A Lucretia Drabble
Jul. 10th, 2005 12:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
featherxquillTalking to Chris about Snape, wrote a Snape/Lucretia drabble...
Mortals say love heals, and I believe that is true. I believe that is why Severus Snape told me that he would never love me, even as his fingers twisted around red hair and his lips pressed against my throat. I think he knew the stories, about love healing, mending the wounds and filling the gaps, and that was why he detested it so. He didn’t want to be healed. He’d made a mistake decades ago, in his youth, and he was still punishing himself for it.
Perhaps that was why he chose me. I chose him, yes, but I’m sure many women have chosen him over the years and been thoroughly rebuffed – he does have a certain gothic charm, and is not thoroughly repulsive, as the students who dislike him would have him believe.
How could a vampire fall in love, and with a mortal no less? For him, love meant he would be redeemed, forgiven in some way, and he never wanted that. For me, love would simply mean heartbreak, because I would not grow old and die, but watch him do so, watch life move forward while I stayed still, a creature of the night, feeling time as it rushed past me – a cool night breeze against my cheeks.
But what is love? How can it be defined, put into a box? Why can tender kisses and loving phrases be love, but not yelled curses, fists in hair, and teeth on skin? What other love is there? What does conventional love matter at those times? When he laughs at me cruelly and refuses to let me come, when I bite him and he lashes out in pain and anger and his knees go weak as his cock hardens.
This love is not pillows and curves, it is sharp blades and corners. It is being bound in ribbons, tied down and falling, falling into an abyss of black eyes. Hot, intense, destructive.
But it is love. If it were not, why would I want it so much now that it is gone?
Mortals say love heals, and I believe that is true. I believe that is why Severus Snape told me that he would never love me, even as his fingers twisted around red hair and his lips pressed against my throat. I think he knew the stories, about love healing, mending the wounds and filling the gaps, and that was why he detested it so. He didn’t want to be healed. He’d made a mistake decades ago, in his youth, and he was still punishing himself for it.
Perhaps that was why he chose me. I chose him, yes, but I’m sure many women have chosen him over the years and been thoroughly rebuffed – he does have a certain gothic charm, and is not thoroughly repulsive, as the students who dislike him would have him believe.
How could a vampire fall in love, and with a mortal no less? For him, love meant he would be redeemed, forgiven in some way, and he never wanted that. For me, love would simply mean heartbreak, because I would not grow old and die, but watch him do so, watch life move forward while I stayed still, a creature of the night, feeling time as it rushed past me – a cool night breeze against my cheeks.
But what is love? How can it be defined, put into a box? Why can tender kisses and loving phrases be love, but not yelled curses, fists in hair, and teeth on skin? What other love is there? What does conventional love matter at those times? When he laughs at me cruelly and refuses to let me come, when I bite him and he lashes out in pain and anger and his knees go weak as his cock hardens.
This love is not pillows and curves, it is sharp blades and corners. It is being bound in ribbons, tied down and falling, falling into an abyss of black eyes. Hot, intense, destructive.
But it is love. If it were not, why would I want it so much now that it is gone?
