[private] look what you've done, draco

[gospel]

There, just beneath the surface, the nerves bristle.
They spit and spark.
Surely, if she let them, they could lay her to waste.

Because she knows rage just as intimately as she knows anything else. She, too, has been blinded by it. She has felt it tighten like a vise around her windpipe. She has felt caught beneath its grinding heel. And oh, she can feel it strike like a viper when he claims to know her.

I know you, he says, as simple as that. She swallows. She can still taste his blood. He could destroy her, he says, and she thinks that the only thing she has ever wanted as fiercely as she wants to destroy is to be destroyed.

She grins, all venom. He had raked his gaze down the length of her and then come up for air and their gazes are shackled now to each other. As if drawn by magnets. Or understanding. She tilts her fine head, licks her fanged teeth, does it slow so that he can watch as she does it.

It is a game, certainly, for the both of them. Each of them poking, prodding, testing to see what they might be able to coax out of the other. She desires blood, certainly.

“I have no desire to mock death,” she muses, the bloodied mouth pressed into a thin, contemplative line as she studies him. She rolls the scaled shoulders in a kind of shrug and then she smirks, reaches out to touch him again. “Do you fear death, Draco?”

these violent delights have violent ends

g o s p e l,

[draco]

draco

hitch a ride on my violence

I have no desire to mock Death, Gospel replies, and Draco cocks his head in what might be confusion. How can one whose whole existence lives in death not long to mock death? He closes his eyes slowly, then opens them back up in the hopes that his doubt has dissipated—it hasn’t; but when he digs into her mind to see if this is some game he does not understand, he finds Gospel means what she says.

And that is almost more confusing than if she were toying with him.

“Do I fear death?” Draco parrots, almost haughtily. His laugh follows, a sound that rings clear and true between them. “If I feared death, do you think I’d welcome your fangs so easily? No, Gospel,” he pauses, dips his head down to nip at the skin between her nostrils, “I refuse to fear the unknown . . . and I can’t even begin to fathom the places you might take me.” Draco drinks in the gleam of Gospel’s scales before he asks, “Tell me what you want, Gospel. Tell me. So I can give it to you.”

@[gospel]