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And the Aftermath of Wrongdoings

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Disclaimer: Not mine.

Warnings: Dubious content; slash; hints of prostituition

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Lucius would sell his soul to go to sleep.

He would run home if he could.

The nearest pillar provides physical support, but that is the furthest it would tend to his needs. His fingers gingerly trace out the grooves in the pillar, a stark contrast against his unnaturally smooth skin. The hand that rests on his thigh burns, (he hates the feeling of guilt, of pain that a Malfoy should never recieve) and he quickly removes it, remembering the reason for its flawless perfection.

One dark lord after another, and Lucius wonders when it will finally end, his body fiercely protesting against the cruel treatment it receives. (How can a body once lifted so high on pedestrals become the filth and bane of society.) But he is in servitude now, and commands, no longer belong to him.

He listens to them tell him how he is beautiful, (so perfect) and somehow the words punctuate him worse than a Cruciatus whispered from cracked lips. Words that were supposed to fulfill leave him empty, blank and sullied. He has never told anyone, (what it was like to lose your inner beauty, and the pride you once had) for they would only scorn his desperate pleas. It is almost like shrinking into another person altogether, and he wishes that every time he crawled into that chasm, his heart would not ache so.

It is shaded where he stands, but the light still blatantly reflects off the leather. Each morning he puts the set of clothes on, and it fits so awkwardly, that his limbs constrict against themselves. The chain around his neck is cool even to his own skin; his fingers had scrabbled against it many times before, (each night but still fruitless) returning only red and sore from trying too hard.

He thinks of Draco. He thinks of Narcissa. (Do not think anymore, just breathe. Breathe.)

He thinks of how they are lying peacefully now, unmoving, but happier than he. Like a whispering wind, those memories haunt him. But he is still Lucius, and still a Malfoy, so even though his eyes shine with unspoken sorrow, (cannot let them know) his expression is impassive.

Knowing all too well he brought this on himself, he dreams of visiting Snape, and pleading for a memory potion. Blinking against a sudden shaft of glaring sunshine, he thinks of how it used to be just the two of them, hidden in the dudgeons away from prying eyes. (Bony hands that thread effortlessly at his tired muscles. Warm breath that makes him shiver. Eyes that burn into his memory.) Now the act that he used to perform with Snape, is all but an obscene indecent show.

Trying to erase the Malfoy honour, (scrabble it off, write it on a slate and smash it into a million pieces,) Lucius knows each painful day brings new clients whom he cannot refuse.

A/N: Did I just write a wh0re Lucius fic? Please kill me already. There will be a link to the art for this fic, as well as for others. Please check back soon. Malfoyslave, chapter 3 of Torturous Affections is still undergoing editing. Sorry.

-Shadafakup