Fic: Something of a Stain (1/1)
Title: Something of a Stain
Rating: R
Pairing: Draco/Ginny
Word Count: 477
Summary: This isn't about him. For lenina20, who requested “Harry Potter, Draco/Ginny, quick; rushed; darkness ” at toestastegood’s, Five Acts Meme. Generic Series Spoilers.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I haven't written HP fic in a LONG time, and it quite obviously shows. Still, it was kind of fun to get all nostalgic and write a little bit of it again.
Something of a Stain
Apparently, there are people who think this means something more than it is. That it says something about their side, about the war; most ridiculously, that is says something about him. There are people who think that to be with her means that there’s still a scrap of good in him, something redeemable; there are people who believe that because he chose her, wanted her, that somehow he’s renounced the very foundation upon which he’s built his life. There are people who believe that sex equals love.
People, Draco suspects, are even more witless than he’d originally supposed.
The truth, of course, is somewhere hesitant, somewhere grey; somewhere lost between the stolen moments that bring them together, and the eternities where they float apart. The truth is something he’s never been prone to dwelling on, and one things for certain: the Weasley wench is hardly going to prompt him into changing his ways any time soon.
What he does know, though, what he’s sure of, is that he takes her not because of any buried sympathy, any tempered grace within his own soul; what they’re doing isn’t about him, and never was.
What they’re doing is about her.
Because there’s a stain, the lingering press of the wicked, the righteous, the damned, and it never fades, never dies, and it sullies her, makes her exquisite -- ruined; and the wound of it breaks opens, washes blood anew with every beat of her heart: that racing, throbbing, frantic heart -- shadowed, tainted heart -- that trills beneath his touch, pulses hot and heavy, strains around his length as he trusts into her, as she pulls him close against her chest, leaves claw marks along the stretch of his spine. That heart feeds the darkness like the starving, the dying -- feeds him in ways he didn’t know he needed, never suspected their lack until he first fucked her, and he tasted her sweat and his come on the air settling around them, breathed it in and panted it out like death and victory and wonder; like the last thing, the only thing in the entire world.
They don’t speak, don’t moan each other’s name as they shudder and fall; but they catch each other, and their eyes burn with something cold and dark when their gazes cross and hold. He can read the way the mark grows, the hate -- stain as sure as any outline of the devil he bares upon his arm -- and she wears it, flagrant. Defiant. Almost proud.
And they understand one another, in the gap, the silence. To leave a thing unsaid is not, necessarily, to leave it unspoken.
Darkness, Draco finds, has a language all its own.
Rating: R
Pairing: Draco/Ginny
Word Count: 477
Summary: This isn't about him. For lenina20, who requested “Harry Potter, Draco/Ginny, quick; rushed; darkness ” at toestastegood’s, Five Acts Meme. Generic Series Spoilers.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I haven't written HP fic in a LONG time, and it quite obviously shows. Still, it was kind of fun to get all nostalgic and write a little bit of it again.
Something of a Stain
Apparently, there are people who think this means something more than it is. That it says something about their side, about the war; most ridiculously, that is says something about him. There are people who think that to be with her means that there’s still a scrap of good in him, something redeemable; there are people who believe that because he chose her, wanted her, that somehow he’s renounced the very foundation upon which he’s built his life. There are people who believe that sex equals love.
People, Draco suspects, are even more witless than he’d originally supposed.
The truth, of course, is somewhere hesitant, somewhere grey; somewhere lost between the stolen moments that bring them together, and the eternities where they float apart. The truth is something he’s never been prone to dwelling on, and one things for certain: the Weasley wench is hardly going to prompt him into changing his ways any time soon.
What he does know, though, what he’s sure of, is that he takes her not because of any buried sympathy, any tempered grace within his own soul; what they’re doing isn’t about him, and never was.
What they’re doing is about her.
Because there’s a stain, the lingering press of the wicked, the righteous, the damned, and it never fades, never dies, and it sullies her, makes her exquisite -- ruined; and the wound of it breaks opens, washes blood anew with every beat of her heart: that racing, throbbing, frantic heart -- shadowed, tainted heart -- that trills beneath his touch, pulses hot and heavy, strains around his length as he trusts into her, as she pulls him close against her chest, leaves claw marks along the stretch of his spine. That heart feeds the darkness like the starving, the dying -- feeds him in ways he didn’t know he needed, never suspected their lack until he first fucked her, and he tasted her sweat and his come on the air settling around them, breathed it in and panted it out like death and victory and wonder; like the last thing, the only thing in the entire world.
They don’t speak, don’t moan each other’s name as they shudder and fall; but they catch each other, and their eyes burn with something cold and dark when their gazes cross and hold. He can read the way the mark grows, the hate -- stain as sure as any outline of the devil he bares upon his arm -- and she wears it, flagrant. Defiant. Almost proud.
And they understand one another, in the gap, the silence. To leave a thing unsaid is not, necessarily, to leave it unspoken.
Darkness, Draco finds, has a language all its own.