I thought I’d better get this in before the prompt ends… The Muse teased me with this before I left for work this morning, and I had just enough time to jot down his cryptic little messages. I wrote it out when I returned. It is 1000 words exactly, but I did not break it up into 100-word drabbles, so I hope I will be forgiven.
Title: A Different Shade of Red
Team: Death Eaters
Warning: These vampires don’t fucking sparkle
Rating: Hard R
Challenge: Vampire Fic
A/N: Not mine, not beta’d, not sure I should post it, but hey, since when has that ever stopped me?It began, as many terrible things begin, with an act of kindness.
She carried him into the infirmary, bruised and bleeding. He was long thought to be dead; why had she returned to his broken body after what she had seen, after all she knew about him?
She cleaned him, held his head as he vomited the toxins. She kept him from injuring himself through the convulsions; his long arms and legs lashing out, kicking helplessly, shaming him. How many times had he struck her, trying to gain control over his pain-laced, thrashing limbs? Enough to break the skin; he’d struck her just above her eyebrow; a careless fingernail gouged her cheek, and a flailing backhand split her chapped and shivering lips. Every time he caused a new injury, he tried to apologise; her wounds became a stigmata that called to him like a zealot.
He remembered lying on the infirmary cot, whimpering and panting, burning with fever and agony, and as she held him down, begging him torelax, Professor, I’ve got you. It’s going to be alright! the blood dropped from her lips onto his.
It is the only nourishment that gives him any satisfaction now.
Three years on, he has recovered. He reads, he creates potions, he writes papers. He lives a normal life, except for one, minor deviation to his life-long routine. He is exonerated – from everyone except her.
When he calls, she has to go to him. The boys are fearful; she has been known to hex them if they stand in her way. They don’t understand, and he doesn’t blame them – he doesn’t understand himself. But he knows she feels the call, and she arrives, humiliated that she can’t fight him, raw with desire and angry that she has come of her own volition.
He is not proud of their first sexual encounter. It was little more than rape. It was horrible; it was wonderful. Lying sprawled on his front room floor, her clothing all but torn from her, she accepted his apology, still not comprehending what he had done. His distress was genuine; he tugged at her soft heart with his obvious neediness and remorse. She actually held him afterward, comforting him even as her blood dried on the corners of his mouth, and he greedily licked the fingers he’d used to batter his way through her maidenhead. Her virgin’s blood sealed something between them; it was a Dark magic that only fueled his addiction and her servitude to it.
Now, when the blood calls her, she approaches him joyless, resigned. She is pale and beautiful, and he can barely let her get inside the house before he’s pawing at her. They undress quickly, their eyes locked on one another, as if afraid something terrible will happen if they look away. Their sex is brief and cripplingly pleasurable, and it is all he can do to hold back until he can make her come.
He doesn’t hurt her anymore; he has learned how to arouse her. He is as patient as the blood allows; it always thrills him to see her lose control and give herself to him. Her sounds make him feel like an animal, free and blameless, and even as she writhes and pants beneath him, he is impatient for his own bliss.
Before she arrives he always files his teeth to sharper points to make penetration easier; he can’t bear the thoughts of hurting her, even though her tears tell him he does. Pain is not what this relationship is about; it never has been. The caring part of him wonders how she can allow herself to orgasm, knowing he will bury his fangs in her neck at the moment of ecstasy. She never refuses him, and something about their frenzied coupling must be necessary to her, mustn’t it?
Her blood, rushing into his mouth, always makes him come. It is the only thing that does. He has tried other women, other blood. This woman, this blood, is the only thing that makes him feel alive enough to get an erection. The mere scent of her menses can inflame him into uncontrollable, lust-crazed ecstasy.
One day he refuses to let her leave. She pleads with him to let her go; she has a life, people who care about her; she can’t just disappear. I care about you, he mutters sullenly. Don’t I give you pleasure? Don’t you leave feeling loved and cherished?
She weeps. You’re ill, Severus, she cries. You need help. Please let me help you.
He reaches for her, but she pushes him away. It enrages him; she has never refused him. They fight, but he is too strong for her, and soon he is pounding into her, marking her as his, tearing open her slender throat; he stiffens and moans as the sweetness of her perfect blood floods his mouth.
And all the while she screams, You need help, Severus! Please let me help you. I’m a friend, Professor. No one’s going to harm you. You’re safe here…
When he awakes, he is in the Hogwarts infirmary. The end of the war is days old, and the exhausted girl dozes by his bed, her wild mane tangled and dirty.
As he moves, she awakes instantly, examining him. “Thank Merlin! The fever’s broken.” She holds his head and gives him sips of water. “You had us all so frightened. You were delirious for awhile and having the most terrible nightmares, but I think the worst is behind you now.”
He tries to speak, but she stops him. “Please rest. Everyone knows the truth now, Professor. You’re a hero.”
He stares at her in astonishment, and she smiles, then winces as the movement opens a large cut on her mouth. A drop of blood squeezes from the split skin, like a fat, rich ruby, and she grows very still as his hand reaches out, swipes the red bead from her lips, and brings it to his parched mouth.