Originally posted at DD-LJ, 4 March 2007

Title: Jagged (the slut is mine)
Author: snegurochka_lee
Characters: Snape/Lupin
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: D/s, bondage, knifeplay/bloodplay, breathplay
Theme chosen: Knives
Word Count: ~3,400
Summary: Some things don't require an anniversary. Some things are best left hidden. Some things are so awful in wartime that the only relief to be found is a hollow cottage with thin walls and a man who can make him forget.
Notes: I was thrilled to see "knives" come up as a prompt for March, because it provided a very welcome opportunity for me to write an accompanying piece of porn for the amazing art that lizardspots created for me at merry_smutmas last year: Fama Annus Sulum (NC-17, NWS, knifeplay). The story will make A LOT more sense if you've seen the art, so please have a look before reading! Thanks to busaikko for the beta work, and many thanks to Lizard for granting me permission to play with her work for this. The text of the note (and on Remus, woo) belongs to her. :)



JAGGED
(the slut is mine)

by Snegurochka

*

Every year is the same: I issue the invitation. You arrive alone. We fuck. You leave.

I sleep.

This year will be different. This year I will make you mine.

*

The parchment is cold and cracks between Remus's fingers, fluttering just slightly because of the way his hands tremble. The invitation has arrived. Again.

Another year gone by, it seems.
7 pm, the usual establishment.
Tardiness will not be tolerated.

SS

The usual establishment is a hollow cottage with walls that don't keep out the chill and neighbours who get up to even worse than the two men inside. It's better not to know exactly where they are, Remus thinks. It's better not to think.

He folds the parchment in half and then in half again, placing it carefully in his pocket and wiping the lingering dirt from his hands with a quick brush of fingers against his cloak. Another year gone by. Another year of war and death, traitors and allies blurring together in a vicious pool of distrust. Another year with the werewolves in which he has learned nothing but the smell of children's blood as the moon rises and the way a fearful sweat trickles down the face of any man who dares approach him under the moonlight.

Some things don't require an anniversary.

Some things are best left hidden.

Some things are so awful in wartime that the only relief to be found is a hollow cottage with thin walls and a man who can make him forget.

*
Remus arrives early, as always.

He is cold. This meeting always occurs in the numb of winter, and it has been happening so many years now that he would not dare change it. He does not want anything about it to change.

It was winter the first time, he supposes – that first, heated meeting when the exchange of harsh words and threats led not to wands but to knives, carving, punishing, electrifying knives that tore at flesh and made pleasure out of pain. The way Remus came in thick pulses that night without a hand on him, the blood running down his chest and over his cock, was a sick, twisted reaction. He was exhausted, that had to have been it, bone-weary and at the end of his rope. The prick of the knife was a relief after the destruction he'd seen.

And so if it was winter the first time, it continues to be winter when Snape's notes arrive. Each year. Like clockwork.

Remus lights a pipe and inhales deeply. It calms him, soothing wisps of smoke fogging the air as he leans against the rough wall, scarf wrapped tightly around his throat. Not tightly enough, he muses, but there is still time for that. Later.

A cloaked figure approaches and Remus exhales, a slow stream of smoke swirling up from his lips. He watches. His heart pounds. It's been too long, as usual, and he can barely admit to himself how much he wants this.

*

Snape does not look at him. Snape never looks at him. Snape only walks straight past him, striding with a purpose that makes Remus shiver, and shoves the door open.

"Enter," he commands, his voice low and for Remus's ears only, and in his haste, Remus drops the pipe in the street.

*

You are undisciplined as ever. My eager little slut, trying to look me in the eye or trap me outside for a kiss. I push the door open and order you inside. You have become lazy in the past year. I shall correct that.

I will break you.

*

They enter the room and for a brief moment Snape turns to him, hair shading his face and eyes sharp. Remus hesitates at the door, wondering if tonight holds something different in store, something softer or brighter or less abrupt. He's not sure he wants any of those things, and considering that he and Snape have always communicated through actions rather than words, he can never be sure of what, exactly, it is that Snape wants.

Well, not yet, at least. Once it begins, once the chilled room warms around them from the heat of their bodies and even someone as cold as Snape can no longer contain the groans rising from his chest, then Remus will know what Snape wants.

His mind fixed on what is to come, already hearing his own begging and itching to feel the blade on his skin, Remus has completely unwound the scarf from his neck before realising his error.

He has not asked permission to undress.

*

I watch you resist submission right before my very eyes. How out of practice you are. Tell me, has Greyback put you in charge now? Is there a reason you are making your own decisions?

I allow you to undress with a nod of my head, and you hurry to obey. But I will not let you go unpunished.

*

Tight fingers close around his throat and Remus sucks in a breath, terrified (or hopeful) that it will be his last. Snape says nothing, not yet – the talking will come later, Remus knows, only when he has decided that Remus is suitably repentant for his behaviour and deserves Snape's cock, only when Snape himself is so heated he can barely stop the filth that will pour from his mouth.

But not yet.

For now, he only glares darkly at Remus, his face contorted into angry lines and jagged edges and his fingers crisp as they claim Remus's breath. It's too early for Snape to kill him, Remus reasons as his mind begins to fog. It's been close before, after all, like the time Snape lost concentration and came at the very moment the knife crossed Remus's neck. But never this close, and never this early.

Remus closes his eyes and tips his head back, swimming in the sensation of drowsiness. Blots of colour behind his eyes seem too sharp, and rushing sounds outside the room seem too distant. He feels a new surge of blood through his body and arches into the touch as he realises Snape is gripping his cock with his other hand, just as tightly as the one around Remus' throat. He hardens in an instant under that hand, dizzy and breathless and already aching to come.

His senses are blindsided when Snape finally releases him, and Remus sucks in a long, loud breath, his chest heaving. He opens his eyes.

"Are you ready?" asks Snape, his voice a dull throb, and Remus lies by nodding.

*

I take your breath from you because you do not deserve it.

I bind your hands to remind you that you are a caged beast.

I draw your blood because I can, and because you ask me to.

That slow, single nod is everything.

*

Remus is naked, hard, and panting. The floorboards are cold under his feet and his shoulders ache. His arms are bound over his head by a loop of rope hanging from the ceiling. His feet are flat on the floor but only barely; with another flick of Snape's wand, Remus could be forced to stand on his toes, or even to swing, suspended completely above the ground. He wouldn't last as long that way, though, and Snape knows it.

Snape throws his cloak to the floor and rolls up his sleeves, taking his time to prepare as Remus watches him from under lowered lids. He is not permitted to watch, but he does. If he is caught, after all, the punishment would be no less than exactly what he wants.

Everything about Snape is hard: the muscles of his forearms, the cut of his jaw, the thick soles of his boots. He radiates quiet power and Remus revels in it. It is not like Greyback's power, or even Voldemort's; there is nothing overstated about Snape, no reliance on fear tactics or random cruelty or violent emotional excess. There is only a deep sense of subdued authority, carefully wielded and protected.

Remus has seen him lose control before, outside this room – screaming at Sirius and complaining to Albus and taking an ancient grudge out on Harry. Remus knows the man is capable of it, which makes his calm dominance on this one day, every year, all the more potent.

Remus knows that Snape does this only for him.

Remus is surprised at his own desire for submission, especially when he has rather enough power and authority for both of them. But his power in this room is in relinquishing control, in trusting Snape with his pleasure and with his life.

His hair falls over his face and he watches from under his fringe as Snape roughly pulls a wooden chair forward from the shadows and drops into it, legs splayed wide as he fingers his wand and runs his eyes over Remus's body. After a long pause, Snape hitches one leg up and rests his boot on a nearby ledge, draping one arm over his raised knee and casually lifting his wand hand.

That boot has Remus mesmerised. It is high, almost to the knee, and cluttered with rusted buckles. Remus imagines he can feel the sole of it, thick with dirt and jagged with fragments of rock or bone, grinding up his thigh and nudging at his cock. He imagines falling to his knees and crawling to Snape, wetting his lips and then licking the boot while Snape watches, his cock swelling at the sight of Remus's blackened tongue.

But tonight is not about the boot. Tonight is about the knives.

*

Remus shouts at the first slice, the magic hitting him squarely in the chest with its cold tingle.

Snape begins with only one knife, conjured from his wand with a blast of coloured magic that weaves around Remus's body like a protective mist. The blade is sharp and clean and surprisingly small. Remus lowers his head to see a curved blade on an ebony handle, gliding over his skin and nicking at sharp intervals. He closes his eyes and lets sensation overwhelm him, this one night above all others when he is permitted to feel, to come alive and let the basest human instincts of lust and survival kick in.

He can't explain why he needs this, but it doesn't matter because he suspects Snape can't, either. The moment Snape fails to send the invitation, or Remus refuses to show up, they will both know it is no longer needed. But until then, they breathe in the scent of sweat and fear and thick drops of blood, both of them growing harder with each swipe of the knife up Remus's body.

The pattern is different tonight, though, Remus can feel it. He opens his eyes and chances a look at Snape, who is watching the knife as though under a spell. Suddenly there are two, and then three, and no, no, this isn't right, this isn't what they agreed to. This isn't anything they have ever done before.

"No," Remus begins, his voice ragged with rising panic. "What are you–"

"Silence," hisses Snape from behind his hair, his lips pressed into a thin line, and the knives twist around Remus's torso. "Who do you belong to?" he adds, his voice a quiet rasp, and Remus feels the pool of arousal in his stomach and down his thighs.

"You," he whispers, bowing his head again and wincing at the pain.

"Me," agrees Snape, and now Remus can see what has happened, what the knives have done, the words that are written on his body, and he clenches the fingers of his bloodless hands above his head.

*

is mine

slut



*

Thin red lines run down your body, slowing in the thatches of hair on your chest, your arms, your groin, as the words bleed into your flesh.

I despise how much you arouse me. There is no reason for it, no explanation, and if I am meant to suffer it, then you shall suffer as well.

How does it feel to be branded? No magic can heal those scars. You will always look on them and know you are mine.

*

It is time. Remus knows that Snape can't wait any longer.

The cuts on his body sizzle and burn, spiking pain through him that elevates all other sensation. Snape rises from his chair and peels off his clothes, instructing Remus to keep his eyes down. There is a brief movement, and the bonds above Remus's head move closer to the wall, dragging Remus along with them. He is stretched obscenely, his back arched and his shoulders tense, trickles of blood running down his hips and thighs and – oh God, yes – over his cock.

Suddenly there is heat behind him, a warm, thick body pressing into him as hair brushes over the back of his neck and hot breath ghosts over his ear.

Now is the time when Snape begins to talk.

"Slut," he whispers easily, the word sliding down Remus's spine. "You will always wear that word now, always answer to it."

Snape's cock is thick and hard and pushing against the skin of Remus's arse as Snape's chest hair bristles over his back. Remus imagines it absorbing some of the blood and he moans, rubbing his own cock into the wall in front of him.

"Animal," continues Snape, his fingers sliding up Remus's cleft and rubbing over him without penetrating, a magic at his fingertips making Remus push back against him, writhing. "You are filthy, nothing but a beast. Look at the way you wish to be hunted and marked, bloodied and soiled and ravaged. Look at you, doing everything I say and begging for more."

Snape's hands move over the wounds, massaging Remus's skin with harsh strokes until he cries out from the stinging pain.

"I'm going to fuck you now," Snape whispers in Remus's ear.

Remus squeezes his eyes closed and lets his body feel the fire. "God, yes," he murmurs, because this is why he comes here, this is what Snape gives him that nobody else does: abuse and pain and the punishment of a long, hard fuck with his arms aching and his body smeared with blood.

Snape doesn't prepare him, doesn't test him with fingers or a tongue, doesn't care if he's ready or not. He said he was ready when he walked in that door, and rule number one has always been that if Remus gives the nod at Snape's first question, everything is fair game.

*

I lubricate myself for my own comfort, not yours, because there is no feeling quite like shoving inside you and watching the way your back tenses underneath me.

You are the animal I despise, you are the submissive who controls me, you are the slut I cannot keep for myself.

But this time, I have marked you. You will stay.

*

Snape works his cock inside and Remus groans, thick sounds falling from his mouth before he can stop them because it hurts, it's too tight, it aches and bleeds and tears but his flesh is already burned and in comparison the cock splitting him open is a welcome diversion. He licks his lips and breathes, once, twice, shivering at the way Snape's fingers claw at his chest and Snape's hips grind against his arse.

The burn spreads outwards and blends into a throbbing pleasure as Snape begins to move, rough thrusts jerking Remus against the wall. He leans back into it, one foot sliding back and the other bracing him as he arches his back and lets Snape batter at him, pulling him over his cock and grunting in Remus's ear with every shove.

More filth pours in his ear as Snape establishes a rhythm, burying himself deep in Remus and stilling for a quick second before pulling out again, sliding through resistance and then letting Remus suck him back in. Sweat pours off both of them, the salt licking at Remus's wounds, and it is no longer cold; the frigid cottage has blazed to life once again, because of what they do here.

It's hot and dirty and Remus feels the blood slowing from his wounds, picturing the obscene words etched on his body and scarring over in angry red lines, stark against his pale skin. Snape fucks him hard and deep and without restraint or remorse, muttering under his breath about the slut who will take it like this, rough and harsh and begging for more, and he's almost there, Remus can feel him, pushing in hard and thickening as his breath hitches and a low grunt escapes his lips.

Remus gasps at the wet heat flooding inside him, stinging the wounds where Snape was too rough but also exciting him further, spiking his own arousal until his balls tighten and he moans at the lack of touch. Snape doesn't pause to sag over his back or collect himself; he pulls out quickly and abruptly, his come trickling down the back of Remus's thigh, and spins Remus in the bonds.

He drops to his knees as Remus's hands cross awkwardly above his head, and Remus groans as Snape sucks his cock into his mouth, fisting the base with one hand and closing his lips around the head. Remus comes almost immediately, his cock desperate and aching by now and ready to spill with vigour at first touch. Snape's fist squeezes too hard, milking him with rough hands and a scrape of teeth, and Remus can tell he swallows at least once before pulling back and rising swiftly to his feet.

He narrows his eyes at Remus and turns his head, spitting the rest of Remus's come onto the floor.

When he's done, he runs a finger across Remus's chest and gathers some of the blood that hasn't yet dried, coating his fingertip and raising it to Remus's mouth. With a careful swipe he coats Remus's bottom lip in red, letting the excess drip from the corner as he steps back and sucks the finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and licking every drop.

*

Look at you.

You are covered in sweat and blood and come, your hair a mess and your arms surely numb over your head by now. You should be defeated. You should be humiliated. You should have told me a hundred times by now that you loathe me and you will never come back.

But no.

You only stand there, suspended in your bonds and watching me like a caged beast, your eyes hooded, and I know you are still aroused.

You meet my gaze and lick your lips, that soft, red tongue running over your bottom lip and tasting the blood I smeared there to stain you, darting out over the corner of your mouth to lap at the red trail.

You are mine, and you know it.

*

This is the part Remus dreads, the part he mourns. But it cannot be any other way.

Snape releases his bonds and turns away, conjuring a glass of water for himself while Remus rubs his wrists and gathers his clothes. He dresses in silence, feeling his shirt stick to the wounds on his chest and his shoulders creak as he dons his coat. His arse throbs with a dull ache when he bends to fasten his boots, and he allows himself a small smile before the regret that it is over creeps into his consciousness again.

He glances back at Snape, who has moved past the curtain into the adjacent room where Remus knows there is a small bed and nightstand. He knows it is there, but he has never slept in it. He cannot bring himself to speak. Words would only break the spell, he reasons. Words would allow their outside worlds, their outside personalities to seep into this isolated room and ruin what happens here between them.

The only words that matter tonight are those carved into his body, new and raw. He knows the words are supposed to change things, but that is a power he cannot grant. There is a war on, after all, and too many who fight in it know how to wield a knife.

He does not need to stay to know who he belongs to.

Remus ties his scarf around his neck – gingerly this time, to protect bruised flesh – and slips the note from his pocket. He scribbles quickly, silently, and levitates the note into the other room.

Every year, Snape holds out hope, which is why every year, Remus leaves.

*

Thank you.
Merry Christmas.

RL



-fin-



Feedback is always appreciated. You can leave a comment on Livejournal if you don't have an IJ account. :)