Obsession

A/N: This fic was rejected by another site for, and I quote...

"Your story has been reviewed, and unfortunately it is not appropriate for "insert site name here" due to uncredited similarities to a copyrighted publication"

Shocked, I asked for clarification...

"I didn't say you had read this book. I'm sure the similarity is entirely unintentional. It has to do with the use of the word "object" in reference to the focus of "insert character name here" infatuation."

I disagreed, so I am posting it here. Please note that I amended the quotes above to protect the site, as I am an author there and I love it and do not wish to upset them, and the second quote I edited because it would give away the story below.

My rant here is done...

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He sits in the dark. The shadows cling to him like so many gossamer shrouds. He is watching. Always, he is watching. From the dark he can keep his vigil, unknown to the object of his obsession.

Said object is standing by the bar, laughing merrily with his friends. The shadowed one licks his lips as object runs his hand rakishly through his silky hair. Object has no idea of how much the shadowed one dreams of his own hands running through object’s locks, grasping objects hair tightly to pull his head back, exposing his perfect neck.

The shadowed one has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning as he thinks about marking that perfect neck as his own. He tastes that coppery tang of blood in his mouth.

Object takes a sip of his ale and then licks his lips. The shadowed one feels his cock harden as the pink tongue peaks out of the most perfect lips in the entire world. The shadowed one imagines that moist bit of flesh licking his most intimate places. He imagines object’s hands touching him, object’s mouth panting, his body trembling with passion and desire. Would that the shadow one could, just once, hear object’s voice in the throws of sex.

If the shadowed one thinks hard enough, he can almost feel objects hard shaft driving in and out of his arse. He can imagine his cum spurting, in warm jets, into his body, alleviating the sting of rough sex.

The shadowed one gasps at his imaginings; his blood-filled cock throbbing with need. The shadowed one ignores it. It is his punishment for thinking such depraved thoughts of his object. How dare he sully the perfection that is object with such carnal images, and yet, he cannot help himself. His lust for object is all consuming. He has never known such need in his life as his for object. But he can never have it, never touch it. It will never be his. All he can do is watch his object from a distance.

And watch he does. Everyday, he watches and wants and needs.

Object pulls his cloak over his shoulders and heads toward the exit. The shadowed one rises from obscurity and follows. Outside, object has already Disaperated to points unknown, but the shadowed one knows, he will find object tomorrow. He pulls the hood of his cloak up, and turns with a crack, he Disaperates to his own home. He quietly and quickly approaches the door. His hand reaches out and grasps the knob. He sighs heavily and composes his features. His mask slips into place and he opens the door and enters…

“Harry, you’re home.”

The shadowed one inwardly grimaces as he outwardly smiles, accepting his wife’s embrace, his erection deflating, in mere seconds, at her touch. How he wishes those words came form Draco’s lips, and not Ginny Weasley’s.