Author's Notes: Not a French opera. But you could probably tell that. Please email me and tell me what you think.
By Darkangel Rose
Severus Snape understood fear.
He knew how it felt: the tightening in his chest, the constricting of his throat, the sweet venom of adrenaline coursing through him.† Some people get addicted to adrenaline, his mother told him once: the exhilaration of danger. He hadnít believed her.† It was impossible to believe anything that came out of her cringing, apologetic mouth.
Severus wasnít a daring man.† He wasnít Sirius Black: didnít need constant hazardous exploits to prove his own existence.† He had Lucius.
Severus had been terrified of Lucius from the moment their eyes first met.† Lucius had looked down at him, though Severus was half a head taller; Severus didnít flinch. There was a sick stillness at the core of his being; an urgency in his blood.
To Severus, Lucius was fear.† Somewhere within refined features and a calm, cultured voice was the ability to set free Severusí most innate, animalistic terror.† Lucius played the part of predator, and Severus assumed the role of prey.† Sometimes he held deathly still, hoping for a camoflauge that could never be his.
Lucius saw Severus, understood him; the hair, the voice, the dark eyes that flickered with defiance and the unbidden desire to flee.† He was like a statue carved with sharp corners and non-reflective black paint; an old-style vampire from a gothic novel.† A Nosferatu, a Dracula, and something about the ugliness of Severusí beauty drew Lucius to him.
Lucius touched Severus that first time, a fingertip on his thin lips, and Severus felt his blood stop.† Every muscle within him stood taut, unmoving; the air was trapped in his throat.
And from the moment Lucius put his pretty lips up against Severusí mouth, Severus knew he was addicted.
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