the sound of rain
the sound of rain
harry/draco
g; 230w.
It's raining. The kind of torrential downpour that drenches the earth and seeps into bones, and you stand in the middle of it all: a lone figure in the vast wasteland of liquid and solitude. You like the feel of heavy rain beating down on your skin and the staccato rhythm of it hitting the ground, but most of all you like that it provides a convenient camouflage when you cry. After all, teardrops can easily be mistaken for rainwater. You have always been too proud to let anyone see you at your weakest.
The sound of footsteps behind you does not startle you, but the firm wrap of fingers around the circumference of your wrist does. You turn back to face green eyes framed by wet eyelashes. Before you can say anything, he lifts your forearm to his eye level. The sight of black ink imprinted onto the pale skin of your forearm momentarily embarrasses you but you refuse to apologise for it; you are done atoning for mistakes that you were born into.
He does not ask for an apology and you do not expect him to, but what he does catches you off guard. He brings your forearm to his lips and licks the rivulets of rainwater covering its surface; his tongue gliding over the black skeleton and snake. When he kisses you, he tastes like salvation.
harry/draco
g; 230w.
It's raining. The kind of torrential downpour that drenches the earth and seeps into bones, and you stand in the middle of it all: a lone figure in the vast wasteland of liquid and solitude. You like the feel of heavy rain beating down on your skin and the staccato rhythm of it hitting the ground, but most of all you like that it provides a convenient camouflage when you cry. After all, teardrops can easily be mistaken for rainwater. You have always been too proud to let anyone see you at your weakest.
The sound of footsteps behind you does not startle you, but the firm wrap of fingers around the circumference of your wrist does. You turn back to face green eyes framed by wet eyelashes. Before you can say anything, he lifts your forearm to his eye level. The sight of black ink imprinted onto the pale skin of your forearm momentarily embarrasses you but you refuse to apologise for it; you are done atoning for mistakes that you were born into.
He does not ask for an apology and you do not expect him to, but what he does catches you off guard. He brings your forearm to his lips and licks the rivulets of rainwater covering its surface; his tongue gliding over the black skeleton and snake. When he kisses you, he tastes like salvation.