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jateshiTitle: Victory to the French
Rating: PG because of mentions of kissing and swords
Pairing: Lucius Malfoy/Severus Snape
Warnings: There are swords. And tongues. That's really about it.
Word Count: 252
Archive: Just ask me.
A glint of metal; the air was cut by a sharp edge, polished steel making brief contact against skin. Flickers of magic, the blade repelled by suddenly-hard air, and a thin red line was all to mark the possible death-blow. The energy crackled and disappated, the sparks of lightening that danced over their bodies dying down to return to the illusion of nothing.
The two combatants, dancers whose blades were cold extensions of their arms, drew back and away. Feet moving in the age-old intricate patterns, locked eyes remained the only engaged weapons. Their dancing drew them inexorably together again - a swift slice and block, a thrust and parry, riposte with stomping feet - and once more the sweet crash of edge-against-edge resounded.
Each man was evenly matched, their skills so apparent in the quick, but sure, movements they used. It was only when one over-extended that a single simple kill motion was made, quick steps to take advantage of his now-open side.
It was the smirk, only clear as he drew closer, which keyed him in to who had truly won. The other man shifted the way he griped the hilt, hand loosening as his arm hooked around the small of his back and drew them together. Hips collided with a slowly-awakening passion as the victor felt soft lips brush against his. With only a moan Snape's blade dropped, lips parting in surrender to the other.
"Victoire," the blonde-haired man murmured softly, pressing the word into the other man's skin.
Rating: PG because of mentions of kissing and swords
Pairing: Lucius Malfoy/Severus Snape
Warnings: There are swords. And tongues. That's really about it.
Word Count: 252
Archive: Just ask me.
A glint of metal; the air was cut by a sharp edge, polished steel making brief contact against skin. Flickers of magic, the blade repelled by suddenly-hard air, and a thin red line was all to mark the possible death-blow. The energy crackled and disappated, the sparks of lightening that danced over their bodies dying down to return to the illusion of nothing.
The two combatants, dancers whose blades were cold extensions of their arms, drew back and away. Feet moving in the age-old intricate patterns, locked eyes remained the only engaged weapons. Their dancing drew them inexorably together again - a swift slice and block, a thrust and parry, riposte with stomping feet - and once more the sweet crash of edge-against-edge resounded.
Each man was evenly matched, their skills so apparent in the quick, but sure, movements they used. It was only when one over-extended that a single simple kill motion was made, quick steps to take advantage of his now-open side.
It was the smirk, only clear as he drew closer, which keyed him in to who had truly won. The other man shifted the way he griped the hilt, hand loosening as his arm hooked around the small of his back and drew them together. Hips collided with a slowly-awakening passion as the victor felt soft lips brush against his. With only a moan Snape's blade dropped, lips parting in surrender to the other.
"Victoire," the blonde-haired man murmured softly, pressing the word into the other man's skin.
