The Resumption of Play
folder
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,748
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › General
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,748
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
The Resumption of Play
The Resumption of Play
Remus/Draco
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
Dylan Thomas – And Death Shall have no Dominion
He lies beneath me, head under pillow, decapitated as last I saw his father – though the gentle rise and fall of his chest belie the starkness of the clean bones in the cardboard coffin. My Lucius in a pauper’s grave. Maggots on bones and flesh reduced to dust.
His seduction of me was futile, as I knew from the minute that I saw him , weary and scarred and battle-eyed, flinty and jaded as a thirty-year whore – that I had to have him back. He was my redemption. My Lucius, reanimated, flesh and blood and marble headstone – the scent of the grave and that of youth. Loves lost form was mine again – and the pointless coquettishness served nothing but to hasten my fall. I had succumbed to an infection of the soul – and was loath to heal myself.
The sex, as always, was mindblowing. Son antherther and father and son tangled up on my bed in a swirling writhing feed of images directly to my cortex. Forty-seven when he died – and thirty after a battle so hard won was so similar, lines and planes and hair and context. Fucking in the same bed his father and I had had each other. The same sunbeams on the same flesh. The ephemeral bars of my prison.
Lips locking on a hunger so vast that it can never be sated. Tongue and teeth and moaning writhing, keening mess beneath me arching and mewling and calling my name. I bite back “Lucius” and manage to groan onwards, but the wolf in me is taking over, loosing control and suddenly everything is different.
Blue and silver scents underlay the bloody puce of sex and hardness and hand on paw on cock on velvet smoothness gathered up and released again. Sanity madness pain and relief all bundled up into a counterpoint of images hard and fast one overlaying the other, Draco, Lucius, Lucius Draco father and son and father and death and life combined into climax.
He lies beneath me. Headless as last I saw his sire. He is alive. And he is mine.
Remus/Draco
And death shall have no dominion.
Dead men naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
Dylan Thomas – And Death Shall have no Dominion
He lies beneath me, head under pillow, decapitated as last I saw his father – though the gentle rise and fall of his chest belie the starkness of the clean bones in the cardboard coffin. My Lucius in a pauper’s grave. Maggots on bones and flesh reduced to dust.
His seduction of me was futile, as I knew from the minute that I saw him , weary and scarred and battle-eyed, flinty and jaded as a thirty-year whore – that I had to have him back. He was my redemption. My Lucius, reanimated, flesh and blood and marble headstone – the scent of the grave and that of youth. Loves lost form was mine again – and the pointless coquettishness served nothing but to hasten my fall. I had succumbed to an infection of the soul – and was loath to heal myself.
The sex, as always, was mindblowing. Son antherther and father and son tangled up on my bed in a swirling writhing feed of images directly to my cortex. Forty-seven when he died – and thirty after a battle so hard won was so similar, lines and planes and hair and context. Fucking in the same bed his father and I had had each other. The same sunbeams on the same flesh. The ephemeral bars of my prison.
Lips locking on a hunger so vast that it can never be sated. Tongue and teeth and moaning writhing, keening mess beneath me arching and mewling and calling my name. I bite back “Lucius” and manage to groan onwards, but the wolf in me is taking over, loosing control and suddenly everything is different.
Blue and silver scents underlay the bloody puce of sex and hardness and hand on paw on cock on velvet smoothness gathered up and released again. Sanity madness pain and relief all bundled up into a counterpoint of images hard and fast one overlaying the other, Draco, Lucius, Lucius Draco father and son and father and death and life combined into climax.
He lies beneath me. Headless as last I saw his sire. He is alive. And he is mine.