Like the leaves of autumn
Fingers, lips, arms, legs, heat. Scorpius was going to hate him. Dad was going to kill him. But in that moment, full of fingers, lips, arms, legs, and oh sweet Circe! That was tongue.
Chill to the bone
Muggles were masters of disposable, use once and trash; apparently so were obnoxiously wealthy, unbelievably fit purebloods.
Live, breathe, only to die
Scorpius would be hurt.
Fuck that, Scorpius wasn't hurt he was jealous, and violent. He tentatively poked at the purpling skin around his eye and his upper cheek.
Your father would not approve.
And since when have you given a fuck?
A broken dream, a slammed door.
Slytherins are all cowards.
Albus paused, then what does that say about him?
This must be summer love
It was only temporary, and it wasn't even a respite from the numbness a year old. If asked why he was here again, with the same cold fingers, lips, arms, legs and somehow the heat wasn't as scorching, he wouldn't know how to answer that to himself, even. It was sad, it was pathetic and he could still feel the throb of the black eye from Scorpius more than he could feel that wicked tongue endeavoring to plunder the depths of his soul.