Offerings

Every time the whip crashed across his body, he got a little closer to freedom.

It hurt; oh, Merlin, but it hurt. He could feel the glittering rubies drip from his skin, and knew his Master was relishing the jewels wrought from his retrained body. If he could see the blood, see the stains, he would feel more real. But Severus never let him see the blood; it was always Vanished before he got a chance.

He knew it was there, though, and that was almost enough. Its warmth trickled down his abused flesh, ruby rivulets that felt like poetry, warm and elusive. The smell permeated the air, acrid and sour, but like a drug.

His Master knew what he needed better than he did. And they both knew if Harry saw the blood, he would want more and more, he would beg for release, he would demand Severus to free him forever.

But Severus could never free him, for after only a year of… this, together, he needed Harry almost as badly as Harry needed him. And as long as that “almost as” stayed in place, they were both safe. When the inevitable day came that the “almost as” became a “just as”, or heaven forefend, a “more than,” they would fall from grace, cascading headfirst like kamikaze angels, and everything would change.

So Severus never let Harry see the blood.

A year ago, a wild mane of untamable hair made Severus aware of Harry Potter’s presence in his private rooms. The young upstart had taken down his supposedly impenetrable wards, and as Severus was leaping from his desk to defend hearth and home against intruders, Harry had taken two steps toward him, and fallen to his knees before his Potions master.

Severus had balked. People did not just go around offering unconditional submission as Harry was at that moment. Severus hated the child, but not enough to take advantage of him like that.

But Harry’s tenacity had proved too much for the embittered, lonely spy, and when he had finally given in, he’d hurt himself in restraint, and punished Harry by not giving him what he needed.

What they both needed.

Severus had fucked Harry, but he hadn’t fucked him. Looking back, he knew he had been trying to prove to himself and to Harry that they didn’t need to spill blood to come. And at first, he’d been right. When they came together for the first time, there was no blood at all.

Severus had told Harry to undress, and Harry had obeyed immediately. He’d adopted a relaxed pose in the centre of Severus’ bedchambers and awaited every instruction, following them with aplomb. Severus had been pleased; he hadn’t met such a natural submissive in years, and though his innate dislike toward the young man shone through at times, he was mostly able to keep it in check until he hardly noticed it anymore.

He knew that Harry fed off that animosity, used it, and turned it into fuel for his fire. And Severus provided the spark.

Severus had pounded into Harry at an abusive pace, hardly allowing the young man to adjust to his size and speed. Harry had not cried out, had not asked for quarter. And none was given. Harry’s orgasm was freeing, a few merciful moments of nothingness, an ephemeral pause in a world where nothing stayed the same. Severus’ orgasm felt like it was yanked unwillingly from his body, his every muscle fighting against release, but he was unable to deny himself this time.

Severus offered the bed, but Harry slept on the floor that night.

But soon Harry demanded more; he needed to be out of control, he needed to be truly dominated. And Severus felt more and more incomplete as he tried to coax Harry’s orgasms from him in vain. Things had changed after that first time. Harry refused to come at the same time as Severus—said it made him feel like they were making love, and he hated that.

Sometimes, young saviours need older heroes to make them bleed.

Then came the first time Severus tied Harry facedown on the bed. He was aroused beyond comprehension, his dulcet tones caressing the younger wizard more gently than his hands ever would. He’d entered him roughly, leaving no room to deny that Severus was in charge, in control. Harry reveled in the restraints, not fighting against them except to ascertain his capture, as if to remind himself he was truly incapacitated.

They were born for their roles. Severus lived a lifetime of service, always bowing, always deferring. He had so little power that he relished any that was freely given, especially since his own had been so viciously stolen from him. Harry, contrarily, was bred to lead, to save, to accomplish. To make decisions. But Severus didn’t let him make decisions, didn’t allow him a mind of his own in their time together. And in the few hours of every Sunday evening, every week for a year, they were finally able to be themselves. To be happy, to be whole.

No one else would understand the need for power, the need for blood. So their secret was guarded with jealous passion, and no one suspected that the dour, hateful Professor was demanding the Saviour of the Wizarding World to come on demand, to get on his knees, to prove himself over and over.

The whip sliced through the air one final time, and Harry managed to choke out his count. His erection was at the point of pain, his cock a deep red thanks to the cock ring. He was crying through his smile, and thanking his Master for doing what only his Master could. Harry thanked Severus for making him real.

Severus cleaned up the blood like he always did. He soothed the lash on Harry’s shoulder with his tongue, delighting in the rusty lifeblood flooding his mouth. He gathered his submissive’s coppery offering in his mouth, and walked around to Harry’s hanging head.

He grasped his jaw bruisingly in one hand and forced Harry to meet his eyes. As always, he was shocked at the relief he saw in those viridian depths. Severus crashed his lips onto Harry’s with brutal force, demanding submission with every crushing movement of his mouth. Forcing Harry’s mouth open, his tongue pushed Harry’s own blood into his mouth. Harry moaned deep in his throat, and Severus felt Harry’s cock twitch and jerk against his thigh.

But Harry pulled away violently, and spat the gift onto the dungeon floor. They both stared at the slowly spreading pool of blood and spit, mesmerized. Both knew this was not the last time Harry’s blood would anoint these floors.

Multitudinous seas incarnadine.

Severus pulled his had back and slapped Harry across the face; Harry saw it coming and went limp to absorb it. He cried out in pain and pleasure, begging Severus to take off the cock ring and slap him again.

Though Harry had been rude to spit on his floor, Severus rewarded him by doing as he asked this time. He loosed the cock ring at the exact moment his flattened hand met Harry’s face, and Harry screamed as his orgasm tore through him like glass, severing him more with every trembling jerk.

Severus released his restraints and Harry fell to his knees, laughing as tears shimmered like diamonds on his cheeks. He was nearly hysterical as Severus gathered him in his arms, placing him in his own bed. Harry was torn between giggling and sobbing, so submitted to both.

As always, Severus Vanished the mess. It just wouldn’t do for Harry to see his own blood. He silently healed Harry’s wounds. He silently healed Harry’s wounds on the outside.

Try as he might, he would never heal Harry’s wounds on the inside.

As time went on, it became less about sex, less about submission, and more about pain. Harry wouldn’t submit to Severus like he used to. He spoke insolently, he was rude and cruel. He didn’t call Severus “Master” anymore.

But “almost as” had become “more than”, and Severus couldn’t stop.

When Harry told him to beat him, Severus did. It didn’t make either of them hard anymore, and it was a rare Sunday when Harry’s pearl ejaculate adorned his stone floors.

But still, Harry cried.

Harry’s screams, which were once like an angel’s chorus to Severus, became the very cacophony of his damnation. He heard it in his dreams long after the Saviour did his saving, after there was no need for spies, after the world crumbled in supplication to the Gods themselves, collapsing in on itself and exploding in a glory rivaled only by the screams of the Boy-Who-Lived as he climaxed in ecstatic agony.

It wasn’t enough; it had never been enough, and they were both fools to think they could fool each other, fool themselves. As Harry needed more blood, Severus needed less. He didn’t know when he began to want Harry to spend the night in his bed, rather than leave with a stiff gait and without a backwards glance.

But Severus never told Harry what he wanted, even as Harry demanded fulfillment of his own needs. Harry left so much of himself behind—so much blood, so many tears, so much come—that he assumed Severus had enough of him to last a lifetime. But the one thing Severus came to need was the last thing Harry would ever give.

Hope.

Hope was like the sword hanging over their heads. Neither had it, neither knew how to get it. Harry had lost his hope when Dumbledore sacrificed him for the last time. Severus may have never had any hope to begin with, but it was like the elixir of life; he had to know, he just had to know.

What would it be like to have hope, to have a reason to wake up every morning, to have a lover who needed affection and not pain? Severus bet it felt like freedom. Freedom from chains, from tortured orgasms, from barely concealed hatred.

Severus’ cries could not be heard over Harry’s ecstatic shouts as the whip kissed his back. He made sure to time it perfectly.

He knew what Harry wanted, the young man himself had told him. Harry wanted Severus to whip him until there was no skin. To flay him. To kill him. Harry wanted him to leave him stringing from the ceiling in his bonds, knowing the position of his arms over his head would suffocate him overnight, if he didn’t exsanguinate first. Harry even promised to be perfectly silent. He promised Severus he would never make a noise; that Severus could go to bed, and Harry would be gone by morning.

Every single Sunday, Severus promised he would leave him there.

Every single Sunday, Severus loosened the chains and let Harry fall into his arms, not allowing himself to process the regret and hatred in Harry’s luminescent emerald depths. If he didn’t look, then he wouldn’t see the despair, wouldn’t see the loathing. As much for himself as for Severus.

Harry thought Severus a coward when he told the younger man they would not be together ever again. Harry thought Severus weak because of the love in his obsidian eyes. Harry thought Severus cruel when Harry railed against the newly warded doors, until his hands were broken and the blood was flowing down his arms. Cruel because he would not punish him, would not end his pain.

Harry stared at the blood on the door. He pressed his face against it and breathed in deeply. This was what Severus never let him see. It looked like freedom, real freedom this time, not a temporary stasis of eternal torment.

Harry apologized to Severus from the other side of the door, knowing the older man couldn’t hear him. He was sorry, always so sorry. So fucking sorry. He tried to take the blood on the door with him, but knew he could make more, so he left.

As he turned the corner, Severus opened his door to admit the desperate young man. To admit to the desperate young man, to tell him the truth.

But he was gone. Severus felt the coldness shifting back into place in his heart, felt the doors slamming closed, and the locks breaking the keys as they turned.

He Vanished the blood on his door.

Ruby. Diamond. Pearl. Emerald. How could a man with so many offerings become so very bereft?



Fin.