. nothing in his experience confirms or denies it , but he would hope for his own sake that it won’t gut him there in the street if he were to NOT watch her walk away. but he blinks , and — she’s hugging him. really hugging him. hugging him in a way that appears to benefit HER rather than him ( despite holding him tight enough to let pieces FINALLY begin to fuse back together ) , like she’s not saying goodbye. like . . . he’s good. 

and she says ‘ good enough ’ , and he has no idea what that means , but he realizes that - that is the point. only she can determine what she thinks is good enough for her just like only he can determine what he thinks is good enough for him —a lesson he is still learning in a post - lucius lifestyle— so maybe she isn’t settling at all , at least not for his benefit. and maybe it’s okay to let that fear flood him , if only for a while , until the flame in his belly glows bright enough to SNUFF IT OUT. and only once he’s registered it , her touch , her warmth , do his knees threaten to buckle because his heart swells so big so fast. and all for her. he wants to laugh because what are the odds , that hermione granger was all the good he’d ever needed in the world. 

❛ and - what would you know about good enough , you know - it - all ? you’ve never just settled for good enough in your life. always had to be the best. ❜ but his voice is soft , soft as it’s ever been , soft as an eggshell. as if it’s fit to CRACK. but he wraps his arms around her shoulders anyway , cautiously . . . carefully , wondering if SHE might break beneath his touch. or if he might. or if he’ll wake up from this dream when his brain has no clue how to proceed. but she’s solid against his chest , digits curved against his spine , and he exhales a breath he swears has been choking him for months. years. he holds a new one hostage when his lips press against her forehead. 

❛ well - if you say so then - i suppose. ❜ yeah , for now , that’s good enough.

[morsvmordre]

diaferon​.

               there’s  her  name  on  his  lips,   there’s  a  smile  there   &&   it’s  to  reply  to  hers,   it’s  for  her.   she  tries  to  remember  seeing  his  smile  before,   seeing  this  particular  smile  before  but  she  can’t.   oh,   she’s  seen  him  smile  before  but  it  was  cruel,   like  a  childlike  tearing  the  wings  off  an  insect.   this  one  is  soft,   kind  in  a  way,   as  if  he  understands  the  weight  of  his  words,   as  if  he  understands  the  importance  of  her  question.   does  he  know  the  darkness  of  her  soul  ?   does  he  know  how  lost  she  is  ?   there’s  a  laugh  that  bubbles  in  the  back  of  her  throat  but  it’s  cruel,   it’s  sad  and  she  pushes  it  down.   how  bloody  ironic  is  it  that  he’s  the  lighthouse,   that  he’s  the  one  shedding  some  lights  among  the  darkness  in  which  she’s  been  stumbling  for  some  times  now.   draco  malfoy,   boy  extraordinary,   death  eater  for  a  second,   a  boy  who  tried  to  be  brave  when  everyone  was  telling  him  to  flee.   it’s  not  so  bad  she  thinks,   he’s  not  so  bad   –   draco  malfoy,   lightbringer.   it  has  a  nicer  ring  to  it.

               but  it  seems  like  the  lightbringer  is  struggling  himself  with  darkness,   not  the  same  one  as  hers,   obviously  but  she  can  read  his  face.   brown  eyes  take  in  the  pale  skin,   in  the  dark,   dark  hair   &&   she  can’t  help  but  find  softness  in  the  curve  of  his  lips,   to  find  dignity  in  the  shape  of  his  nose   –   she  can’t  help  but  find  beauty  in  his  bowed  head,   like  the  demon  finding  goodness  in  his  heart   &&   not  hating  it.   for  the  devil  is  a  fallen  angel,   for  all  demons  were  angels  now.   head  slightly  shakes,   sometimes  she  feels  like  her  thoughts  pile  up  into  a  castle  of  cards,   ready  to  fall  apart   &&   she  can’t  keep  doing  this,   building  castles  she’ll  lose  herself  in.   hermione  forces  herself  to  blink,   to  bring  herself  back  into  the  conversation  as  he  speaks.   she  lets  his  words  draw  a  smile,   head  slightly  tilting  as  she  looks  up,   gaze  upon  his  face.      ❛  of  course,  malfoy.  ❜      and  the  conversation  ends  softly,   with  a  murmure  of  her  voice,   with  an  untold  promise.

               she’s  very  attentive  now,   for  they’re  speaking  of  the  only  thing  that  matters  to  her,   that  really  matters.   she’s  waiting  on  his  lips,   on  his  words,   knot  of  anxiety  in  her  stomach.   disappointment  settles  on  her  features  at  his  question,   at  the  blank  expression  on  his  face.   she  had  thought,   foolishly,   she  had  thought  that  he  would  be  able  to  help,   him  being  pureblood   &&   all  that,   knowing  what  she  could  never  learn.   a  frown  settles  on  her  features,   pale  face  showing  confusion  as  a  smile  blossoms  on  his,   a  light  she’s  never  seen  before  in  his  dark  eyes.   anxiety  rises,   fingers  sweaty  as  they  play  with  the  hem  of  her  jumper’s  sleeves.   hermione  is  not  scared,   she’s  not  scared  of  him.   not  really.   she  just  doesn’t  understand  why  he  would  smile  when  she  speaks  of  such  a  painful  subject.

                her  breath  is  stuck  in  his  throat  as  he  leans  toward  her,   wide  brown  hues  taking  in  his  face  as  worry  grows  in  her  guts.   dolohov.   she  feels  like  ice  was  just  poured  upon  her  head,   she  feels  herself  freeze,   unable  to  breath,   unable  to  swallow.   she  remembers  his  face,   she  remembers  his  eyes  as  she  looks  up  to  her,   petrified.   she  remembers  her  wand,   she  remembers  that  word,   the  way  her  wrist  turned,   the  way  he  lost  that  sparkle  in  his  eyes.   &&   it  has  haunted  her,   he  had  haunted  her  as  she  wondered  if  her  parents  had  the  same  expression   ;;   she  had  been  a  coward,   unable  to  face  them  as  she  took  their  memories.   but  she  had  to  do  it,   both  times,   she  had  to  do  it  because  she  was  the  brightest,   the  only  one  who  could  do  it.   a  bloody  curse,   that’s  what  her  big  brain  is,   a  curse   &&   nothing  else.

               ❛  there’s  nothing  funny  about  this,  draco.  ❜      it’s  a  whisper,   barely  a  breath  as  she  looks  down,   shoulders  hunched,   trying  to  make  herself  tiny  under  the  crushing  guilt.   she’s  a  thief,   she  stole  from  her  parents,   stole  from  that  man,   she  stole  from  a  lot  of  people   –   objects,   memories.   she’s  a  thief   &&   he’s  laughing  as  if  she  did  not  inflict  pain  to  so  many  people.   but  he’s  lightbringer,   isn’t  he  ?   there’s  hope  in  his  words,   knowing  in  his  tone   &&   it  all  blossoms  under  her  ribcage,   infiltrating  her  heart.   hopeful  hues  find  his  again,   after  she  has  taken  some  deep  breaths,   after  she  has  gathered  some  courage,      ❛  do  you  really  think  i  can  do  it  ?  ❜      there  are  cracks  everywhere,   in  her  soul,   in  her  heart,   she  feels  naked  under  his  gaze  as  she  asks  that  single  question,   the  one  that  exposes  everything  she’s  lost  if  you  know  her  enough,   if  you  know  enough  about  what  she  did.

he sobers some at the reprimand , more so out of instinct than any actual perception of a threat. still , he is quick to remind himself how BRITTLE her new acceptance of him is. ❛ it’s not about humor. it’s about hope. ❜ because isn’t that what she wanted ? granted , draco never learned to read the room , and so his being mistaken should come as a surprise to NO ONE. but he holds out and holds his tongue , waiting perhaps for her to realize who she has been talking to for the past hour or so and deciding she’s made a rather massive mistake for the sake of loneliness. and he looks away , unwilling to watch the revelation bloom across her face , which only makes it all the more startling when the question is posed. in fact , he has to look back at her to make sure she’s spoken at all and he hadn’t just imagined it.

❛ are you kidding me ? ❜ now THAT is instinctive. because surely , she can’t be serious. after all she’s done , the anecdote he’s just offered included , she can ask HIM that ? she can ask it at all ? ❛ whatever’s happened to you , hermione , you’re still you. you’re still absolutely bloody brilliant when it comes to magic , so yeah i think you can. especially because , judging by the look on your face , this is serious. it’s a serious matter , and it means a lot to you. i’ve seen what you’ll do , what lengths you’ll go to , when something matters to you. ❜ the echo of his jaw cracking under the pressure of her fist is a solid reminder , how upset she’d been , how protective. whatever’s going on , he can’t imagine she’d accept failure in any shape or form , especially when there is a legitimate way to prevent it. 

glancing around , he takes another minuscule sip of tea before he leans in across the table , voice low enough to allow the words to glide between them undetected by anyone else. and really , they’re out of his mouth before he can weigh the pros and cons. ❛ what’s it for ? ❜ if he’s being honest , he doesn’t know what he’s doing , and even if he does , he has no clue WHY he’s doing it. he just . . . feels compelled , to offer her something because she apparently values his opinion or trusts his judgment or what have you. either way , whatever it is she’s going off to do , he can’t imagine NOT offering to do it too because it’s mighty irresponsible to send her off on her own. and sure , she’s got harry and ron —at least , to his knowledge— but if things weren’t different , why would she be here alone now ? and why would she EVER ask HIM ? 

and see , that alone doesn’t sit right with him , like the world is out of whack , and things aren’t lining up the way that they are meant to , that they are INTENDED to. he’s still reeling from just how much the world can change when someone finally LOSES in a war , really and truly loses , not whatever the — voldemort had done or been doing for sixteen years. hiding , plotting , scheming. but his mother had been the one to put it in perspective for him. when you really think about it , all of those years , he’d been winning. the fear was still there , and no one could speak his name. he was winning. and we were all fools to believe otherwise. draco still has nightmares about being a fool now. he doesn’t want to wake up to another war. but if he has to , he wants to know he’d be welcomed in her world. ❛ i - i don’t have much skill or practice with these charms , but - dunno. maybe i can help or - something. ❜

[silentlyr0tting]

Ludovica and Fiore in Baby

[morsvmordre]

diaferon​.

               brown  hues  look  for  grey  ones  but  they  are  downcast,    avoiding  hers,    hiding.    it  births  such  a  strong  feeling  in  her  guts    –    such  worry,    such  fear.    she’s  never  been  good  with  people,    unable  to  always  understand  every  reaction,    she’s  too  pragmatic,    too  logical    &&    there  are  things  she  still  can’t  understand.    she  used  to  find  knowledge  in  words,    in  books  but  there  are  no  books  on  draco  malfoy,    lestrange,    there  is  no  book  that  could  help  her,    all  she  has  is  herself    &&    she’s  scared  it’s  not  enough,    scared  she’s  not  enough.    for  she  wishes  to  unravel  the  mysteries  of  his  soul,    for  she  wishes  to  understand  his  every  thought,    for  she  seeks  knowledge  upon  a  man  that  holds  both  the  secrets    &&    the  key  to  unveil  them.    hermione  is  used  to  lost  battles,    she’s  used  to  fight  them  with  everything  she  has  but  she  broke  herself  before,    she’s  still  in  pieces    &&    she’s  sad  to  admit  that  there’s  no  courage  left.    hermione  granger  is  broken  pieces,    riddled  with  fear    &&    open  wounds.

               her  smile  is  a  bit  like  her  as  he  finally  looks  at  her,    tiny    &&    broken  but  he  managed,    him,    draco  malfoy,    he  managed  to  plant  the  seeds  of  hope  at  the  corners  of  it.    she  examines  every  line  of  his  face,    there  are  weaknesses  in  the  facade  he  presents  her    &&    she  wonders,    there’s  even  hope  in  the  dark  cavities  of  her  heart,    if  he’s  just  like  that  with  her.    she  blinks,    once,    twice  as  a  single  word  betrays  his  nervousness,    betrays  the  uncertainty  that  always  seems  to  brew  between  them.    and  she  realizes  that  they’re  both  wrecked,    that  there’s  no  bravery  left,    that  they’re  so  unsure  of  themselves,    so  unsure  of  their  worth  that  they’ll  never  speak  up.    that’s  why  his  question  hangs  in  the  air,    why  no  word  passes  her  parted  lips,    there’s  only  her  hues  pleading,    wishing  for  a  reprieve.    for  there’s  a  tension  there,    something  that  feels  like  electricity    &&    it’s  coming  in  waves  from  him.

                words  stumble  out  of  his  mouth,    a  little  hesitation  here,    a  breath  there    &&    he  steps  forward,    closer,    closer.    he’s  so  close  and  she  can  feel  her  fingers  slightly  shaking  in  the  depth  of  her  pockets,    she  doesn’t  understand  a  word  he  says,    she’s  not  certain  she  wants  to.    there’s  a  frown,    hermione  feeling  the  urgency  in  his  tone,    the  anguish,    as  if  it  had  taken  every  ounce  of  strength  he’s  ever  had.    she’s  shaky  breath,    she’s  blood  rushing  to  her  head,    she’s  heart  in  her  throat    &&    with  a  deep  breath,    she  takes  his  hand  in  hers,    eyes  that  find  his  are  determined.        ❛  then  don’t  say  a  word,  malfoy.  i  don’t  have  the  strength  to  hate  you,  i  don’t  even  want  to.  so  fool  me.  ❜        &&    she  realizes  how  pathetic  she  sounds,    stupid  muggle  song  in  her  head    –    fool  me,    go  on  and  fool  me,    love  me,    pretend  that  you  love  me.    she  chances  a  smile,    hoping  for  him  to  choose  the  easy  road  like  she’s  doing  now,    hoping  she  won’t  see  utter  disappointment  in  his  gaze  as  he  realizes  she’s  not  the  girl  he  used  to  know  anymore.        ❛  just  fool  me  for  now.  ❜        

he inhales , and it is all hot air and agitation. he’s made up his mind. HE HAS MADE UP HIS MIND ! he’s going to tell her to stop smiling at him like that , to stop reaching for him , to accept that he is still every bit an echo of her worst nightmares and he will NEVER change. he is going to demand that she hate him , that she stop searching for something good in him , that she set fire to any positive emotion she has about him and warm her hands over it. he’s going to command her to LEAVE , to walk away and never look back , and he’s going to do it because — because . . . 

well , because he cares. he cares , and if he does all of that , doesn’t that mean he’s wrong and she’s right ? that he’s not who he was ? and if that’s the case . . . then what ? 

in the end , he doesn’t know why he abandons that plan ( or maybe he does ) , why instead of pushing her away , he pulls her closer , gripping her hand tighter in his own as he does and hoping that this is all part of something BIGGER. maybe this is his punishment. maybe he will be allowed to love her long enough to lose her , and maybe it will gift him with all the punishment he thinks he deserves. or worse. he’s happy and will forever have to live with the knowledge that HE DOES NOT DESERVE TO BE. but if she’s happy , does anything else matter ?

 he decides it doesn’t.

in the end , he lies to himself. he lies and says he’s doing it for her , because he owes her that , because she deserves the break. or maybe he’s lying to himself by saying he’s lying. he doesn’t bloody know anymore. he only knows that she’s here , and he’s here , and if they have to keep existing as is , then he may as well do something worthy with the blood in their veins. 

❛ no. ❜ 

he shakes his head , his voice soft yet solid. it’s possible he’s never sounded more genuine. he brushes his fingers through her hair , every nerve in his body charged with electricity. ❛ i won’t fool you. i couldn’t. if i did , i’d have to be the boy you remember , and i’m not. i thought i was. i wanted to be , but - i can’t. and now , i’m the man who - who can’t stop thinking about you , that shuts himself away because he knows he will never be good enough for you no matter how much he tried to convince himself he was better. —i’m not , hermione. i’m not better than i was. and maybe - maybe these feelings for you might heal me , but - that’s not fair. you don’t have any obligation to me , and i won’t let you believe that you do just because shit’s messed up , alright ? so if you stay because you think i deserve it , that’s your business. but don’t you dare stay because you think you deserve it. you have always deserved better , and you always will. do you hear me ? ❜

[lizzyisameme]

literary sexts vol. 1 poetry meme

Literary Sexts is a modern day anthology of short love poems with subtle erotic undertones edited by Amanda Oaks & Caitlyn Siehl. Hovering around 50 contributors & 124 poems, this book reads is like one long & very intense conversation between two lovers. It’s absolutely breathtaking. These are poems that you would text to your lover. Poems that you would slip into a back pocket, suitcase, wallet or purse on the sly. Poems that you would write on slips of paper & stick under your crush’s windshield wiper. Poems that you would write on a Post-it note & leave on the bathroom mirror. Treat yourself, a crush or a lover with this lush gift!

source and amazon buy link.  

I will be providing select short, sometimes edited, poems for a texting/”sexting” meme, but not the whole book itself.  If you enjoy the poems provided, please support the collection whether it’s the first volume or the second.   Or look into the works of the various contributors and see if anything else they’ve written is to your liking!  

Feel free to add to and/or edit these sentences to better suit your needs—but remember, many of these work best in the context of texts and/or love notes instead of spoken dialogue.    —Lizzy.  

Mark me like a passage from your favorite book, then open me there again and again.

My skin is full of flowerbeds and you know every way to make them bloom.

I am tracing the knobs of your spine like the map of my favorite continent. You are all the places I haven’t visited yet and I mark each one off with my teeth.

Your hands unzip me one breath at a time; there is not room beneath my skin for all of you and I spill over the edges with a sigh.

You take apart my heart in pieces with your mouth, but the splash of your tongue against mine feeds it back to me. It tastes sweeter coming from you.

You opened your mouth and spoke the language in my blood.

You kiss me and there aren’t sparks. There’s an entire orchestra in my chest, playing staccato on my heart strings.

My hands are nomads, my dear desert. May they never find rest.

Being small things, we understand this as our humble attempt at thunder, at setting the world to shake.

Delicate work. Like peeling kiwis. My tongue across your skin. Mellow flesh against my lips. Your taste always in my mouth.

How a storms needs to feel the earth how the earth wakes to the pelt of rain how the ground is quenched is how I need you… 

My hands were glaciers I never dared to move freely, my fingers icicles. Your touch thawed me to excavation. I want to dig into your warmth.

Kiss me like white bread, stick to my teeth even after the whiskey. I want memories of your mouth lodged beneath my tongue to wake me at two in the morning, hungry.

I want you next to me, in my bed, your clothes making friends with my floor. Love me hard enough so we wake up the neighbors.

Your hands peeling that onion, thumbs and forefingers pulling skin from skin—they are sacred. Let me kiss them. Let them bless my sinning chest, let them peel my lips apart.

I don’t want to be your harmonies anymore; I want to be the melody you scream when your heart is starving for love. I want to satisfy your hunger.

Show me the parts of you that nobody else ever wanted to sleep with. Show me it all with the lights on.

You, darling, are Vesuvius. I won’t see you coming. Erupt. Wreck me. Leave me ashes leave me Pompeii, leave me outlined into your history forever.

It’s not so much that I want to kiss you. I want to relearn vocabulary words from the shape of your mouth. All my poems are yours first.

Kiss me blossoms in the summer, lover. I want to taste the succulent sweet of your peach tree smile. This time let Adam take the fruit from the garden.

Surge into me as a downpour, as the pounding waterfall which makes swollen rivers flood, as the sea.

The happy ending to this night: you tug my hair and lightly brush your hand across my lap. Don’t forget how resilient I am and how I would bend for you.

Even my lungs are in love as we breathe together.

I don’t just want to take your breath away. I want to rip it from your mouth and keep it locked away between my teeth. You can only have it back if you kiss me again.

The gentle friction of your hand on my thigh is enough to strike a match inside me. I lean into your lips and the fire blooms and spreads.

You are an undiscovered continent. I trail my fingers down your mountainsides. Ten explorers digging for buried treasure, I want to take it all.

My body is a gospel and you are my first quivering hallelujah. Your breath leaves your mouth like a prayer and washes over me like faith.

My hands are hungry for your flesh, desperate in the way that rivers empty themselves over waterfalls.

I peel back your skin to see if we have the same scars. I follow the map of your veins back to your heart and press my palm against yours to tangle our lifelines.

I hope to breathe in you. I hope my body will be the blood your roots drink.

We commit sins in holy places, fold ourselves between pews like dirty pictures tucked into a bible. Pant each other’s names until they sound like scripture.

My tongue collides with your collarbone like a meteor careening across the cosmos, and I taste the stars you are made of.

You kiss me with your mouth wide open like you’re not afraid of swallowing poison. I taste the good and bad in you and want them both. We call this bravery.

You, benevolent god, legs splayed like instruments of creation. I, blank slate of the universe, kneel in wait for you to fill me with your hot, honeyed light.

My hands are suntanned tourists without a map whose desire compels them onward to explore your golden cities by the light of the stars.

The moment between your thighs where I become a devout follower of your existence. That hour which passes in slow seconds of soft skin, as I lay my head against you, drifting, drowsy with love.

Your grin is a flash of primal fire in the dark. Somewhere deep inside me, something hungry wakens and shifts, uncurls its insatiable tongue.

I have been thinking of how I want to be touched by you, with hands that will play me like piano keys, with fingers that will make a symphony out of me.

You till the soil of my need, my lips a blood-red flower bursting open with the first wet flush of your heat.

When it comes right down to it, all that nonsense about hearts syncing up feels like a hallelujah with our bodies pressed together like praying hands.

Every time, you peel back my skin, pry open my ribs, and feast on my insides. Every time, you make a meal of my heart, and every time, I let you.

You’re not one for poetry or sentimentality, so I’ll just say that I’ve dreamt of being the motor oil trapped in the grooves of your weathered hands.

I ache for your hum between my legs, the purring of motorcycles on winding highways: wind in my hair, and romance in losing myself to the sweet, revving vibration of the engine again and again.

You smile and it’s like sunrise. Something inside me Wakes up, stretching.

I float away in cool sheets against my burning skin, and you are the sea guiding me beyond the realm of earthly things.

My lipstick spills over your mouth and trickles down to your chin, your neck, pooling into your collarbones. We love like crushed grapes in wine country.

You’re kissing a wildfire up my thigh and I am tracing the landscape of your jawbone like a sculptor. My hands were made for this.

The rush you give me: The way a blade of grass must feel when splashed with a cloud’s cry after days of screaming for rain.

We are the fall of Rome, all fire and fighting. We collapse into each other like the pieces of the Parthenon, kissing like gladiators, loving like rebuilding.

You creep into my head like a river rushing for the sea & a cosmic digit of fingertips flash over me.

You are pressing against me like I press flowers against the pages in my book. You are kissing my neck and it feels like the start of forever. I want to touch you until my palms burn.

The wet of your mouth rains down my neck like frame, the soft heat of your tongue burns the apple in my throat. We are practiced at this love that asks angels to cover their eyes and turns devils shy.

I melt into the gentleness of your fingertips. Your tongue presses me open like the summer fresh flesh of a perfectly ripe fig, all juice, seeds and pulp.

The small of your back is refuge, is veldt, is summer heat. And I am predatory snarl.

I can’t brush out the taste of you; coffee breath, cigarette smoke, and all. Mouth to mouth; Our shared vices linger on each other. Your salt still lives in my tongue.

I’ll take you quiet as the bones in your closet, love as softly as a whisper. Holding your tongue like a secret.

You smiled and lit up like the dusk. I sank to your lips like the sun against the horizon. We made the day stand still.

I want to kiss you until you melt into me, ice turning to water. I want to drink you deep, and warm you from the inside.

[morsvmordre]

@mercysought​ said: A kiss so passionate, so perfect - that after they part, neither person can open their eyes for a few moments afterwards. for maxima and draco!

if you asked him , it was a rather grand display. what with his theatrics and pansy’s desperation , they could have brought anyone to distress . . . anyone except her of course.  

and she had been the only target , the only concern , the only opinion draco had cared about in the first place. having her sweep through the room without a care in the world —but one too many entertainers in her wake— had not simply gutted him. it had ENRAGED him beyond measure. and he’d screamed at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for damn near ten minutes before —inevitably— chasing after her , clearing her audience with not a word at all. 

then the argument had commenced.

except - it wasn’t really an argument , was it ? because they didn’t argue. they never argued. it wasn’t in their nature. or rather , in hers. and he’s supposed to say that it’s okay , that she means as little to him as he seems to matter to her , but that’s just not true. and draco has never been good at being complacent. if he were , they may not be in this predicament in the first place. 

or this one. you know , the one where she plays coy , and he ends up spilling his guts with his own sharp tongue.

❛ I only did it because you don’t bloody see me otherwise , Max ! ❜ 

there is a moment of brief silence , filled only with his heavy breaths and her liquid consternation. And not a smirk in sight. It unnerves him , makes him forget where he is , but what he knows is that he’d come here for some kind of absolution , and instead , he stood here in chains. bound to the realization that no matter what he does or who he is with , she is every waking thought he is capable of having. 

and there is no fucking antidote.

he isn’t certain who moves first. all he knows is that they meet in the middle , and his hands find her neck ( GENTLE ) while her nails carve out a place in his ribs , and the only thing that keeps them upright is the wall now at her back. their lips , their tongues , their teeth; all at war with one another , neither willing to retreat. neither knowing what on earth a white flag is. he snatches the air from her lungs just as she snatches it right back , and there is a tug - o - war to which neither is complacent to. this is how they are. this is WHAT they are. animals.  

and one can never tame the other.

he does not breathe when he pulls away , does not speak , does not dare open his eyes. all he knows is her scent and her touch and the buzzing in his lips and the ache in his sides. he does not dare look upon his medusa — which is . . . not the woman herself but what he feels for her. yet , if that alone could turn him to stone , it wouldn’t hurt so much , would it ?  

but if he had managed to open his eyes , even for just a moment , he would have seen that hers were still closed too.

[morsvmordre]

diaferon​.

                brown  hues  don’t  leave  his  face,   watching  the  pale  color  of  his  skin,   the  contrast  it  draws  on  his  flesh  with  his  dark,   dark  hair.   he’s  beautiful,   she  could  not  admit  that  before  because  the  hate  in  his  heart  spoiled  it  all,   turning  features  into  a  disgusting  sneer.   but  now,   now  there’s  a  yearning  in  his  hues,   to  understand,   to  learn   &&   she  wonders  if  he  sees  the  same  thing  in  her  own  eyes,   she  wonders  if  he  sees  that  they’re  both  broken.   hermione  could  not  admit  out  loud,   not  to  anyone,   not  even  to  herself,   but  she’s  thankful  to  have  crossed  paths  with  him  that  fateful  day,   thankful  to  have  found  some  kind  of  kindred  spirit  in  this  mess.   &&   she’s  given  him  bits  of  trust,   little  pieces  that  he  took,   that  she  gave,   pieces  of  her  broken  soul  that  he’s  collected.   it  only  took  him  a  conversation  to  harvest  all  those  pieces,   to  birth  a  hope  in  what  was  left  of  her  heart   &&   it  shines  in  her  pleading  hues,   begging  for  an  explanation,   begging  for  him  to  keep  alive  what  he  brought  back  to  life   –   hermione  is  ashamed  to  admit  it  but  she  would  believe  whatever  he  would  say,   she  wants  to  believe  him.

                he  stumbles  over  his  words,   he  hesitates   &&   she  waits  upon  his  lips,   waiting  for  an  answer.   for  she  has  waited  for  him,   in  that  small  café,   at  their  table,   that  one  table  they  sat  at  the  first  time.   there  was  a  book  under  her  fingers,   nervous  hues  looking  up  as  she  kept  checking  the  door,   hoping  to  see  his  face.   but  the  pages  turned   &&   he  never  came  to  sit  in  front  of  her.   the  last  page  had  come,   disappointment  a  weight  upon  her  stomach  as  she  finally  left,   accepting  that  he  would  not  come.   her  flat  had  felt  emptier  somehow,   disappointment  a  ball  in  her  throat,   nearly  chocking  on  all  that  emptiness,   all  that  loneliness.

                 he’s  so  tall,   chin  so  high  up  as  she  keeps  staring  at  the  hollows   &&   curves  of  his  face.   there’s  a  frown  as  he  finally  speaks,   hermione  hadn’t  expected  this,   waiting  for  an  explanation.   there’s  a  slow  smile  on  her  lips  as  she  faces  up,   looking  at  him  as  he  looks  for  his  words  in  a  way  that  is  definitely  not  malfoy.   there’s  a  serene  huff  out  of  her  lips,   a  slight  shrug  upon  her  shoulders,      ❛  you’ll  tell  me  when  you’ll  feel  ready.  ❜      she  marvels  at  the  changes  in  him  that  can  be  seen  in  just  a  few  words,   i  don’t  want  to  lie  to  you   &&   it’s  enough.      ❛  i’m  glad  you’re  here  now,  glad  that  you  showed  up,  draco.  ❜      &&   it  births  an  easy  smile  on  her  mouth,   his  name  out  of  her  lips,   soft,   gentle.   when  he  didn’t  come,   she  thought  it  was  her  fault,   she  thought  she  did  something  wrong,   said  something  wrong  but  apparently,   hopefully,   it  has  nothing  to  do  with  her.

there is a moment , a fleeting moment , where he is once again that vindictive little boy again. he wants to sneer at her , to snarl , to say something cruel and unkindly if only to have her GUT HIM for it. because her anger , he can deal with , but this ? this understanding ? it makes him ill. he doesn’t deserve it , hasn’t earned it , and bloody hell , WHY DOESN’T SHE SEE THAT ? ! but all he can do is stare at his shoes , ashamed of all the things he won’t dare say. and even more ashamed of all the things he’ll never do. like reach out , like take her hand , like run a hand across her face that isn’t meant to burn. like hold her in all the ways that she deserves. maybe he’ll always be a coward. maybe that’s simply what he is. 

but then she says that , expresses her relief , and his stomach churns once more. he grits his teeth , running a hand through his hair in some effort to find anchor , but it fails. it always fails. though when he finally looks at her again , he can at least remind himself that her reaction is not based on his character but on hers. because she is a good person. and that’s got nothing to do with him. yet still he asks. ❛ why ? ❜ and it sounds nervous and uncertain , followed by hollow laughter because of all the people she should be glad to see , he should never be one of them. though his stomach no longer churns. it flutters. 

he doesn’t know which scares him more. 

❛ and if i don’t ? if i never have the guts to tell you ? then what ? ❜ he wants to be brave. he wants to look her in the eyes and tell her he will ALWAYS show up for her , that he will always be there , that he won’t walk up to the coffee shop just to walk right past it and disappear into the wind. but those words refuse to form upon his tongue yet again , rebelling against the doubt that drips from them. but he wants to. merlin , he wants to. and he’s more afraid of never being able to than of saying it now. so why won’t it just spill out ? he steps forth , as though that might help , and her scent swirls around him like a soft snow. but he shakes his head , gripping the books in his hand tighter. ❛ it’s not that you don’t deserve to hear it. It’s that - I don’t deserve to say it. because if I do , and - and you don’t hate me for it , it means I’ve fooled you. and that’s the last thing i want to do to you. ❜

[morsvmordre]

@diaferon​ said: ❝You didn’t show up. I kept waiting.❞ from hermione to draco :)

Showing up here , he could admit , had been a gamble beyond gambles. She’s disappointed. Not angry , not vengeful , just disappointed. And that is so much worse. Because not only is she disappointed , she’s trying to hide the fact that she’s disappointed , and Draco would rather she deck him in the chin than look at him like that. Hopeful , understanding , as if she expects he has a really good explanation for having stood her up. One far better than simple FEAR. 

❛ I— ❜ But the words refuse to manifest upon his tongue , as if they themselves know how PATHETIC they sound. He moves the books —her books, the pages of which smelled enough like her in the beginning to keep him reading well into early morning hours until the scent began to fade , and even then , he finished them all— from one hand to other , trying to work out how to express to her what is going on inside his mind without scaring her. Or himself. 

But how do you tell the girl you tormented your entire life that you cannot be awake for even a moment without thinking of her ? How do you tell her that the moment you left her in front of that coffee shop , all you wanted to do was run after her ? How do you tell her that you missed her so much that you hated her , or yourself , because that thought alone was so loud that you feared it would wake your mother each night ? HOW ? 

The answer is that . . . you can’t. There is no way to say that without saying that , and Draco doesn’t know how to do either. And he opens his mouth to try , to genuinely try , but all that comes out is . . .

❛ You can call me Draco. ❜ He looks up , both surprised by his own words and eager to see her face , berating himself for wasting even a moment staring at the ground. He swallows hard , attempting to scrape up some bloody DIGNITY from deep in the bowels of his worn heart , but he has little luck. He tries to smile regardless.

❛ I - I just mean that , I know I said I don’t mind if you call me Malfoy , and - I don’t. I don’t , but - but if you wanted , you can call me Draco. When you’re ready. ❜ He looks down again , scratching the back of his head. ❛ Although I guess I’ve just been a prat again , not showing up when I said I would. It - I just - I don’t . . . ❜ He huffs in frustration , only just stopping himself from allowing her books to spill across the ground in its wake. ❛ I don’t want to lie to you , but I don’t know how to tell you why either. ❜

[morsvmordre]

diaferon​.

               appreciation  colors  amber  hues,   awkwardness  stuck  to  her  skin  now,   always  weighting  down  her  tongue  until  she  utterly  makes  a  fool  out  of  herself.   hermione  often  finds  herself  losing  touch  with  reality,   finding  herself  lost  in  thoughts,   lost  in  memories.   &&   when  she  comes  back  to  others,   she  doesn’t  know  what  to  say,   she  doesn’t  know  what  happened.   there’s  no  ressemblance  to  who  she  used  to  be,   hermione  granger  was  always  ready,   hermione  granger  always  knew  what  to  say,   hermione  granger  always  knew.   but  she’s  a  shell  of  that  girl,   lost  in  her  grief,   lost  in  every  mistake  she’s  made,   in  every  what  if  that  could  have  made  a  difference,   that  could  have  changed  a  life.   gaze  takes  him  in,   remembers  his  unwillingness  to  betray  them  in  his  home,   remembers  the  ice  in  his  eyes  as  she  met  them  while  being  tortured,   remembers  him  throwing  his  wand  at  harry  during  the  battle.   had  she  been  kinder,   had  she  been  more  empathetic,   would  she  have  been  able  to  help  him  ?   to  save  him  from  the  sorrow  she  can  feel  in  his  heart,   she  can  see  in  his  gaze.   but  she  wasn’t  too  kind  nor  too  empathetic   &&   he  went  through  everything  he  did.   such  is  life,   fate.

               smile  is  soft,   small  as  it  curves  her  lips,      ❛  then  you  don’t  mind  me  calling  you  malfoy  still  ?  i  mean,  you’re  malfoy  to  me,  we  grew  up  together  at  the  end,  didn’t  we  ?  granger,  malfoy,  feels  familiar,  right  ?  ❜      &&   the  next  words  stay  stuck  in  her  throat,   her  gaze  meeting  his  as  she  hopes  that  he  understands,   that  he  understands  that  granger  in  his  mouth  is  only  coated  with  familiarity,   with  nostalgia,   she’s  sad  to  admit  that  it  reminds  her  of  simpler  time   ;;   with  his  name  out  of  her  lips  in  a  hiss,   with  her  name  out  of  his  lips  with  a  snicker,   it  feels  like  hogwarts   &&   home  in  a  way.   familiar.   familiar  feels  good  in  a  world  where  she  doesn’t  recognize  anything  anymore,   where  everyone  changed   ;;   or  maybe  she’s  too  slow  to  change,   to  adapt.

                the  interest  in  his  tone,   the  interest  in  his  hues,   it  warms  her,   it  brings  a  lightness  in  her  soul,   how  peculiar  is  it  for  malfoy  to  be  the  one  that  brings  her  familiar,   that  makes  her  feel  at  home  the  most.      ❛  some  managed,  other  did  not  i’m  afraid  to  say.  i  read  both  points  of  view,  all  stories  really.  the  ones  who  fail,  the  ones  who  succeed.  some  became  bitter,  mean,  they’ve  seen  too  much  of  the  grave  to  be  among  the  living.  some  found  salvation  in  love,  in  family,  in  helping  others.  some  chose  to  keep  fighting,  to  stop  wars,  to  make  sure  there  would  be  no  more  deaths.  ❜      voice  lowers  as  she  speaks,   her  words  only  ending  in  a  whisper  as  she  looks  down,   playing  with  the  sleeves  of  her  jumper.   there’s  no  more  confidence  in  her  words,   no  more  confidence  in  herself  at  all,   she’s  adrift,   always  scared,   especially  of  people   &&   their  opinion  of  her.      ❛  i  could  let  you  borrow  the  books  if  you  want.  ❜      

               as  he  replies,   as  he  takes  a  pause,   as  he  lets  the  answer  she  wishes  to  hear  stuck  in  his  throat,   her  fingers  grow  impatient   &&   her  hands  tighten  into  fists  to  refrain  herself  from  mirroring  the  noise  his  own  fingers  make.   hermione  chances  a  smile  at  his  joke  but  it’s  empty,   sad  for  her  curiosity  is  endless   &&   he  seems  to  have  the  answers  she  wants,   answers  she  would  like  to  know.      ❛  no,  no.  i  know  how  to  do  them.  i’m,  well,  i’m  wondering  if  their  effects  can  be  reversed.  somehow.  ❜      &&   here  it  is,   defeat  in  her  tone,   shoulders  low,   brown  curls  hiding  her  face  as  her  head  bows,   hermione  granger,   the  brightest  witch   &&   defeated,   always  defeated.

there is a moment where he feels almost apprehensive , as though something bad is about to happen , but he reminds himself he’s felt that way for awhile now and it’s nothing new. at the very least , it isn’t entirely invoked by her. but when she smiles , delicate as it is , he cannot help but smile too. ❛ no , granger , i don’t mind you calling me malfoy. ❜ because he doesn’t. granted , as long as she never says it in front of his parents , and . . . well , they are such a very long way from her EVER meeting his parents again , aren’t they ? good.

and while he doesn’t entirely subscribe to this idea of hope that flitters at the edge of his conscious thought when she speaks of these soldiers , he is quick to concede to the disappointment that drips down his throat , coating everything in its path until it falls , heavy as a bomb, into the pit of his stomach. he tries not to let it show upon his face but knows , without a shadow of a doubt , that he’s failed. looking down at the table , he forces himself to ask why it matters. they’re muggles ! how would they know ? what can you possible learn from— but the sound of her voice brings him back , always brings him back , to himself and who he is. and who he isn’t. 

❛ would you ? ❜ he hates to sound so surprised because OF COURSE SHE WOULD , but he nods his head nonetheless before he can even consider the repercussions of them. ❛ yeah. yeah , i’d like to read them. ❜ he opens his mouth again to ask if she can hide them , morph their covers into something he can explain to his mother , but thinks better of it. not only because he does not wish to insult her but because his entire family is going to have to learn to give. narcissa may have aided in saving the world from voldemort , but she hadn’t actually sacrificed more than she’d gained. she’d had her reasons , and none of them had been atonement. they still owed the world so much for forgiving them despite every instinct screaming it was a MISTAKE. and it may still be , considering who they aid and abed in their home now. but for now , he waves the thought away. he must.

but as he sits there , awaiting what he knows is to come , he wonders if engaging in this trade of information had been an intelligent choice at all. if he’d simply been roped into some system of reparation he could not possibly keep up with. yet , the words that come out of his mouth startle him , startle him to the point where he nearly fumbles his cup , looking around them as though he expects someone —ANYONE— to intervene. but no one will. not here. they are a world away from such instances.  

❛ reverse them ? ❜ while snape hadn’t taught him that , and for obvious reasons , he knew that they could be. after all , his father and uncle had mentioned it , more so in passing than anything , that they’d had to reverse a spell such as this on — Dolohov . . . Actually , now that the thought comes to mind , he can’t help but laugh. Because Hermione would know all about that event , wouldn’t she ? So when he smiles , it seems out of place , but the pride in his eyes shines like a star on the darkest night. Of course she knew how to do them. She knew how to do them WELL. 

He leans forward conspiratorially , the makings of a smirk still drenching his lips. ❛ heard of a death eater named Dolohov ? Someone did a particularly nasty memory charm on him. I mean , whoever did it was an absolute expert on ‘em , right ? Took my father and my uncle a bloody good amount of time to undo it , but — ❜ He raised a finger , the smile threatening to take over the whole of his face now. and forgets , for a moment , that just seconds ago , he’d been afraid that she’d wanted to erase her memories. ❛ They were eventually successful. Which means yes , they can be. But I reckon , no one would be more successful at reversing a memory charm than the one who did it in the first place. Once they know they can of course. ❜