A fic by me...Trial run.
Just like the fic before this one, and I'm ona bit of a D/L binge at the moment, so forgive me, it features two characters that are related. As afore mentioned, if it's not your bag, then don't read on...Because in reality it's not my thing wither, but Draco and Lucius do it all justice ;-)
It's not slashy, it's all implied and it's alright, I think. My first D/L fic, please enjoy. Or not, lol.
It's not slashy, it's all implied and it's alright, I think. My first D/L fic, please enjoy. Or not, lol.
Sitting at the antique desk in the corner of his bedroom, the pale boy with the strange grey eyes played with fire.
He'd cast a few small spells to keep the fire from spreading and to prevent it from burning his desk. The boy loved watching the flames. Sometimes he'd sit for an entire rainy afternoon and just stare or burn little pieces of parchment.
The light flickered around his large bedroom casting shadows that played over the boy's overlarge four-poster bed (silken emerald covers and sheets, of course) and the knick-knacks on his shelves and desk. Every second something new was illuminated; the Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts books in the bookcase, the large black and silver trunk embossed with the initials D.L.M and the collection of small mammal skulls on his desk, not far from where the fire blazed.
He liked fire - something he'd always been aware of - because he felt akin to it in some strange way. It was destructive, as he found out one year at Hogwarts when he set a desk alight during Snape's class, but it was also beautiful, captivating and commanding. When there's a fire burning in a room, one mustn't turn their back on it. Just like the blonde boy himself.
He'd been sitting, mesmerised for hours, and didn't hear the door open and close. The only indication of another person in the room was the heavy sensation of his father's arms around his shoulders and his cool, but very pleasant voice in his ear.
Most people were afraid of his father, and so they should be, for he was also like a fire. Although this man was not like the little fire that burned, contained, on his son's desk. Indeed no. He was like a firestorm or a wildfire, taking control of his environment quickly and making it into what he wanted. People watched him when he entered a room and they listened when he spoke because, as with a fire, it was dangerous if they didn't.
The father leaned down to his son, his voice like smooth marble, his lips quirking into a covert smile and his long platinum hair ticking the nape of the boy's neck. The boy turned to him and stared into the grey eyes that he'd inherited. His seldom seen smile matched his father's almost perfectly.
He stood and felt strong but elegant arms embrace him. The boy inhaled his father's smooth, woody scent and pressed an ear to the broad chest, hearing the stone heart beat not for his mother, but for him.
Large hands unbuttoned the white silk shirt and peeled it from the young and slender body. The boy reached up and with his pouty lips gently kissed his father's angular jaw.
Once again, the pale boy with the strange grey eyes played with fire.
He'd cast a few small spells to keep the fire from spreading and to prevent it from burning his desk. The boy loved watching the flames. Sometimes he'd sit for an entire rainy afternoon and just stare or burn little pieces of parchment.
The light flickered around his large bedroom casting shadows that played over the boy's overlarge four-poster bed (silken emerald covers and sheets, of course) and the knick-knacks on his shelves and desk. Every second something new was illuminated; the Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts books in the bookcase, the large black and silver trunk embossed with the initials D.L.M and the collection of small mammal skulls on his desk, not far from where the fire blazed.
He liked fire - something he'd always been aware of - because he felt akin to it in some strange way. It was destructive, as he found out one year at Hogwarts when he set a desk alight during Snape's class, but it was also beautiful, captivating and commanding. When there's a fire burning in a room, one mustn't turn their back on it. Just like the blonde boy himself.
He'd been sitting, mesmerised for hours, and didn't hear the door open and close. The only indication of another person in the room was the heavy sensation of his father's arms around his shoulders and his cool, but very pleasant voice in his ear.
Most people were afraid of his father, and so they should be, for he was also like a fire. Although this man was not like the little fire that burned, contained, on his son's desk. Indeed no. He was like a firestorm or a wildfire, taking control of his environment quickly and making it into what he wanted. People watched him when he entered a room and they listened when he spoke because, as with a fire, it was dangerous if they didn't.
The father leaned down to his son, his voice like smooth marble, his lips quirking into a covert smile and his long platinum hair ticking the nape of the boy's neck. The boy turned to him and stared into the grey eyes that he'd inherited. His seldom seen smile matched his father's almost perfectly.
He stood and felt strong but elegant arms embrace him. The boy inhaled his father's smooth, woody scent and pressed an ear to the broad chest, hearing the stone heart beat not for his mother, but for him.
Large hands unbuttoned the white silk shirt and peeled it from the young and slender body. The boy reached up and with his pouty lips gently kissed his father's angular jaw.
Once again, the pale boy with the strange grey eyes played with fire.