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Title: Spoils of War Rating: NC-17 Warnings: BDSM, dubious consent, deeply messed-up relationship Pairing: Snape/Draco Archive: Black and Silver; all others please ask Category: AU; Angst I am his prize. I am Hecuba, and Andromache, and Cassandra-concubine of the conqueror. Sometimes I wish he had killed me when he killed my father, and I dare to ask him why he didn't. He laughs at me then, and strokes my face and tells me that I'm much prettier than my father ever was. Then, usually, he slaps me for my insolence. That's what he says, but I think it's really just that he likes the way I mark so easily, the way the shape of his hand imprints in red on my pale skin. I find myself craving even this abuse from him, for it is far better than the alternative. The nights I can't bear are the ones when he returns to our-to his-rooms, and collapses into bed without a word, as if I was not even there. I can't sleep then; I stay awake and stare at the ceiling, wondering what will happen when he truly tires of me. Azkaban, most likely, and endless days shut away in the darkness, each one exactly like the next, without even the hope of becoming dementor's prey, since the Army of Light is above such things. More than anything else, I have always feared boredom. Sometimes on those nights I will try to tempt him, to goad him into noticing me, even as I know how I will suffer for it. And for all his posture of cool indifference, it is not that difficult to rouse him to anger. The gentle touch of my hand on his chest, a light tongue against his ear-and he is awake, snarling, shoving me down on the bed and slapping and pinching me, so cruel, so needed. He summons a cane to his hand, turns me over-I never resist or struggle-and strikes me hard. I know I will have marks, lovely parallel lines of red that will turn blue and purple before fading into thin, white-on-white scars. After the caning he fucks me, long sharp fingers digging into the burning lines and I can't tell if that hurts more than the way he drives into me fast and brutal and I am screaming to keep from laughing because I know, I understand in one brilliant crystalline moment why he saved me, why he keeps me. I am his opposite: beautiful where he is not; a willing servant of the darkness that he turned away from, faithful where he was a traitor. Then the moment shatters, and there is only the pain, and his cock buried deep inside me as he comes. I am not laughing anymore-all I can manage is a soft whimper as he withdraws and leaves me hot and wet and still wanting. He grips my chin in those elegant fingers and stares at me, black crossing silver. His eyes are opaque and shuttered, perfect scrying mirrors that reflect images of what has gone before and what will be. I will not tell the future, for I will not be believed. |