I Will Buy You a New Life (NL/RW/DM) NC-17 pt.4
I'm overly fond of the word fuck...
*****
Draco’s POV
I curl my arms around his thin shoulders and press my mouth up against his, slipping my tongue in as he gasps in surprise. Tentatively, I feel his tongue stroke up against mine, and I can feel the body heat radiating off him as he grabs at my shoulders in attempts to keep from falling backwards on the bed. I’m insistent though, and he does end up falling backwards, but he pulls me down with him.
“I don’t get you at all, sometimes.” He manages to say as he pushes me back and breaks the kiss. I flash him a patented smirk as I finger the first of the buttons on his shirt.
I don’t get me either sometimes, Weasley.
By all rights, I should be restraining myself from scratching his eyeballs out at this particular moment. Does he have any idea of how much pain he inflicts indirectly? As if he didn’t already have everything, he has to fuck up my world in addition.
Well screw him.
Er…well, maybe that was the idea.
Forcing my muscles to relax, I roll off him and shoot him a cool look that I am most definitely not feeling. His blue eyes stare back at me, completely befuddled. “I suppose I am a bit complex for someone as simple as you.” I return smoothly, arching an eyebrow. He blushes, his face turning this brilliant shade of scarlet as he scowls back at me.
“Must you be a prick all the time?”
“What can I say, watching you get pissed off just leaves me feeling warm and tingly all over.” I sneer back. He gives a resigned sigh and sits up. Yeah, well, fuck you too, Weasley, I think sourly. It was a bad idea anyway…the kissing him. We’re entirely too different…the way he is? The way you can see everything he feels practically leap off his face, versus the way I am? Control for him is an option that usually doesn’t hold much value, and for me, it’s a way of life. It’s a way to fucking survive.
Besides all that, it has to be exhausting being that passionate about everything. Doesn’t he ever get tired of caring so goddamn much? I may be a prick and a cold hearted bastard and a dozen other things that people like to whisper behind my back, but it’s not something I can change.
Some people just aren’t capable of deep emotions.
“Why?” He asks, startling me out of my thoughts as his hand sneaks up my shirt and rest on my bare belly. He rolls onto his stomach, his other hand propping up his chin as he looks down at me with mild curiosity. I tense at the intrusion, and I know he can feel the muscles under his fingers going taut, because he shoots me a puzzled look. Goddamn it, why is he choosing now of all times to be unpredictable?
“Why what? Why I like seeing you hacked off? Like I need a reason.” I roll my eyes, and try to damp down the nervousness that his roaming hand is causing as he strokes his fingers over my stomach. “Or maybe,” I purr as I grab wrist, pulling it off my stomach as I sit up. “Or maybe I just like picturing things.” Nausea climbs at my throat as I force myself to smile down at him coldly before I wrench the wrist I’m holding behind his back, pull his other hand out from under his chin, and then grind my knee into his back. He yelps rather nicely, but it’s muffled by my blankets. “Maybe I just like seeing you pissed off because that’s the way I picture you looking when I tie you up and fuck you silly.”
He goes still for a second before making an attempt to buck me off. I’m mildly impressed that it only takes him three tries before he manages to dislodge me. I guess I thought I might’ve put up a bit more of a struggle, but hell…why fight it?
He scrambles up onto his knees, and brings his fists up as he growls at me. It’s not the cute, frustrated growl he usually gives in the halls when he sees that I’m about to stop and harass him. And the scowl on his face is so much darker than the irritated frowns he usually shoots my direction when I’ve gained the upper hand over him.
Proof that everyone has a darker side to them. Maybe I just excel and pushing people to be their absolute worst. God, what a great gift, being able to bring out the Evil in everyone…What’s he goddamn waiting for? A personal engraved invitation?
Hit me already, you bastard.
He grabs the front of my shirt, slams me up against the wall and the head board. I can feel the wood carvings digging into old scars as he pins me as hard as he can against the white plaster. He hauls back a fist and I smirk, arching an eyebrow as I wait for the blow to fall.
C’mon, Weasley, give me your best fucking shot. It’s been a while since someone beat the shit out of me. With daddy dearest gone, I was starting to feel unloved.
Flinching, I close my eyes and curse my stupid weaknesses as his fist comes at me. There’s a rush of air at my cheek, and I hear the impact of his fist loudly in my ear.
But nothing hurts.
“What?!” It just comes out of my mouth in an unrestrained squawk. “What the hell is this? Why didn’t you goddamn hit me?!” The words come out ground between my teeth and spitting angry. Damn it! Stay in control, Malfoy. He pulls his fist back from the wall, wincing as he flexes it his fingers to inspect the damage. “Are you just that big of a fuck up that you can’t even hit something that’s two feet in front of you?” Why won’t my words come out the way I want them to? The panic shouldn’t be there, the anger either…damn it, I know how to control this, I know how to make everything sound sterile and condescending. What the hell is wrong with me?
He turns his eyes away from his hand then and looks at me. Really looks at me. And the things I see reflected in his eyes scare me.
“I didn’t hit you,” he starts pulling me back off of the headboard and towards him, “because I knew you wanted me to.”
“When has that ever stopped you in the past?” Rolling my eyes, I draw a deep breath in attempts to regain at least some of my composure. I’ve spent years building these fucking walls against everyone, and I’ll be damned if they’re just going to come tumbling down because a couple people turn out to be a bit different from what I initially thought. He eyes me for a moment, and then sighing, he digs in his pocket and pulls out his wand. Warily, I watch him, holding back the scathing things I would normally say in any other circumstance.
“What are you so pissed off for anyway? God, sometimes I think you were fucked up even before last summer. What are you so fucking scared of? Life? It’s not like you can run away from it, you know.” His face is all red, and if I weren’t so hacked off at his hashed perception of me, I might have thought it cute. Maybe.
“Oh sod off. Like you’re fucking perfect. Please. You’re screwing Longbottom for cash. Hell, you were going to screw me for cash. It doesn’t get much more fucked up than that, you bloody hypocrite.” I snarl as he points his wand at me and mutters something under his breath. Would it be asking too much to wish for an unforgivable curse? I’m so fucking sick of my own shit.
“I never said I was perfect.” He says quietly, calmly as he starts to unbutton his shirt. “I’m just not an ass about it.” He smirks at me, and I pull back an arm to punch it off his fucking face, to make him bleed and to make his howl like I’ve howled in the past as bone crunched in with the blood. Except for when I pull back, both of my arms seemed to be pulled up tight against the wall.
I know this spell.
Fuck.
“Undo it, Weasley.” I bite off, barely managing to keep the note of sheer panic out of my voice. This isn’t the way things are supposed to go. I’m not supposed to lose control like this. I’m not supposed to be a fucking pawn in whatever sick game Weasley decides on. I quit being the hapless, helpless victim last year. Damn it, I’m the one in control of my own fucking life, and when I get out of this, I’ll make him pay. “Undo it, now.” I grind out between tightly clenched teeth, trying to ignore the nervous sweat that’s popping up on my forehead.
“Relax would you? From what I’ve heard, bondage is nothing new to you, you kinky bastard.” And he grins. He fucking grins at me! As if my reputation alone makes this okay with me. He’s looking at me like I should fucking be okay with this…
“When I get out of this…I swear to god you’re going to get it.” The sarcastic comebacks and the cold, calm, controlled words have left me, and I yank hard against the bindings, all but breaking a wrist in the process.
Looking mildly concerned, he crawls over to me. Every emotion is there like a beacon on his face, and I know he doesn’t even try to hide it. He’s been moping around the school since we got back from summer break. You only have to look at him now to know how much he’s been hurt by the events. How could he understand what it’s like to have wounds that are hidden below the surface? How could the fucking prick even have a clue about what it would be like to feel the need to hide everything that makes you vulnerable from sight? He’s fucking had it made.
“Calm down, would you?” He whispers softly, a hand reaching over and popping open buttons on my shirt. I flinch with each one, and I eye him a bit wildly as he gives me a searching look. “What? What is it exactly that you think I’m going to do? C’mon Malfoy,” he whispers, this time in my ear as he moves to straddle my legs, “you can’t be in control all the time. Not even You-Know-Who could manage that, now could he?”
“You’re not going to break me.” I growl.
“Who said I wanted to break you?” He reached the last button and pushes the shirt open, revealing my chest. I flinch as his thumbs glide over my nipples, and I bite back a whimper as his fingers start to trace the myriad of old scars that line my ribcage. “I just want you to lighten up a bit, you blond git.” He says almost affectionately before he leans over and traces the nastiest of the scars there with his tongue.
His tongue feels so hot against the cool of my exposed skin, and in spite of myself, I shiver. I wish I could say it was out of disgust. But it’s not, the bastard.
“I’m glad your father’s dead.” The words are spoken softly, and I can feel his breath against my neck as he bites lightly.
Glad he’s dead…I wish it were that easy. To simply be happy now that he’s gone. To be able to become a bit more normal. A bit more human now that his presence isn’t tainting my every move anymore. I thought that once he was out of the picture, I’d be able to take down this fucking ice palace I’ve built around myself.
But that’s not the case. It’ll never be the case. Because I’ve fucking trapped myself in here, and there is no fucking way out. I can’t even take kindness where I find it, seeing as how Neville will never look at me again with anything other than fear and disgust.
Killing him was supposed to exonerate me. It was supposed to absolve me of the past. Looking over at Ron’s deep red locks…I will never be half as normal as he is at his most fucked. I’m just an empty shell of a person. It’s all I’ve ever been. Too cold. Too emotionless. Too inhuman.
And for all my sarcastic comebacks and put downs, for all the times I’ve told myself that I scoffed at Weasley and Longbottom for their collective patheticness…I hate them because they’re everything I’ll never be able to be.
Ron stops licking on my neck in favor of looking me straight in the eye. There’s nothing detectable in his eyes, and I just stare into them, losing myself in their blue flecked depths and hoping that in them I can forget, if just for a second, that I was doomed from the fucking start.
“Draco,” He starts, moving in closer before licking my cheek lightly, and stunned, I hold myself perfectly still as I finally feel the tracks my hot tears have made down my cheeks. “Just let it out.” Weasley advises. As if it was that fucking easy.
“Fuck off, you prick!” I scream at him, and my chest heaves as I try to hold back my tears. I don’t cry. I never cry.
Weasley mutters something under his breath, but I’m too far gone to care. I can feel his arms slipping around me as the binds vanish from my wrists, and in the back of my mind, I know he’s cradling me in some horribly undignified position as my own wretched sobs echo in my ears. “Is this what you fucking wanted? I hope you’re fucking happy.” I manage between hiccupped tremors. “What was it that you wanted out of me? Revenge? Well, you’ve got it. In fact, if it makes you feel any better, I’m sure he’s gotten enough revenge out of my hide for just about everyone. Was that what you wanted to hear? Or did you want the goddamn gory details? You want to know about all the times he chained me up? About how he’d practice his archery on me? Or maybe about how he liked to see if he could bust a rib with his fucking bare hands? Oh, even better, let me tell you all about the times he used my skin to sharpen the kitchen knives…Would that make you fucking happy?”
“No.” He says simply as his hands weave through my hair and force me to look up. “No, that wouldn’t make me happy.” He says, his eyes overly bright as he stares intently at me.
“Well, you’re awfully fucking hard to please, now aren’t you.” I state baldy, as I regroup a bit and regain some of my lost dignity. He blinks at me before barking out a laugh that only sounds half forced.
“God, you really are a piece of work.” He rolls his eyes before pushing me back on the bed and sealing his mouth over mine. His tongue slips in my mouth like silk, and I tug at the buttons of his shirt while his hands roam over my chest. I can feel his fingers tracing at my scars again, and his thumb grazes insistently over the damaged tissue that slashes through one of my nipples.
Growling, I decide the hell with the buttons, and give a fierce yank, really enjoying the way the buttons sound as they plink off the far wall. And even as I work my hands over Ron’s chest, I can feel his grin of amusement as he thoroughly kisses me. His fingers are teasing at my stomach now, running over my belly button and playing idly with the fly of my trousers. I growl again, and he gives a genuine laugh this time as he pulls back and deftly unzips and then slides the trousers and boxers off my body.
His fingers rest on the curves of my hips, holding them down as his thumb circle the skin in their clefts lazily. The bastard even has the sheer gall to look down at me with the same predatory smirk I’d given him when this all started. Cheeky git. The amusement must have been in my eyes, because he just grins before kissing at my collar bone.
Leaving a trail of kisses along my chest, he works his way slowly down, and even manages a semi-cute Weasley-ish growl as I thread my fingers through his satiny soft hair. Taking his time, he circles my belly button with his tongue, fucking it lightly and driving me nuts in the process. Irritated, I give an impatient snarl, and he laughs…
…before moving his mouth down onto my erection, sliding it slowly in as his tongue glides languidly against the underside of the shaft. My hips try to buck up of their own accord, but his hands kept them still while he rakes his teeth light against the sensitive skin his tongue had just caressed. Moaning, I bite my lip as he applies a light suction before reaching up with one hand and stroking where his mouth couldn’t reach.
“Jesus, Ron…”
“Like that, do you?” He asks as he pulls back. Throwing him a sort of half smile, I reach over, tugging at his trousers, popping open the button and pulling down the zipper. Obligingly, he finishes the chore for me, pulling both the dark blue pants and the dark green boxers off. Maybe there is a bit of a Slytherin in everyone, I think with a smirk as I pounce on him, forcing him onto his back. He blinks up at me for a moment, and then grins as I give a possessive growl. I take my time with him, teasing him like he’s been teasing me. Licking, biting, and nipping in all the right spots until he’s quivering and begging just as much as I am.
“You had enough, yet?” I growl softly in his ear as I lick and then nip lightly at the cartilage. This time, his growl is downright sexy as he flips me off him and climbs on top of me, his fingers insistently forcing their way into my mouth before moving down between my legs. I wiggle my hips a bit a moan deliberately as he finally scissors the third finger in, stretching me while at the same time stroking me in perfect rhythm. Jesus Christ, if he doesn’t get on with it, I’m going to come all over him right here and now.
Reaching up, I pull his neck forcefully down, drawing him into a kiss as I grab at his erection and roughly slide my hand along him. “God, you are such a tease.” He manages against my mouth as he withdraws his fingers. Moving to accommodate him, I lift my hips as I feel him start to enter in slowly, gently.
Fuck that. Maybe I enjoy things gently with Neville. In fact I prefer it that way with Longbottom. When we go at it; it’s like a balm on my soul. But this? It’s not in Ron’s personality to be all caring and gentle like this. I’ve seen that from day one. That, and I just want a rough shag.
I ram my hips up forcing him in deep, and almost coming on the spot as he moans hoarsely in my ear while his hands grab at my hair, pulling me as close as possible. Squeezing internal muscles, I pull back and shove my hips up against him again, and his control snaps. I can hear my own erratic breathing through my moans as he pumps hard into me, rubbing along all the right places. He calls my name right before clamping his teeth down on the base of my neck. And as he spasms inside me, I come long and hard, spilling hot liquid between our bodies as I all but scream his name.
We stay like that for a moment, trying to regain our breath. And then, with a light kiss on the bite mark that I’m sure he’s left on my throat, Ron rolls off, falling onto the mattress beside me. “Fuck me.” He gasps in a breathless sort of amazement, and I can’t help it. I snicker.
“Maybe next time.” He glances over at me, really looking at me, as if he were trying to see past my skin. It makes me nervous, but old habits die hard, and I keep my face expressionless.
“Bastard.” He finally chuckles, before rubbing idly at the scars I can see lining his own arms. “So what are we going to do now?”
“About what?”
“About Neville…”
Fuck. He just had to bring that up. Like I know what the fuck to do. He looks over at me and I give an arrogant shrug, like I honestly don’t give a damn…What a fucking compulsive liar I’ve become. I care. Probably more then I’ll ever admit…Even to the walking klutz himself.
“We ought to at least go find him and try to work this out. Just do us all a favor and try not to be too much of a fucking prick, okay?”
“Asshole.” I retort automatically, but without much heat as I reach over for my trousers at the same time he goes for his.
*****
You say you wake up crying
Yes and you don’t know why
You get up and you go lay down
Inside my baby’s room
*****
Neville’s POV
“Neville, you could fall asleep anywhere, couldn’t you?” *laugh*
*blush* “Yeah, I suppose I could…”
I just want everything to be numb. I don’t care how it happens, and I don’t care how much it hurts beforehand. I just don’t want to feel anything anymore.
I just want to fall asleep right here and let all the memories vanish like mist in the early morning. Tomorrow I’m not going to wake up with that same dread that I wake up with every morning and I’m not going to have to close my eyes anymore against the memories that keep threatening to surface. My waking nightmare is going to come to an end right here.
I lay down, curling into a ball and pulling my robes up tight against me. Tears hover just behind my closed eyes, and I draw a shuddering breath. I used to be so good at forgetting.
When I was little, I played hide and go seek with a few of my distant cousins, and I was good at it. Hiding is a way of life, a method of survival. If you can’t see them, chances are that they can’t see you. It’s a dumb saying to follow and I know it has a billion loopholes.
If you don’t remember it, then it couldn’t have happened.
God, sometimes I’m sure that I was the one who belonged in an asylum instead of my parents. As if making yourself forget the bad memories-as if by pushing those awful things into a locked dusty corner of your head-you can make them disappear forever. It’s delusional.
I can handle the nasty put downs and the bad tempered insults that I get everyday. There’s no point in forgetting them since they recycle themselves day in and out. I have to deal with those. It’s like being forced to stand for hours in a soggy marsh on a fall day, the mud and water seeping into my shoes while the wind cuts right through my pathetic excuse of a sweater. Terribly uncomfortable, but ultimately bearable.
But the darker memories? I shiver uncontrollably as the cold seeps in around me, reaching up my spine, splaying itself over my abdomen, freezing the tears on my cheeks. His icy fingers trailing over my skin, his rank breath raising the hairs on the back of my neck, that awful, nasty superior laugh ringing endlessly in my ears.
I’m not remembering this. It didn’t happen! If I don’t remember it, then the memory will cease to exist. I give a strangled whimper and dig deeper into my robes as I clench my eyes shut even tighter. As if by not letting them open by even a fraction, I can stop the images from replaying in my head.
Dumbledore told me when they found me that I was a survivor. Me. A survivor. What a fucking crock.
A survivor doesn’t need anyone. They can live off the strength of their own merits. Survivors are people like Harry or Ron or Draco…Survivors are not people like me. Independence never was, nor will ever be, my strong point. Everybody’s always telling me that I shouldn’t care what other people think, that as long as I like it, or that I’m okay with it, then who cares what they think about it or feel about it?
Who follows that?! How easy is something like that to actualize here in reality? Maybe if I were Draco or Ron, it would be different. They don’t care what anyone thinks. Since this summer rumors, both good and bad, about Draco have been flying all over the school like a Quidditch game gone terribly wrong. But none of it even comes close to shaking him. And if I were him…I wouldn’t have been able to have withstood it for even a day.
A survivor wouldn’t care what other people thought of their survival. They bury the pain of what’s happened, like Draco, and focus on the future. Or they grieve in private, like Ron, extracting the emotions where no one else will be hurt by them. They adapted, they survived.
And me? I retreat to lick my wounds, but they never stop bleeding.
The last train leaving Hogwarts this past summer held fifteen students. We were the last ones to get our bags packed; our assorted relatives were waiting for us, knowing we’d be taking that train. We never made it to the depot though.
Two months in a cell watching my classmates die one by one. Two months of being subjugated, and watching others be subjugated in turn, to things that even now I don’t want to remember. Nasty, dark things that have me constantly looking over my shoulder. Ugly little secret terrors that make me want to peel my dirty skin off. Remembered moments of stark, blood letting fear that keep me jumpy and unsure even though I know it’s over.
But see, it’ll never be over.
I can’t forget these things. They play in my head over and over and over again.
I don’t know how to distance myself like Draco, and I’m not as personable as Ron. I care what other people think. And I already know what they’d think about this; I don’t have to say any of it out loud to know how disgusted they’ll be. I don’t have to talk about it to another person to know what their reaction will entail.
I keep trying to tell myself that I’m not as dumb as everyone says I am. I’m not as big of a screw up as they all believe. I keep trying to tell myself that I’m not as worthless as I feel. But that’s never the truth, because the truth is that I am dumb and I am a screw up, and I am worthless. No one else is going to keep this greasy, slimy feeling away from me for the simple reason that they can’t.
It originates and ends with me.
I survived…
Curling up closer in the snow, I lay my cheek on the nearest drift, and force my breath to even out and my body to relax.
Of everyone, I survived. Life isn’t supposed to be like some stupid game or some backwards show where the underdog wins. I didn’t survive because of my own merits, I lived by default. And if everyone knew the truth, if I ever told what I’ve been trying to forget, then it would have been the slap in the face that You-Know-Who and his followers had intended it to be.
My very existence now is a jab at everything good, and it’s no use trying to forget.
And besides that, I’m tired of trying…
*****