Hello there! I am absolutely in love with your writing! (I have
notifications on for you whenever you post bc your writing is so hecking
good man) Anywho, do you think you could maybe do a Draco x Reader
that correlates to the song “We Don’t Have to Dance” by Andy Black?
It’s my favorite song atm and you’re my favorite writer atm :D Thanks
Draco meets Y/N for the first time at a party.
The Slytherin common room is cool and crowded, eerie green light emanating from the depths of the Black lake and a spinal cord shock of a base wave overwhelming the din; a vodka slick sweat has suffused across the back of Draco’s neck as he rubs self-consciously at the newly healed mark on his arm and glances up, up, up –
She’s not new, he reasons, couldn’t be. But he’s never noticed her before, which seems equally improbable.
Because Y/N is beautiful, the unique brand that sears just as much as it soothes. Y/e/c eyes and a sleek wave of y/h/c hair, a laugh that bubbles out of her throat as she clutches a drink, teeters on a pair of high heels, catches his eye.
He feels suddenly as though he’s in the eye of a fucking hurricane.
And he knows that it’s a mistake. Knows it in the marrow of his bones as he strides across the room, asks her name and marvels at how well it fits in his mouth.
Draco regrets lots of things, once it’s all said and done.
But he never quite manages to regret her.
Draco is a hazard sign. Bright red and flashing. A cautionary tale and a ‘Fragile. Do Not Break’ sticker slapped against a package.
There’s a mark on his arm and a task on his shoulders and a brevity to his last name that just…hadn’t been as pronounced before.
He’s a curse, a poisoned apple and a witch’s brew. He’s dangerous. An expiration date.
He knows that. Refuses on principle to admit it to Y/N even when she’s tangled in his sheets and leaving a lipstick stain against his pillow case and carving out a space for herself inside the hollows of his ribs.
It’s hell, he thinks. Literal hell.
Their relationship is the sinuous slip of a smirk. Its pinky promises and broken bottles; predictable merely in its unpredictability.
They don’t talk, no. Don’t smile or make friends or dance. And yet –
He knows her. Understands the puzzle in her eyes and the words in her mouth, learns why she paints her nails the same color as freshly spilled blood and never really comes to terms with the fact that she fits neatly against him, is meant for him, should he venture that far.
He runs out into the rain after her one night, feels the stick of clothes against skin and the cold of her cheeks. Sees dewdrops caught between her eyelashes and thinks about drowning.
He drives her out to the countryside another night, pretends that he hasn’t charmed the car and is capable of his own volition. Fucks her in the backseat and wants to chase the giggle that flutters in her pulse when he knocks his elbow against the horn.
Y/N is a firefly that he wants to catch in a bottle, a butterfly that he wants to net.
She’s the conflicting cacophony of voices inside his head that tells him he can’t, he won’t, he shouldn’t. He does.
She’s the brand on his arm and the saccharine promises that he tells himself at night, a will to live that doesn’t seem plausible, anymore.
Y/N is a mistake.
But Draco’s always been good at making those.