Title: Soliloquies
Author: Emily Waters
Pairing: Snape/Harry, Dom!Snape, sub!Harry
Warnings: BDSM, angst.
Summary: Snarry. Post-war. Dom!Snape, sub!Harry. After the war is over, Harry shows up at Snape's doorstep. He has only one request: "hurt me."
~*~
I am half-suspended by my wrists, feet barely touching the floor. The suspension restraints distribute my weight evenly, without causing any damage to the bones or ligaments. He's thoughtful that way. He never causes any harm.
No harm. Just pain. That's his way, as I have found out.
Pain. His art, his language. And he's so damned good at it, so deadly efficient at it... it should disturb me, but it doesn't.
My skin is tight as a drum, a drum for the forgotten music, the music of war, the music of death, the music of fire.
The whip travels through the air and strikes; fire blossoms in its wake. Fire and pain. That's all I am good for, I suppose. Not that I mind. It fits. It feels right. In a way, it even feels good. Well, it would feel better, if only... but no. He won't.
There's fire, but no warmth. It's a cold kind of fire. Cold rage, controlled anger, managed fury. He hurts, but never brutalizes. Never cuts the skin. Never leaves any marks that will last more than two days. His self-control never slips, not for a moment. In a way, this is the worst part of it; that I can never see what is underneath that mask of absolute composure. He never lets me. He taunts me with the impeccable self-control, that according to him, I had never managed to acquire. He's probably right, if our sessions are any indication. Sometimes I break down under his lash. Sometimes I scream. Sometimes I cry. He stares at me without blinking and asks me what I want. My pleas die in my mouth, and I whisper the usual, "nothing else."
What the fuck? I want him to lose it on me and brutalize me. I want him to tell me how much he enjoys this. I want him to tell me he hates me. I want him to forgive me. Anything, anything at all would do, as long as it is authentic and genuine.
But nothing like that ever happens. He just looks. The black, bottomless eyes survey me coldly, and when I say, "nothing else," he simply nods.
It was a year after the war was over that I showed up at his place in Spinner's End. He opened the door to me and stared at me in absolute silence, and I stood before him, feeling daft as a box of hair, unsure what to say. What could I say? Forgive me? Let me make it up to you? I am sorry I was wrong about you? I stared at him mutely, and he stared back, with a single eloquent eyebrow raised in a silent question.
"Hurt me." The words fell off my tongue involuntarily. It seemed like the safest thing to say. He might have declined apologies, pleas, offers, and bribes, but I was fairly confident he wouldn't decline that. He'd enjoy that, I thought. Finally, a chance to hurt me with something more than his words.
It worked, after a fashion. He did, hurt me that is, and still does.
Fire blossoms, envelops, cuts. Mind swims. Eyes sting. Lash falls. Then, it stops. The handle of the whip presses to my chin, lifting it, lifting the drops of sweat mingled with tears that roll down my face.
"What do you want?" he asks. That damned question again.
I look at him. I want to beg. For something. For something more. But something more is a dream, a dream that will never take form. Not for me.
I really shouldn't want anything more anyway. What more could I want? I survived the war, when so many didn't, when he himself almost didn't. So many dead, so many dead, so many dead. Dead because of me? Sirius. Cedric. Remus. Fred. Tonks. Colin. These days, I forget which ones are my fault, and which ones are just dead. I suppose in a way, they are all my fault, because every single one of them had looked up at me as the Chosen One, the one destined to save them. I didn't. Didn't live up to the hype. Didn't live up to anything. Just lived. Just fucking lived while they didn't.
"What do you want?" he demands.
Nothing, I think. Nothing, I deserve nothing, this is all I deserve, just fire and pain, ithis/i is all I'm good for.
"Nothing more," I say hoarsely, even as the words catch in my throat.
He nods.
He releases me, and I fall to my hands and knees.
There's no comfort. There are no words of approval to tell me I've done well, I've earned something. There's no indication that he'd enjoyed any of it. His face is an impassive mask. He watches me in silence, as I gather my scattered clothes off his floor. It hurts to move.
His gaze is like a physical touch on my burning skin. He watches as I dress.
He says nothing, and silence hangs between us, thick with unvoiced pleas, rife with unasked questions.
Still, silence feels good, so good, so damned good.
Their voices are silenced once again, for a season.
~ * ~
His lips are pressed into a thin, defiant line. His body, covered in red angry lines, shivers slightly as he dresses. I watch him dress without turning away. I suppose it's the least I can do.
No, that's not true. I could have done less. I could have said no to him, when he had showed up at Spinner's End, with a desperate plea on his lips.
Hurt me, he said.
Of course he did. It's all about him. His survivor's guilt, his need to purge his feelings of shame, his need to feel the cleansing, cathartic kind of pain that will keep him away from the abyss. Did he think that I would wants this, did he think I would enjoy this? He probably did. Self-centered, wretched young man with emotional IQ of room temperature.
I resist the urge to shake my head. After nearly a decade of being forced to watch and participate in the torture of innocents, I've had my share of inflicting pain.
I've had enough, I've had more than enough. Time and again, I wake up in the middle of the night, the screams of people long gone still echoing in my ears.
There's no pleasure in it. No rush of power. No satisfaction. Inflicting pain does none of that. It's just what I'm good at. I suppose that's all I'm good for, at the end of the day.
I should have said no to him, but the needy, desperate look in his eyes stopped me. Where else would he go with this, his need to be hurt, so he could feel alive again? Our greatest celebrity, the Chosen One, the shining star of the wizarding world - who else would understand this, accept this, and deliver this? Only those who emerged from the fire, leaving others behind, can understand this, and there are too few of us left, and none that are capable of giving him what he needs.
Somehow, it always comes down to this. Lie for me; kill so that my son might live; cast the Killing Curse on me; hurt me - all those pleas begin to sound the same.
I should be used to this by now, used to being a tool, used to having no regard for my own soul – but.... sometimes, I still hope for more. I still hope to become something more to him, more than a faceless, impersonal tool to deliver the cleansing agony, over and over again, until such a day comes when he no longer needs this.
"What do you want?" I ask him.
Tell me to fuck off. Ask me to forgive you. Curse me. Bless me. Scream at me. Beg me. Ask me to touch you. Reach for me uninvited. Threaten me. Offer something, for fuck-all's sake.
"Nothing more," he says. He always says that.
Nothing more.
I am not surprised. I suppose this is all I am good for.
The End