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Goodbye to a friend
Like so many of the rest of you on my flist, I'm still trying to come to grips with the death of a friend of mine over the weekend. I met ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
anjenue (aka Rosesanguina) early in my fandom journey because of our shared love for Harry/Draco. She was a talented writer, a deeply thoughtful scholar, and a fun person to be around. I had the pleasure of meeting her at The Witching Hour in 2005. While I was waiting in line for Fiendling to draw me the picture in my icon, Anj wrote me a rentboy!Draco ficlet (my sure-fire kink), which I'm reprinting below. You know how sometimes a friend from one fandom will interweave along with you into other fandoms and interests? We shared musical tastes - and in my last musical post we found that we were about to dive into J-Rock at the same time. She also beta'd my first, recent yaoi fic, 'Long Way Home', and I was pimping Miyamoto Kano's manga hard to her. And now we won't be able to share these things. Words can't express everything I'm thinking about the tragedy of her accidental death.
So I'll just say to the rest of you: I ♥ you guys. Be well.
He's getting good at this now. Dip of lash and flash of thigh and perfect pouty lips moist from tongueflash and cheap cherry gloss, and they come in droves, and come, and come, and he almost doesn't feel dirty any more.
Except with him. He returns, every week, Saturday night, hair mussed from nervous fingers and skin tanned from comfortable afternoons in the garden, strips of white at waist and ankle and ring finger. He doesn't do secretive well, and by now he's stopped trying.
It's always the same, the nervous-shy proposition that once may've been cute but was now just demeaning. The coy glances, the reverential touches, and when he's on his back and a now-familiar tongue works over his mouth and throat and nipples and cock, he can almost imagine he's somewhere else, a better place and time when he didn't have to fuck Muggles just to stay alive, or the very person whose fingers and tongue and cock pushing into his body was responsible for this in the first place.
Almost.
But he always whispers "I love you" when he comes, green eyes open and honest and heartbreakingly beautiful. And Draco always wishes he knew how to die.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ETA: Thank you for all your comments. I appreciate them, truly.
anjenue (aka Rosesanguina) early in my fandom journey because of our shared love for Harry/Draco. She was a talented writer, a deeply thoughtful scholar, and a fun person to be around. I had the pleasure of meeting her at The Witching Hour in 2005. While I was waiting in line for Fiendling to draw me the picture in my icon, Anj wrote me a rentboy!Draco ficlet (my sure-fire kink), which I'm reprinting below. You know how sometimes a friend from one fandom will interweave along with you into other fandoms and interests? We shared musical tastes - and in my last musical post we found that we were about to dive into J-Rock at the same time. She also beta'd my first, recent yaoi fic, 'Long Way Home', and I was pimping Miyamoto Kano's manga hard to her. And now we won't be able to share these things. Words can't express everything I'm thinking about the tragedy of her accidental death. So I'll just say to the rest of you: I ♥ you guys. Be well.
He's getting good at this now. Dip of lash and flash of thigh and perfect pouty lips moist from tongueflash and cheap cherry gloss, and they come in droves, and come, and come, and he almost doesn't feel dirty any more.
Except with him. He returns, every week, Saturday night, hair mussed from nervous fingers and skin tanned from comfortable afternoons in the garden, strips of white at waist and ankle and ring finger. He doesn't do secretive well, and by now he's stopped trying.
It's always the same, the nervous-shy proposition that once may've been cute but was now just demeaning. The coy glances, the reverential touches, and when he's on his back and a now-familiar tongue works over his mouth and throat and nipples and cock, he can almost imagine he's somewhere else, a better place and time when he didn't have to fuck Muggles just to stay alive, or the very person whose fingers and tongue and cock pushing into his body was responsible for this in the first place.
Almost.
But he always whispers "I love you" when he comes, green eyes open and honest and heartbreakingly beautiful. And Draco always wishes he knew how to die.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ETA: Thank you for all your comments. I appreciate them, truly.