It hurts.
This is all that Lucius Malfoy is aware of as he lies on his stomach, his muscles pulled taut, stiffening every time the whip licks his back. He is pretty certain there will be scars.
"Harder," he whispers, feeling the whip bite into his skin again, forming reddish welts. It pains him, but the pain brings blessed pleasure as well, and with every scream he muffles, with every cry he restrains by biting his lips until the tender flesh is torn, there is a sensation of release. He feels his erection grow as the whip falls once more, the sound crackling through the air, forcing a whimper from his clenched jaws. It is pain he wants, pain he craves, the blessed freedom of surrender, the assuaging bite of the whip.
Severus is obedient. Mercy has never been his strong suit, after all, and it pleases him to draw back his arm and aim precisely the shattering blow. He watches rivulets of blood seek their way down the smooth, pale flesh of Lucius' back, noting with dispassion the purple bloom of bruises that form, marring the ivory perfection of silky Malfoy skin. He enjoys administering the whip, but there is more at stake than sexual pleasure. Without warning, he withdraws, tossing the whip aside.
For a moment, Lucius does nothing, save close his eyes and wait, eager to savour the sensation of the whip once more. He has never grown beyond his fascination with physical punishment, and the leer of metal, loops of rope and the docile curve of the waiting whip all tempt him. It is his fetish, but so much more than that as well. However, the next blow does not come. There is nothing save the sound of his own rapid breathing, the quick, eager inhalations and exhalations that slowly abate as he frowns, puzzled. "Severus?"
No answer. Lucius sighs, pulling against the ropes that bind him. His wrists are fastened securely to the bedposts, as are his ankles. This is his usual pose, the one he prefers to adopt whenever he finds himself in Severus' quarters. Death Eaters do not subscribe to notions of love, but there is companionship, deep friendship between them, mutual attraction as well. They have been lovers for years, and understand one another's desires intimately. He was Severus' idol when Severus was just a boy in school, and he has found himself drawn to that reclusive body time and again since. He knows Severus' kinks, bewildering as they are, and trusts Severus to indulge him in his own.
Frustrated, Lucius tries to tug his wrists free so he can roll over, but before he can move again, the reassuring swish of Severus' robes meets his ears. "Forgetting something?" Lucius croons, his voice refined as always. Just a hint of malice lies beneath the smooth surface, telling Severus it will be a little more painful, a little more degrading than usual, when his own turn comes. Punishment, for abandoning Lucius for those precious seconds while Lucius was at the height of pleasure, wincing and suffering and aching, needing the sting of pain and the rising heat.
Instead of answering, Severus comes closer. His face is pale, no longer flushed from the heat of eroticism, the way it normally becomes when it is himself and Lucius alone, locked in the dark safety of his quarters. Instead, his eyes shine bright in the gloom, drinking in the blood that stains Lucius' skin in brilliant, ruby rivers. There is a coldness about him that was absent before, a stiffness to his gestures, anger working his jaw. His thoughts are on the past now instead of the present, remembering days long lost, nearly crushed to the point where not even memory remains. Severus narrows his black eyes at the man who led him astray, brought him to Voldemort and ended, successfully, any chance for a normal life. Happiness, brief and fleeting, crushed beneath Lucius Malfoy's boot-heels.
"Severus?" Lucius' voice, so used to commanding orders and blithely controlling Ministers of Magic, sounds edgy. He is displeased, bored and impatient. With his trousers down and his limbs bound to the bed he feels a little foolish, annoyed. His pale hair gleams with ivory lustre in the faint candlelight, but his eyes are unfathomable, hostile and dark.
"You brought me to him," Severus muses, a million miles away.
It takes Lucius a second to realize Severus is striking up a conversation now, in the midst of their foreplay, while Lucius' erection is throbbing and his skin is cold, waiting for another blow or a savage kiss.
"Voldemort," Severus supplies, as though he can read Lucius' thoughts. "You brought me to Voldemort. It's because of you that I became a Death Eater."
Is that all, Lucius thinks. "Indeed," he answers, his voice like ice.
"You're the reason I'm a murderer," Severus says, slowly, as if the thought is only dawning on him. "Everything I've done in this life has been for you, and look where it has brought me."
"You were always very skilled with Killing curse," Lucius compliments, gritting his teeth. The rope bites into the pampered flesh of his wrists, irritating the hands that have never seen a day of hard labour. If Severus is not going to fuck him, he wants to be released, and says so. "Untie me."
Severus does not seem to hear. Without replying, he goes to the bed, casting away the ropes with a wave of his wand. Lucius rolls over onto his back, wincing just a little at the feeling of bedclothes against the fresh injury. Before he can open his mouth, Severus approaches the bed, roughly forcing him back onto his stomach.
The penetration is painful, even with the lubricant, and Lucius sucks in his breath, nearly crying out as Severus thrusts into him, tearing his flesh. The feeling evaporates quickly, however, as he feels Severus pick up a more comfortable rhythm. Lucius' body relaxes, the coiled muscles surrendering to heat and pleasure, until even the brush of Severus's chest against his injured back does not hurt. Severus' skilled hands reach around to catch Lucius' cock in a tight grip, jerking quickly, an uncontrolled manoeuvre that leaves Lucius gasping. Instead of Severus's normal motions, each precise and measured, Lucius is treated to a variety of unrestrained touches, each of which leaves him begging for more, the requests spilling from his cultured lips.
Normally, Severus kisses Lucius during sex. He has never lost that need for contact, for which Lucius is grateful. The sensation of butterfly kisses down his spine, of Severus' teeth catching his neck in a rough bite, of Severus' skilled tongue diving into his mouth always makes sex better for Lucius, but on this occasion, Severus seems distracted. He moves in and out of Lucius stiffly, his hands deftly but dispassionately working Lucius' cock. Lucius is frustrated with his body, which reacts to the rough treatment in spite of his mental dissatisfaction. In fact, his body seems to prefer it, for he comes quickly, in time with Severus, who lets slip a gasp of breath as he spills his seed. For a moment he seems suspended, his mind gone as pleasure overtakes him.
"That was..." Lucius begins as he comes back into his own body, twisting over on his back. He stops abruptly, the words dying in his throat, when he sees Severus poised over him. Severus' wand is pointed at his neck, his teeth gritted with anger, his panting breath calming. Lucius' own wand is on the bedside table, out of reach. "And whatever is this?" Lucius questions, smirking at Severus. In his arrogance, he does not think to be afraid.
"Avada Kedavra," murmurs Severus. His voice is firm, unshaken, his mind lost in the swirls of time, in which his youth and innocence were stolen. He watches, head tipped slightly in fascination, as Lucius' pretty grey eyes darken, a sheen forming overtop them. Then he climbs from the bed, collecting his fallen robes. He does not look back as he walks away.