There is filth in this universe that sullies even the brightest, purest mountaintop snow. It trails like smoke, and then like ash—ebony darkness that finds a lovely gray once mingled with some glistening ivory. The kind of filth that stains pale skin, the kind that seeps into one’s pores until the smell just sticks—it falls like rain on it’s worst days.
Draco once bathed in it, the mire. He revelled and worshipped and craved to feel the way it made him just—just simply lose where his bad attitude’s scales weakened. The sludge hardened over those soft-spots; they painted him into the monster he convinced himself he wanted to become. And he changed for what?
All to pinch closed the tear of a daddy issue?
What does it matter, really—when looking down at the face of the one thing in his world he should protect from Beqanna’s evil, he isn’t strong enough to say no. He knows the catch in his throat is wrong, knows the surprised glance down Dove’s spine is wrong, knows that settling back into the fluff of her mane is wrong; but he won’t stop. I can’t, he thinks. I can’t.
“Dove,” Draco hisses out in a strained whisper. His skin burns where Dove’s lips met his chest. “What—” he starts to say, then interrupts himself with a quiet step back.
“What’s happening?” he murmurs, because at the end of the day—and for all of his worn evil—Draco is a stupid, naive boy. The red of his eyes goes dark and the droop of his lids makes him appear nearly innocent. There is almost a pleading in his gaze, one that aches for everything and nothing all at once.
@[Dove] i am so sorry this is not good AND i made it extra dramatic please forgive me
