Malfoys are supposed to be perfect. In everything. As though green belonged to gold more than the well-deserved ink. [H/D]
That other night, you shouldn't have trusted me like that. Who falls asleep in enemy territory? In these times! And no, you weren't faking, don't bother arguing. There's not an ounce of self-preservation in your attitude when asleep. An entire year in Gryffindor territory probably does that to a person: makes them forget that friends are the worst enemies. Ah, but you've learnt this already, yet you don't seem to care in such a docile state. Did you feel me remove them? I had accidentally, I told myself, touched the side of your face. Your complexion's very nice, considering all the time you spend outside and the lacking amount of hygiene products you've hardly been exposed to.
I rested my hand on yours once, when our minds were gone in the fervor. Your hand was calloused, as expected. Not from writing, obviously. Skin-care exists for a reason, although... I can feel the small padded flesh on my right thumb, and that scar from when I broke my Nimbus in a Neanderthal fit is still recognizable; it runs across my life-line. A small white imperfection.
Malfoys are supposed to be perfect. In everything. As though green belonged to gold more than the well-deserved ink.
That is a good reason for not trusting me. Why don't you just say it aloud? I can see it when you turn away to come. Do you also close your eyes, afraid for me to see exposition in consciousness? It's the most obvious sign, really. You shouldn't, turn away that is; I don't. And I trust my second-guessing mind enough to pass judgment on what an expressive face you'd make, /darling/. Simply magnificent. What's not to appreciate? The crackles, whippings of magic you can harness. You must have practiced frequently, I had sometimes wondered.
What do I care? That we both know I'm about the most stable and trustworthy thing you've ever come across? Even as I'm doing "dirty work" for the Dark Lord. Plotting against that silly Order of Dumbledore's? I'd much rather come across your little following in an unpleasant situation. We only want you. He can't do anything against me; I have no reason to not trust /you/. You wouldn't allow it. I'd let you lower down to second place first. Imagine the scene we'd make!
You had asked me if I loved you. You did. Of course not. You knew the utter ridiculousness of the answer you wanted. And that was after... the fourth session, I think, when I started kissing your lips; oh, but they're too feminine on you. And someone needed to do it half-decently. After all, who was better than I? I had satisfied you much better than any of your other whores. How strange, my pride.
Don't think that I wasn't aware of your almost crying. I daresay you did, as soon as you were out of the dungeons, and the pictures' peripheral earshot. I want to make you cry again; I bet those delectable tears would suit a Slythric taste much better than the blood.
I will stand against your side. Lean onto your back, that is... I'd end up mock-fighting you during one of those little "test" battles the Lord concocts. He ends up losing more position each time. How disgusting, the reproduction of Dementors. I had to leave early that same night to inspect them in that foul underground. I was still tired from your leaving me out earlier. I'm still looking at you; I'd fix an eye on you if I expected to be complimented.
Stop it. That's inappropriate with a Malfoy. The Dark Lord can't kill you. Imagine the scene I'd make. And besides, I hardly think that your rather imposing [as to their stupidity, if nothing else] gang of worshippers would think it plausible of any "honorable" intentions of mine. Really. It's the mainstream probability that I'd die first. I know what you dream of. I don't have connections to my Head for nothing. You don't have to clutch at my heartbeat like that when you're sleeping. It's alright. We both know that He's been planning to kill me for insubordination, since that fourth time.