|Envinyatar (envinyatar15) wrote in envinyatar_fics,|
@ 2008-04-01 11:46:00
|Entry tags:||challenge: erotic_elves, pairing:hp:padma/voldemort, pt:100quills:hp:death eaters, pt:challenge_the:hp:general|
[Fic] Torn Asunder (Padma/Voldemort, NC-17)
Title: Torn Asunder
Author: Envinyatar (aka envinyatar15)
Highlight for Warnings: *dub-con, oral, BDSM, first time, knifeplay*
Word Count: 2,620
Summary: Padma Patil was not only a spy, she was the Dark Lord's whore as well.
Notes: o.O Don't even ask. Written for the Spring "Love Is Everywhere" Challenge. No, I don't know why I chose to write this pairing when I could have had Lucius/Ginny (or Crabbe/Hermione). Apparently my muse decided March would be Horror Month. Posted here on LJ. Many thanks to zebraspots05 for the beta.
For challenge_the: #047 pain; 100quills: #07 chains.
I was a spy.
As she writes this sentence down as the opening line of what she presumes will become her autobiography, her hand falters for a moment. Thoughts pound through her head with such force that she has to close her eyes and call upon her discipline, then she keeps on writing. She is a Ravenclaw and as such stands for full disclosure.
She will own up to what she has done.
Padma Patil was a spy.
She supposed her reasons for joining the Dark Lord's cause were different from the reasons others had. She had more to lose than to win by fighting by his side. She didn't have any familial roots in the Dark Arts; quite the opposite. She didn't have an inclination herself to torture and mass murder or for world domination; sometimes she wasn't even sure which one was actually the Dark Lord's goal.
She had no interest in power whatsoever.
What she was interested in, though, was the mysterious, and the Dark Lord's resources offered her a much more thorough access to material about the Dark Arts than any official library could. She craved the written word, the way it didn't betray you or go behind your back. Books were easy where life was complicating, knowledge fool-proof where feelings were misguiding.
Voldemort's minions went where power was. Padma went where the knowledge was.
She didn't wear a Mark. She had refused it to the Dark Lord's face. "I am not part of your herd of sheep," she had said, calmly. "I do not need to be branded."
The Dark Lord had smiled his lipless smile at her. "Do you not?"
"I will further your research. I will have to have access to every location possible. Do you think a Dark Mark would help me with my errand?" Padma had asked back.
The Dark Lord had conceded. Then he had beckoned her forward and sealed her loyalty to him with a kiss that branded her more deeply than his Mark would have.
Padma Patil was not only a spy, she was the Dark Lord's whore as well.
It was easy for her to fall into that trap. She had denied Voldemort's Dark Mark.
Her punishment was swift and fierce. Ever since that kiss she knew how, aside from the accuracy of the information she brought, her loyalty would be tested. Would she submit to his power over her, acknowledge that he was her master?
That's how she found herself in his bed each night, her loyalty questioned and with it, the value of her life.
I was a virgin the first time he took me.
Padma stares unseeingly at the paper in front of her. The image of their bodies writhing against each other flashes before her eyes, followed by the familiar feeling of blood rushing to her gut. She knows that it's a sign of how messed up she is, but the more she remembers, the more aroused she gets. She licks her lips. Her left hand lifts up as if of its own accord to trail a path from her temple down to her throat. She almost grips it the way he did so many times, but realisation of what she is doing slams home before her fingers close around her wind pipe.
Her hand slams back down on the parchment in front of her. Her eyes focus back on the words.
She was a virgin that first time.
She'd been researching a topic he had set for a fortnight. It wasn't anything overly difficult and Padma knew it was a first test for her before she would really be accepted into his ranks, but she did her best.
Then she was called to present what she'd found out.
They were alone in the room, the torches painting shadows on the walls of the dark, dense room, so unfitting to a Dark Lord. Padma was mesmerised upon setting foot into the room. The image of Voldemort on his throne, yellow and red dancing around him but never quite touching, appealed to her. She had a refined sense of beauty, and even though she couldn't get as excited about beauty as her sister did - Padma rarely did about anything - Voldemort, in that moment, spoke to her. It was a call she could not resist. She stepped forward with a slight bow.
"Padma." His voice was smoother than she would have expected, the edge lost in the undefined shadows whirling around them. There were ghosts in this room, whispering among themselves. Padma wondered briefly whether people had died in here, whether the whispers of the flames were the echoes of screams; then she focused on the task at hand.
"I have brought you what you sought," she said to him, her head held high as she handed him the folder with the results of her research. She knew she'd delivered even before he'd looked at what she'd written. She knew she was good at what she did.
Time went by as Voldemort looked through the file. She thought about what would happen now that she'd handed her knowledge over, but she guessed it wasn't her responsibility. She couldn't control other people and their actions, and if it hadn't been Padma to find out what Voldemort wanted, someone else would have.
If any blood was shed, it wouldn't be on her hands, as far as she was concerned.
Voldemort eventually looked up, a contented expression lingering around his lipless mouth. "Very well. You will receive a reward."
Padma bowed again, a mere inclination of the head. She had her pride. "Thank you, my Lord." They both knew her calling him her Lord was a scam, and it brought a glitter to Voldemort's eyes - of anger or amusement Padma didn't know.
"Come here," he said. Padma stepped forward without hesitation. You brought it upon yourself, a voice whispered in her head, but she didn't listen. She had little concern about her own welfare, little regard, really, for her own life. She was not afraid of death.
If Voldemort thought of this as a reward, she would take it as such.
Voldemort didn't motion for her to stop until she stood directly in front of his sitting form. Even standing she was still smaller than he was: a demonstration of power on his side. She looked at him, straight in the eye without so much as a bat of the eyelash when confronted with the all-consuming redness in front of her. He beckoned her forward with a finger. Padma leaned in, fighting against the current drawing her into him, but losing the battle; leaning in further and further until her mouth was but an inch from his.
"Undress yourself," he said.
And it began.
"On your knees."
He stood in front of her, his crotch level with her eyes, unbuttoning the front of his robes. His cock, when she laid eyes on it, was hard and leaking. But the skin was wrinkled - an indication of a life too drawn-out, a body inhabited by a battered soul. Nothing like that went by without leaving marks.
"Open your mouth."
She did. There was no doubt in her mind as to what was about to happen. His voice was still velvet-like, the atmosphere of the room more chilly than before. Padma knew she was shivering in the cold, but she wasn't feeling it.
Reality was but a dream.
His hand lightly rested on her scalp, almost lovingly caressing her hair. She looked up at him. His red eyes found hers. Then, without further warning, Voldemort pushed his cock into her mouth. Her jaw stretched until she thought it would snap. She tasted the salt leaking from the slit, underneath her panic distantly wondering at how he could still taste so human when he had made a deal with the devil himself.
Her concentration on anything but the here and now, so normal for her, was shattered by a growl. Her eyes focused back on his hips and the scars on the grey-ish skin. Voldemort fucked her mouth with unforgiving thrusts, uncaring about the gagging sounds she made as he repeatedly hit the back of her throat. She was hurting; breath was difficult to come by. Her eyes watered, tears streaming down her face. Clawing at his thighs she felt the muscles in her jaw stiffen in her panic, her eyes go wide. She fought against his touch, trying to get away from him, his body, his presence.
She couldn't possibly succeed in her errand, however, and deep down she knew it. His hands tensed around the back of her head, pressing all the right spots to hold her in place.
Then, when she wouldn't relent, he pulled her away from him and the back of his hand connected with her cheek with a sickening crack. She could feel how his knuckles split the skin just above her cheekbone, wincing in pain. Her throat was too sore to produce any sound.
"Careful," he hissed, the threat more than obvious in the air. He forced her forwards again, his cock pressing against her lips and smearing pre-come over her chin. "Suck."
Padma did. She had to force herself to relax, open up to him so he wouldn't be displeased. His hands were hard on the back of her head, holding her in place with his enormous strength. He was thick and heavy on her tongue. Her teeth scraped at the underside of his cock, her mouth finally gone slack as she let him take what he wanted.
The demand of "Swallow" was all the warning she had before he came, shooting into her mouth. She tried to comply, but it was too much; come dribbled down her chin, mixing with the salt from her tears. She sat dirtied and used when he pulled out, tucking himself back into his robes.
She went in a daze without even pulling her clothes around her.
I was used and abused.
Then I wanted to be used and abused.
Padma knows she has urges that no one else would understand. She hasn't spoken about her time with Voldemort to anyone. No one indeed knows she ever worked for him. She was not Marked, bears no outer sign of her betrayal.
Sometimes she is glad for it, but sometimes she just wishes someone would know - and punish her for it.
Her mind went numb as soon as she was in Voldemort's bedchamber, her body taking over for her in anticipation of what was to come. She undressed and lay down on the bed before taking the potion that had been prepared for her. A contraceptive potion, they'd said, but she knew better. She couldn't say what it was exactly, but it made her pliant and willing while still in the possession of her mind.
After a while, the potion was a mere precaution. She waited on the bed, outwardly patient but counting the seconds as they went by. Sometimes she waited only moments, sometimes hours; sometimes he didn't come. Then she went home unfulfilled, trying to convince she was glad of it because this wasn't the reason she'd joined him. Something beneath whispered It's your reason now, a thought she pushed in a corner of her mind as soon as it occurred to her.
She'd never been good at self-deceit, but even that was only a matter of learning, until it became an automatic response to her doubts. It was easier that way when she didn't have a way back out.
Too deeply she'd fallen.
He never once looked at her when he took her. She was always bent over a surface or on all fours, her back to him as he pounded into her relentlessly. She was always taken unprepared, his body covering hers and his cock in her cunt, her ass; his hand on her clit, the other wrapped around a sharp blade or the collar around her throat, controlling her fully.
He knew how to wring pleasure out of even an unwilling body, and he wrought pleasure out of her she didn't know existed. Pain became a synonym for gratification, orgasm an unreachable goal if it wasn't him who touched her.
Her days were filled with the craving for normalcy. Her nights were filled with the agony of fulfilment.
I was his.
Padma bears the scars of his knife on her stomach, a daily reminder of his presence when she looks in the mirror. Sometimes she still feels the tightness of his fingers around her throat, his hands in her hair, yanking her head back.
The knowledge she gathered in those dark days is forgotten in the depth of her mind, overshadowed by the memory of him.
"You are mine," he hissed as he took her from behind, his cock pushing into her virgin cunt with a powerful thrust.
"Yes," she breathed, biting down on the cry that wanted to escape.
Her agreement was instant, no doubt in her mind as to where she belonged. He'd taught her well. She knew her place.
She whimpered as his cold hand traced the outline of her breast. Her clit was throbbing in anticipation.
"Scream for me," he whispered in her ear. Then the rough fingertip was replaced with the sharp edge of a blade, circling her nipple. A shiver ran through Padma's body, Voldemort's breath in her ear hitching as she forcefully pushed back into him.
"My Lord," she moaned. "Please."
His hand around her throat came up instantly, her air supply cut off. Padma coughed, tried to inhale, but to no avail; he was stronger than her, she well knew it, and she didn't have a way of escaping him even if she wanted to.
But she trusted him. She trusted him to know how far to go – trusted him with her life and her death.
The world narrowed down along the edges, blackness seeping in from the sides of her vision. Black turned red, the dull pain the caressing knife left on her skin intensifying until her skin was on fire.
The red screen over her eyes took her consciousness with it, the same moment that she felt Voldemort coming inside her with hot, thick pulses.
She went peacefully.
The day he died I wished I'd died too. I knew I was finally free of him, like I'd hoped so often in the hours before dawn. My aim had been long forgotten, my mind filled with what I had to do to make him touch me. I couldn't bear having his hands on me, but I couldn't live without it either.
I still can't. My mind has been used up by him. In the end he was all I was, every fibre of my being focused on pleasing.
I never was a Death Eater. I was worse. I was Voldemort's slave.
I still haven't freed myself of his bonds. Branded on the inside, what I'd defied in the beginning.
Shouldn't have underestimated him. Shouldn't have believed in myself so much. Didn't have a destiny to fulfil.
I know I should move on, rationally. But knowing something rationally and realising it emotionally are two very different things. How does one deal with this? There is no one who could understand. My sister disapproves whenever I slip, telling her Voldemort was interesting to me. She knows me - knows my scientific interest in profiling - but she won't understand. So all this stays buried and locked, and I feel like I've been torn asunder.
I live the life expected of me, behave like the memory of myself others have.
What does the puppet do without its master?