|snarryswapmod (snarryswapmod) wrote in snarry_swap,|
@ 2009-01-16 12:00:00
|Entry tags:||creation: fic, fbowden, rated: nc-17|
Happy Daft Day, cnary_crem_dght!
Title: Dark Desires
Warnings: Non con, violence, dark themes, character death (not Snape or Harry).
Prompt/Summary: Harry Potter is a prisoner, kept at the mercy of the Dark Lord’s successor, Lucius Malfoy. When Severus Snape’s loyalty is questioned, there can be no happy ending... can there?
A/N: This was by far the toughest fic I have ever had to write. cnary_crem_dght, I sincerely hope that you enjoy reading my first attempt at very dark Snarry.
‘Please, Sir,’ he says.
‘Can I have some more?’ he does not say.
I had half-expected him to. After all, he is not so very different from the fictional adolescent my memory references unbidden; a scrawny, scruffy urchin of a boy, parentless and uncared for.
What could he possibly beg more of? Certainly not food; not here, in this place where congealed bouillabaisse and spore encrusted bread are freely provided. Lucius’ hospitality is legendary; his generosity, it would seem, knows no bounds.
Potter struggles terribly with those two simple words, his parched tongue lethargic in its exploration of cracked and bloodied lips. His breathing is laboured, yet his lungs function valiantly, exchanging the chamber’s precious oxygen for worthless carbon monoxide. Though perhaps not entirely worthless, since it cocoons his entreaty and carries it to me in a vapour of rancid breath.
If the resonant timbre of my voice lacks its usual venom, he remains oblivious. A discoloured strip of cloth soaks greedily the single tear he cannot prevent betraying him, softening the tarnished hem where previously it held stiff with dried saline of earlier miseries.
His tears do not sway me, not while the makeshift blindfold obscures his eyes. Were it removed, or perhaps I should say, when it is removed; the bright, venomous green might be my – our – undoing.
If he suspects me as anything other than yet another tormentor, we will not make it out alive. It is no secret that since the Dark Lord’s demise and a year spent in Azkaban, Lucius’ mental faculties are questionable. The Dark Lord may be deceased, but Lucius has taken up the reins with much enthusiasm. Death Eaters have the resilience of cockroaches, and the Ministry has thus far failed dismally in its quest to exterminate.
My own loyalty during this turbulent period has been subjected to heavy suspicion, and so it is that I find myself in the bowels of Malfoy Mansion, charged with the task of breaking Harry Potter. If I perform well, Lucius will have no reason to distrust me, at least no more than his other subordinates. It is the only way in which I stand a chance of deposing Lucius and saving the boy wonder, though by the time I have coaxed unwilling pleasure from his body and inured his mind, it might be reasonable to question if what is left will be worth saving.
“Professor,” Potter rasps again, successfully interrupting my contemplation and disobeying me at the same time.
I manage to scrape together enough authentic annoyance to bark at him. “Did you not hear me the first time, Potter? Be quiet, or I shall pass your wellbeing along to someone with even less interest in its condition than I.”
His mouth sets into a hard line; still defiant I see, despite that he must recognize the volatility of his plight.
Steeling myself for the inevitable impossibility of my task, I take a purposeful step forward. I am fully aware of Lucius’ method of surveillance; denouncing first hand scrutiny in favour of Transparency spells, he sits merely feet away on the other side of the farthest stone wall from the prisoner, likely watching the proceedings with immense interest. I must maintain this facade of cold indifference no matter what.
The eyes though, Potter’s eyes. If anything, it will be these, and not his screams that might give me pause. It is no secret that I have desired the boy for as long as I have ridiculed his existence, though I never imagined I would actually get the opportunity to partake of his youthful, supple flesh. I prefer my partners willing, a rather novel thing among Death Eaters. An uneasy blend of arousal and disgust courses through my veins as I stop in front of the wretched boy and stare down at the thatch of black hair plastered to his skull.
My approach causes him to tuck his feet tighter beneath his body, wrap his arms more firmly around his chest, hugging himself as though no one else has ever thought to hold him in such a manner. Perhaps they haven’t. He may well never let another living soul this close to him again. As miserable as he feels now, it is nothing compared to how he will soon mourn the loss of his innocence.
Crouching down, I locate the knot of the blindfold and attempt to loosen it. Damn Carrows are nothing if not thorough, and it takes several seconds of effort to create enough space in which to ease my finger. The boy hisses in pain, and then I see why; small clumps of blood-matted hair cling to the cloth, stark evidence of the overzealous binding and the injury it has wrought.
As the filthy band’s removal restores his sight, he squints against the cell’s callous illumination, a handful of sconces and a single, narrow window, set high in the stone, admitting all but the feeblest shaft of gloomy firmament. One must suppose that preceding even the scant few days he has been incarcerated here, sudden exposure to luminosity would indeed cause the rapid shrinking of his pupils, displaying more of those burning green irises than I have ever had the misfortune to witness.
“Professor,” he whispers conspiratorially, searching my face as though he expects to discover salvation there. “You’ve come to save me, right?”
I stare at him, and wonder if I were to drop my Occlumency shields, whether he would have strength, or sense enough, to penetrate my mind and discover that what is about to happen is not what I wish to happen.
“Right?” he says again, less certain this time. How I wish I could tell him yes, but Lucius’ hard, grey intangible gaze is as effective as knives in my back.
Potter’s clothes are filthy. They will not make much of a bed on which to lie, and doubtless my new Master, as temporary as I expect his reign to be, will later mock me for such a simple act of perceived kindness. I already know I shall tell him that I was merely saving my own deplorable knees, not the prisoner’s.
I begin by unbuttoning his shirt, yet still the wretched youth does not seem to realise what such an act suggests. His eyes, crusted with sleep, red rimmed and watery, dart from my face to my fingers and back again. That he trusts me, that he still does not yell in anguish or plead with me to stop is an uneasy burden to bear.
Only when I reach the last button does he look up again, a soupcon of fear creeping into those damnable eyes.
I ease the fabric from his shoulders and push it down his arms. It is prevented from proper disembarking by the ties that keep his wrists trussed together. With a muttered spell, the fabric splits at the seams. I avoid his confused gaze and concentrate on the smooth, shaped sculpt of his torso, a sparse trail of dark hair creating a distinct furry line from his navel, disappearing below the waistband of his trousers. He is tanned, and lightly muscled, and the scent of his unwashed body induces a rush of blood to my groin, further encouragement for the instrument required to commit such an act of terrorism.
Those are not my fingers, scratching at his trousers to seek out the zip. It is not my voice, tainted with inarticulate regret that hushes his sudden, fervent protests. They cannot be my hands, long, slender, stained hands that grasp his impeded wrists to prevent his struggles. Moaning aloud, he slams back against the granite and uses his pitiful energy reserves to curl into a protective ball.
It is incongruous that his trousers, slack around his midriff due to his recently imposed fasting, so effortlessly yield to my questing fingers. His frantic shuffle backwards actually aids me as I grip tighter and ease them down his legs.
He kicks; oh, how he kicks, thrashing about like an injured animal, wearing himself out in no time at all, though his eyes do not rest. They are as vehement as ever, branding my skin with their hatred, and it is in this moment that I realise my actions will change both of us irrevocably. Where before there was an infinitesimal possibility that I might woo the boy into my bed, admittedly little more than a fantastical notion I frequently take pleasure in entertaining, now there will be none.
His trousers catch at the knees, squeezed together like a vice. He glares brilliantly, torn between outrage and hysteria, no doubt considering if it is worth the humiliation he will suffer if he begs me to cease.
He does not beg, and I do not cease. I focus on wrenching his legs apart, tugging sharply until the garment becomes a rug across the flagstones, making a pile atop the discarded remains of his shirt.
I imagine Lucius, on the other side of the cell, uncrossing his legs to lean forward and observe the terror on Potter’s face. When the time arrives, and it will arrives far too quickly, I shall angle my body and block Lucius’ view, so that the boy is at least spared one component of this degradation, no matter how trivial it might seem.
When I reach for his underpants, he emits an ethereal howl and throws force behind his shouldering, momentarily unbalancing me. I curse and renew my efforts, mechanical, methodical so that I do not invite the unwelcome deliberation of what I am becoming with each passing moment of desecration.
He launches himself against the wall again, rocking back on clenched fists and gaining enough leverage to plough his foot into my stomach. The stupid boy has no idea of the damage he is risking; if Lucius perceives the situation to be outside of my control, I am in no doubt at all that he will intervene. Drawing my hand back, I wallop Potter across the face, hearing the crick of his neck interspersed with a winded gasp.
While the tip of his tongue gingerly tastes the blood oozing from his split lip, I take several deep breaths, an impasse reached when our eyes meet; his accusing, mine pleading his compliance, if only he did but know it.
“Coward,” he spits, spraying my stark white shirt with flecks of red.
My temper rapidly approaches boiling point, mere simmering irritably eviscerated with the additional pressure of this heinous assignment. He is intent on angering me, and why shouldn’t he be, now that he has gained full understanding of what I am about to do and how he lacks the ability to prevent it. I could hardly expect anything else from this bright-eyed, lion-hearted Gryffindor. He was born fighting and continues until this very day to do so.
This time I leave no potential for retaliation; I seize his legs and yank him forward, offering wordless apology as his back lands heavily on the ground. He screams expletives as I drag him a short distance across frigid stone to the pile of clothes, barely adequate as cushioning, but infinitely better than the cold, unforgiving floor.
With one brutal rip, his underpants are in tatters, falling away from his hips, such slender, lightly-coloured hips with two perfect indents forming a v shape where the wiry, black hair lays. I despise myself for the desire that attacks my body, feeding my arousal as surely as his is committing suicide.
His cock looks pale and frightened, entirely flaccid in its nest of dark curls. His balls are crimson, and heavy, though they seem to be trying to crawl inside his body when my gaze falls upon them.
Of course, I have barely a second to admire him before he starts thrashing again, cursing my legitimacy and wounding me with wide, fearful eyes. I briefly consider a Body Bind, but then his gasp diverts my attention and I stare down to see my hand upon his cock, stroking with a gentleness he would likely not have thought me capable of. His expression wavers; merely a physical reaction to being touched and certainly nothing like permission; I am not foolish enough to think he would actually enjoy this. For seven years I was his most reviled Professor, the man he holds accountable for his parents’ death. He forgave me much following the war, but I am under no illusion that he had forgiven me that. And he will not forgive me this, either.
His mouth opens, perhaps to scream, or beg, yet no sound emerges. His lips, already cracked, split further until the crevices between sores are tinged red. I have always wondered what it would feel like to thrust my tongue between Potter’s lips, if they would be as soft and as pliable as they look. Ironically, now that I have the chance, I cannot bring myself to sample him. It is too intimate a gesture, one that he must in the future build positive memories from, not be haunted evermore by the sharp nip of my ravenous teeth, or the slimy hotness of my tongue seeking refuge behind his trembling lips.
I resolve to get this over and done with as quickly as possible, realising that I will not be able to maintain an erection while his eyes scream ‘traitor’ and ‘rapist’ with each and every thrust. Gripping his hips, I flip him over, a move he quite clearly wasn’t expecting. I wince as I hear his jaw hit the flagstones, unable to break his fall since his hands are tied behind his back.
I stare at those hands, callused and clenched into futile fists, capable of handling brooms at breakneck speed, the very epitome of gracefulness. I focus on the grime ingrained in the crevices of his fingernails, on the bruises forming on his wrists beneath the strangling flex. I grasp it tightly, dragging him up to his knees and use my own to force his legs apart, ignoring his dry whimpers and the fat, wet tears I am certain he is spilling. He continues to struggle, but his lethargy renders his attempts unsuccessful. He is no match for me without magic at his disposal. Freeing my prick takes only a second; the stretching and lubricating spell I perform wordlessly a fraction of that.
With my back to Lucius, he has no way of knowing that I bestowed on Potter this small act of mercy. Not that the boy will thank me for it; the very idea that he should is laughable. At least it would be if it did not make me sick to the very pit of my stomach.
I take my cock in hand and realise I am barely hard; not achingly stiff like those nights I lay awake, imagining a dark head at my groin, two impious green eyes observing my pleasure-contorted face as a wicked mouth swallows around me.
The image is enough. I position the head of my cock against his entrance, wishing with every fibre of my being that the situation could be drastically different.
“Not ... not like this,” he chokes out, twisting his head to glare over his shoulder. My fingers tighten on his hips. “Please, sir ... I wanted ... but ... not like this, please, not like this.”
I force down my hesitation as I force the head of my cock through the slicked-up muscle. He shouts out, head dropping to the floor as I sheathe myself fully within impossibly latent heat. His insides feel tight enough to cut circulation, and I grit my teeth against an overwhelming sense of shame that I should even be considering how perfect he feels around me.
I instigate motion. He howls his mantra, ‘not like this, not like this’; left cheek pressed into the stone so that the side of his face is visible, as is the silvery scar etched into his forehead. There is absolutely no conscious attempt on my part to provide him any pleasure, though the deep slide of my prick inadvertently brushes his prostate anyway, and he jerks wildly, hissing like an alley cat. His hands unfurl, palms meeting briefly as though in prayer, before gnarling up into livid fists again. Knotted muscles along his spine stand taut and tense, while an angry flush paints his skin, all the way from his trembling shoulders to the clenching cheeks of his arse.
Sweat mars my brow, trickling into my eyes with the dynamism of each thrust. I blink it away and renew my effort, not so brutal that it will be agonizing for Potter, but fierce enough that it should appease Lucius’ bloodthirsty greed. Potter’s moans are deeply anguished, most unlike the sounds of gratification I often dream of him producing. If Merlin is merciful, I will never have another insentient fantasy about Potter again.
I want this over with, but no matter how tight or, I shudder to think it, virginal, his arse is, no matter how swiftly I plough into him, tuning out his resentful body when I slide balls deep inside him and the profanities he utters as I withdraw again, I cannot find release. The idea that I should sully him in the most despicable way imaginable keeps me from drawing enough pleasure to orgasm.
Gritting my teeth, I drive forward sharply, ignoring his high-pitched yelp and my own unconscious observation that he looks like a broken marionette. I curse under my breath and close my eyes, concentrating only on the friction his body provides and the physical feelings it stimulates. Eventually, my testicles tighten in readiness, and I grip his hipbones harder, allowing the stunted sensation of my pitiable climax to wash over me.