Tainted - {d.m. & h.g.}

one - sun | moon

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TW: MATURE CONTENT/THEMES, OOC, smut, foul language, drug use/abuse, alcohol use/abuse, self harm, blood sex, disordered eating, depression/suicidal thoughts, mention of sexual assault, toxicity, pain kink, and violence/ blood/ gore, struggling through the trauma of war (PTSD), this story may not be suitable for all audiences. seriously.

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song: wires - the neighbourhood

DRACO

She's too bright, much like the sun in that way.

But she isn't like the sun in the spring, or autumn— nice, breezy, and warm.

No.

She's the sun that scorches skin. The sun that sits in the sky on a mid-summer's day, beating down with vengeance. The sun that causes wildfires. The sun that shreds every cell that fabricates your retinas if you look at it too long. The sun that burns. The worst type of sun. The sun you try to avoid.

He prefers the moon.

But he likes pain. He deserves pain.

And— fuck if she still isn't the damned sun, and fuck— if she isn't fucking golden. Bright to the point that your eyes advert to her when she walks in a room, nose always in the air or in a fucking book. Bright to the point that just one look could spark the life back to all the trees and flowers in the dead of winter in as far as the eye could see.

He used to watch her in the library, they both spent an obscene amount of time in there. She would always tie her frizzy hair back with a black velvet ribbon when she got too immersed in whatever she was reading.

He could never quite decipher whether he wanted to strangle her with that bloody ribbon, or fucking tie her hands up to his canopied four-poster and shag her senseless.

Infuriating to the point of hatred. Yes, he hates her. He hates her because he's supposed to. Because her blood is putrid.

He hates that he knows she takes two teaspoons of sugar in her tea. He hates that he knows she sometimes prefers to eat dessert before her meal. He hates that he knows that her tongue sticks slack out of her mouth when she's focused on writing. He hates it because he doesn't understand. He hates it because he hates her.

But every fucking time he closes his eyes he sees her. Lying helpless on the ground in the drawing room of his very own home. Gnashing screams leaving her heart shaped mouth, imprinting in his mind, making reappearances in his nightmares. It is the one thing his mind won't let him occlude, won't let him file it away in a little box like the rest of his demons.

He hates her for that too. He hates her for that because up to that point of the war he was fine. He was fine letting the darkness drag him under, let him drift away with the current. It would have been much less painful that way—to let it consume him.

It wasn't until her pools of topaz and amber locked with his pools of silver and sapphire lying there on the stone floors that he felt any sort of remorse for the things that he had done. It was like an avalanche, crashing down on him all at once. Smothering. She was asking for help, begging with her eyes. She saw something in him that nobody else did— a merit for redemption.

And he just stood there. Petrified, watching her writhe under Bellatrix's searing wand, but still letting the darkness take over his conscious. Glued to the floor.