His Favourite Game (Harry Potter)
(A/N: I don't own Faith, or Lucius, or Narcissa, or any other characters, or things. I'm a poor, poor student. I'm borrowing them to cope with sleep deprivation. Now, once upon a time I had every intention of finishing this fic, but instead it's been shelved and put in this ficlet collection. If anyone wants to continue it, just email me or something, or comment when you review.)
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It was his favourite game. Faith wasn’t the first, and doubted she’d be the last. She was the girl who thought she’d seen all the worst that had been brought out in men, whether it was a school girl fantasy (not as acceptable when she was the age of a school girl) or a full out-and-out bull whip in a dungeon.
But this man was an entirely new mess of his own. He never slept with the same woman – that is to say, he never wanted the one he was currently screwing.
She’d been a rainbow of characters; a small, slim redhead with big innocent eyes to an attractive teenaged boy with a head of dark, almost black hair and a gaze that could make you do anything he wanted…
It was never her though. She didn’t know how she’d gotten into this mess. Maybe it was that nobody had ever wanted her for her. They’d wanted her to be like Buffy, to replace Kendra, to follow the footsteps of everyone before her and do it with a huge fucking grin on her face. Maybe she was just sick of fighting so hard to be herself that it was simply easier to be someone else. With someone who didn’t pretend to want anything except anyone but her.
She remembered the very first time they’d slept together. It was anything but perfect. At first, he was the same, the same as every other grunting, sweating, carnal, sinful man that had gone her way, until he pulled out a magic wand (and not the good kind either), said something freaky in Latin and she couldn’t move. In the literal sense. She was completely paralysed and completely terrified and she had never been so out of control in her life, or at least in the time since she’d been Called. He had ripped a few hairs from her head, and she had been screaming inside, unable to move, or cry out or do anything except hope for a swift death, or a quick finish, or anything that would end the experience as quickly as possible.
As soon as she heard her own screams she felt a little better, but not much as she still couldn’t move.
“Be quiet you stupid little girl!” he’d said, without malice, just with exasperation, as though it were normal to do this sort of thing. Then he’d forced some disgusting liquid down her throat and what could be only described as agony took place. She had often wondered what it had been like for Wilkins to change, if he had ever gone through it and this was it. She could feel her bones moving and grinding, her body stretching and moulding into something that was alien and no longer her own.
She gasped for air with lungs that weren’t really hers, and chanced a look in the mirror opposite the bed in the cheap motel room she was renting. Stealing. Whatever.
It wasn’t her. Whoever she was, she was beautiful in an icy, detached sense. She couldn’t look away. Instead of the chocolate hair and eyes, there was cold blue steel and white blonde, and instead of womanly youthful curves there were sharp angles and harsh lines.
She could move now but was too shocked to do anything.
He had launched himself on her, devouring the creamy skin of another woman but she could feel the touch on her own skin. She heard herself moan, the moan of another woman, who was she? Faith wasn’t sure how to react to him, or what to do, but she fell into the natural rhythm of two bodies that knew each other intimately.
She stiffened when he thrust himself inside her, as she felt the scrape of a wedding ring on her shoulder and instantly knew who she was playing. But she played her nevertheless, scared of what he might do with his powers, what he might say.
When he came he said neither her, nor the other woman’s name, instead swore into her shoulder, dressed as soon as he could untangle himself and disappeared.
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