serpenscript (serpenscript) wrote in lupin_snape, @ 2008-05-04 23:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | prompt: darkfic fest '08 |
Fest: Dark!fic Month, NC-17
Title: Burden of Guilt
Rating: NC-17 NWS
Pairing: Remus/Snape
Word Count: 1,616
Kink: cutting, whipping, bondage, torture, dubcon, D/s, mental instability, BDSM? - this is dark!fic!
Challenge: dark!fic month
Notes: Cross-posted to PervyWerewolf, where I've (foolishly) decided to do LMoM. Hopefully I don't scare too many with this. Thanks, Rosy, for giving it a look through! Any mistakes are all mine, and there are surely numerous in number, as I wrote this quickly to make deadline!
Disclaimer: Not my characters, but my they're fun to torment!
The man stared from unseeing eyes, face slack and devoid of emotion. His dark hair hung in lank strands; he was bathed regularly, but the hair seemed a fixant of the man's very mien. He knelt nude, with hands bound behind his back; his hands, in turn, were affixed to his ankles. Were he tipped forward onto his stomach, he would officially be hog-tied.
Remus enjoyed tying him in that position because it forced his prisoner's shoulders back and pushed his chest out - that thin, lithe chest with ribs in stark contrast, the tiny, pebbled nipples on display. He enjoyed it because It kept bony knees and pale shanks spread, exposing to view the thick cock lying soft against dark wiry hair.
But soon it would be hard and jutting proudly, and the blank eyes would be hard, glittering, full of anger and rage. All it took was pain.
Sometimes he'd use a whip – he had a wide selection of them – from tiny quirts that just stung maddeningly, to the long bullwhip which would tear stripes into the pale skin. Sometimes he'd use auditory and visual deprivement spells at the same time – then the prisoner could neither see nor hear the blow until it landed. It was gratifying, to see the head snap back and hands curl in their cuffs, to see the sweat glistening on that marble-like skin, the muscles rippling just beneath the surface in a war to remain passive. Sometimes he continued with whips until the back was nearly flayed, and tears ran down the face of the prisoner and he gasped, open-mouthed like a fish, shuddering all over.
And when Remus had tipped him over onto that abused back, arms still twisted underneath him, and had proceeded to fuck the man while still bound, still deaf and blind – the sounds he had made had alternately made the werewolf's blood run cold or fired it with lust. The pained cry ripped from unwilling lips, the strangled grunt when Remus breached the prisoner's entrance –
Today, however, Remus was using knives. He could just as easily use a wand with a light incision charm, but trial and error had taught him that the cold steel blades seemed to cut more than just physically. Namely, that just the touch of cold, hard steel inspired fear and a sick, twisted sense of anticipation.
He knelt next to the prisoner, setting his box of knives down on the floor with a faint click, enjoying the rippling shudder of acknowledgement the other man made. "You will not hear me. You will not see me. And I do not wish to hear you - " the word was laced with warning, a dark threat – "unless I allow you to. Nor will you move from this postion, as if still bound. Shall we begin?"
The prisoner never spoke nor gave any indication that he heard or understood, but this was standard, and Remus knew that the man would break the boundaries of human endurance to obey. With a practiced ease he removed the other man's bonds with a banishing charm and cast the blinding and deafening spells – he could cast a simple silencing charm, but prefered to still be able to hear himself.
Then he selected a small knife from the box – a narrow triangular blade with a charmed-smooth teak handle. It was also charmed to not slip in his hand. With his free hand he tugged at the black head of hair in front of him, kissing the unresisting lips bruisingly when the prisoner complied. Only then did he draw back and place the blade to the other man's cheekbone and drew it across the skin to meet the nose, watching in morbid fascination as the cut was first a slash of white across white skin, before parting in the wake of the blade and tinging pink and finally spilling sluggish rivulets of blood down the cheek. From this close, he could see the lips thin as the mouth clamped shut, could smell the faint salt-and-metallic tang of spilled blood, and he touched his tongue to the wound, grinning when the man flinched.
He set about his work in earnest – his case of knives also contained vials of blood replenisher, strengthening potions, and pepper-up potions, as well as a vial of emergency quik-heal – and of course any wizard worth their salt could cast a simple Ennervate. The only thing not in evidence was a potion for pain – since that was the crux upon which this all spun.
He varied his cuts – some fast, shallow slices for shock factor, others drawn slowly through the skin for maximum pain, calling on all the prisoner's willpower and strength to hold to his position and silence. Remus liked seeing the muscles stand out whipcord in agony and tension, seeing the lips redden and fleck with blood from being bit in an effort to not cry out.
Sometimes, when he felt especially cruel, he'd push the blade in somewhere non-lethal – a thigh, a shoulder, the side of the stomach – and twist it, and it usually resulted in a a gurgle of pain and a racking series of shudders as the prisoner fought for control over his own body. Usually he'd only do that once or twice in a session; so he savoured it, pushing the blade in slowly with a wiggle, ignoring the high pitched whistle that the prisoner couldn't withold, then twisting it slowly against the resisting flesh, opening him like a book.
And when the man was a mess of blood and unable to control the muscle spasms that came with too much pain and stress, then Remus would banish the blind-and-deaf charms and push the prisoner to his back on the cold floor made slick with blood, and fist the man's cock. It was always hard from the end of these sessions, a fact which shamed the prisoner – thus Remus never failed to take note of it. It was expected.
"Now," he growled, low in his throat, "I am going to fuck your arse, and you are going to come for me, and the only noise you can make is when you scream my name in ecstacy." He swiped his hand across the man's chest, gathering warm, half-congealed blood, and used it to crudely lubricate his own stiff cock before spreading the man's knees wider – even now he kept his hands together beneath his back and his ankles together under his buttocks – and pressing in.
Fucking was never the same as lovemaking. It was a few furious minutes of flesh hitting flesh and sweat and blood mingling, and it was meant to be a debasement – to be fucked by a dark creature, a werewolf. Remus liked to lap at the blood and then kiss him, mouth full and tasting of the prisoner's own blood, while he fucked him, or to bite his neck and drawing blood in a parody of the lust and rage that came upon him in full moon.
And when he fisted the prisoner roughly underneath him while pounding into him raggedly, slipping on the slick floor beneath them, and felt the prisoner shudder and groan and finally gasp out – "Remus!" and they both came –
Then he could open his eyes and see a moment of orgasm-induced clarity in the black eyes looking back at him, from a face smeared with blood. "Severus," he said softly, reaching a shaking, blood smeared hand to touch his lover's cheek oh-so-gently. "Severus, I – " he pressed a gentle kiss to Snape's lips, but when he lifted his head to speak again in a broken voice, the glassy unseeing gaze had returned.
Never more than a moment's clarity for an hour of agony, he thought sadly, as he cleaned the prisoner's body and healed the worst of the damage. He'd tried so many ways – most never even gained a second's lucidity from the ex-Death Eater. Only pain and arousal combined seemed to work, and then only briefly.
"He thinks he's a prisoner of war under the Death Eaters," the Healers at St Mungo's had explained, "being tortured. If he thought he didn't deserve it, we could use therapy for victims to pull him out of it – but the thing is, he thinks he deserves it."
"When will he snap out of it?" He'd asked worriedly, but the healers had only sighed.
"He'll wake up when he thinks he's suffered enough." They gave him a sympathetic look.
A week later Remus had smuggled Snape out of St Mungo's, when he learned the healers had given up and were keeping him in the hopeless ward. He'd found an old house that he made into his hideaway, made the basement into a miniature dungeon, and charmed the whole place to be unplottable. And then he set about giving Snape the suffering he craved.
At first he'd loathed every minute of it, hated giving the monster within free rein, hated being a monster. He'd held back, stopped too soon. He'd had to push himself to pretend he didn't care. He'd had to learn to find some pleasure from the torture sessions, if only to survive becoming mad himself, drowning in a sea of empathetic pain and new self-loathing.
He worried that he was slowly becoming the monster of Severus' nightmares, and hoped he was making the right choice. That he was making a difference, that he was somehow helping to expiate the man's strangling sense of guilt at the cost of his own. He kept praying that each session would prove to be enough, and that eventually the moment of clarity in those eyes would remain.
One of these days, he told himself, it would happen.