Summary: "As much as I didn’t want to admit it before, even in my own mind, I know the absolute truth. I need him."
Notes: Previously posted on my ff.net profile under the same name.
My thumb absently strokes the soft flesh of the underside of his arm.
He has fallen asleep already, but I never drift off until much later. I'm still lying on top of him, still buried deep inside of him, covered in dried sweat. It feels dirty, and I'll have to shower soon, but for now I won't move.
Father would be furious if he found out. He and mother don't come to my home, the mansion in France, so they'll never know. It's not as if it's love or anything of the sort. I'm not fool enough to believe that there is such a thing as love. Only pitiful creatures, mudblood lovers, soppy Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, believe in such things as love and destiny.
I won't admit to anyone what this is. No one but the two of us knows of it. We don't speak of it. We don't act any different around other people. We don't hold hands, share gentle kisses in the shadows. But we both know that its here, lying in wait until the shelter of night can keep us safe.
That soft flesh on his arm bears a special sort of scar.
The scar is black, deep in contrast against his pale skin. The scar is what I am, who I am, who I always have been, since the moment I was born. It wasn't but a few years ago that he told me he wanted it. He wanted to be what I am.
I still don't know his reason. He must have wanted to get back at them--the Light side--for something. No doubt his family did something, or Potter showed his infamous idiocy again. No matter what it was, he still came to me.
And I'll be the first to tell you that he means it. He wants this: this scar, the mask on the floor, the black robes lying in a crumpled heap somewhere on the hardwood floor of my bedroom. He wanted to torture and kill those mudbloods last week.
He wanted to kill Granger today.
But they don't believe it. Our lord, my father, the other Death Eaters. They don't believe that he is truly on our side. They believe him to be a spy for the Light side. We've had a leak in information; even our lord cannot figure out who it is. So they blame him. He refuses to say where he was when they checked on him two nights ago. Nor will he say where he was when they checked up on him last night, three nights ago, four, five, six nights ago, every night for the past fortnight.
The truth is simple; he was with me.
Just like we are now, he was with me. He was stripping my clothes off, bruising my skin with his teeth, licking my thighs, pulling my pubic hair straight between his fingers. He was panting and moaning, pulling on my hair and wriggling, as I buried myself in him, pulled out, and pushed in harder. He was sweating and screaming and tensing and...
And driving me wild all the while.
We have two choices: He refuses to tell them where he was. They kill him. Or, he can tell them that he was with me. They kill him. Then they kill me.
If he dies tomorrow, when they question him, what will come of me? As much as I didn't want to admit it before, even in my own mind, I know the absolute truth.
I need him.
It is in no way love. It isn't emotional, nor is it mental. It is purely a physical release that I can only get with someone who matters and doesn't at the same time. He is that person. He knows what I am, he has the black scar to match mine, he kills the same as I do. And I don't remember how it started, I don't know the details, but all it boils down to is the fact that if he died, I would surely go insane. For somewhere, deeply hidden from prying minds, some part of me feels the tiniest amount of guilt. And with him, that guilt goes away. It's like with each time I lick the head of his cock I tell that guilt that surely I can't be that bad if I can make someone feel like I make him feel.
But none of that matters in the face of our lord. The Dark Lord. Tomorrow they will question him. Snape may have a truth serum, our lord will have his wand ready with an Unforgivable at the tip of his forked tongue.
I look at the white moonlight on his black scar and pale flesh. I make my decision.
They won't have the chance to condemn him tomorrow. At least not of treachery. If anything they will condemn him, as well as me, of being a fool for bedding someone and getting used to it. For needing it.
I will tell them where he was. I will die before I will live without this release. And with that, I allow myself to relax into sleep.