WARNING: This is a slash
story, which means it contains male/male erotic
content involving adults. If you're not of legal
age or are offended by such material, please
go
find something else
to read.
TITLE: Bruise Pristine
BY: Lyle
EMAIL: Sstitches69@aol.com
RATING: NC-17
NOTES/DISCLAIMERS: Keep far out of reach of any
children. This fic startled me---I really didn't
expect it to come out so fast or like this at all.
My muse jumped me and insisted on a fic of this
pairing. I don't think I have to tell you Lord
Voldemort doesn't belong to me---and I don't want
him, either, though a personal Severus would be
lovely. ;)
WARNINGS: VOLDEMORT SEX! SQUICK! RUN, RUN FOR YOUR
LIVES! Er, I feel like I'm writing rather like Vic,
but don't slap me, Vic: I know you're better at it.
I squicked my beta-reader, you guys, so WATCH IT!
*cough* Now I'll just laugh at you if you come
crying to me.
SUMMARY: The Dark Lord abuses his power.
PAIRING: Severus Snape/Lord Voldemort
SPOILERS: None.
'Come here, now, young
Severus.' His mind flew with the haphazard motions
of a fly.
'My Lord -- what?' The finger
jerked, indicating where the Lord wanted him: here.
Now. The kiss was much lighter than he had
expected. What he expected was a vicious knife of a
kiss, more like his mouth was being eaten than
kissed. These narrow lips were actually soft --
what the fuck -- as they pried at his. They tasted
everything whether he let them or not. Almost
nonexistent -- inhumanly thin -- stripes nibbling
the flesh, warming skin, teeth whipping out to chew
at the sinews. Cruel electric desire indulged at
the expense of the boy. Boy? Not so much a boy,
now. He was too much of a Death Eater to be a
boy.
So... My Lord, this is what
you wanted. Petal-soft sucking, twitching, mouthing
-- without a sound but smacking wet against flesh
-- warm and chalk white. He shivered. He felt
himself spinning, shaking unsure of himself,
half-wondering what each finite part of his body
was doing. He wobbled on his feet as he pressed
against the -- he paused -- man? Or a monster,
perhaps, with his incendiary blood red eyes. When
you open your eyes in the middle of a kiss, you are
not supposed to see red ones slitted looking back
at you -- NO! Close the damn things, for the love
of life and humanity.
But of course, he doesn't
love life. So much life he thinks of as abhorrent;
that's why he is where he is now in the world. He
kills. You know he kills -- you kill too. It
becomes so natural. You stop thinking of the green
flash as another sentient being's disposal; you
begin to think it is only a pretty shot of light.
Pretty and oh-so-necessary. It is what keeps him
from throwing pain curses at us. 'Fail to Avada
Kedavra them and I will Crucio you.' God. The pain
that made him sick.
He twitched as the arms clung
to him and squeezed him in closer, driving at his
flesh, pinching his nipples, his ass. And his lover
-- my god! -- had no nose poking out of his face to
be bumped into carelessly with Severus' naive
return of his kiss. No, close your eyes and you
won't be plagued with the armies of blue-white
snakes across your sight, flipping back and forth,
tickling at your ears with their pointy tongues.
Only crazy peoplehallucinate, Severus. What was
that? His legs bent aside in a quick attempt to
dodge the other's. The blue-white snakes appeared
to be coiling around Voldemort's head like a
turban.
So uncomfortable standing
there in front of his Lord, white and horrible,
skin more like a snake's than a human's. Was his
master touching him, or was that the blue-white
snakes? They flew across his face. People don't
have scales like that, he told himself. This is not
a person. What is this, then? A cross-species
mating act. Sharp teeth on his tongue as the other
pressed mouths with him, white hard point jabbing.
Breaking away no less harsh.
'Severus...'
'Yes, my Lord?'
'Kneel, boy.' The arms
wormed around him and he cried. Or nearly did; he
bit his lip all but in two so as to prevent that.
The stinging red line down the middle of his lip --
what was the matter with him? It itched as he
leaned in to kiss between the legs, unwanting, not
volunteering, forced by the hands against the back
of his head. He knew he didn't want to see what was
underneath this figure's robe. Perhaps he could
turn off the light and avoid that.
Or not. The garment flopped
down, thrown with force -- so it almost looked like
a dying fish for a moment as it jerked against the
floor. Severus triednot to look up, but his chin
was raised by the other man's -- again... man? --
hand. Love -- that was what was supposed to make
you do these things. Beds were for people who loved
each other. Or were they? What was love? Severus
didn't believe in love. It was all fake; people
pretended to make him jealous. Especially James and
his blasted friends embracing each other as they
exchanged gifts at Christmas. All a goddamn fake
synthetic love. A play.
And he leaned in to touch
Severus from behind, wedging one thigh in between
his young charge's legs. Pulsed against him -- warm
and hot and alive -- like a human waterfall
dragging him under and crashing him on the rocks at
its bottom. Or not-so-human. The man shuddered --
overwhelming, drowned, limp and subordinate. The
look on Voldemort's face reminded him of a snake,
even. It was the same smug smile on Nagini's face
when his master fed him the Lovegoods.
Love... good... what were
those things? Severus did not believe in good.
Nothing was good, but it was goods for his Lord to
enjoy. One more Muggle to die horribly, another
Mudblood to beg for mercy. Ineffective, of course.
The magic made it so much cleaner than Muggles
would have done it -- it wasn't murder, really,
Severus has mused as he stood over the bodies. Too
sterile to be murder. Release, more like. Sweet
release.
He wondered to himself, what
would happen if I pointed the wand at myself
instead? Or if, in the last moment, I stood in
front of Malfoy's wand? Glorious, so final and
glorious. He could almost feel the light shooting
through him and stopping his circulation, ending
his heart's palpitations. Perfect. Only, they would
call him a coward, and in truth he would be.
Why were there snakes in the
air? Snakes swimming by, soft lulling
movements mesmerizing, coursing through the room,
twisting around each corner and flipping back the
other way. You aren't supposed to see things like
that, he mused. But no matter -- the things were
there. Just there. You didn't question them because
you saw them. They were only unnerving when they
became more concretely than he saw most things. And
at the moment the most clear thing in the room was
Voldemort's eyes over his shoulder, glowing from
their crevices likes horrid slices of
cranberry.
Sex for some people conjures
up images of rose petals strewn across a bed.
Severus pictured nightshade, with its poisonous
berries squirting against his skin purple-red as he
rolled. Not sweet honey in his mouth, but ginger,
sharp and persistent. The other's lips curled
against his, thin and dry, no longer soft but
vicious. His boxers slid about his knees as the
fingers groped. His breath caught. Long thin digits
-- pressing, touching, violating with a rough
insistence. His lips drew back to reveal his teeth,
in a grimace.
He didn't know what Voldemort
would say if he protested, but he didn't want to
know. He felt himself being maneuvered to the bed
and he yielded, as pliant as an eel in his master's
hands. He was carried like he was -- kneeling, feet
behind him and shoulders bent back for his master
to more easily hold him aloft. Uncomfortable, but
then, why would he care about that? Severus sighed
resignedly. And I will do what you ask, my Lord. I
will obey. When he was sworn in, the line reminded
him of a lurid wedding. A parody of one as he swore
his undying loyalty. In sickness and in health, for
richer or for poorer, until death do us
part.
So, this was the rich reward
he had been promised? He was the monster's personal
maid-servant, carrying out whatever task asked of
him. He sneered inwardly -- he imagined himself in
the frilly white apron instead of a long robe and a
Death Eater's mask. Next thing he knew he would be
washing the other's feet and bringing him tea. Not
what he'd signed up for, not at all.
He almost managed to tune out
when when the Dark Lord took what he wanted. A
strange full sense -- tight and stretched -- made
him close his eyes. It worked, if just to keep him
from seeing what he knew. Striking heat and the
scales shifted on his legs, driving up, down, up,
down, rocking both ways. He wondered how such an
intimate act could have been made impersonal. He
could tell he wasn't the only one the Lord did this
to, though he tried not to think who else might
have been to his private chambers. The fingers
gripped his shoulders as the erection was driven in
so fastfastfast -- ouch -- don't kill me, my Lord;
I will be forever faithful. Stop it
stopit...
The sort of lover he was...
Severus wouldn't have been surprised if he turned
himself into someone else with Polyjuice in the
middle of a sex act. Just to twist his mind, of
course. Maybe the entire point was to bend his
mind? Around those thin cruel fingers -- twisting,
switching, spinning it whichever way his master
wanted. He had pulled him in as slowly and as
surely as if he had thrown a lasso around his waist
and yanked. He insisted and surely would have
refused the word 'no.' Power-play and mind games.
Pressure holding him down, pinning him while the
fingers felt. Perhaps Voldemort might start
wrapping him up in thin silk strings like a spider
next; he never knew what to expect.
His bed, black silk sheeted
-- so they wouldn't stain, Severus thought -- and
immaculate, fit the two of them comfortably. Not
that the space was ever used to its full: Severus
always managed to find himself pinned against the
wall almost before he realized Voldemort had
arrived. And something about having his face buried
in the pure white neck -- not that it's owner was
pure: far from it -- unnerved him.
The voice whispered against
his lips -- no sweet nothings for Severus, no hell
no -- it told him to hold still. 'So close so
close... just hold still and I won't have to wrench
your arms off the covers and tie them to the
bedposts. So young and perfectly not-so-pure, such
nubile flesh for me to play with.' A voice that
whispered no niceties.
The sticky hot liquid poured
down his thighs and obstructed the pretty covers.
Doesn't this destroy his credulity? Can't look at
him the same, can't kiss his feet or bow genuinely.
It just wouldn't seem right. Wetness on the soft
smooth sheets. All the other's, none of it his. He
felt relieved. A hand rubbed up against him soft
and coaxing. He wouldn't. He refused. This wasn't
dignified. No -- wait -- he convulsed
involuntarily. And there his joined the flow. Damn.
Damndamndamn. That wasn't supposed to
happen.
Voldemort rolled off of him,
quick professional fingers extracting his limp
tool, drawing his robes back around him. He walked
across the room, tall and straight, shoulders
angling perfectly, not losing any poise in the
indignity of sex. He didn't have hair to be
mussed.
The door closed. Severus
brought his wrist to his face -- adorned by several
perfect slender oval stains. Pristine bruises.
Sodding idiot: why did he ever agree to join this
group? Did it really matter where he was useful if
it meant he had to serve? Only he should be his own
master. It was ridiculous. He hid his face in the
covers, glossy black hair nearly hiding his head
from view. He didn't wash it that night, nor the
next. He had stopped caring. No -- he did care. It
was all on purpose, to stop Lord Voldemort from
caressing it. And later it just became a habit to
neglect.
-end-
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