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complacent This drabble is blatantly Madonna Mad'House-ed.
Title: Like A Prayer
Rating: T
Summary: Ginny contemplates her relationship with Draco. He's intoxicating, but is she anything to him? Does it matter? Drabble-esque.
He says her name like a prayer.
She's not sure he knows it. Knows the way her name rolls around his mouth, the way it topples off his lips like cream and crumpled cinnamon. The way his words have a soft, aristocratic lilt to them as they tumble between them.
She doesn't think he knows what he does to her with tones laced with honey, murmurs thick with promises hook-and-eyed into sanguine triumph. When he whispers to her, he lets his lips graze her earlobe, and his voice is an intoxicating baritone, every word sounding tuned and absurdly harmonic.
He can addict her with a single word.
He can keep her with a couple more.
But he hasn't, he doesn't, and this is what worries her. She doesn't think her dull, impatient hissing can render him dumbstruck. She's no temptress, she tells herself.
But she hopes that sometimes she is one, to him. That sometimes when she peeks out of the corner of her eye at him, he really is watching her with unabashed adoration. That sometimes, when she's enveloped in his groping, satin sheets, reveling in the scent that is him, that's home--that sugary, ginger-and-maple aroma--he flings his arm carelessly over hers, that when he is intently flurrying kisses over her milky knuckles, her pale fingertips, her sharp ankles, that catenary of his palms against her spine, he does it with such focus, as if his life depends on it, because it does.
She wants to believe she is his life.
Because he is hers, and he knows it. Her arms clinging wretchedly to his waist tell him that.
But sometimes it is he who grasps her gloved hand in the gleaming confines of winter, sometimes he toys with her wrists and fingers, rolling her little brass ring.
She doesn't know if he is intrigued by those elbows and knees and eyelashes of hers, or by her babbling, her heavy words.
She's not sure if she really cares.
For what does she love him?
She loves the way he blinks owlishly at her. She loves the way his nose brushes against hers.
But she desperately wants to believe she loves his mute defiance, his firm loyalty, his temper to match hers. All those little flaws and perfections she wants to think she has found in him.
She doesn't know it, but he often muses along the same path.
It might stay that way, until she melts into the seductive sunrise, he into the mirthless gasps of twilight above them.
For all her strength, she cannot beg him to be hers.
And for all his, he cannot let her plummet his defenses.
And so he raps his nails against her thigh, and she bares her teeth in a feral grin.
And he says her name like a prayer, a prayer that he can set things right with her.
Odd, I write all H/G on published fanfiction.
But I write all the ships I truly adore here.
