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
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


'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.


'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.