August 3rd, 2007
|accio_arse||11:26 pm - FIC: Lupin Triumphant (NC-17)|
Title: Lupin Triumphant (part 1/2) originally posted here on slashfest
Pairings: Lupin/Voldemort, Lupin/Snape, Lupin/Lucius, Voldemort/Lucius, Lucius/Rudolphus Lestrange
Warnings: dub-con, violence, mild bondage
Notes: Prompt: **Voldemort/Lupin Voldemort rewards his best spy. Just before Final Battle. Lucius IS NOT amused! BD - Dom!Lupin and sub!Voldemort; voyeur - LM. Nagini plays a role, either as participant or director. [Requested by bonfoi on LJ]
Beta: schemingreader, dartmouthtongue, snegurochka_lee
Today is the day.
Today is the day that I must go to confront Lord Voldemort – and I’m still not altogether clear why.
”You’re safer not knowing, Remus. I’d tell you if I could.”
You bring one hand to your forehead, pushing black hair aside.
“I’ve seen what he does to those who get in his way … I dream of it. I try to clear my mind every night, like I was taught, but there are some things I’ve seen… I think I’ll never be able to forget.”
You rise sharply from where we’ve been lying together, shadowed in the half-light of early dawn, and start to pace the room. Some kind of tension cuts free from your thin, hunched shoulders and you spin around, losing control, the same way I’ve seen a dozen times before.
“Do you think I want that to happen to you? Why won’t you just do as you’re told? STOP ASKING ALL THESE QUESTIONS!”
I know you haven’t had much experience with this kind of thing, but you know, at the moment, you’re not making the prospect of being a naïve pawn in your personal war against Voldemort any easier. I sit up. Your silhouette is noticeably shaking. A first glimmer of sun starts to creep in behind you through the window.
”I never meant for this to happen.” You clench your jaw, holding in the words.
Well, do you think that I did? Do you think I don’t realise that this is a wholly inappropriate thing to have done, just on the eve of the final battle, with you of all people? Not that it matters.
No, as usual, I’m just good for hanging out with the homicidal werewolf who savaged me in the first place, or for casual visits to Voldemort, presumably for afternoon tea and crumpets. Don’t bother to tell me why, I don’t care any more. ”Thanks a lot, Remus, I’m off to save the Wizarding World yet again, see you around sometime soon - perhaps. No, don’t bother getting up - you’ll be wanting to get back to the werewolf pack in a minute anyway, won’t you, to say goodbye?” Isn’t that how it goes? Well, thanks for nothing.
You place your hands on my shoulders. The expression in your eyes seems completely sincere. I can’t help it, as I look into them a tension I didn’t know was holding deep inside me twists free with a tiny kick, and a little of my fear melts out of me.
”Don’t make it easy for him. He’ll try Legilimency, so avoid looking directly into his eyes. Hold out for as long as you can. Promise me that.”
I nod, promising, reaching up to cover your hands with mine. You break away from me before I can touch you.
“Professor McGonagall!” you call out into the darkness.
Minerva instantly appears. The abrupt pop of displaced air from the apparition rings out loud and near in the early morning silence. I recognise her floor-length tartan dressing gown and fluffy slippers from my teaching year at Hogwarts when the occasional night-time student infractions used to rouse her from bed, sleepy and bad-tempered. Startled, I grab a blanket and try to cover myself with it, realising that I’m the only one here naked, and more importantly, the only one not holding a wand.
“I’m sorry, Remus,” she says, and the sympathy almost cracks her voice.
They’re both aiming wands at me. What’s going on?
A bright flash of blue hits my eyes and explodes all over the back of my skull.
Then… my head is aching all over. From eyebrows to ears and back again it thumps with a dull, steady rhythm. Urgh. Why does my mouth feel like I’ve eaten a whole live chicken, feathers and all? I flop from side to side. Somebody’s shaking me by the shoulders. Arrgh. Go away. Sod off.
“Sir, Sir, wake up. You told me to wake you three hours after sunrise,” a female voice is saying, far above me.
That’s right, I did.
“Uhh… I’m awake now. Thanks, Griselda, you can go.” My housekeeper’s footsteps recede.
It’s all coming back now, as I drag my leaden legs over the edge of the bed, the tendons around the ankles cracking as I reach the floor, my mind buzzing with everything that needs to be done. I have a very important meeting in just a few hours and I must prepare for it thoroughly.
Because today is the day that I go to confront Lord Voldemort – and I’m looking forward to it immensely.
I already know exactly what it is I want from him, and I’m going to make sure that I get it.
As I was remarking to Narcissa only yesterday, I hadn’t expected life on the run to be so drearily, arse-clenchingly dull.
Dangerous - now that I would have allowed. Chock-full of nail-biting, last minute flights from hordes of angry Aurors, well that would have been conceivable (and as a figure of speech that has always mystified me – who actually bites their nails, even in extremis?) But that the reality of life as an fugitive from Azkaban could be so incredibly, stultifyingly tedious? I wouldn’t have believed it if you had shown it to me in your balls of crystal.
You just draw up a list of those you’d pay good Galleons to see wandering about en deshabille first thing in the morning, and I can assure you that Alecto Carrow or Peter Pettigrew would not be anyone’s choice when it comes to naked flashings of pubis. And that’s not the worst of it by any means; there’s also the inappropriate releases of bodily odours, hearty groinal scratchings and frank discussions of prior bowel movements, but really, I mean to say – and that’s just courtesy of our darling Bella, in the early morning queue for the bathroom.
Ah yes, Bella. Under ‘skin-blistering annoyances attendant on living at Death Eater Central’, my dear sister-in-law deserves a whole category to herself. All in all, she was probably the main reason why I had finally grown incredibly bored by the monotony of the whole damned thing and had decided to take some relief in vigorously spearing her husband in the downstairs cloak closet.
It was all so enjoyably delicious to start with. I had slapped Rodolphus down over a pile of dusty cardboard boxes and hoisted up his robe. At that stage, as I prised my slickened fingers inside him and had a good rummage, I was almost willing Bella to come in and find us. See what I’m doing to your precious husband, Bella. Take a good look.
My lit wand, wedged into a cloak pocket hanging nearby, highlighted the dancing dust motes dislodged by our frenetic activity. Delicate little Rodolphus sneezed like a thunderbolt and the clench of his sphincter muscles nearly took my fingers off. Merlin’s scrote, what does the man do in his spare time – keep his arse in shape by crushing walnuts internally?
A few minutes of half-hearted prodding later, however, and little Lucius was beginning to whine, gripe and show a distinct slackening of interest. The truth was, the thrill of irritating Bella aside, Rodolphus didn’t have quite the qualities I look for, even in a quick screw. Every thrust took me closer to the mangy crop of hair he appeared to have been cultivating on his back in captivity (well, I suppose everyone has to have a hobby) and he really was making the most off-putting noises from somewhere near his mouth – a sort of rhythmic wet sloppy gurgling. I was going to be here forever at this rate.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember the last time My Master had let me touch him. From a distance the Dark Lord’s skin looks chalky, dull - cold even, but I’ve been close enough to tap the power thrumming through his pores. I’ve kissed that bleach white neck and felt the jolt of pure magic enter in through my parted lips, twisting through my shivering nerve endings and dazzling me right to the end of my extremities, pulsing white heat out from the end of my prick.
I’ve been gripped in the beam of those glowing, red-irised slits. He once held my face a mere breath from his, each hand a burning whisper, and those eyes drew out my deepest aches like a sponge draws fresh blood.
At the thought of it, the skin behind my balls prickled and clenched, the blood thumping back into little Lucius again. I looked down to watch myself disappearing into Rodolphus and imagined I was driving between the thin white buttocks of my Master. The thought that my Lord would ever let me pierce him made my cock sing with renewed arousal as it slid back and forth, rubbing against the inner walls of Rodolphus’ anus.
Perhaps everyone else would be watching – yes, the less favoured would be standing around in an envious circle, teeth audibly gnashing. Then My Lord would twist back over one pale shoulder and suddenly snake his long, pointed tongue towards me. I would bend, reverently, to receive it in my mouth. The tingle of its fork would caress at the fleshy edge of my lips, then force itself inside my mouth, insistent, surprisingly hot, searching out every crevice. The oily vibrations would start to seep and the sparks of static build-up would escape my lips, excess magic dripping off my chin, ready for the rapid injection of his potency straight down my willing throat.
Oh yes, I can feel it gathering now. Everyone will bear witness when the Dark Lord smears me with the juices of his favour. Bella will fume helplessly when she watches me strain and shoot my intimate fluids into our Master. It’s so close now – I’m about to tip the edge. And with that, the pressure under my balls finally release like a flood of pure silver lightning and I thrust and spasm and shudder… until my last few drops spurt into Rodolphus’ convenient hole.
Absolutely bloody exquisite.
I come to and assess the situation; the need to extricate myself from the hirsute, sweaty mound of flesh and escape this rank, stifling cupboard. Unfortunately, the jerking jiggling of my accomplice is making that slightly difficult, as Rodolphus continues to make use of his good right hand to finish himself off. One might take that as a sign that I wasn’t any more to his taste than he was to mine.
A sound cuts through the air – like a rubber band being tightly snapped - and I feel a distinctive skin-fizzling twang as something attempts to breach the magical wards around the house. Then, to cap it all off, the front door bell rings.
Excrement. The pair of us are supposed to be on guard duty.
“I’ll go,” I say, managing to jimmy myself free, and clean myself up with our sole source of light. Persistent sounds of wank-slappity linger on in the fetid darkness.
“Almost there…” half-grunts my companion.
Really. How tawdry and repellent can one wizard be? Remind me again why I had ever thought that touching that squalid flesh was a good idea. I must truly have been bored witless. I exit as swiftly as possible, gratefully drinking in the fresh air from the very first crack of door-light.
I spy through the brass eyehole in the front door. When I see who’s waiting, I am rather taken aback for a moment. There on the damp stone steps of our house-in-hiding stands Fenrir Greyback, chief flea-picker of the Dark Lord’s company of child-biting, marrow-sucking, Muggle-crunching werewolves, and… wait for it… Professor R J Lupin. Yes, I told you; I was pretty surprised as well.
Not that he is a Professor any longer, of course. In fact, the last I’d heard of him had been the enjoyably salacious description of his defrocking, as told by the Daily Prophet –
“Nasty befanged werewolf teaching ickle helpless Hogwarts kiddies no more”
…or something like that, with a particularly gormless-looking picture of Lupin ‘before’ and an obviously touched-up artist’s impression of him ‘after’ as a gore-slabbering, baby-munching werewolf. Draco showed me the article in fits of glee.
But there’s something rather peculiar going on between them. The soiled mountain of brawn and hair that is Fenrir Greyback is actually cowering. It’s most uncharacteristic and rather entertaining to observe, and it only becomes more pronounced after Lupin throws him the merest of casual glances. The other werewolf positively flinches and almost shrinks right into the filthily splattered and gouged robe that’s straining across his huge shoulders. How very curious.
When I throw open the front door, Fenrir recoils a whole step backwards, although when he sees it’s just me his ugly features snap back into the familiar scowl which I recognise as his form of greeting. Yes, hello to you too. Lupin simply stands there, placid and immobile. I feel a prickle of irritation.
“Yes, Professor Lupin?”
“I’m here to see the Dark Lord,” he states.
His eyes meet mine. There’s no challenge or heat in them, just the steady assumption that I will comply.
“Oh, really?” I drawl, starting to imperceptibly cheer up. There’s nothing like some idiot-baiting for putting me in a good mood. This should be fun.
“I’ll have to check. I wasn’t aware that our Master had an appointment today with any destitute half-breeds. Or perhaps you’re looking for employment? I must say that your prior record speaks against you, Professor. I also hate to mention it, but there happen to be some basic standards of personal hygiene required in order to attend our meetings...”
I have to be careful about pursuing that line; our friend Fenrir isn’t exactly an oil painting. I content myself with a general wand-wave around Lupin’s snarl of unkempt hair. It looks as though he has tried to comb it with a twig, and the twig obviously had the best out of that encounter. His robes aren’t much better, terribly patched and worn, and obviously grave-robbed from somebody’s Flobberworm-loving great-grandfather. But then again, Fenrir’s clothes always look like he’s gone a full twenty rounds with a bag of angry crups, so I generously decide not to mention the attire.
However, all my ingenious insults are to no avail. Lupin stares blandly at me with the vacuous insipidity of the truly imbecilic, and no entertainment is forthcoming. Instead, he turns to Greyback, as if prompting him, and the bewhiskered colossus raises his raspy voice in mumble for the first time, grimacing as if each word is ripped straight from his heart.
“Our Master will wish to meet with the new head of the werewolf pack.”
I catch myself doing an absurd double take between the raw-boned, muscular Greyback and the weary-looking sliver of a man standing beside him, but I manage to stop myself before anyone notices. What in Merlin’s arsehole is Fenrir playing at? Well, if he wants to fool around with the Dark Lord’s affections, who am I to stop him? It might even be fun to watch – from a safe distance.
Frankly, I don’t know why the Dark Lord even bothers with the werewolves - it’s not as though they’re an important part of His army. They’re mostly just mud-bloods and half-blood riff-raff who wouldn’t know the right end of a wand if it turned around and bit them - pun intended. So what if a couple of times a month they all turn into drooling beasts? Yawn, yawn. Do they really think by some twist of fate the final battle will take place at night, precisely on the full moon? Now, really - what are the chances of that happening?
Rodolphus emerges, dishevelled, from the understairs cupboard, just in time to help me search for wands and escort our two guests up to Our Master’s suite. By this stage a little crowd of gawkers has formed, pathetically grateful of any break from their claustrophobia, mouths hanging open as they mutter and point. I’m almost willing our lot to restrain themselves. In the name of Cagliostro’s comecream, show a little dignity. Please don’t check the interlopers for webbed fingers or retractable genitals, or any other sign that they come from the strange outside world. We’ve all been cooped up in here together for far too long.
I knock at the lavishly panelled door.
“It’s Lucius, My Lord.”
“Enter,” comes the reply, low yet simultaneously sibilant. The hairs at the nape of my neck immediately spring into shivers, run all the way down my back, and tuck themselves under my tailbone; a quite normal reaction to the voice of My Master.
I halt at the doorway. Oh, bliss; My Master is still dressing. His long white legs, smooth and perfect, are bare to my view, and I steal a brief glimpse of his prick, delicately flushed and resting above dangling, hairless plums. Then he sweeps his robe closed and fastens it firmly on one side.
“Yes, Lucius?” His dancing red eyes only inflame the blood rushing towards my face, and to certain other areas as well. I’m sure he knows exactly what he does to me, but I never seem to care enough to try to break his spell. However, I still retain enough just sense at the moment for some self-preservation.
“My Lord, Fenrir has arrived – he says that he is no longer in command of the werewolves and he’s brought the new pack leader with him to meet you…”
An excellent moment, I believe, to withdraw speedily – which I do, being no fool. I gracefully make way for our two dishevelled visitors.
It’s been going surprisingly well so far. That idiot Lucius Malfoy’s eyes nearly popped out of his head after Fenrir recited his piece at the front door. It was all I could do just to keep a straight face.
Then Malfoy brought us straight up to Voldemort’s bedroom, of all places. It really was as simple as that. A quick snap to their master’s neck – that might be all it would take, and I’d be the new leader of this bloodthirsty carnival of fools – but no, I’m fooling myself if I start thinking like that. I’ve gotten far too used to having my own way recently. I need to watch out for it.
This inbred herd may be skulking around us now as if they’ve only just invented staring and pointing, but every one of them has almost certainly murdered and tortured, repeatedly, and probably enjoyed it too. That doesn’t impress me like it used to, but it should. I must stay focused.
Malfoy halts before a absurdly ornate door. It’s so out of keeping with the rest of the house that it’s obviously been transfigured just in order to flatter Voldemort’s warped sense of self-importance. Malfoy’s smoothly silver head nods as he speaks to his master through the partly open door. I notice a brief shiver down the length of his back – is that fear? It’s just another reminder of how seriously I should be taking this meeting. I really should.
Fenrir’s shoulders brushed mine when we climbed the stairs - just the most trivial of touches, but a burst of distracting triumph forced its way up inside me as he instinctively cringed away. Recently, he’s become scared that I might even catch him looking in my direction.
After all these years, I can still hardly believe that I’ve managed to tame my nightmare. In the end, all it took was the will to make the decision – the determination that yes I would slam him against the wall, I would dangle him by the ankles and kick those sharp jagged teeth in, that I would dance flames over his body until grey hairs sizzled into his flesh and he begged for mercy. After he healed, I just started all over again. We werewolves heal so conveniently, if painfully.
This is dangerous. Why am I being so ridiculously casual about meeting Voldemort? If I don’t acquire some healthy fear, and fast, it’ll be my pack who’s looking for a new leader. A few surprise bursts of wandless magic and simple psychological tricks won’t get me anywhere with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
Malfoy bows low and slips nervously to one side and the preposterously gilded bedroom door finally swings wide open. So here I am, face to face with Lord Voldemort.
He’s… shorter than I’d expected. Shorter than Fenrir, at least, and I got the better of him. I must stop thinking like that.
Everything is dazzlingly bright. Long banners waft breezelessly from the walls, glowing from within with a radiance that illuminates the whole room. Even the air somehow smells of light; clean and pure. On a large, raised platform rests a carved golden bedstead, covered with pristine white linen.
His flowing, semi-transparent robe is white, and it’s cut low into a V at the front, revealing the palest shade of all – the ivory smooth skin of Lord Voldemort. I catch myself staring, fascinated, my eyes following that glowing skin up his neck, nearly to his face, except that something then stops me before I can reach his eyes – I don’t know what. I notice that other parts of him are also… visible through his sheer robe. I avert my eyes respectfully towards the floor and wait for Greyback to introduce me.
“My Lord,” Fenrir grovels, almost buckling at the knees.
“I want to hear it from your own lips, Fenrir,” hisses Voldemort, travelling the distance between us surprisingly quickly. He extends one bony finger under Fenrir’s bristly chin, tilting it roughly up. “You’ve lost control of the werewolves - how can this be?”
“Yes, my Lord!” quavers Fenrir, his heavy-boned face straining up, away from the slender finger, “but I brought the new leader with me! He wishes to serve you!”
I take a small step forward.
“My Lord,” I say, bowing my head.
I can feel Voldemort’s gaze sweeping my body from head to toe, searching for a key to this unexpected turn of events. Suddenly, although nothing in his behaviour is openly threatening, I find that I’m not having to remind myself to be afraid any more. My skin is crawling and my stomach has wrapped itself into a liquid knot which only increases with every step he takes closer. It’s as if he’s surrounded by a bubble of protective ghostly hands, invading anyone unfortunate enough to come near.
A tugging jolts my left elbow - Voldemort has discovered my folder.
“What’s this?” he demands.
“My Lord, a list of the new members of our pack,” I explain, trying to keep my voice humble. “In the last few months there has been a dramatic expansion of our company. We now number slightly over four hundred.”
“Four hundred!” He snatches at the folder with spindly, eager fingers and has leafed through several pages before looking up suspiciously. “Fenrir, explain yourself!”
“My Lord, the changes were made under my management,” I reply. No curses or hexes hurtle my way, so I take that as permission to continue.
“We organised full moon travel rotas, so that all attacks are now delivered efficiently right into population clusters. That has met with great success, but our biggest achievement to date has been in the field of intra-moon biting. We discovered a charm that temporarily triggers the change on demand. You can see the results in the figures before you – we’ve exceeded all of our bite quotas for the last three moons running.”
Voldemort looks up quickly. “You can change when there is no full moon?”
“Yes, My Lord,” I reply. I can tell he is impressed.
He should be. It’s been difficult, and definitely not what I would have chosen in an ideal world, but under my management the pack is finally strong enough to stand up for itself - and that leads on to what I’m here for.
“My Lord, as you are aware, at the moment werewolves have limited rights under Wizarding Law…”
He immediately cuts me off with a furious glance.
“What? What are you talking about? Silence!” he hisses, returning to stare at my information with a strangely blank ferocity.
His bony fingers grip the parchment fiercely until it crackles and becomes opaque under the tension. His half-closed eyes shoot red light as they dart frantic little glances from one side to another. I can clearly hear his breathing, rattling and uneven. Just for an instant he reminds me of a cornered rabbit, desperately searching for an escape route – and I have to remind myself that this is Lord Voldemort, not some timid woodland creature caught in the path of the pack.
Then he changes, as dramatically as the first ray of sunlight after a storm.
“Fenrir - fetch Lucius to me at once,” he purrs, tilting his head upon one side. His red eyes glow from under slyly half-lowered eyelids. I immediately bend my head again meekly, unsure of how to handle these bizarre mood swings.
Fenrir quickly backs out of the bedroom. He stumbles a few times in his haste to be gone and has to catch at his balance in order to remain upright.
Then, in a flash, Voldemort has my right forearm in his grip, the whorls of his knuckles straining as he forces the pressure. Unpleasant prickles run up my arm and grow into itches at the top of my neck.
“So nice to finally be alone with you,” he whispers into my ear, “we have so much to discuss. Come sit down beside me. Weren’t you saying something a moment ago?”
He guides me forcibly to his bed where we sit next to each other on the pure and unblemished white sheets. The hundreds of ghostly hands I felt flailing at me before, twisting my stomach into knots, have become gentle, soothing fingers which stroke me all over, bathing me with his proximity.
This enforced closeness makes me all too aware of how inhuman Voldemort really is; and especially of his lack of a nose. At every breath, his two slanting slits open and close like gaping gills, and just inside each nostril, a sheer feathery curtain undulates every time the air changes direction. It’s very hard not to stare.
He has pressed our legs together all the way from hip to knee. I try to tactfully shift some distance between us, but our thighs are glued tightly together. I’m consciously not looking down at where they touch, at the pale flesh under his flimsy robe. Heat and friction start to build up between us.
“My Lord, you have been so generous towards the werewolves in the past.”
Not even slightly true, but from what I’ve heard, he likes his flattery thick and plentiful. One of his unnaturally emaciated hands starts to wander towards the direction of my inner knee.
“We only want to repay your kindness, My Lord. Now that we are stronger than ever we can be of more use to you.”
“Yes, I do want to know exactly how strong you are. How clever of you to remind me.” His reptilian eyes narrow in thought.
“Ah, Lucius!” Malfoy appears at the doorway, gasping from having run all the way upstairs.
“Lucius, I need you to sexually stimulate this werewolf for me. You may use your mouth.”
This time I definitely do manage to break free from his burning outer thigh, because I’ve fallen half-way back across the bed in my surprise. Malfoy’s face has also dropped as hard as a brick - so this must not be a common request, even from Lord Voldemort. I’d heard that Death Eaters got strange kicks from murder and torture, but their reputation for sucking off Dark Creatures had escaped me.
“My Lord, I’m grateful, but it’s really not necessary…” I protest, but he silences me with a burning look.
“Consider it a small reward for your services so far,” he soothes, sliding claw-like fingertips across my sprawling left ankle.
Malfoy has yet to move an inch.
”Well, Lucius? Get on with it,” snarls Voldemort, his voice rising dangerously in pitch. The light in the room flickers with his mounting displeasure.
Malfoy walks slowly over to the bed. Each stride is made reluctantly, almost against his will. He won’t look me in the face, but I have plenty of time to note how he’s wincing and how the muscles around his mouth are set into a rictus of disgust. As he fastidiously pushes up my robe, I’m suddenly ashamed of how dirty and beaten up my clothes are and of my scrawny, hairy legs. Most of all I’m shocked to be lying here, stripped to the waist, under the fascinated gaze of Lord Voldemort, waiting for Lucius Malfoy to put his unenthusiastic mouth on my genitals. How did this happen? A few hours ago I was safely with my pack, initialling the transport rotas from my lieutenants and planning our latest bite targets, relishing this meeting, so confident in my plan.
Malfoy brings his lips down onto my cock, just brushing the skin. It feels soft and ticklish and very far away. It’s as if all this is happening to somebody else.
“Stop dithering, Lucius! Hold the thing firmly!” commands Voldemort, peevishly. “I need to see that the werewolf’s equipment functions adequately if I’m to cast Servitium Strenuus.”
How could My Master possibly be contemplating doing that with this!… this stinksome, half-race, leg-humping monster.
Extremely reluctantly, I lower my head, grab the limp appendage and, wincing, place my mouth around it. Urgh - the distinct tang of rancid knob-cheese. I might have guessed.
My Master hovers over us, one delicate hand splayed across Lupin’s filthy shoulder and the other slowly beginning to caress his own neck, drawing aside the light robe with his fingertips to make tiny circles on his tightly stretched skin. I draw in one last breath for courage, purse my lips and suck down the prick.
It’s gelatinous and wobbly in my mouth, the head resolutely hiding away inside its impenetrable foreskin.
Marvellous. Is this filthy, soap-dodging werewolf actually going to get hard at some point? What’s more to the point, am I going to get the blame if he doesn’t?
I start to use my tongue, making broad sweeps round and around. Still no response. A growing dread starts rise up inside me. Oh no. I won’t be forced to stimulate those hideously furry bollocks, will I? I think the creature’s a downstairs ginger, for Merlin’s sake!
After a few minutes, and some increasingly nervous improvisation on my part, the first definite pulse shudders through the organ and, yes - it’s starting to expand in my mouth. It’s becoming bigger, heavier, thicker and smoother, the long muscle underneath and through it twitching and stiffening.
I change tactics, wrapping my teeth around moistened lips and sucking deep, building up rhythm, taking it right to the root. The damn werewolf is definitely responding now. He’s careful not to let out any groan that might show he might conceivably be appreciating my hard-wrung efforts, but there’s air panting out of werewolf lungs right above my head and his hips buck up to meet my mouth, although he clamps down on that motion as soon as he realises what he’s doing. Stupid beast. Why doesn’t he just let himself enjoy it? He really has no idea at all what’s ahead of him.
Still, the monotonous suck and oscillate stage I’ve now reached leaves my mind free for other, more important matters – such as thinking about the safety of my family. I warned Narcissa and Draco to make themselves scarce right after Fenrir dropped his bombshell. Not that there’s anywhere safe to hide in this dreary prison of a house. Not that I’ve ever been able to shelter them from the Dark Lord before. Oh, no. Where it counts, I know exactly how much of a failure I am.
But Servitium Strenuus - for the Dark Lord to magically bond himself to a werewolf, to make him his greatest servant? Why would he do it? A sudden image flashes before me - the Dark Lord and Lupin, side by side on tall golden thrones, light streaming from behind them, Masters of the Wizarding World. All fear them and all grovel. It’s an easy enough image to conjure up; all I have to do is seat the werewolf where I usually put myself.
“Enjoying yourself, Lucius?” the Dark Lord’s velvety voice strokes along my upturned back. Out of my right eye I can just make out his pale knee on the bed next to us.
“Actually, Lucius, I don’t think you’re enjoying yourself enough. Let me do something about that.”
Automatically, I thank My Master, but as my mouth is full of stinking prick right now, all I can produce is a slobbery sort of grunt.
My lips may be numbing and my cheeks cramping, but now I’m also tensing with anticipation. Finally, My Master is paying attention to me. Perhaps if I please him enough he’ll abandon this Servitium Strenuus nonsense. If he wants to bond with someone, well, why not with me? Killing Muggles is nothing, I’m sucking festering dick for him right now. What more proof does he need? Why can’t he see that I’m so much better for him than any disgusting werewolf?
“Luciusss…” A shiver runs down my spine, fizzling at the delicate skin around my arsehole, reaching for and plucking at my balls.
Oh… thank you, My Master. Thank you so much. Oh, please let My Master touch me again. Let him reach out and… Oh, Merlin, how I want him. My Master can’t possibly know how much I want him.
“Luciusss…” A hundred invisible hands lightly knead my buttocks, parting them, ghosting across my inner thighs. The breath of their slipstream teases around my prick, free and dangling underneath my robe. The hands catch it between their fingers and immediately hot, thumping blood rushes in. As it swells and flushes, my whole body runs hot and cold.
I’ve let my tempo slacken under the distraction.
“Keep to your task!” My Lord reprimands me with a bark.
Stretching my aching mouth, I plunge my head down again recklessly, wanting to show My Lord how obedient I can be. The werewolf’s slimy prick hits the back of my throat – he’s not even pretending to keep still now, forcing himself into me at every opportunity. I drink in his bitter, stringy fluid. I feel it dangling like glue all the way down my throat.
I close my eyes. Please, My Lord, I just want to be near you. Never send me away. Don’t you understand? I love you, My Master. I love you. I love you.
I’m almost thankful that my mouth is full right now, or else I’m sure that I’d be blurting all this out like the greatest idiot alive. The corners of my eyes sting; tiny acidic tears have sprung up, unbidden.
I feel his fingers tapping and stroking, touching me all over. He loves me too, I know he does. Why would he want to give me such pleasure if he didn’t love me? I go down on the werewolf again, with an extra special flourish, just to show My Master how much I care. The Dark Lord’s hundred invisible hands stray downwards again towards my aching prick.
Yes please, My Master! Please, yes!
Their grasp is infuriatingly gentle. My hips roll in frustration, trying to rub myself harder against their ethereal fondling. Then – ahhh! One hand encircles me and starts to pulsate me confidently, firmly, methodically, and then…
Huge quantities of acrid spunk shoot out, right against the back of my throat. The werewolf’s prick spasms inside my mouth for only a brief second before I instinctively hack the organ out of me with a cough, dropping the still-engorged flesh with a slap down onto his stomach. I spit what I can clear from my mouth on top of the glistening heap of his flesh. The werewolf continues to puddle sperm, glooping messily onto himself with numerous twitches.
Terrified, I look up at My Master, to see if I should have swallowed.
At the head of the bed, Lupin and My Lord are linked by gaze, staring right into the depths of each other. They don’t even notice me. At first I am relieved, then appalled. I want to rush over and push them apart. Of course, I don’t. I wait, meek as a lamb, for My Master’s instructions.
When the Dark Lord lazily breaks away from his communion with Lupin, he smiles me a thin-lipped smile, and by now I’m convinced that I hate My Lord more than anyone I have ever hated.
It’s becoming almost more than I can bear. Every day it’s increasingly painful when I’m out of his presence; dead time, boring, blank and meaningless, and I despise myself for my weakness and stupidity. I should be thinking of my wife and child. I want to feel for them like I used to, to care for them and to protect them. I shouldn’t be willing to give them up if only he would just put his long thin hands on me, just one more time.
Lupin lies in a dazed heap beside the Dark Lord, his eyes slightly overlarge and blank.
“Didn’t you enjoy that, Lucius?” My Master says.
“Yes, My Lord. Thank you, My Lord.”
“You may wake Nagini now.”
Avoid looking directly into his eyes. Hold out for as long as you can.
A quiet, serious voice surfaces briefly in my mind, and then wisps away, back into the darkness.
And then I let Lord Voldemort in.
He flicked through the pages of my life as if he were randomly pulling books from a shelf and tearing out all the most interesting pictures.
He saw the heel of my boot as it crunched into Fenrir’s ribs. He delved further. He sensed just how much I triumphed in my victory, how I held myself unnecessarily close to my defeated nightmare, breathing in his blood and his fear and his piss, just because I could. The erection I had then was no sexual reaction; it was pure exaltation.
He was there when Fenrir declared me leader before the whole incredulous and speechless pack. I finished with a few words to them all, quietly, decisively, but inside I was trembling almost uncontrollably, and I knew it wasn’t with fear.
Only in the privacy of my own room did I ever allow that raw rush of thrill to spill out of me.
I used to spread the paperwork all over my bed and wallow in the evidence of what I’d achieved. Even when the pack deferred to me, even when Fenrir cringed and bled, it somehow was never as real as those figures in black ink, the numbers steadily rising every week. I’d rub myself through my robe, at first furtively, then slip a few buttons open to touch myself, crushing the parchments laid under my back. It became my secret little pleasure, a treat to myself after every bite quota management meeting. No-one would ever be able to take this away from me. I’d finally accomplished something with my life, however twisted; something lasting.
One week there were forty three ‘recruitments’ to the pack. I could hardly believe the headcount - I made my lieutenants check three times before I was satisfied. The sense of terrible pride rose up in me like a bubble that desperately needed to be burst. That night, when I reached down to bring myself off, it felt like fulfilment. Now Voldemort has invaded that memory as well.
“You may wake Nagini,” he says.
Lucius’ mouth is wet and his lips are red. He kneels to the side and raps on the dais supporting the bedstead. Beneath me, a long wooden panel slowly creaks and slides. A dusty rattling starts to fill the air, then the hiss of fat scales dragging along the floor. A snake’s head emerges. It is obscenely large.
“Fetch my milking goblet, Lucius.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
Why is my robe is scrunched up around my armpits? Why is my groin tingling and why is there come all over my stomach? What happened to me? Voices and splashes echo faintly in the background as I try to make sense of it all; a brief flash illuminates one corner of the bedroom.
It is all coming back now. Pale haired Malfoy, bending over my crotch, his horrible mouth sucking. Then Voldemort, pinching my chin between bony thumb and forefinger, pulling my face closer… scarcely like being gripped by human fingers at all.
His death’s-head face looms towards me once more. The line of filaments running inside the line of each nostril flutter with the force of his exhalation. I blink, startled.
“Lucius, I think our esteemed visitor should be made to feel more comfortable, don’t you? Wash and clothe him in preparation for the enchantment.”
A shining gold basin of water appears. Malfoy unbuttons my worn robe and strips me, sponging all over with pleasantly warm and ticklish water. He is obviously not happy about it, especially when he arrives at my still-sticky belly. However, he is remarkably thorough, not even skimping places that I would rather he avoided, like under my balls and around my arse. He even begins to pull back my foreskin in order to wash underneath. I squirm and protest, trying to push his hand away, but again Voldemort clamps vice-like fingers around my arm, forcing me to submit to the cleansing.
Voldemort steps away from the bed and uncovers a ornately carved wardrobe concealed behind one of the many floating panels of white. He takes out a sheer, diaphanous robe, similar to the one he is wearing, and holds it up.
I float over and am clothed by him. The fabric brushes me gently. He is so white and pure. I can see the magic shimmering through his skin.
He holds out a large golden goblet. I take it. A small amount of runny, whitish fluid lies on the bottom, smoke rising in thin hisses from its surface.
“To friendship!” declares Voldemort. He holds another goblet, made from crystal, high in the air, and drinks the clear contents straight down.
I bring the goblet to my lips in a daze.
As soon as the fluid coats my throat, the magic enters my bloodstream and it’s as if I’m seeing his bedroom clearly for the first time.
All these dangling pieces of fabric! It’s completely ridiculous, like the bedroom of some young, horribly over-indulged teenage witch. As for this Lord Voldemort - what does he think he looks like, prancing around in see-through nightgowns? Although I have to admit that he’s more attractive than I would have expected. That deep hollow under his jawbone and those thin, bony wrists are doing strange things to me. I can even see the darker, purplish skin of his nipples and genitals right through that transparent stuff.
What am I wearing? Another stupid gown? Right, that’s coming off. I fiddle with the side ties, become impatient, and end up tearing them away from the cloth with an audible rip. I remove the garment and throw it to the floor, standing naked and decidedly more comfortable.
“My, how strong you are, Mister Werewolf.”
He doesn’t know the half of it.
”My own Mister Werewolf. I’ve seen exactly how strong you are. You’re nothing like that fool Greyback. No, you know that real power is the art of manipulating others into doing all the nasty biting for you.”
I take a step towards him. “Stop that right now.”
“The Great Pack Leader. Every night you sit and count how many victims your fellow beasts have soiled today with their foul werewolf teeth.”
“I said to be quiet.” It’s the same low voice I use on unruly members of my pack.
“Then, you find that it’s stimulated you so much that you have to run away, undo your filthy robes, fumble inside with your hairy little hand and to have a good w…”
My wandless Expelliarmus blasts him all the way across the room. I’ve got rather good at those recently after all that practice on Fenrir.
He crashes down; a heap of skeletal limbs. Bright blood is trickling from where an eyebrow would be on anyone else; anyone normal. Its red path just touches the outside corner of one glowing eye.
“Did that feel good, Mister Werewolf?”
I don’t bother answering. What I do or not is none of his concern. As he blinks, the blood catches into his eye. Lifting one hand to touch the blood, the chalk-white skin of his fingertip comes away smeared. He holds his hand out to me, head tilted.
“Don’t you want to taste my blood, werewolf? Don’t you want to smell it? I can tell that you do. I can tell that my potion is working very nicely on you indeed.”
With that unearthly speed of his, he’s on his feet and over by my side. He holds his spindly palm wide and outstretched. It’s only the smallest streak of blood on his index finger, but it’s positively luminous. In a flash, those fingers clasp around my stiffening prick, then instantly release it again.
“Very nicely indeed, werewolf. We should have no trouble t…”
I banish him again, harder. He flies across the room and slams into another large piece of furniture hidden behind those preposterous hanging bedsheets. I yank at one sheet as I pass. It detaches easily and puddles most pleasingly onto the floor. I snatch it up, trailing its long length behind me.
This is almost too simple. I look down at his long angular body huddled on the floor. He’s breathing hard and I’m close enough to see the veins of blue magic throbbing beneath the surface of his chalky white skin, tantalising me, pulling me nearer. He glowers up with those smouldering, slit-irised eyes.
“How long since you’ve actually touched another person’s skin, werewolf? Are you scared you might lose control and bite?”
Another burst of wandless magic and he’s dangling by his ankles. His delicate robe quavers, then gravity pulls it inexorably right over his face like a puff of dandelion fluff. It reveals his hairless, slender legs and bare bollocks to the air. They dangle down onto a cadaverous, concave stomach, and are followed by his pointed, red-tipped prick emerging angrily from its sheath. The shape reminds me uncannily of that of a small mammal.
I want to hold myself close to him, like I did to Fenrir. I want to breathe in the in the oily murmur of his power as I grind it under my heel. I want to gather up those hairless bollocks in his stupid, flimsy robe and wrench them clean off. I want to spit on his inhuman prick and I want to fuck him through those obscenely slitty nostrils. I want to do it all and yet I do nothing. I just stand there and breathe him in. He glares and wriggles his hips at me.
“Is it because I’m not Harry Potter?” he hisses. “I’ve seen the whelp in your memories. Perhaps you think you’re saving yourself for him?”
Harry? What the fuck does he mean?
“Ah… all those hours together when you were his teacher. The perfect opportunity for grooming him…”
“Shut up! You don’t know anything about it! Shut the fuck up!”
This bastard thinks… with my students? Grooming Harry Potter? With a tight snap of the sheet I’ve been carrying, I stuff his mouth with fabric, muffling his words, and continue on around his head and neck, almost cutting off his air supply. I snatch another thin streamer from the ceiling, pin his bony wrists together and tie them over and over until it looks as if his hands have been bandaged by a Junior Niffler practicing some dodgy First Aid. The bastard just hangs there and lets me. Each time I brush contact with his skin, a jolt of desire thumps towards my groin. With every touch, it’s fiercer, more urgent, more painful.
The fucking bastard.
I release the spell and as he dives to the floor headfirst, I immediately cast another, sending him scudding towards the bed. Well, if I am going to do this, I may as well be comfortable. And it looks as though I am, doesn’t it? Malfoy is still in the room with us, standing and watching, ready at all times like a good little servant. His expression is a look of pure hatred reserved especially for me, and that just makes me smile. Enjoy the view, Malfoy, because I’m about to fuck your Master.
This time my Expelliarmus only threw Voldemort as far as the foot of the bed. I grab him under his armpits and hoist his bag of bones so that he’s bent face down over the mattress, but as soon as I make contact with his smooth, pulsating skin, my nerve endings jerk alive, beginning from my fingertips and dancing throughout my body. I muffle a groan and push as much of my nakedness as I possibly can onto his skin. My chest rubs his back and my cock nestles into the crevice of his hollow-cheeked arse. The bastard is fucking delicious.
He’s firmly muffled, so he can’t talk his rubbish any more, but I can hear him breathing hard through those disgusting slits.
“Is this what you wanted, My Lord?” I ask, drawing one finger around the flushed and puckered skin of his arsehole, poking and prodding. The whole entrance is oily, just like his words; I might have guessed. He squirms under my finger, wriggling the rest of his skeletal body into the mattress, his legs opening further. God help me. The fucker wants it and, yes, I want this chalk-skinned, hairless, slit-nosed bastard.
I hold my cock at his oily entrance and slam my damnest into the depths of his hole.
I’ve been craving his tightness. The ring of muscles around the entrance clasps my cock firmly like a promise, and then releases, clasps, and releases, all the way down, until I’m snug inside, all the while pushing and desperate to grind into him even further. Got to fuck him. Need to fuck. A rhythm starts to build up as I push and pull, grasping bony hips, driving him into the bed, the friction so head-spinningly good as it runs up and down my dick.
I feel my balls clench and tighten under me as they get ready to shoot. No! Not already! But this is so fuckingly amazingly incredible! Some kind of commotion is going on outside – or is it just the whirl of sex pounding in my ears? I draw out and plunge in again, relishing every stroke, every blissful time I’m enveloped again in Voldemort’s body, so hot and so slick. Oh yes. Definitely going to come soon. I can feel it like the approach of a huge wet wave, unstoppable and forceful and… Oh yes… Here it comes…
As my balls deliver and my prick spasms inside Voldemort’s arse, throwing come hard against the inner walls, I think my head might just explode from the orgasm shooting silver fireworks inside my brain and hot lightning all down my skin.
Then the bedroom door suddenly slams wide open with a crash. At the head of a group of Order members, it’s Harry Potter.
Harry Potter. And as he takes in my situation, his expression, not surprisingly, is one of complete and utter shock.