Crimson Paintings
Summary: Draco Malfoy wants nothing more than to paint a painting of Ginny Weasley-in his own way of course-and to satiate his destructive passion for her.
Author's Note: I got this idea from Doctor! Doctor! By the Blood Brothers. Please note that I have no intention of having any people gets ideas from this story. And if you're disturbed by sick images, please don't read this. Thank you.
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He can't stop thinking of her long fingers ripping his skin, can't stop hearing her gentle voice screech in anguish until she can't speak, can't stop tasting the liquid that keeps her in existence.
Every time he passes her, he wants to tear the lips from her face and watch the blood travel so sensually down her bare chest. Painting designs, he wants to watch it and paint a portrait, a portrait of her dizzying body and the design of sex on her skin. And when she screams from her lipless mouth, he wants to kiss her and taste the blood that he knows will trail into his own mouth until its painted bloody crimson. It will taste like dizzying chocolate coated strawberries, and he knows he will drown in them until all he can is more. He wants more of the liquid that sustains her, that keeps her in this world. He wants more of the chocolate coated strawberries until there's no more left to take.
She looks at him with those murderously innocent eyes, eyes that fool everyone, except for him. They're cinnamon buns that he wants to tear into pieces, until there's nothing left but crumbs. He wants to make her intelligence disappear and make her into a living china doll that lives to serve him and only him. He hates how they shine, hates how they're enough to make him want to beg her to hurt him, to hurt him so much that he'll love her more. Sometimes, he wants to make it so that he's the only one that she can gaze at and seduce with those eyes alone.
He doesn't know how she does it.
Every night, they meet in different crevices and turn the walls crimson with their passion, their madding love that would make Voldemort himself squirm. It's almost as if they are addicted to each other; they can't stop drinking from each other, drinking their lives away until there's only them left. It isn't rape; it's their infatuation with each other that leads them to make their love in such a way that no one in the world would be able to reach their level of ardor. He doesn't consider her beautiful, because she plainly isn't. But there's something about those hips and that neck that makes him want to fuck her until she feels that ache between her legs for eternity.
He wants to shred her clothes to bits while she's wearing them with a knife and drink the rivulets of blood that will make her so wet that he can smell the musky scent from where he's kissing her. And she'll leave crescent shaped wounds on his back that he will never want to heal and long lines all over him from her scratching. He'll rip her to pieces with his every movement inside her, enough that she'll thrash as if she's feeling the Cruciatus curse from inside her. Finally, he knows that when they end their wild love making, they will be drenched in each other's blood so that in the end, their worlds will be painted the luscious red of each other.
And he knows that only then, he will be satisfied.
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