Milk and Honey

"light is easy to love, show my your darkness" -R. Queen

•Listen to my Draco playlist while you• read, https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2yds3wMrWg3sh2QB9yVfcl?si=LaAMAgzoTfqDQyckXT0MVQ
(Link is also in my bio)

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His pale fingertips traced across the delicate blades of her shoulders, spelling out the love and affection continuously swarming his head for her like a violent storm, beauty in it's destruction, as she was the one who held the power to crumble his walls, block by block where he stood.

  To take him apart, and begin reconstruction leading to brighter days. At the same time, she was his sanctuary, she was his power, his strength, and his will, he brought oxygen into his lungs through pursed lips, for her. She was his everything.

  She was his.

  He never missed how she would release a soft mewl in her slumber when his fingernail grazed the right spot along her spine or the nape of her neck where the little spiraled hairs always made his fingers itch to reach out and grab them.

He had developed a copious amount of self control for her, as that's not what she needed, he had to be gentle with her. She was soft and delicate just as a blooming daisy in the middle of a field in the height of spring might be, untouched by darkness.

  He wished that throughout her life she had remained that way, untouched by pain and greif but in truth, the war doesn't take mind in whether a girl, his girl should remain a delicate prim rose, soft and sweet to touch and smell, prickly thorns guarding her beauty from being picked and shriveled. He couldn't protect her from the war but he could protect her from himself. He would keep his deepest desires locked away and hidden in the chasms of his brain.

  His dark thoughts bloomed for her and only her, like a swarm of angry bees seeking vengance against the bear who only wanted a taste of the sweetest honey. They had been torturous since he was sitting behind her in potions, the draft of her now too familiar cherry scented shampoo invadinghis senses. The thoughts of his nose burried in those detestable curls that he ached to see if he could run his fingers through smoothly or whether would be tangled, were poison in the sweetest, delectable form.

  Visions flashed through his head of that mane splayed out allong the silk covered pillowcases layed across his four poster as he fucked her into his sheets, hands immobile so the only room she had left to move allowed her to writhe and scream beneath him, begging him to give her what she wanted.

  These very detestable visions had brought him to the brink of madness, a feisty kitten playing with the thin strings of his sanity but if he were to be honest with himself, he would have knitted that kitten a sweater made of the strongest fibers of his sanity to have her shred it to pieces over and over again.

  He was however, rarely honest with himself, and had grown to loathe and resent her, no longer because of the blood and courage coursing through her veins but for the overwhelming thoughts of her that coursed through his head whether she inhabited the room he did or not, he loathed how he longed for her honey colored irises to meet his own over the edge of a beloved book when she sensed his stare or as he watched her in the great hall, subconsciously luring her gaze to catch to his own.

  He hated her. For a long time he hated her. He hated the thoughts of her. The smell of her. The urge to hold her when he saw she was distressed as if he could somehow manage to singlehandedly take all of her troubles away. He hated that he couldn't. He hated that even if he could, his father would ensure that he couldn't. He hated his father. He hated that he was part of one of the most pretentious and powerful wizarding family's yet was left utterly powerless. At least there is no room for love and longing in hatred, his adolescent brain had thought.