Short: Salvation (NC-17)
Many thanks to wankstar for the invite!
Title: Salvation
Author: Cenire
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: They're not mine (if only!).
Notes: Post-war and very heavy on the angst. Dedicated to malachite_eyes, who motivated me and wrote some mean Snarry for the in-between times.
-----
"Someday you’ll try to kill me." These words are spoken in the fading afterglow of sex.
"Probably." Two bodies are pressed together, slick with sweat and come and breathing in tandem.
"You will." Inout. Inout. Inout. Rocking back and forth on a sea of breath, Potter clinging to him like he’s a raft, fingers dug into the tender spaces between his ribs and Draco can’t bring himself to care.
"You’ll kill me first." Draco’s words echo off of cold stone, a curse made real in the act of being spoken.
"I’m trying to save you." The whisper is a weak counter spell.
"Don’t." Draco pushes him off and rolls away. He dresses swiftly and is gone, leaving Potter lying there, shivering in the cold.
So like Potter, offering salvation through sex as a last resort. It’s all he has left to give. Everyone else has sucked him dry. Dumbledore took his hope and his trust - Draco can sense Potter’s hate and distrust for the man. The Weasel and the Mudblood take something more intimate, his loyalty. For them he would go to the ends of the world, even die - and he might have to. It’s a heavy burden and Draco does not envy him. Everyone else… everyone else just wants him to save the world. And to Draco, to Draco who does not even want to be saved, Potter has only himself to give in the most intimate sense of the word.
And because Draco could never refuse such a beautiful gift so freely and wantonly given, he takes Potter. Or does Potter take him? It’s an important detail but one Draco does not think about. Potter taking anything seems an unlikely prospect at best in Draco’s mind.
*****
Potter’s eyes are always on him after that. The scrutiny makes Draco nervous and he begins to make mistakes. Mistakes like fucking Potter again.
"You came back," Potter says, looking gratified.
Draco thinks that shoving his cock down Potter’s throat will wipe the smirk off his face quite nicely. Potter seems to have other ideas, pressing against Draco and kissing him with such force that Draco tastes blood. Shocked, Draco tries to turn away. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be but Potter’s hands are knotted in his hair and he can’t move his head.
Salvation through sex. Nice job, Potter.
And then he can’t think anymore because there’s a hand on his cock and even through his trousers it’s almost too much. He tries to push it away but Potter is insistent, bearing them to their knees before forcing Draco onto his back.
Save me, then.
The stone floor is cold under Draco’s bare skin but the heat from Potter’s lips locked around his cock keep him nicely distracted. Against his will he’s writhing and moaning, trying to push deeper into Potter’s throat but there are hands on his hips, pinning him firmly to the ground and there’s no question who is in control.
Draco submits.
Potter senses this and with a flourish of his tongue he brings Draco off swiftly, waiting until the cries have faded into the stone before sitting up and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. It’s a juvenile gesture and it drives Draco mad with the simplicity of it. Green eyes watching him, waiting to see how he’ll react and Draco searches in vain for his composure, hidden somewhere under his fading euphoria.
"Thanks," he says at last. And to his ears it sounds unspeakably lame and weak.
Potter only smiles and stands. This time it’s he who leaves Draco shivering half-naked in the cold.
Now we’re even.
*****
Hollow. Draco knows that’s how victory under the Death Eater banner feels. Hollow because Voldemort takes it all for himself and leaves the rest of his Death Eaters to squabble over the dregs like hyenas. And in true Death Eater fashion, squabble they do. Malfoy does not forget this because to do so would be suicide. So it is that he casts Crucio first, driving the younger Goyle mad with pain. The boy that once idolised him melts in the searing heat of Draco’s disinterest, leaving only a pale, twitching shell.
"You would have done it to me," he says with a shrug, stepping over the body that once belonged to Goyle. Draco doesn’t know if this is true but he believes it because he has to. To believe anything less would allow morality free reign in his conscience and that is not an option. The simplicity of a murderer is stark.
Sometimes, in the dark and the silence he wonders what he has come to, what they all have come to. They are killing fewer of the enemy and more of each other and Draco wonders if that isn’t exactly the way Voldemort planned it. He didn’t doubt the Dark Lord would share his spoils with his faithful followers, however if there were no followers left…
Survive. The Serpent is cunning.
*****
Sweeping up the last pockets of the Resistance has become an arduous task that Draco and the other Death Eaters have come to dread. It’s too much work for no reward, and they end their days covered in blood, gore, and clots of dirt, reeking of death and destruction. Victory was not supposed to taste like this.
Just outside Manchester they encounter particularly stiff resistance. It takes longer than usual to put down and Draco is both gratified and worried to see the body of the Weasel when the smoke clears at last. If he’s here Potter could be…
Draco does not allow the thought space in his head. That was years ago and he was different person then. Not a Death Eater, not Voldemort’s new right hand. Back then there might have been something left to salvage but not now. Draco kicks the body over, all sightless eyes and stiff limbs. A boot in the ribs is still too good for the likes of a Weasley and Draco moves on.
Draco is ankle-deep in mud and thought when he sees two figures struggling towards him in the gray pre-dawn light. "Potter." Bulstrode is holding him with both arms wrenched up behind his back, his wand and hers gripped in her free hand. She has the triumphant look of a dog that’s just made off with the roast. Draco can practically see her salivating even as her eyes glaze over with something akin to lust.
"Give him over." Sparks erupt as she momentarily refuses to yield her prize. But Draco has been her leader and commander since before she was a Death Eater and he’s asserted his dominance several times over. After a brief battle of wills she shoves Potter over to Draco. Draco holds him on the point of his wand, the Cruciatus ready on his lips. Potter looks up, all green eyes and memories and Draco forgets for a moment that anything has changed at all.
*****
Falling, and the ground rushing up to meet him and he doesn’t care because maybe the sudden impact will stun him out of it. Maybe crashing headlong into the ground will wake him up and make him forget -
((he looked so innocent))
--what it was like to break another man.
I didn’t mean it, I didn’t want to. Cross your fingers and I’ll count to ten and then you’ll get up again, right? Right?
*****
Potter’s body is never found but the Resistance crumbles all the same. Their leader is nowhere to be found and sandwiched between hope he may be alive and despair that he is not they find themselves unable to move from the vice grip of the Death Eaters.
They are overwhelmed. They are killed or converted, sent into slavery and a lifetime of silent suffering. Draco takes a certain cold satisfaction from directing the killing curse at the Mudblood but satisfaction cannot fill the hole inside him. Nothing can fill the emptiness that is eating its way through his chest, bent on destroying him and everything he knows.
What does he know?
He knows what happened on that cold, lonely battlefield when the sun was too ashamed to show its face. He knows what happened when he sent Bulstrode away, when he caught Potter’s lips in a bruising kiss. And Potter, battered, beaten and broken, still found the strength to kiss him back. Draco knows the offer her made, he knows that the only time he’s cried since the war began was in Potter’s arms.
"If you come with me I can save you. I can save both of us."
"No, Draco. You can’t."
What Draco doesn’t know is how Potter managed to get the tablet to his mouth, to crack it with broken teeth and swallow the bitter pill. Draco doesn’t know because he can’t stand to remember his one chance to change the course of his life. He doesn’t know because remembering hurts even more then the aching, gnawing emptiness inside him.
He does, however, know what it’s like to watch someone die of cyanide poisoning. He knows exactly what shade of blue Potter turned, the way his wasted body contorted and convulsed in his arms. And he knows the sound of the last gasping breath rattling in the throat before the body finally goes limp.
Maybe letting the emptiness devour everything he knows wouldn’t be such a horrible thing after all.
Title: Salvation
Author: Cenire
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: They're not mine (if only!).
Notes: Post-war and very heavy on the angst. Dedicated to malachite_eyes, who motivated me and wrote some mean Snarry for the in-between times.
-----
"Someday you’ll try to kill me." These words are spoken in the fading afterglow of sex.
"Probably." Two bodies are pressed together, slick with sweat and come and breathing in tandem.
"You will." Inout. Inout. Inout. Rocking back and forth on a sea of breath, Potter clinging to him like he’s a raft, fingers dug into the tender spaces between his ribs and Draco can’t bring himself to care.
"You’ll kill me first." Draco’s words echo off of cold stone, a curse made real in the act of being spoken.
"I’m trying to save you." The whisper is a weak counter spell.
"Don’t." Draco pushes him off and rolls away. He dresses swiftly and is gone, leaving Potter lying there, shivering in the cold.
So like Potter, offering salvation through sex as a last resort. It’s all he has left to give. Everyone else has sucked him dry. Dumbledore took his hope and his trust - Draco can sense Potter’s hate and distrust for the man. The Weasel and the Mudblood take something more intimate, his loyalty. For them he would go to the ends of the world, even die - and he might have to. It’s a heavy burden and Draco does not envy him. Everyone else… everyone else just wants him to save the world. And to Draco, to Draco who does not even want to be saved, Potter has only himself to give in the most intimate sense of the word.
And because Draco could never refuse such a beautiful gift so freely and wantonly given, he takes Potter. Or does Potter take him? It’s an important detail but one Draco does not think about. Potter taking anything seems an unlikely prospect at best in Draco’s mind.
*****
Potter’s eyes are always on him after that. The scrutiny makes Draco nervous and he begins to make mistakes. Mistakes like fucking Potter again.
"You came back," Potter says, looking gratified.
Draco thinks that shoving his cock down Potter’s throat will wipe the smirk off his face quite nicely. Potter seems to have other ideas, pressing against Draco and kissing him with such force that Draco tastes blood. Shocked, Draco tries to turn away. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be but Potter’s hands are knotted in his hair and he can’t move his head.
Salvation through sex. Nice job, Potter.
And then he can’t think anymore because there’s a hand on his cock and even through his trousers it’s almost too much. He tries to push it away but Potter is insistent, bearing them to their knees before forcing Draco onto his back.
Save me, then.
The stone floor is cold under Draco’s bare skin but the heat from Potter’s lips locked around his cock keep him nicely distracted. Against his will he’s writhing and moaning, trying to push deeper into Potter’s throat but there are hands on his hips, pinning him firmly to the ground and there’s no question who is in control.
Draco submits.
Potter senses this and with a flourish of his tongue he brings Draco off swiftly, waiting until the cries have faded into the stone before sitting up and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. It’s a juvenile gesture and it drives Draco mad with the simplicity of it. Green eyes watching him, waiting to see how he’ll react and Draco searches in vain for his composure, hidden somewhere under his fading euphoria.
"Thanks," he says at last. And to his ears it sounds unspeakably lame and weak.
Potter only smiles and stands. This time it’s he who leaves Draco shivering half-naked in the cold.
Now we’re even.
*****
Hollow. Draco knows that’s how victory under the Death Eater banner feels. Hollow because Voldemort takes it all for himself and leaves the rest of his Death Eaters to squabble over the dregs like hyenas. And in true Death Eater fashion, squabble they do. Malfoy does not forget this because to do so would be suicide. So it is that he casts Crucio first, driving the younger Goyle mad with pain. The boy that once idolised him melts in the searing heat of Draco’s disinterest, leaving only a pale, twitching shell.
"You would have done it to me," he says with a shrug, stepping over the body that once belonged to Goyle. Draco doesn’t know if this is true but he believes it because he has to. To believe anything less would allow morality free reign in his conscience and that is not an option. The simplicity of a murderer is stark.
Sometimes, in the dark and the silence he wonders what he has come to, what they all have come to. They are killing fewer of the enemy and more of each other and Draco wonders if that isn’t exactly the way Voldemort planned it. He didn’t doubt the Dark Lord would share his spoils with his faithful followers, however if there were no followers left…
Survive. The Serpent is cunning.
*****
Sweeping up the last pockets of the Resistance has become an arduous task that Draco and the other Death Eaters have come to dread. It’s too much work for no reward, and they end their days covered in blood, gore, and clots of dirt, reeking of death and destruction. Victory was not supposed to taste like this.
Just outside Manchester they encounter particularly stiff resistance. It takes longer than usual to put down and Draco is both gratified and worried to see the body of the Weasel when the smoke clears at last. If he’s here Potter could be…
Draco does not allow the thought space in his head. That was years ago and he was different person then. Not a Death Eater, not Voldemort’s new right hand. Back then there might have been something left to salvage but not now. Draco kicks the body over, all sightless eyes and stiff limbs. A boot in the ribs is still too good for the likes of a Weasley and Draco moves on.
Draco is ankle-deep in mud and thought when he sees two figures struggling towards him in the gray pre-dawn light. "Potter." Bulstrode is holding him with both arms wrenched up behind his back, his wand and hers gripped in her free hand. She has the triumphant look of a dog that’s just made off with the roast. Draco can practically see her salivating even as her eyes glaze over with something akin to lust.
"Give him over." Sparks erupt as she momentarily refuses to yield her prize. But Draco has been her leader and commander since before she was a Death Eater and he’s asserted his dominance several times over. After a brief battle of wills she shoves Potter over to Draco. Draco holds him on the point of his wand, the Cruciatus ready on his lips. Potter looks up, all green eyes and memories and Draco forgets for a moment that anything has changed at all.
*****
Falling, and the ground rushing up to meet him and he doesn’t care because maybe the sudden impact will stun him out of it. Maybe crashing headlong into the ground will wake him up and make him forget -
((he looked so innocent))
--what it was like to break another man.
I didn’t mean it, I didn’t want to. Cross your fingers and I’ll count to ten and then you’ll get up again, right? Right?
*****
Potter’s body is never found but the Resistance crumbles all the same. Their leader is nowhere to be found and sandwiched between hope he may be alive and despair that he is not they find themselves unable to move from the vice grip of the Death Eaters.
They are overwhelmed. They are killed or converted, sent into slavery and a lifetime of silent suffering. Draco takes a certain cold satisfaction from directing the killing curse at the Mudblood but satisfaction cannot fill the hole inside him. Nothing can fill the emptiness that is eating its way through his chest, bent on destroying him and everything he knows.
What does he know?
He knows what happened on that cold, lonely battlefield when the sun was too ashamed to show its face. He knows what happened when he sent Bulstrode away, when he caught Potter’s lips in a bruising kiss. And Potter, battered, beaten and broken, still found the strength to kiss him back. Draco knows the offer her made, he knows that the only time he’s cried since the war began was in Potter’s arms.
"If you come with me I can save you. I can save both of us."
"No, Draco. You can’t."
What Draco doesn’t know is how Potter managed to get the tablet to his mouth, to crack it with broken teeth and swallow the bitter pill. Draco doesn’t know because he can’t stand to remember his one chance to change the course of his life. He doesn’t know because remembering hurts even more then the aching, gnawing emptiness inside him.
He does, however, know what it’s like to watch someone die of cyanide poisoning. He knows exactly what shade of blue Potter turned, the way his wasted body contorted and convulsed in his arms. And he knows the sound of the last gasping breath rattling in the throat before the body finally goes limp.
Maybe letting the emptiness devour everything he knows wouldn’t be such a horrible thing after all.