Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10272491.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Remus_Lupin/Harry_Potter
  Character:
      Remus_Lupin, Harry_Potter
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Chan, Rimming, Spanking, Biting, Consent_Issues, No-
      but-yes-but-no-but-yes, Dildos, Felching, Filth, Teacher-Student
      Relationship, a_side_of_Snape/Draco, dirtybadwrong_fic, Underage_-
      Freeform, Power_Imbalance, Dubious_Consent, Blushing_Virgin
  Series:
      Part 1 of The_Dildo_Made_Me_Do_It
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-03-13 Words: 7027
****** An Apple a Day ******
by abstractconcept
Summary
     Harry’s avoiding Potions and hoping to have an easy time hanging
     about with Remus. But then Harry discovers a dirty magazine and Remus
     accidentally touches a magical object designed to bring out the beast
     in anyone. And Remus has more beast than most. Can Harry handle it?
Notes
     Still importing. Can't believe I haven't imported ANY Harry/Remus,
     which is my favorite filthy pairing.
     Beta: The marvelous synn, with advice from wolfco and all further
     mistakes are my own.
     *AU, chan, rimming, spanking, biting, consent issues/no-but-yes-but-
     no-but-yes stuff, dildo-play, felching. This is a filthy, filthy PWP
     full of chan and rough sex and lack of control. *
“And please have chapter fourteen read before next class, which will be taught
by Professor Snape,” Remus instructed, straightening the papers on his desk.

The class groaned, but filed out of the room.

Remus noticed that Harry was lingering, still half-heartedly gathering his
things together as the last student left the room.

“Something wrong?”

The look Harry gave him just about brought him to his knees. It was the
sweetest, most heartbreaking look ever. Remus expected the boy to tell him he
was dying of hemorrhmagic fever and had less than a week to live.

“It’s Potions, next. Double Potions,” Harry informed him.

“Ah,” Remus replied, trying to quell a smile.

“And my stomach hurts,” Harry hurried to add.

“You’d better hurry and see Madam Pomfrey before class starts, then,” Remus
told him.

Harry looked crestfallen. He’d likely forgotten that Madam Pomfrey could cure
nearly anything in mere moments.

“Unless it’s the sort of stomach ache you don’t think Madam Pomfrey could fix,”
Remus said gently, taking pity on the child.

Instantly, Harry lit up. “Yes! I mean, I think I’d be all right if I just
rested for a while.”

“I suppose missing one class won’t kill you,” Remus agreed, musing about all
the times he, James, Sirius and Peter had skived off. And they had never had to
deal with Snape as a teacher. “I’ll let you stay with me, if you promise to
behave.” After all, he should at least make certain the boy didn’t go off and
get into trouble—or get found by trouble. Sirius hadn’t been captured yet.

“I wouldn’t mind staying in here with you for a bit. You know, you’re my
favourite professor,” Harry said with a smile.

Remus made sure his answering smile was kind, but aloof. Much as he liked
Harry, he knew that he was, on the whole, almost as dangerous as Sirius Black.
It would be better if Harry didn’t get too close.

“I was just going to do a bit of cleaning,” Remus told him. “Filing papers
away, rinsing out the aquarium, that sort of thing.”

“I’m your man,” Harry said, jumping to his feet. “Show me where to start, and
I’ll help.”

Now Remus really did smile. Did Harry have any idea how irresistible he was? He
breathed deeply, drinking in the scent of eager young boy, sweet as a puppy. It
was something not even his closest friends knew, but Remus’ senses were always
a little heightened as the full moon neared. He’d have to be extra cautious,
then; he tended to be impulsive and thoughtless at this time of the month.

“Let’s start with the aquarium. The grindylow’s gone, and I need to get it
ready for a brace of bunyips.”

Harry shucked his robes and rolled up his sleeves, looking fascinated. “What
are bunyips?”

Remus explained as they rinsed out the container. “Bunyips are native to
Australia. They lurk in waterholes, creeks and riverbeds and cause sickness.
But that’s all I’m going to tell you! I can’t let you get too ahead of the
other students,” he explained with a grin.

Harry laughed. “Fat chance.”

“Really, Harry, you’re my best student,” Remus told him.

Harry flushed, applying himself to his task, but Remus could tell he was
pleased by the compliment. Soon they were both soaked, Harry’s wet shirt
clinging to his slim body and leaving little to the imagination. Oblivious to
Remus’ hungry stare, Harry pried at the lake weeds still clinging to the bottom
of the aquarium. The boy looked good wet, no doubt about it.

Being so near the child was beginning to make Remus dizzy. Harry was so
unselfconsciously pretty. He probably didn’t even realize. He had his father’s
features, but softer, built to the bone on a more delicate scale. And, of
course, his mother’s eyes had been green, but they had never been set to the
backdrop of Harry’s dark mop of hair.

Remus toyed idly with the idea of expressing this, telling Harry how he’d like
to stroke his soft cheek, cup his chin and tilt it up, and lick Harry’s mouth
like a spoon.

He shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts. If this kept up, he would end up doing
something he regretted.

“I’ll finish this,” he barked.

Harry looked up, startled, and Remus forced himself to speak more evenly. “I’ll
finish this. There are papers on my desk. Why don’t you go and file them away?”

“Yeah. All right, sure.” Harry looked confused, but at least he didn’t seem
hurt or angry.

Remus dragged his eyes away, saying, “Aguamenti,” loudly and beginning to scrub
down the container roughly. So occupied, he barely heard Harry opening and
closing cabinets and riffling through papers as he sorted them.

But Remus’ sense of smell wasn’t his only heightened faculty. Possibly only a
werewolf would have heard Harry’s small gasp, followed by an almost silent,
“Ohhhh.”

Remus half-turned to look at the boy. Harry’s back was to him, but he seemed to
be looking at something he held in his hands.

Quietly, Remus prowled around the desk until he was beside Harry. “Find
something interesting?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral.

Harry started, dropping the magazine to the floor. Naked young men sprawled on
glossy pages, looking up at the reader flirtatiously. It must have been one of
the ones Remus had confiscated.

“I—I was just—” Harry stuttered, snatching the magazine off the floor. “It was
just there, and I found it,” he said, every word dripping with guilty
embarrassment.

Ah, but that wasn’t what he smelled of. No. Remus was close enough to taste the
boy, and the scent he was sending off in waves was pure arousal. Young,
curious, musky arousal. Remus gently touched his shoulder, and Harry gave a
delicious little shiver.

Unable to resist, Remus leaned down until his nose was almost touching the nape
of Harry’s neck, then breathed deeply.

“Sir,” Harry said, sounding quietly shocked.

“You smell nice,” was all Remus could get out. He couldn’t have put into words
how alluring Harry’s scent was. There was a sweetness beneath it all, something
fresh and delicate and yet persistent and very, very Harry. Of course, that
light scent was almost masked by the much stronger one, the one of hormones and
heat and need. Drinking in the powerful aroma, Remus realised he could smell
the boy’s cock, the tip welling up with pre-come. Imagining Harry’s cock
hardening in his trousers made Remus’ cock begin to harden in turn.

Remus moaned softly. The animal inside him felt wild. Not the werewolf, not
really, just the man—the darkest, most savage, secret parts of every human
being. He wanted to take Harry. He wanted to gently nip the nape of his neck,
touch him places he’d never been touched, then drag him out—didn’t matter
where—just drag him to a chair or a desk or even the floor, and rip his clothes
off, and hold him down—

Harry’s breathing was ragged. Was he afraid? But no, he was looking down at
that magazine again, and the scent of arousal still wafted from his body.

“We should put this back,” Remus finally managed in a hoarse voice, plucking
the magazine from Harry’s hand, their fingers brushing against each other for a
fleeting, tantalizing moment.

“Are you angry with me?” Harry asked anxiously.

“No,” Remus assured. “It’s normal to be . . . curious.”

“Curious and—er—randy?” Harry asked in a small voice. “Like, really, really
randy?”

Remus had to laugh. “Yes. That’s normal, too.”

“Even if it’s pictures of, you know, just blokes?” Harry looked torn, desperate
behind his round glasses. It was understandable—after all, he wanted so badly
to fit in. But at least in this, Harry would find others who felt the
same—Remus, for one. He probably shouldn’t mention that until the boy was
older. But it would not be as isolating as being marked by Voldemort.

Remus wondered idly why Harry had to be this manner of ‘different,’ though. He
seemed to be developing new ways in which to tempt Remus. In fact, just as
Remus had the thought, Harry’s tongue slipped out and drew a wet path over his
lower lip.

His mouth was probably dry. That was all. Surely he wasn’t trying to drive
Remus mad from sexual tension.

“It’s fine, Harry,” Remus said. “It’s normal.” Harry’s scent was like a mind-
altering drug, binding Remus up in desires he had no business to consider. The
boy reeked of lust, of dripping come, of the blood throbbing in his eager
prick. Remus shut his eyes. Dear God, he had to end this soon, before he did
something unthinkable.

“Let’s just put this away.” He opened the cabinet for confiscated, sometimes-
dangerous items, and slipped it in. For just a moment, he thought everything
would be all right. And then his hand brushed something else.

“Oh,” he said.

“Is something wrong?”

Remus withdrew his hand. He was holding an object that looked like a very large
silver bullet. It practically vibrated in his hand. Well—ha—naturally, and in
fact it could be made to vibrate with a spell. “It’s a magical marital aid.”
His voice came out in a growl. He could feel his carefully built walls—his
self-control, almost his conscious self—being burned away, leaving raw lust.
“It’s banned because it’s meant for married people, not students. Sometimes
even people who love each other very much have difficulties pleasuring each
other,” Remus managed. “And this . . . helps. It makes you—” Remus broke off,
staring at Harry, who was baldly staring back, his face open, curious and eager
to learn, his whole delicious odor screaming I need to be fucked now, please.

Remus licked his lips. He felt dizzy. Something powerful and alien and
marvelous was washing over him, sending licks of flame through his belly. He
wanted. He ached. His need had to be met—now.

“It’s a marital aid?” Harry prompted, now becoming nervous and confused.

Remus’ hand closed round it and he smiled at Harry, who took a step back.

Harry tilted his head. “What’s it do?”

“Let me show you,” Remus purred, and gestured Harry forward. “Come.”

Harry came.

                                    oOoOoOo


Harry knew something was off. He could see it in Professor Lupin’s eyes. They
were usually unremarkable, sort of brownish, Harry thought, maybe with flecks
of gold. Now, the yellow bits had grown, consuming Professor Lupin’s irises
like a fire. Harry watched them uneasily.

“Have you ever seen two people fuck, Harry?” the Professor asked.

Harry felt his face begin to burn. He didn’t know what was going on, but he
knew that the man standing in front of him wasn’t quite Professor Lupin
anymore. Still, hearing the words made his prick throb with want. “Um,” was all
he could think to say, tugging the hem of his shirt down, trying to hide his
erection.

Remus laughed. “That’s not going to work,” he said. “I can smell your arousal.”

“You—you can?” Harry asked with a gulp.

“I have a very keen sense of smell,” Remus explained.

“You’re not yourself. I should go,” Harry said, and tried to slip past the man,
but Remus grabbed his wrist.

“Why? If I let you go, you’d only go straight up to your dorm and masturbate.
Isn’t that right? You’d make certain you were alone, put up a silencing spell,
shuck your trousers, crawl under the covers and wank until you dirtied your
nice, clean sheets. I can make you feel good right here and now—and save the
sheets,” Remus said with a smirk.

Harry shifted from one foot to the other. Remus’ hand was awfully tight on his
wrist, and when he tried to jerk away, he found he couldn’t move at all. Remus
was much stronger than he looked. For some reason, this only made Harrymore
randy.

“Um,” Harry said again, stalling. This was very confusing. He knew without a
doubt he shouldn’t get excited looking at naked boys, but being excited because
Remus wouldn’t let go of his arm was even weirder. Remus wasn’t even naked. It
shouldn’t be sexy just to have someone grabbing you and not letting you leave,
should it?

“Let me teach you,” Remus cajoled in a deceptively soft voice. “Let me teach
you how to fuck.”

Again, Harry’s cock gave an excited little leap like a fish rising to bait.
“You mean, like, you want to have s-sex—with me?”

Remus nodded. “I want that very much. I think you’re quite the most erotic boy
I’ve ever met. I don’t think I can keep my hands off you.”

Erotic.Really? Remus thought he was sexy? Harry didn’t see how anyone could
think that—he saw himself in the mirror everyday, and he was just—justnot. He
was a bit short and way too skinny and had knobby knees and hair that wouldn’t
even lay flat, let alone take a style. He wasn’t sexy—he looked like a kid.
But—but it made Harry feel really great to think Remus found him attractive.
And anyway, maybe he wasa bit attractive. You didn’t necessarily have to be
tall to be handsome, and he’d once overheard some girls talking about how they
thought he was cute. And even cute was at least something.

Remus must have known he was winning, because there was a gleam in his eye. His
free hand reached out to caress Harry’s warm face, which grew even warmer at
the touch. “Wow,” Harry whispered. No one had ever touched him like that
before. And Remus wanted to have sex.

“You’ll like it,” Remus hissed, his face suddenly inches from Harry’s, his eyes
blazing.

Harry’s heart was pounding wildly against his ribcage, almost as if it were
trying to escape. But Harry—Harrydidn’t want to escape. He was afraid, yes, a
little, but he was more excited. Sex—with a man. With Professor Lupin, who was
suddenly a lot more interesting than he’d been that morning. Sex . . . it
sounded like an adventure.

“Say yes,” Remus urged. His hand, so gentle against Harry’s face, began to
saunter its way down Harry’s body, tracing a line down his chest, his stomach,
his——

“Urg,” Harry managed, though he hoped that, if nothing else, it was an ‘urg’ of
great dignity.

“Say yes,” the wayward Professor repeated. He was now cupping Harry’s erection,
just holding it as the entire world ceased to spin on its axis, now caught in
stasis around Harry’s prick. “Say yes,” Remus challenged, that queer yellow
light in his eyes, his teeth glinting.

Harry glanced down, contemplating. He did not have any assurance that Remus-
who-wasn’t-quite-Remus would respect a rejection. On the other hand, Harry
couldn’t think of a single reason he’d prefer to say no anyway, other than to
see what would happen if Remus didn’t respect his rejection. That might be kind
of fun. He could see Remus’ prick tenting his own robes, and it was a
substantial bulge. Weighing the situation’s pros and cons seemed to result in a
few forgettable drawbacks and one very large perk.

“Yes please,” Harry said, as loudly and firmly as he could manage.

“Good boy,” Remus said, and Harry’s heart gave a squeeze of pleasure. They were
not words he heard often and somehow, when Remus said them, they seemed laden
with something extra. Something intimate. Harry liked the way he said it.

“What happens next?” Harry asked. He played with the cuffs on his sleeves, not
meeting the man’s eyes.

“Let’s take your shirt off,” Remus suggested. When Harry didn’t jump to do
this, Remus began to do it for him. Harry stood, quiet, and watched Remus’
fingers work their way down, plucking and picking, working quickly. The last
button caught, and Remus paused just long enough to meet Harry’s eyes. He
flashed a smile, brief and impatient, before tugging again, and that last,
stubborn button came loose. “There,” he breathed.

And now it would be skin. Harry felt petrified, but happy, so happy that Remus
wanted to see him like this. But what if he didn’t like what he saw?

Harry had no time to protest; Remus was yanking his shirt off, stripping him
promptly with no ceremony.

“Hey—what—”

“You’re lovely,” Remus told him.

Harry shut his mouth, because his face was so hot—so hot—and he didn’t want to
draw attention to it.

The way Remus reached out, running his careful, gentle teacher’s fingers over
Harry’s chest made Harry’s heart sing in joy. Still, he couldn’t completely
drown out his misgivings. You’re lovely. But Remus wasn’t meeting Harry’s eyes
when he said it. He wasn’t looking at Harry’s face. He looked only at Harry’s
body, less like Harry was a pretty boy and more like Harry was a steak dinner.

Then Remus grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled him forward, yanking so hard that
Harry felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, and he stumbled, falling into Remus.
“Yes, that’sright,” Remus muttered. “This is where you should be.”

“What? What does that mean?” Harry asked.

Remus didn’t answer, sinking down until he knelt beside Harry, and Harry had to
bend to be on the right level.

He pressed his face against Harry’s neck, kissed it once or twice, then nipped
it hard.

Harry jolted. “Hey!”

But Remus was already mumbling words of contrition. “Didn’t mean to hurt
you—never want to hurt you,” he said. “Just have to taste you, just a little,”
he explained.

Harry was breathing hard. So was Remus, and Remus was also shaking. Harry could
see beads of sweat clutching his lashes, reluctant to fall. When he looked
Harry in the eye, Harry could see his pupils were huge. Trembling, a drop of
sweat fell. But was it a sweatdrop, or a teardrop? Why was Remus shaking? What
did he have to be upset about?

“Fear of what you will take, or rue for what you have taken,” Remus whispered,
and Harry realised he’d been speaking aloud. Poor Remus. He could probably get
in a lot of trouble for this. For wanting Harry. Harry reached out, smoothing
his hair, pulling the man into an awkward embrace.

“It will be all right,” Harry promised. “Do what you need. Just don’t hurt me .
. .too much. No blood, right? You can do that, right?”

Remus nodded, dazed. Then he took Harry’s chin, pushed it away, and nuzzled his
face in Harry’s hair. “Yesssss,” he hissed. He began snuffling, sniffing
Harry’s hair, which was weird.

Abruptly, Remus dropped to his hands and knees and—Harry gasped—pressed his
face to Harry’s crotch, inhaling deeply.

Harry shuddered, drawing a long, gaspy sort of breath. “Wait,” Harry pleaded,
pushing Remus away. Okay, Remus had just gone from not quite right straight to
too bloody strange.“What are you doing?”

Remus was staring at the bump in Harry’s trousers. “Wallowing in your scent,”
Remus hissed. “Your arousal.”

“Wha—hey! Whoa there!” Harry yelped as Remus suddenly yanked at his trousers.
“Let me unbutton them at least,” Harry added. Remus batted Harry’s hand away
with a growl, fumbling with Harry’s fly and jerking his pants and trousers down
in one quick movement. Harry squeaked in surprise, wobbling as he tried to get
his balance.

Remus was staring at Harry’s naked prick, which was getting even harder in the
face of such attention. Blushing furiously, Harry went knock-kneed, one hand
creeping down to cover himself. Without taking his eyes from Harry’s straining
cock, Remus batted his hand away once more.

“Um. What—” Harry broke off as Remus leaned in, drawing his tongue up the
underside of Harry’s penis. “Oh!”

“Yes,” Remus hissed, squeezing his eyes closed in pleasure. He greedily began
to suck on Harry’s cock, an action as startling as it was electrifying. Harry
had heard the twins joke of this sort of thing before, but he didn’t have any
idea it would feel this good. Remus was moaning, lost in his own world,
seemingly as turned on by sucking Harry as Harry was being sucked.

Harry could feel a tightness in his sac, heat in his belly. And Remus—bobbing—a
full grown man sucking him—it was almost too much to comprehend. Timidly, Harry
placed his hands on Remus’ head, feeling the soft hair. He hoped it wouldn’t
distract the man, or worse, make him stop, but Remus was completely absorbed
with his task.

“Please,” Harry murmured, his voice breaking. “Please!” He wasn’t sure what he
even wanted; hell, he was getting everything he could want and then some! But
he needed so say something, and ‘please’ just felt right.

Suddenly orgasm came over him in a great rush and Harry’s hands clenched, his
body rocking, plunging his stiff cock into Remus’ hot, eager mouth.

As the sensation faded, Harry’s legs began to tremble.

Remus stood up, his yellow eyes fierce. “Get down,” he ordered. “Bend over.”

Harry stared at him, still weak and somewhat confused.

Remus grabbed him, dragging him over to a rug. Harry tried to talk, but Remus
seized the back of his neck, pushing down. “Bend over,” the man commanded.

Harry was forced down, Remus’ large hand on him, only stopping when Harry was
on his hands and knees, his face flush to the rug. Harry’s face was turned to
the side, and he could see Remus looking him over wildly. “S-sir,” Harry
croaked. He struggled feebly, but Remus held him in place with little effort.

Hand still clasped on Harry’s neck, Remus bent, kissing the swell of Harry’s
arse. Harry whimpered. Remus ignored this. Harry could feel his breaths coming,
short and panicked. Now that he was out from under the tingling lust that had
clouded his mind, he was beginning to have misgivings. Professor Lupin seemed
like he was hanging on by a thread, ready to lose control.

He nipped Harry sharply on the bum, and Harry yelped. “Stop!”

“Shhh!” Remus hissed, smacking Harry once, hard, on the arse. “There’s no
blood. Stop whining.”

Harry shivered. The real Remus would never have said something like that, and
he’d never have struck Harry.

Remus’ hand was now gently petting the abused spot on Harry’s backside. “Mine,”
he growled. “Anyone who sees this mark will know.”

“What?”

Remus slapped him again.

Harry tried to crawl away, but Remus’ grip tightened on his neck. And—oh,
no—the firm hold was stirring something needy in Harry’s belly once more. His
cock was already half-hard again. He hoped, really hoped that Remus wouldn’t
see it; he might get even rougher with Harry.

Harry whimpered and again tried to pull away.

Remus struck his backside so hard that Harry gasped in shock and pain. “Don’t,”
Remus ordered tensely. Then he bent again, kissed Harry’s tender, warm arse.
Remus moaned softly, licking a streak of wetness along Harry’s flesh. Then he
pulled back, exhaled, blowing cool air over Harry’s smarting bum.

“Nice and red and shiny, just the way a teacher likes it,” Remus whispered.
“Just as pretty as an apple.” Then he let go of Harry’s neck, his hand skimming
down Harry’s backbone, not so much a caress as a promise of further force
should it become necessary. He took Harry by the hips, repositioning him,
pushing Harry’s legs apart.

Harry felt like a puppet or doll. A somewhat willing puppet or doll, though.
Having Remus clutch his ankle and lift his leg until he had Harry where he
wanted him—well, that was just hot. Harry didn’t know why.

Remus seemed to be pleased with his handiwork, stroking Harry’s thighs,
reaching around Harry to paw at him further, feeling his stomach, his ribs,
even skimming his nipples. Remus was rubbing his face against Harry’s bum now,
his hot breath wafting over Harry’s balls. One of his hands fondled Harry’s
penis again, coaxing it to stiffen again. “Knew you wanted me,” Remus muttered
indistinctly.

Harry could feel Remus’ hands shaking. He was going to lose it. Harry was
making him lose it. Instead of frightening Harry, it made him feel powerful,
exhilarated. Remus wanted to fuck him. Remus wanted it so badly he was starting
to go wild. And if Harry got him off, Remus would probably be really grateful.
He’d love Harry for making him feel so good.

Shyly, Harry reached down to cover one of Remus’ hands with his own. “It’s
okay,” he murmured. “You can do it, if you want to. You can put it in.”

Remus’ head snapped up. He looked—Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on
it—like a guard dog, maybe, all senses suddenly on high alert. “Are you saying
I can fuck you?” Remus asked.

Harry took a couple of deep breaths. “Yes.”

Remus smiled, but it wasn’t a very nice smile. “As if you could have stopped
me,” he growled. “Though I suppose that’s just as well.” His eyes were dragged
away from Harry’s face—down—and Harry had an impotent urge to cover himself. He
couldn’t believe Remus was looking—that anyone would want to look—there.

Then Remus bent again, burying his face between Harry’s cheeks.

“What are you—oh!” Harry cried.

Remus was licking him again—ravenously licking and sucking and biting, his
mouth exploring Harry’s sensitive hole. Harry couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t
even heard of things like this, and he’d never have imagined it could feel so
fantastic. His stomach was in knots as Remus ate him out, making pleased little
snuffling noises the whole time. On the one hand he felt vulnerable and shocked
and even a bit humiliated, but on the other hand, all he wanted was more and
deeper, more of that slick, hot muscle, more of Remus’ hands spreading him
wide, more of Remus growling so that his whole body vibrated with it.

Then suddenly Remus stopped, and Harry cried out, frustrated, begging for more.
He looked up to see Remus staring at him.

“Wh-what?” Harry asked, voice cracking.

Wordlessly, Remus reached down, touching Harry’s face. His fingers came away
wet, and Harry was mortified. He’d been cryingwith pleasure. He’d had no idea
anything on earth could feel that good.

Remus was breathing heavily. “I thought you couldn’t possibly get any
prettier,” he rasped. “But you’re breathtaking this way, tears shimmering in
your eyes.”

Harry hastily wiped his face with the back of his hand. “I thought you
were—when are you going to—?”

“Fuck you? Very soon. But first . . . I thought you wanted me to show you what
this did?” Remus held something up, and Harry squinted at it. It was some sort
of silver thing. It occurred to him that he must have lost his glasses. Yes,
there they were, on the floor. When had that happened?

“What is that?”

“The marital aid.”

“Oh, that thing?” Harry’d forgot about it completely. “Well, yeah, but I’d
rather . . . I’d rather see . . . you know.”

“You will.” But then Remus leaned over and, without hesitation, slipped the
silver thing right into Harry’s body.

Harry yelped; the thing was so cold! But then abruptly it was warm—warm and
pulsing and wet, and the ball of heat that had been building in Harry’s stomach
was growing again.

Now Remus was smiling benevolently over him, nodding encouragement. “Tell me
how much you like that,” he urged.

“It feels—it’s good—oh, God,” Harry breathed. The thing was moving inside him,
shuddering and nudging up against this spot, and Harry was starting to quake
too, it felt so sexy and good. Harry buried his face in his arms, aware that he
was starting to cry again, but he couldn’t seem to stop. He felt so wonderful
and so excited that it was almost like pain, it was so intense.

Remus was working the thing in and out of him now, slipping the bullet almost
all the way out, then ramming it back in. Harry rocked in time, moaning, trying
to push back and get more, because it just wasn’t enough.

Then Remus stopped, and Harry looked back to see him undoing buttons, taking
his prick out. It was large and stiff, and even as Harry stared at it, a pearl
of come formed in the slit, then spilled over, dribbling down the length of
Remus’ cock.

Harry couldn’t take his eyes away. The thing was just enormous, and it jutted
out so aggressively. “Can—can I touch it?” he asked.

Remus looked surprised. He nodded, eyes gleaming. “Touch me.” Harry reached
out, and Remus allowed him to explore his rigid cock, running his fingers
lightly up and down the shaft. It was a lot warmer than Harry expected it to
be, and every movement of Harry’s hand seemed to trigger another bubble of pre-
come. He wondered what it would taste like.

“Are you ready?” Remus grunted. “Because it’soh so ready for you.”

Harry looked up at Remus, then down to his eager prick, then up again. He
didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to think. Remus reached down
again, giving that thing a nudge with one finger, making it vibrate in Harry’s
body, sending delicious pings of pleasure through him. Harry moaned in ecstasy,
but the sound came out more like a mewl.

He ran the tip of his finger over Remus’ prick, swirling it through the
slippery come. Looking up at Remus shyly, he popped the finger in his mouth.
Remus’ eyes flew open wide. “Hmmm. Kind of salty,” Harry said after a moment.

Remus pulled the marital aid out and tossed it aside.

                                    oOoOoOo


Remus blinked as the silver bullet clinked to the floor, rolling off under his
desk. Oh, dear God. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t known what he was doing—he
had—but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. And now here he was, assaulting a
student. He was half-naked and fully aroused, with little Harry Potter
contorted in front of him, bent nearly double, his little pucker twitching
invitingly.

“Remus?” the boy said.

Remus started. “I . . . Harry, I—”

“Don’t you want it?” Harry looked so hurt and confused. “Don’t you want to fuck
me? Please fuck me, Remus.”

Well, he was damned either way, and it wasn’t as though Harry knew the marital
aid was the reason Remus had molested him, nor that Remus had regained his
faculties. He might as well enjoy this. Still, he knew he shouldn’t. He really
shouldn’t. Harry was so helpless and sweet and . . .

Then Harry reached back with both hands, the impish little gymnast, and pulled
his cheeks apart. He fluttered his eyelashes, looking like the neediest
creature Remus had ever seen. “Please?” he begged.

Remus groaned. He pushed Harry’s face to the floor again, holding him in place
as he mounted the boy. Remus thrust, plunging as deeply into Harry as he could,
moaning with pleasure as Harry whimpered. “S-sorry,” Remus gulped, but already
his hips were pumping, building a rhythm despite himself.

Harry managed to grunt an acknowledgment, though Remus barely heard him.

Remus bent low over Harry’s back, brushing his fringe back from his face. A few
more tears had leaked out, and Remus kissed them away. “You’re only making me
want to be rougher with you,” he pointed out. “I can’t help it. You’re so—very
sexy—like that.”

Harry’s mouth crooked at the corner. “Really? Really really?”

“Yes.” He grasped Harry’s hips. “Harry—Harry, I can’t—I need—”

Harry shuddered, smiling a little. “I like it when you can’t help it,” he
whispered.

Remus lost control. He pinned Harry down, holding his shoulders, fucking him
wildly, hips pistoning as he impaled the boy. He loved the sounds Harry was
making—squeaky little whimpers and sharp gasps. “You don’t want it gentle, do
you?” he murmured in Harry’s ear. “You just want to be fucked. Say it for me,
Harry.”

“I—want—fuck,” Harry gasped. Harry was struggling to brace himself, hands
planted on the floor, his fingers twitching with each of Remus’ thrusts.

“Say it. Say it and I’ll let you come,” Remus growled.

“Please—please—fuck me,” Harry cried.

Remus pounded him, using the boy ferociously, teeth clenched as he tried not to
come. Harry was so tight. Finally he reached around, fingers searching out
Harry’s stiff cock. He tugged on it, felt Harry arch beneath him.

“Oh, Remus, God!” Harry yelped. Remus felt hot semen spurt over his fingers. He
continued to thrust as he milked the boy.

Now Harry was sobbing openly, his breath hitching, his orgasm just too much. He
tried to get some kind of control, clenching his teeth and trying to hold back
the tears. It was just too much for Remus. He let go of Harry’s softening cock,
instead shifting to hold Harry’s waist. It wasn’t much of a grip—his fingers
were still slippery with come—but Harry was still utterly pliant, arse high in
the air, folded over at the hips, legs parted, face obediently touching the
floor.

Remus knew, though, that he would have to finish soon; each slam of his hips
forced a tremulous cry from Harry’s mouth.

He bent to cover Harry’s mouth with his own, kissing him roughly. Harry
dutifully opened his mouth, letting Remus entice his tongue out into the open.
Their tongues rolled and twisted across each other and Remus felt his gut begin
to tighten. Harry gave a soft moan, then sucked on Remus’ tongue.

Remus shuddered and pulled away as he felt the throb and spasm of climax. Harry
whimpered again, but Remus held him still, flush against him, feeling the boy’s
body contract around his prick as Remus’ ejaculate spurted into him.

Harry waited, still whimpering softly, but he was patient as Remus rocked
against him, letting Harry’s body draw the last of the come from him.

Finally Remus let out a long, shaky breath and pulled out, one hand still on
Harry’s back, warning him not to move. He watched his seed leaking from Harry’s
hole, and couldn’t resist leaning down to lap at it.

This sent a fresh tremor through the boy, and when Remus sat back, satisfied,
he saw that more tears had leaked out. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, reaching out
to smooth Harry’s sweaty fringe out of his face. “You can move now.”

Harry stretched, muscles obviously cramped from being held down and used. He
saw Remus looking at him, concerned, and managed a watery little smile. “I’m
okay.”

“Are you sure?”

Now Harry looked indignant. “I’m tough, me. Sex can’t hurt me. I’m not a
pansy.” He looked away, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Anyway, it
didn’t much hurt. I liked it.”

Remus could see reddish marks where he’d been holding the boy with particular
force. There would probably be bruises from his fingers. The poor little scamp.
Remus sighed. Harry deserved better on every level.

Harry saw Remus staring at him and shrugged a little. “All right, so I liked
most of it,” he allowed. “It’s okay if it got a little rough at the end. Did
you—did you like it?”

Smiling, Remus opened his arms in invitation, and Harry crawled into his lap.
Remus kissed the boy’s head. “Thank you,” he muttered against the dark hair. “I
loved it. That was the most wonderful thing I’ve ever felt.” If nothing else,
Harry deserved to know that.

The boy twisted to look up at him, beaming. “I could tell,” he said smugly. He
reached up, touching Remus’ face adoringly. “You like me,” he added, just a
hint of question in his voice.

“Mmm. I think you’re the most incredible creature I’ve ever met.” Remus assured
him. “You did everything right. You’re such a good boy,” he crooned.

Basking in the praise, Harry leant back against Remus’ chest, nuzzling Remus’
neck in a seductive sort of way. “Someone told me sex was good exercise,” he
suggested.

“So I’ve heard,” Remus said dryly. He ran a contemplative finger down the back
of Harry’s neck, raising goosebumps. “We should clean up and get dressed.”

“Right,” Harry agreed. He allowed Remus to put a cleaning spell on him first,
then went to gather his clothes.

By the time Remus had finished pulling his robes on, Harry was frowning at his
glasses. “Oops,” Harry said. One arm dangled from the frame.

Remus took them, quickly casting a spell to make them right. If only he could
make what had just happened right. “I’m sorry about that. Harry, I’m very
sorry—” he choked, but Harry interrupted.

“You really needed it,” Harry pointed out. “I could tell you really needed it,”
he added with a grin. “I bet if you did it more often, it wouldn’t build up
until you sort of lost it and got rough.”

Remus opened his mouth, but couldn’t seem to find the right words. Was the boy
angling for future encounters? What a cheeky devil!

“You need to do it more regularly,” Harry said casually. He yawned and
stretched. “Anyway, I need a nap.” He walked away, but paused when he reached
the classroom door. “By the way,” he said, “next weekend’s a Hogsmeade weekend.
I won’t be going—because of the permission hang up.” He looked over his
shoulder. “So I’ll be around. You know. If you need anything.” Harry gave Remus
an impish wink.

A Hogsmeade weekend. A good portion of the students would be gone, and some of
the teachers, as well. He could take Harry back to his room, even. He could
think of it as keeping the boy out of trouble. Other trouble, anyway. “I’ll
keep that in mind,” Remus said in a strangled voice.

And then the boy was gone.

He could definitely find ways to be with Harry, but it was very risky. If
Dumbledore found out, or someone like Snape . . . well, Remus was good at
keeping secrets. He’d just add this one to the store.

Thinking things over, Remus adjusted his collar and went to prepare for the
next classes’ lesson. So Harry thought he was doing the man a favour, did he?
That it was all perfectly fine because it was good for one’s health? Remus
began to scribble on the blackboard, still musing. He shouldn’t. He really
shouldn’t. He should resign this minute. He was a terrible person.

On the other hand, he was the only one who really knew Sirius Black and might
be able to stop him from harming Harry. It was the whole reason he’d accepted
the post. He shouldn’t abandon the boy just because he couldn’t keep on top of
his carnal urges.

Anyway, at least the boy had liked it. That didn’t mean Remus would ever do it
again. He could control himself. And Harry would just have to learn to do the
same.

Remembering Harry’s pert red bum, Remus couldn’t help but smile. In truth, it
probably wasgood for his health. One of those a day would certainly keep the
doctor away.

Still, he wouldn’t take advantage of Harry again. If Harry approached him
again, he’d simply say no.

Probably.

                                    oOoOoOo


Draco got to Defense Against the Dark Arts early the next day, pleased to have
Severus Snape teaching it. “Good morning, sir,” he said, wandering over to the
teacher’s desk and setting a shiny red apple on it.

Snape was busy erasing the blackboard, though he spared the apple—and Draco—an
amused look.

“Anything I can help with, sir?” Draco asked.

Snape sighed in irritation. “You could assist in neatening things. That
slovenly we—that slovenly Lupin left things in a disarray, as usual.”

“Sure,” Draco said. He began pushing the chairs in, surreptitiously watching
the professor as he did so. He’d come in early just so he’d have time alone
with Professor Snape. Sure, it might be kind of weird to have a crush on a
teacher like Snape, but Draco didn’t care. The man was sexy in a passionate,
sultry sort of way. And he liked Draco too, Draco was certain of it. He was
Severus’ pet, and everyone knew it.

“While we work, I’ll quiz you; what is another name for devil’s turnip?”
Severus asked.

“Bryony,” Draco answered promptly.

“Clever boy,” Severus remarked.

Draco beamed. “I have a good teacher.” To hear Severus’ dark, delicious voice
say honeyed words . . . it always gave him the shivers. And Severus never said
such things to anyone else. It made Draco feel favoured, special and wanted.

Once the chairs were in order, Draco used a sweeping spell to clean the floor.
As he worked the spell around the room, something rolled out from under the
professor’s desk. “Why is it we only ever talk about potions and poisons?”
Draco asked as he bent to retrieve the thing.

“I’m your Potions professor. What would you have me talk about?”

“I don’t know. Cloudless climes and starry skies?” Draco suggested. He frowned,
looking at the thing on the floor. How odd. The thing was a small, sort of
cylindrical bit of metal. “Weird,” he said, using a handkerchief to pick it up.
God only knew what sort of nasty things Lupin kept under his desk.

“What is it?” Snape asked, coming to stand beside him.

“I found this under Lupin’s desk. Here,” Draco said.

Snape held out his hand and the metal glinted as it fell, end-over-end, landing
on his palm. “Well, well, well . . .”

“What is that thing?” Draco asked.

Snape’s long fingers closed around the thing, and he smiled, quick and
snakelike, his black eyes suddenly blazing. “It’s a magical object.”

“It is? Are you—are you all right? You look . . . different. Should I do
something?”

Snape was looking at him oddly, sort of hungry and intent, and Draco felt his
stomach squirm in a warm, excited way. “I’m fine, but there issomething you
could do to help.”

Reaching out, Snape traced Draco’s wrist with his free hand. Draco thought he’d
never felt anything as erotic as Snape’s fingers against his pulse point. “What
is it? I’ll do anything. What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“Let me show you,” Severus purred, and gestured Draco forward. “Come.”

Draco came.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
m,
and she sucked down.
This was what she lived for. The dominance, the raw undiluted power. It wasn't
about pleasing him, it never had been. This was about taking him, claiming him,
making him hers. To torture, to use, to touch, to please or deprive. To play
with. He belonged to her, and she...
She would mark him...make him fall apart to her...
Part of her wanted to keep teasing his ass, just to make him come sooner, just
to claim him as quick and brutally as possible. But she was hungry. Raping him
had gotten her achingly, overwhelmingly, pathetically aroused, and she couldn't
pass it up. She had to touch herself.
He went limp with relief when one hand released him, but that didn't matter.
Plenty of time to tear him apart once she was satisfied. Her teasing became
less focused, absentminded, as she clawed her free hand up under her skirt,
shifting to find a good position. Then she pushed her fingers in, clenching
hard at how good it felt, and moaned, loud, obscene. Already breathing hard and
shuddering with the pleasure, she rocked forward into her own fingers.
Sucking on him made her more inflamed, serving the dual purpose of keeping
herself quiet, and she devoured him, pushing one knee up onto the table so she
could open herself further. That small shift was the final piece, opening
herself to be stroked deep and hard, making her moan in the back of her throat
like a bitch in heat. It didn't take long. Was actually surprising she managed
to hold herself together for as long as she did.
God...Oh god...Oh god, yes...
The walls of her cunt closed in around her fingers, sucking down greedily.
Burning alive with the pleasure, she released, slick gushing against her hand.
A moment of bliss that went on forever, consuming her alive.
Now. Time to finish off Percival...
Without bothering to get settled again, or pull her undergarments back up, she
wrapped her hand back around his cock. Using her leftover fluids to pleasure
him fast and hard. He buckled over when he was close, and she impetuously
locked her mouth around his dick, not knowing why she wanted this.
Laughable really, how easy it had been to force him over the edge...He came,
hard and shuddering. And she accepted him into her mouth, letting him use her,
but she didn't swallow. That was beneath her. As soon as it was over he
immediately went limp, shaking and uncontrollably sobbing. Disgusting. How
quickly and thoroughly he'd become utterly spent. She'd have to make him work
harder in the future.
But for now, it was enough. He'd been a good boy after all, he'd worked hard,
he deserved some rest.
Pushing up into his face, she captured him for a kiss, slow and (on her end at
least) still charged with pent up desire. He gaged when she pushed his own
spend into his mouth, unwilling to accept it. But she bit down hard and
menacing on his lip, a silent threat tostay obedient, and he swallowed.
Ruffling his hair, she climbed up onto the table, and detached the chain that
had held him, from the ring from which it had dangled. As soon as he was
released, he tumbled forward too weak to hold himself, but she'd been ready to
support his weight.
Carrying most of his weight, she half guided, half dragged him, off the table.
When they reached her couch, she let him collapse onto the cushions, and he
drifted into uncontioustess almost as soon as he was laid out. Poor lad, he
really had been driven to the limit after nearly five days without sleep. It
was adorable, watching how quickly he succumbed to sleep now, leaving the
morning, and all its cares until it came. He was so out of it already, he
probably wouldn't have noticed if she treated herself to a final round of
playtime...but she could wait for now.
She bent down and secured his chain to the couch, just a precaution, and not
much more. There was no way for him to escape, even if he could wriggle out of
his tether, and she'd take the precaution of keeping her toys out of convenient
reach. When she'd finally moved even her knitting needles to a safe distance,
she settled on the rug, back to the fire, and watched him sleep. He was still
naked of course, and she couldn't help admiring the nudity of him in the
firelight. She imagined he wouldn't look any worse with a little age, and some
more muscle.
Quite a fetching boy really...
Chapter End Notes
     Also, going back through the old stuff to change Percy's nickname
     from Dear to Love. Dear is one of the things Vex calls him, and I
     don't want to ruin that.
***** Keeps the Doctor Away *****
After nearly five days, exhaustion was to be expected. But it was still an
achingly long time before he woke up. Quite enough to get her itchy, impatient,
obsessively planning to keep herself entertained. He was like a dead man
stretched out on her couch, limp and totally devoid of life, as responsive as a
vegetable. That was fine, he would still be hazy, still be...compliant...It was
her own impatience that irritated her, as if she was weak enough to hang on his
presence.
But though she might not be willing to admit it, she could sense him the moment
he woke up. She had her back to him, but there was no need to see. She knew.
Like something was connected, from her to him, and she could feel everything.
It was an electric feeling, knowing that he was awake, and somehow knowing that
he was watching her. Not that he stretched and yawned, or broadly advertised
his returning consciousness. He'd regained enough intelligence to try and seize
some few moments of unobserved freedom. She would have been truly disappointed
if he had denied her this display of clever spying behind her back, crestfallen
that he proved to be more boring than she'd hoped after all.
And she had to admit, the sham was very clever. No change in position, no hitch
in breathing, or variance of tempo, no subtle stiffness to the body. To all
outward observation, he seemed to be asleep. And yet somehow, she still knew,
with absolute certainty, with a warm tingle of eyes trained on her back.
How she knew, was a mystery that intrigued and disgusted her in equal measures.
Because she ought to be above such a human connection, ought to be aloof from
it. Untouchable. But she wasn't. And it was fascinating.
"Good morning," she said cheerfully. But even as she used the sprightly tone,
she felt a tug of falseness to it, because she didn't want the moment to end
and almost let the regret slip into her voice. "I hope you had a good rest, it
certainly seemed like you did. You've been asleep for hours love."
She could feel him shrink as soon as she spoke. The momentary resistance of
watching her was gone, replaced by contrite submission when she caught him
doing it. She could feel it in her spine, with the same certainty that had
warned her of his lucidity, as if his compliance was something that she could
breathe out of the air. And the power of it, the immediate thrill of control,
was almost enough to make her shiver.
Rising from her seat in front of the fire, she retrieved a small bag from the
corner near the door, where she had already folded her greatcoat and shed her
riding boots. At last she turned to look at him, drawing a loaf of bread, water
skin, and two battered tin cups out of her bag. Sitting curled up and tense at
one end of the couch, he looked so young, so vulnerable, it sent a ruffle of
predatory fondness through her skin.
"Feeling hungry?"
The flicker that question sparked in his eyes, was something he couldn't hope
to conceal from her, and a smug warmth settled in the pit of her stomach.
Again, she'd known, she'd felt it. Like a compass needle that invariably
pointed north.
"Get down," she commanded impetuously, not knowing where the instinct came
from, but giving into it none the less. "Get down, and sit on the rug."
He obeyed the order with endearing eagerness, sliding off to sit on the rug.
Smiling, she crossed the room, and easily stepped over the back of the couch,
to settle in the newly vacated seat with her legs tucked underneath her. After
getting comfortable, she reached out to pull him closer to her, smiling when he
flinched away instinctively.
"Come here love, let me touch you."
There was marked hesitance. But he came close enough for her to touch his
shoulder, and she drew him close until he was seated right at her feet. With a
press of her finger, she tilted his chin up, so that his face was looking
directly up into hers. He was unable to look away from her without fighting
back against the gentle guidance of her fingers, and fear began to twist his
face as he was laid out bare in front of her.
Fear was not her intent at the moment however, and the press of it against her,
because of her, was silently ignored. Ripping a piece of bread off the loaf in
her lap, she pressed it against his lips. When he didn't accept it, she
frowned, and pressed fingers into his cheeks, forcing his mouth open.
Once he had the bread in his mouth, he couldn't pretend to refuse anymore.
Immediately, he began to chew, eyes becoming glazed. Lost to everything but the
food in his mouth. But she didn't mind, it was adorable in fact, watching him
so thoroughly enjoy such a simple thing. She'd known this would be
entertaining, and was determined to take her time with it, just like he was.
When she offered him another torn piece of bread, he didn't hesitate, and he
savored it again.
She offered him water next, and this time he was dangerously eager. Over the
last few days she hadn't given him more than what was just necessary, enough to
keep him alive, but not nearly enough to keep him satisfied. It would have been
unwise to let him drink too much, too quickly, and she pulled the water away
when he tried to force it.
"Be patient, boy. You'll drink when I say you can." She snapped, giving his
hair a sharp tug as she spoke, and he relented, still watching the coveted
water restlessly.
Now that he'd tasted the water, his appreciation of the food was dulled, and he
ate more quickly this time. Still, she made him eat two more pieces of bread
before she let him drink again. Allowing him the water at last, she held the
cup and let him drink. He closed his eyes as he did, and it was intensely
satisfying, knowing that something he savored so much had come from her. Was
directly owed to her.
That was all she did, for nearly an hour. Not much in the actions themselves,
just him kneeling in front of her on the carpet while she fed him, but it
wasn't about what she was doing, it was what she was enforcing. He was
completely dependent on her. He would eat when she wanted, drink when she
wanted, and starve when she chose to make him. This wasn't even about the food,
that was just her tool, chosen to carry the message, this was about dominance.
This was about ownership.
Finally the bread was all gone, the water was all drunk, and the message was
carved bone deep. His eyes were misted again. With satisfaction from the new
sustenance of course, but also with blind submission. She would do whatever she
liked with him, and she could tell that their little supper together had
subverted his resistance; He was no longer in control, and no longer fighting
against the fact. Whatever she did, he wouldn't raise a finger. Because he knew
it would do nothing in the end. She owned him, and now he knew it.
"Feel better now?" She asked when the bread was gone, tossing the empty bottle
aside, without watching to see where it fell. "Had a good meal?"
Opening his mouth to speak, he couldn't form the words. She could see him
searching, trying to call up something like a voice, something human. But he
couldn't find what he was searching for and at last, realizing he had yet to
answer her question, he resorted to a small nod. As if he was afraid that the
vague answer would make her angry.
But the answer didn't displease her. It was, in truth, exactly what she wanted,
and pleased her far more than he could understand. She'd silenced him. A small
but powerful little victory, taking his words, his self expression, from him.
Not that he understood that. He was too confused, too disoriented, too fuzzy to
understand. It didn't matter to him, not like it did to her, the significance
was beyond him.
"Good boy, I'm glad you liked it..." She praised, bending closer so she could
pet her fingers through his hair again, enjoying the feeling even though he was
stiff with sweat and dirt. "It makes me happy to know that you enjoyed my
little gift, but you'll have to pay for it, love. Do you understand that?"
Another small nod, but she knew he understood. She could see it in him. He'd
understood before she even told him, the entire time he was eating, and before
that even. Quite a smart boy indeed. She never did get tired of testing the
edges of his comprehension, even now, when he wasn't thinking anymore.
"You've had your gift, now come and pay me for it."
He shrank a little at that, but the submission was still there. The knowledge
that she would take what she wanted anyway, still keeping him compliant,
keeping him tame. All that time she'd spent feeding him by hand, had made a
deeper impact than she'd expected.
Running a hand through his hair, she settled it at the back of his skull, and
gently pulled until his legs were pressed against the couch, and he was
kneeling over her. She forgot him for a moment, busy shifting herself until her
skirt was pulled up, and she tugged off her undergarments, shivering as air met
her skin. At last fully unclothed, she relaxed, letting her legs fall apart,
and spread herself open underneath him.
He knew what she was doing of course. Of course he knew. Just like she'd known,
so did he, and his eyes were growing dark again. Pupils dilated, as he began
once more to shiver uncontrollably. A flinch passed through him when she
scratched her fingernails against his scalp, and she pulled him even closer,
until she could feel the soft skin of his ear against her lips again.
"I know you understand love, it's all part of the rules." She said, breathing
the words into his ear, and smiling when he shivered from the rush of her
breath on his skin. "Now, do something productive, and make me feel good."
She pushed him, her hands against his head pressing him downwards. The prompt
was met with resistance, but nothing more than slight surface tension, and he
relented. Still submitting, despite the hesitance. It wasn't enough to worry
her, and was immediately forgotten as he sank lower, his fearful breathing hot
against her stomach, and then her pelvis.
Then he was finally settled where she wanted him, kneeling with his head
between her legs, and his breath was so close, she couldn't concentrate on
anything else.
It wasn't much more than breath, but she was already eager. Achingly ready.
Shameful really, how easily she became aroused, but at the moment she couldn't
bring herself to care. She felt too good to let go now, and was already
starving for more, her patience fraying when he didn't give her what she
wanted.
Again, she scratched at his scalp, but it was vicious this time, frustrated. He
wasn't pleasing her. Not enough, not the way she wanted. Just a silent message,
but enough for him to understand, and he caved into her, pressing closer.
His submission to her wishes still wasn't what she wanted, only the faintest
touching. Lips pressing down in a shrinking kiss against the ache she wanted
him to appease. But it was a fevered frustration now, an irritated
inflammation. A chase, pursuing what she wanted, and not quite getting it. He
wasn't trying, she was barely coaxing him into this in the first place, but his
clumsiness was getting her off. Just on the so right side of unsatisfactory,
unrewarding, infuriating. Frustrating as hell, but she throbbed with it anyway.
Impatience was getting the better of her after all, and she couldn't let him
string her out anymore, she needed satisfaction. The longer this little
experiment went on, the harder it got to keep civil, and she had to bite down
hard on her lower lip to keep herself from moaning with pleasure. Gripping
tighter, she clawed her hand deeper into his hair and forced him down onto her,
grinding hard and savage against his face. It was sweet relief, bringing him
into her, a release from the tension, and a small shuddering breath slipped
through her best efforts, hanging like steam on the still air.
A sharp tug on his hair, and another demanding roll of her hips, goaded him
back into action. The pressure of his lips vanished, as he opened his mouth,
and allowed her to feel him directly. It was still so maddeningly
uncoordinated, no direction, no purpose, just blindly following her lead. But
now she could feel his panicky breathing, the warm slide of saliva painted
across her skin, and then the awkward halfhearted swirl of his tongue against
her clit when she crushed into him.
Her body recognized what happened next before her brain did. As distracted as
she was, as far as she'd let herself go, as clouded as her judgement had
become, she was totally blind, and it was only the instinctive reflexes of her
body that saved her. She felt a heave, and before her finer perception could
catch up, she kicked his face away with her foot. With both hands tied behind
his back, he had no way to break his fall, landing hard on the carpet.
Where he curled over onto his side, and vomited.
Two half measures of numb silence were needed before balance was regained.
Sitting frozen above him, panting hard, and still aching deep inside her cunt,
she needed a moment to get the focus back. Touching her had so physically
sickened him, he actually retched all over her carpet...
What a naughty. Naughty. Boy.
Anger followed immediately behind the disbelief. The white hot indignation, and
righteous fury, of being bitten by a mad dog. Mingled in with the disgust and
revulsion of accidentally stepping ankle deep into a horse's shit. It was the
most insulting thing she'd ever felt, blooming upward from the inside like a
poisonous fume, her carnal interests withering as soon as it stirred.
No words could express the offense. Once she finally understood what he'd done,
she surged from her seat on the couch and kicked him vengefully, driving hard
against his face and planting another in his stomach. He instinctively curled
up to protect himself, and she descended on his back, raking fingernails hard
across the scarred and tender skin. Latching fingers into his hair, she dragged
his head up, bringing it back so she could speak into his ear.
"That." She growled fiercely, digging her fingers cruelly into his scalp. "Was
an extremely rude thing to do. You disrespectful, whore."
He whimpered at her words, squirming uselessly underneath her, and straining
his head back to try and relieve the tension of her hand in his hair. But it
wasn't enough to satisfy her now, the pleading, and whining, and pathetic
begging. She was sick of it, and sick of him, and it infuriated her to see him
sobbing now.
"You've been a very bad Boy." And she yanked his hair as she said it, taking
triumph in his cry of pain when she did. "After everything I did to train you.
You still get your disgusting shit all over my floor."
"I'm sorry--" He began, regaining the voice she'd stripped from him,
But she didn't give him time to finish. She didn't want the useless apologies
anyway. Instead of pulling his head back, she smashed it down, bringing his
face down into stained carpet.
"Eat it!" She snarled, settling all her weight over him, and rubbing his face
into the vomit.
He coughed and gagged, trying to weaken her strength, but she held him down,
letting him smother. Planting one knee on his shoulders to keep her grip, she
let go with one hand, clawing it into the carpet. The filth of it didn't
matter, she was too angry to care about how dirty it was, touching his freshly
eaten bread and stomach bile. She wanted him to feel this, she wanted him to
take it, take everything she could do to him.
"Eat it," she commanded again, gathering what she could, and force-feeding it
into his mouth while he jerked and struggled underneath her like a dying fish.
"Eat it, like the slutty little bitch you are."
Finally she let him go, rising, and leaving him limp. Still dry heaving into
the carpet. But it wasn't enough, wasn't enough to assuage, wasn't enough to
appease. He hadn't taken enough yet. When she unchained him from the couch, and
hauled him toward the table he began to struggle again. Violently.
Of course he did. He knew what was coming. Still such an irritatingly smart
boy, of course he knew. He was nothing if not a quick learner at least, he
didn't have to be told, and he fought against it hard. But the brains couldn't
save him, and woman as she was, she was still stronger than him. After days of
blood loss, sleep deprivation, almost no food, just barely enough water, and
what she'd made him submit to already. It was pathetic really, how little he
could fight back.
Weak. So fucking weak.
 
***** A Sickening Patient is the Doctor's Cure *****
It only took an hour, to break him in again. He was already weak. Just an hour
to grind him back down, and make him submit. Could have been sooner, perhaps.
But he was high on the adrenaline of blind rebellion, resisting while he could.
And the food, or more importantly sleep, much as it had subverted him at first,
offered fuel when he chose to refuse her ownership.
It itched, having him fight her. Like an open sore that she couldn't stop
scratching. He belonged to her, and having him resist was a prickling
irritation. She had to have him, had to bend him, like a stubborn metal that
didn't want to work in her favor. It took all her training, all her practice,
to keep the needle sharp focus, to keep the tailored oppression intact.
But she knew when he cracked. He stopped talking, stopped fighting, and she
could smell the chinks in his armor. The words were first to go, just like they
were the first thing he regained. After that was the physical resistance, he
stopped returning attacks, biting, kicking when he thought she wasn't on guard,
and then finally stopped trying to lessen pain or cushion impacts.
When he couldn't talk anymore, he looked all the same, eyes trained on her
every move. And here at last, was the final defense, the last cracked trembling
barrier she'd missed. His intelligence. Taking refuge in what he could read of
her, in the game of pleasing her while sheltering himself, finding the right
thing to make her happy.
That was unacceptable.
He would never truly submit, until she broke him. Took that lovely brain she
admired so much, and enslaved it. Made it cling to her approval. In the end, it
would be easy, and for her, considerably more pleasant to inflict. He was at
the end, where he was just barely clinging...
That was when she raped him again.
Touching was the final nail in his resistance. She knew. Bone deep, she knew
it. She had to make him feel like she could crush him with a finger. And she
took her time to make it humiliating. No more talking to him, let his own mind
supply the dirty whispers, the guilt. He'd take himself apart trying to resist,
and then she'd finish him when he was ready. It was like watching a flower
wilt, seeing him crumble, slowly fading.
He slipped into a cottony daze, and his last line of resistance, the eyes,
became glazed and submissive. She ordered him to rub against her hands, while
she teased him, and he did. She ordered him to let her drool in his mouth and
he did. She ordered him to say her name and he did. She ordered him to come,
and she praised him when he did.
After that she had to let him rest for a bit. Let him sit with her on the
couch, hang his head against her shoulder, and trailed her fingers over his
bound arms while she waited. At last she sighed and straightened, running
fingers up to his face against her shoulder, and pushing two fingers into his
mouth. When she crooked her fingers, and pressed down against his tongue, he
obediently sucked, and she shivered appreciatively when she felt the scarred
line she'd left across the surface. She'd claimed him here too.
"Come here love." She murmured, even though they were already almost sharing
the same seat.
With her free hand, and rolling her shoulders, she managed to unbutton, and let
down the top of her shirt. Using the fingers she still had in his mouth, she
pulled him down to her exposed breasts. His breath against them made her
shiver, raising sandpaper bumps across her arms, and she let him hang for a
moment just to enjoy the tingle of it. Finally though, she grew impatient
again, and pressed her fingers up against the roof of his mouth, coaxing him
open, and sliding the fingers into his hair.
She pushed his head, and he obeyed, his mouth wrapping around one of her
breasts. The nipples were already hard, just from his breathing, and the warmth
of him sucking kindled a coil of warmth in her gut. Arching her back, she gave
in a little, biting her lip at the wave of pleasure even the slight movement
sent down to her center.
His tongue, boiling hot, and scarred across the center, passed over her nipple.
And he pulled it between his lips before he switch to the other side, painting
the other breast with saliva. She was already getting wet, the now familiar
slide soaking into her clothing, and she pressed herself down against the couch
cushion to stimulate herself further. The contact of his tongue broke away when
she moved, like following an invisible cue, and she immediately hooked a finger
in his mouth again.
"Get down..."
Uncurling her legs, she nudged him off the couch with a foot, and pulled him to
a kneeling position at her feet with the finger she had in his mouth.
"Now," she purred, opening her legs again, and settling in front of him. "We're
going to try this again, and see if you can behave this time."
Again she guided him with the finger, pulling him within inches of her, then
running the wet finger over his cheek, leaving it shiny. When her finger
drifted away from his cheek, he shifted forward, following where he'd rebelled
against her last time. Still hesitant, but it was the newness that frightened
him now, the possibility of displeasing her in some way. He was submissive this
time, though struggling in unfamiliar territory.
But she was more accustomed to the feeling of his breath this time. Didn't fall
as hard, or as fast, still able to keep her composure, take the time to wind
herself up. When he moved, she stopped him with the finger on his lips, willing
to deny herself a little. She didn't want him yet. Soon, but not quite yet.
"Kiss," she said, pulling his head into her thigh near the base, "right there."
Obediently he pressed his lips against the tender skin, so close to where she
was already longing for him, and she growled when it wasn't enough. The lust
that was burning between her legs demanded more, a cry for satisfaction that
went unanswered, and she almost caved right there. She nudged at his head, he
switched to the other leg, his breath ghosting across her cunt as he moved, and
she shuddered with an involuntary spasm of warmth through her center. Gods yes,
that was what she needed.
When she finally, finally, guided his mouth to her cunt, it was fire,
sweetness, and exquisite solace. She had to hear herself, she couldn't help it,
and moaned wordlessly. The hand she had in his hair reached down to grip the
cushions underneath her, and she chased for more with her hips, pressing up
against his mouth. And when the kiss became a long sucking sensation, she could
have climaxed right then and there from the heady feeling of so much control,
so much unrivaled power. But she couldn't let it be over yet, she had to feel
more.
"Open your mouth," she demanded breathlessly, clamping a hand in his hair
again, and grinding him down. "Use your tongue."
It made her lightheaded when he did it...a long stroke of his tongue against
her already swollen clit, driving her up again, back to the edge where she
could push herself over. Still wasn't enough though, she still needed more, and
silently demanded another with a buck of her hips. He obeyed, as pliant as
she'd made him, as strong as her control was becoming, of course he obeyed. He
sank into her, and she keened breathlessly, reveling in the feast of depraved
sensations.
Nothing registered but that for a while. Just the mind numbing pleasure. The
luscious distraction from logic, from higher reasoning, giving in to base
animal instincts. He really was doing a wonderful job of making her forgetful,
and she drank it in, drank all of it in. Relishing every stroke of his tongue,
every curl, every press, every pull and faint suck. As he obediently teased her
clit, and pleasured her constantly with his tongue.
She still needed more.
By this time her cunt was burning with greed, with white hot desire, with
aching longing. Demanding more, demanding him. Demanding fingers. At every pass
of his tongue, she could almost feel the mirroring press of a hand. She could
almost imagine his stroking, his hot rubbing, deep inside, and the fantasy
kindled an itching burn. A flare accompanying every caress he laid on her clit,
until it was driving her mad with the craving.
"I need fingers, love." She gasped shakily, breath hitching with the roll of
his scarred tongue across her where she was almost painfully sensitive.
But he didn't know what she wanted. She could see that. He didn't have enough
experience, and paused for half an instant, glancing up at her fearfully.
Afraid to anger her with delay, but equally fearful of offending her by
admitting his ignorance. It sent a spike of misery through her gut, being
deprived of her stimulation, and she whined with the loss. But as much as she
was enjoying his tongue, she needed more right now, and if she wanted it she'd
have to teach him.
"Stop, come here, come up here with me."
Even as she spoke, she dragged him to her, until he was sitting up on his
knees, and leaning against her for support. Pulling him closer, she reached
down, until she found his ass, and paused to smooth a hand over him, enjoying
the sensation.
"I'll tell you what to do," she whispered hot against his ear. "I'm going to
show you where I want your fingers, and you're going to touch me, like I'm
about to show you. Understand?"
He nodded against her shoulder, she finally found what she was searching for,
and pressed two fingers inside him. He whimpered and shuddered against her,
flinching away from her stroking, even though he couldn't escape. It made her
giddy with the power again, and part of her was on the edge of suddenly
changing directions completely. She could almost have taken him again. Kneeling
in front of her, with her fingers in his ass, and her own hunger for dominion
sweetening the debauchery of it.
It was tempting, and even though she declined the idea, she couldn't bring
herself to pull her fingers out. Distracted as she was, it took her a few
moments longer to finally locate the keys to his shackles among the others
jumbled in his pocket, and clumsily move to unlock them. Letting him loose was
certainly a risk, after what had happened the last time she let him have even
one hand free. But she'd spent hours training him since then. She knew he would
never resist, in her direct presence. She knew.
Finally he was free, and she immediately dragged his hand down to her cunt,
letting the fingers brush across her clit before sinking lower. "Right here,
put your fingers in." She murmured, drawing him close so she could speak in his
ear.
At her prompting he pushed in, pressing two fingers inside her, where she was
starving, where she was almost begging by now. Wet and softened, ready to yield
and embrace, ready to accept him. She couldn't stop herself from arching her
back, biting painfully on her lower lip, and her cunt clenched down hard and
possessive, sucking him deeper.
She was suddenly on fire, burning alive with his touch buried in her flesh, and
she instinctively ground against him, fucking herself greedily on his fingers.
Words didn't matter, she couldn't have praised him for obeying her anyway, and
she brought her mouth up to capture his in a kiss. Arousal blazed in her mouth
as she sank into him, finding a crack and forcing her way in, moaning against
his lips.
The only things that mattered were the sensations. His body shaking in her
arms, the grip of his hand on her breast, when she guided it to touch her
there. The molten hot slide of her tongue over his, tasting every inch of him,
and tugging on his lower lip. The sinful sound of his fingers buried in her
cunt, and the burn of them moving inside her. And under it all the absolutely
unacceptable noises she was making against his mouth.
She craved more.
"Go back down." And she thrust him away from the kiss, back toward her cunt,
her hips already rising up to meet him. "Use your tongue, touch me more, that's
right, thats--"
Such an obedient boy! As he bent to taste her, to goad her more, torturing with
his tongue. Riding the swell of her own stimulation, her hand found his hair
again, and she ground against his face and hand, thirsting for more.
"Fuck--" she broke off into a keening moan, shuddering and throwing her head
back against the couch. "Yes, yes. There! Right there! That's it, that's it,
touch me there..."
He was stroking her exactly where she itched for it. Where she shuddered and
moaned and lost her voice, flinching with every pass, and still chasing for
more. Sinking in deep, stroking her hard, and coaxing her toward the breaking
point. The broad of his tongue lapped across her, bringing a spike of mind
numbing sensation at every touch, and she couldn't stop herself from squeezing
down around his fingers with every wet stroke of his tongue.
"More." She commanded, even though she was already working hard to keep herself
open, to relax after every swell of pleasure, to suck him deeper, open wider.
To keep herself from clenching down hard and final. "Give me more, don't stop--
"
The maddening rub of his fingers pressed in deeper, his tongue teased down
irresistible on her clit, he crooked his fingers inside her pressing deep
against her cunt, and she came. Climaxing hard and sudden, the noise she made
was one of pure animal arousal. High pitched, and sensual. It was the pinnacle,
an unreachable hight she scaled in an instant, mounting to the peak and hanging
there. She crushed down hard around his fingers, grinding against them, still
riding his fingers through the white hot climax.
It took a moment for her to come down, the world coming back in pieces.
Dropping her head back, she rolled her hips leisurely against his face, still
spasming around the fingers buried inside her. Milking her peak for all it was
worth, and taking time to draw out every last moment through the aftershocks.
Then she finally relaxed, reaching down to pull his fingers out, and drawing
his head up. Unbottoning her shirt completely, she pulled it off and wiped his
face, making sure to take her time and clean him thoroughly. If she made him
take care of her, without ever taking time for him, it would begin to rankle.
His shivered and looked down, his face beginning to work, clearly trying
desperately to hold himself together. And when she saw a tear slither down his
cheek, the dominancedeep inside purred like a kitten.
"Oh, lovey, come here." She murmured softly, voice as gentle and motherlyas she
could make it, and she gathered him into her, letting him rest his head on her
stomach. "Shush now, you did good, it's alright. You did perfect."
She owned him, and the moment she pulled him toward her, he yielded. His arms
wound around her, he hid his face in the skin of her stomach, and he cried.
Like the frightened boy he really was. And she comforted him with a fondness
she didn't have to fake, letting him sniff, letting him take as long as he
liked, just resting. Enjoying silk of his tears against her skin.
***** Healthy Doesn't Mean Healed. *****
Chapter Summary
     Is it super fucked up that I kinda don't want to end this? But
     really, there's only so much Percy can take, or in other words, I'm
     running out of ideas.
It was the sister. Cassandra. She’d helped him escape, little witch! Halted the
work before it was complete, before she was satisfied, before she was finished!
It wasn’t completed yet, and that meddlesome, insidious, foxy little slut had
ruined everything!
A faint ringing in her ears was all that registered at first, the empty cell
before her, and the wrongness of it. They weren’t finished yet. She wasn’t
finished yet. It was a sharp, sharp, burning irritation. The incongruity of it,
the tattered edges. An irritation quickly mounting in rising fury.
"--Hadn't detected it, and they probably used it to escape." the voice of the
man next to her filtered into her brain, speaking over the rise of anger in her
head. "We have the girl of course, one of the archers clipped her in the chest
three times, good man. Silas is with her now, and he wants you to patch her up
when he's finished, they thi--"
She could hardly stand his idiotic babbling, and interrupted him before he
could finish. With a sudden vicious movement, she threw him face first against
the cell bars, then pressed up against his back, twisting one of his arms back
painfully. He gave a surprised exclamation, then an indignant complaint which
she silenced by bringing his arm so far back she almost dislocated the
shoulder.
"I don't give a fuck about the girl." She snarled angrily, breathing the words
into his ear, and leaning more weight against his arm until he squirmed. "Where
is Percival?"
"He's gone!" The man said, trying to free himself. "Jumped off a cliff, went
into the rapids, and killed himself, rather than let our boys catch him alive."
It filled her head with white hot anger, with lightheaded fury, hearing that.
The waste of it! The wonton destruction of such a beautiful mind, an unlimited
potential of intellect. Such an astounding talent. Drowned like a dog because
the soldiers didn't have the brains to stop hounding him, to slacken the chase
when he threatened suicide. It was disgusting, so tactless, and clumsy!
Blind, stupid, ignorant fools!
The man roared like a wounded animal when she dislocated his shoulder, breaking
him with a loud crack. But it didn't matter, he didn't matter. The only thing
that counted was the wave of satisfaction that ruffled over her, the wolf's
smile she couldn't help but indulge, the small measure of restorative offered
by punishing one of the idiots for their stupidity.
As the fool howled and sobbed, cradling his wounded arm like a baby, she left
the cell. There was no more time for him, her mind had already moved on to
other matters. Finding her way blindly back to her laboratory, she entered and
shut the door, turning around to lean against the wood and take in the space
before her.
The table, stained cherry going to a dark raspberry in places by blood, by his
blood. Her tools laid out in neat lines of spotless brilliance and organized by
type, every one of them ready for specific uses. Medical bags with all her
chemicals, drugs, herbs, and other ingredients, used to put her sweet little
Percival into a doze when she got tired of him. In front of the fire was the
rug and the couch, her knitting needles, and even the length of chain still
secured around one of the legs.
It was all pointless, only a broken mockery of the ruined project, the artwork
that had been rudely shattered. The sight of it all rankled, curling black
knives into her gut. She hated it, the unfinished of it.
She pressed her head back against the door, flattening her palms on the wood,
but logic didn't help. This defied logic from the beginning, had from the
moment he was laid onto her table, already so frightened and vulnerable and
naked with his clothes on. It had nothing to do with intellect, and the draw of
it was still as nebulous as it had been from the start, still an instinctive
connection she didn't understand. Would never understand, because now it was
broken, torn and frayed in pieces before her, like the bloodied trail of body
parts left scattered after the slaughter.
It wasn't finished.
Somehow the sight of the basin, still full of blood and water, was the last
straw, and she sent it crashing to the floor. Listening to the shatter of the
pottery, the crack of it, was like listening to the shatter of the project
itself. It was broken, and messy, leaving her breathing hard and shaking.
The sound sent ribbons of pleasure breezing through her, another release, like
the guard's punishment. Intensely satisfying, for no fucking reason, and she
suddenly craved more, without knowing what she was perusing. Still blind, still
confused, still oppressed by the feeling of not knowing.
She hated it: the not knowing.
Another crash followed, this time one of her bottles of medicinal spirits,
sending raw alcohol painted across the floor and stinking. One of the trays of
tools followed, holding an array of needles, thin pointed things for irritating
nerves into shredding fire. A stack of books that she scattered, taking a
vindictive relish in the tearing of pages. Then a knife, that she stabbed down
into the table, sinking it into the memory of Percival himself.
That brought her to a standstill, and she was frozen, once again focused.
Brought out of the blind rage and back into calculation, into sudden bright
understanding. And she knew.
It was truly childish, the wreckage left behind by her tantrum, but she was a
woman built on the science of exploration. On calculations, on experiments, on
breaking a thing to find out how it worked, on articulation, on ends that
justified means. And if her destructions produced a solution, she was not one
to care about the sacrifice that had been made to reach it, or argue with the
results. She'd broken the careful organization of her space, compromised her
composure, and destroyed some fragile objects that were wasteful to break, but
she'd produced results, and that was all that mattered.
Breath still coming sharp and labored, she straightened, working hard to loosen
the white knuckled grip she still had around the knife. That was a bit of a
shame, there was nothing wrong with that particular knife, but now it was
probably unusable by her fine standards. With a jerk she pulled it out, laying
it back in it's place among the other knives, and moved to gather the needles
next, clearing away broken crockery and other fragments of her rage. But the
sterile peace of her space was disturbed, jarred with reminders in recent
memory, the floor still damp with water and brandy. It couldn't be helped.
At last, with nothing left that could be done to promote greater order, and she
settled. Giving herself a long stretch, she lounged herself out on the couch,
and took up her knitting again, passing the time with mundane distraction. The
direction of her thoughts had nothing to do with the unconscious dance of her
hands, they were just the background, the mindless occupation which allowed her
to wander. Silence took the room, without his labored breathing providing a
constant undertone, and it settled into the cracks, everything returning once
more into the quiet order of a disciplined mind.
The sudden complete change from everything that was new, unfathomable,
frustratingly intriguing, to what was well worn, understood, tried and true,
might have been jarring. But she'd discovered the answer, and having found the
answer to her equation, there was no reason for it to frustrate her anymore.
All she could do now, was sit in her quiet contemplation, and delight in
turning the answer over in her mind, marveling at the perfection of it.
The connection was kinship. He was like her, more than that, he was her.
Younger, softer, less hardened by the world, but he was still like her, a
mirror. Just as intelligent, just as greedy for knowledge, just as obsessed
with understanding, just as driven, just as methodical, just as ruthless. He
was willing to go to any length, if it bought him what he wanted.
The connection was art.
More than just her mirror, he was her creation. A picture painted in her
likeness, a sonnet penned in her name, a statue carved in her image. Like the
finest clock maker she had fitted every one of his pieces, and all that had
been left to do, was wind him up and set him ticking.
It was a miracle, a gift from fate herself, that had formed him. Maybe he'd
carried potential, a sharper intellect, a clever wit, but what use would a
noble's second son have ever made of such gifts. The talent he possessed would
have languished away, until it rotted to nothing, and he would have made
nothing more of himself than awaste, a mockery of all he might have been. It
took fire to purify talent like that, and here had the world been, ready to
wring him. She had been there, ready to sharpen, ready to twist, ready to break
him.
Such a gift, but she knew he would never accept it. He would never have the
understanding to realize all she had done for him, and thank her for it, but
that didn't matter. What sword had ever thanked its smith, for hammering it
into shape.
She had formed him, and that was enough to stir her, that was a soft truth
seated deep in the center of herself, a pride that warmed her to the core.
She'd formed him, and that knowledge was enough to give her stimulation. The
knitting was forgotten, as one hand ghosted its way downwards, and she pressed
fingers against herself. She had made him.
He was her creation. It was she that had carved through to the center of him,
peeled back all the intervening layers, broken through all the hardened
resistance, and lacerated delicate claws across the soft core of his soul. He
might heal back together, of a fashion, the scar still flayed and raw, but he'd
never remove the shape she'd carved into his deepest self. He would still
belong to her, no matter where he ran, no matter where he hid. The flesh of his
body would still belong to her, the one to touch him first. The fixation of his
soul would still crave for her, the one to master him completely.
That was the one truth that satisfied her the most, that he would never be free
of her. She had marked and ravaged his body, crushed and scorched his will,
dominated his mind and enslaved him to her. He would never admit it, and never
forget it.
And maybe she didn't know it then, as she touched and pleasured herself,
teasing herself into a gentle ache that left her warm and loose when it was
sated. She couldn't have known it when Silas finally summoned her to stitch up
the youngest's broken scars that Percival had left her with, rather than be
dragged back. She didn't know as life returned to it's ordered day to day, and
she found new work, new riddles to intrigue her.
She didn't know it then, but as time went on and stories spread, stories of a
strange weapon, of a scourge with white hair, she knew it later. That she had
created something exquisite, something terrifying in its beauty, a weapon that
she had built and released. That she had made a man, and the man had made a
monster. She knew it, and she knew it would come back for her. There was no
need to chase him, he would come back to her, and she would embrace his
brokenness again, glorying in the wreck she had made of him
She knew it.
That when he destroyed, he would think of her, of her destruction. That when he
mutilated and wounded, it was she that had mutilated and twisted him first,
giving him the tools for others. When he killed, he must be thinking of her,
imagining her body and her eyes staring dead and lifeless. She knew that he
practiced, that he grew hardened, that everything he did could only be a
preparation. She knew that he was broken, and it was she that had broken him.
That every time he would touch a woman, he would think of her, and all that she
had seized from him first. That she had taken the deepest parts of him, that
she had taken his fingers when he touched her, his mouth when he tasted her,
his dignity when he bowed to her, his manhood when she raped him.
She owned him.
It was a truth that stayed with her, as time went on. And though she might
distract herself with other concerns, she never forgot, never grew tired of it.
Years passed by, but she still knew, she still felt it. A warm glow of heavy
pregnant satisfaction, the pride of an artist in his work, the memories that
got her off, quiet moments taken with her fingers. She didn't indulge often,
but she touched every now and then, just enough to keep her sated, keep her
satisfied.
He belonged to her. She'd made him, claimed him. He was her project, and all
she'd had to do was wind him up, break him, and he would go on to break
everything else.
***** Happy Isn't Whole *****
Chapter Notes
     Because this wasn't depressing enough already, here's a bonus
     chapter. Although it's better at the end than the beginning, Percy is
     still pretty royally fucked up, and sometimes Smexy Time doesn't go
     like it should.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
He'd laid his demons to rest. Not just laid them aside, he'd destroyed them,
literally and figuratively. Sent them screaming back into the abyss of Hell.
Also literal, or with Her at least, he hoped it was.
That still didn't change the fact that it all went to shit, really fucking
fast.
It wasn't his idea exactly, but he hadn't exactly been adamant about refusing
it either, it had sounded a little bit nice. Just a bit, a tiny bit, the
tiniest bit intriguing. That really was a lie. He'd never wanted anything so
badly. Getting out of his head for a minute so he could just enjoy it. Not
having to think about where to put his hands, what to do with his fingers, how
to make it better. Having Vex in control of it, just that was enough to make
him, should he say...flexible...She could always get so creative when left to
herself.
And the truly pitiful part is that he was enjoying it. He was. It had ended up
being one of the dozen or so silk sashes in garish colors that Scanlan seemed
to have an endless supply of, (an entire walk in closet full in the Mansion as
it turned out). Because Vex didn't want it to hurt, and because (as she said)
Scanlan would either be pissed as hell, or hide it away in shrine to Vex,
surrounded by pictures of her, for him to jack off to. A memento of the dirty,
quite uncivilized sex they had without him knowing. Vex liked that, the idea of
showing it off, like it was an achievement. "Hey Scanlan, you know how you're
always bragging about how you can bed anyone you want? Well I just got Percival
to let me strap him down with your scarf, fucked his brains out, and he liked
it. How's that for seduction?"
He didn't really care, the point was what Vex wanted, and she wanted the scarf.
So that was how he'd ended up, laid out shirtless on the bed, arms above his
head with the sash knotted around his wrists so he still had a little slack
between him and the bed. How he'd ended up completely at the mercy of the most
sumptuous, foxy, and admittedly terrifying, goddess of desire he'd ever had the
pleasure of looking upon.
Of course she'd teased. It was her way. Making him wait while she slowly
undressed, and while she climbed on the bed, and while she stood over him. And
then even more, while she knelt down over him and slid delicate white fingers
in between her own legs to wind him up, playing with herself until he could
smell her arousal, until he'd never lusted after any woman's flesh so fiercely
as he thirsted for her.
She wanted him to beg, hanging so tantalizingly close, she wanted him to plead
and get her off harder. But much as he wanted to please her, wanted to follow
her lead, he couldn't beg. He never could. She'd asked before, but it was
something he couldn't give. It ruined the moment, took something that made him
pant and squirm with want, and killed it without a moment's ceremony. He just
couldn't. Of course she would still ask, still leave a moment where he could
beg if he wanted to, but she'd let it go when he didn't respond, and he was
glad when she let it go now.
Part of him had been so caught up with her, he hadn't even realized how excited
she'd already made him, and when she fingered him through his clothes suddenly
it was more than he'd anticipated. It really was shameful, the noise she drew
from him when she pushed a hand under his belt, wrapped a hand over his cock
and ghosted a finger around the head. The kind of noise that he always bit
back, because someone would hear, and it really wasn't something he could do.
"Don't you dare," she scolded, pulling her hand away and making him press after
her, silently pleading to have her back. "No proper decorum today."
She pushed up, until her hands were planted on either side of his head, and one
leg was accidentally-on-purpose pressing against his groin, and he immediately
ground against her. That made her grin, so roguish like she always was, and
press in for a kiss that really was just an excuse to press her leg harder and
at a better angle. He groaned into her mouth, shuddering with it, and she just
kept devouring into him slow and gentle, another kind of teasing.
"I'm going to do whatever I want today, and today I want you to listen to
yourself." Vex murmured, her lips still moving against his, and she licked in
for another deeper taste when she'd finished speaking. Somehow she still found
the coordination to get one hand down to where her leg was already pressed,
undoing his belt and finding just enough slack to get his erection free of his
clothes, and he let out another groan against her mouth and pushed up into her
hand, undeniably needy.
"Cry for me..." She commanded gently. The trail of her mouth, as tongue sank
down his bare chest, left wet maddening kisses down his neck and collar bones.
It had him writhing again, breathing hard and wordlessly groaning from it.
Listening was like hearing an entirely different person, a strange sense of
arousal, knowing that she could make him sound like that.
"That's right, let it out, that's good." She praised, still sinking farther and
leaving strokes of her tongue across his stomach. "You always make me take it
slow, but today I'm going to take it just as rough as I like it."
The heat of her mouth found him, taking his cock sudden and demanding into her
mouth. And it was too much, too soon, too close. He couldn't let her drag him
that deep. Even as his body responded, getting hard and instinctively trying to
press deeper into her mouth, he brought his hands down to push her off, push
her back.
And he couldn't stop her.
It was so sudden that he couldn't think. He was drowning without water, trying
to fight for air, but totally unable to breathe. The fact that he was trapped,
pinned down and flightless, that he couldn't get out, couldn't get away.
Couldn't stop her. He had to stop her, and he couldn't. He was tied down.
"Percival?"
Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods...please...please not this again...
"Percival darling?"
He barely kept it down when his stomach heaved, suddenly overwhelming him with
nausea. No. No. No. He had to keep control. He couldn't loose it now, couldn't
expose it, not here, not like this. Keep control, just keep control. The chant
rose within him as another roll of his stomach turned him boneless, loose and
twisted like wet string. The world turning to blind static as his inner self
still demanded control. Control, control, control.
"Percy! Darling, you're scaring me, what's wrong?"
It was far too late to climb out of it anymore. The ugly mass of it had waited,
coiled tight and small in the dark corner, but it was unfolding now. And he
could do nothing but submit. It wanted him, and he was pinned, wounded and
bleeding. Too weak to keep it in any longer.
"Percy dear," her hand was on his cheek, pleading. The touch stretched him to
the breaking point, gagging on another wave of stomach turning panic, and his
fear released before he could stop himself. Brain catching up to his body when
it was too late, and warmth was already spreading into his pants, and he
groaned with the shredded agony of it. The gaping festering shame of giving
into bodily instinct under her.
"Oh my god." Her voice was terrified, hand pulling away, as she realized what
he'd done. "Percival...Oh my god, hold on. Just a sec, hold still...I see, I
see, I see."
The heat of her fingers at his wrists seared across his clammy skin, burning
him hotter then any brand he'd ever felt. It made him keen with the pain of it.
The chanting repetition of her voice as she struggled, I see, I see, I see,
flowed unconsciously. It was forgotten and unchecked. Then he felt slack, the
pressure loosening, and it was gone, leaving him empty without it. As soon as
he was free her hands were at face ready to soothe him, and in the same instant
he was fighting back with a strength and vehemence he didn't know he still
possessed.
With a desperate surge, he threw her away from him with all the force he could
muster. Still weaker and clumsier than an attempt made with a clear head would
have been, resistible by anyone who was expecting it, but she neither expected
nor resisted it, and easily yielded to the animalistic force. Then his only
thought, if it even was coherent enough for that, was away. Get away, get away,
get away. Somewhere safe, and far, far, far, from here, as he gave in to blind
instincts.
Couldn't breathe, couldn't see, all he felt was the need, the need to find a
way out. When he felt the press of walls closing in on either side, all he
thought was that he couldn't go any farther. So he turned and planted his back
in the corner, trapped and ready to lash out at anything that got close enough.
It was the only thing he had left.
"Percival..."
She was still there, and he was so scared of her, he thought it would choke
him. And now he was pinned again, sealed between walls he couldn't escape, with
her like another invisible barrier closing him in.
She was still there, so he hid from her.
Drawing up his knees to bury his face. The last little defense he could muster,
shutting her out. The only thing he still possessed.
"Percy darling, it's me." And he could hear her getting closer, hesitant, wary,
but still pressing. Still intruding. "Darling you're safe, it's just me, you're
not in cages anymore."
And fuck, but she was still too damn good at taking him apart. Just her
reassurance made his heart ache, because he wanted so badly for it to be true.
Because he wanted it to be over. But it wasn't over. She was still there, still
coming closer, pressing him back until he would be forced to yield again. And
again, and again, and again.
A hand found the edge of his knee, just faintly touching against him with the
tips of her fingers, and he felt himself splinter. Would she never just leave?
God, he just wanted this to be over. Wanted her to just finish him, take pity
and let him rest. Wanted to be so flawed, so defective, that she would just put
him down. He whined at the touch because he never could hide from her, and
flinched away, breaking the contact of her fingers, and she drifted apart.
"Percy, please..." It was desolate, tired, and hollow, nothing more than an
inner longing given voice. Then she was gone, the pressure of her against his
skin vanished, as she slithered back from him, careful to move quietly.
She didn't stay away, and in a few moments she was back. He hunched
protectively again, flinching in preparation, as her shadow descended over him,
swallowing him whole. Then he was completely blind, lost in the dark.
But it wasn't her shadow, it was something warm and soft that shielded him. A
blanket from the bed that tented over him, cocooning him in to a tiny velvety
shelter. Her arms coiled around him, gathering him closer, and she draped her
weight over him, a second heavier protection. It was a dizzying relief, no
longer being exposed, being naked, and he couldn't help but loosen to her. Then
her voice in his ear, distant, muffled by the fabric, still protected from her
by his new shelter. She was whispering in his ear, instructing him to breathe,
an endless chant of 'in, and out, in, and out, in, and out." He numbly tried to
obey, struggling to match his own rapid gasps to her slow methodical rhythm.
When the panic began to fade it left suffocating despair. There was no way to
hold it in anymore, and he sobbed, like he hadn't allowed himself to in years.
And it hurt, oh gods it hurt to let it out. She was shushing him again, and
gathered him closer, until he was curled in her lap and she had her arms
pressed around his head and shoulders. And when he was pulled so close he could
feel her shaking, frail as he was, and weeping with him. Could hear her voice
in his ear as it murmured over and over "my boy...my boy...my boy...my boy..."
Could feel the muffled touch of her hand, petting his hair. Could feel the
motherly tenderness of her lips through the blanket. And every touch of it
exactly like, and yet not at all the same. How it should have been, and hadn't.
As she just held him, rocking back and forth...
Hours, or minutes, he hardly knew. Time had no meaning. It was just her gentle
sway, as she caressed him through the blanket, still whispering that endless
chant of 'my boy, my boy,' in his ear. Until he was in a daze. Until he was
breathing, slow and heavy, without being asleep. Until he knew he was safe. As
long as they were like this, he would aways be safe. Finally she stopped
rocking, not trying to stir him, but letting him be still.
"Do you want to come out?" She asked gently, when he took a deeper breath and
stirred slightly. He couldn't find it in himself to talk, or even shake his
head, but she didn't seem to care. It was answer enough.
"Should I go away?" That question managed to move him, anxiety stirring as soon
as she spoke, and he pressed his head deeper into her shoulder with a whimper.
Frightened and clinging. "No, no, no," she hurriedly soothed, "I won't go. I'm
here, I won't leave."
Silence fell again, and she went back to rocking, quieting him back into the
cottony security. The fear inspired by the mention of her leaving quickly
drained out of him, and he briefly lost himself again. She was here. She was
here, and she wouldn't leave. But before such a long time had passed, she
stilled again, bringing him back to a semi lucid state.
"Do you mind if I move you?" She asked, and when he relaxed against her, it
seemed like enough of an answer to satisfy her. Keeping him sheltered in the
blanket, she shifted him until they were both standing, her arms still around
him, gathering him in like something to caress and protect. Her hands found his
waistband, but there was no longer any lust in the movement of her fingers, as
she pushed soiled fabric away and helped him out of the limp pile. Cold air met
his skin, and she wrapped her arms around him again, as if she were trying to
keep him warm. One step at a time she pushed him back to her side of the bed,
gently letting him down until he was lying flat, and settling beside him with
his forehead pressed into her chest.
"Can I come in?" She hazarded, her voice so small it hardly sounded like her,
as if she though he wouldn't let her. As soon as she mentioned it, he suddenly
needed it desperately, and melted into her, letting his arms cling around her
waist. At once she ducked under the blanket, taking care not to let in any
light, and slid up until she was settled where she'd been before.
The subtle scent of her skin filled his brain, nuzzling into the hollow of her
shoulder, and his skin tingled where her fingers combed through the hair on the
back of his head. His breathing unconsciously attuned to hers, seeing and
feeling and desiring nothing but the silence in that exact moment. The smell of
her eased him back into his former abstraction, and where she touched him, she
did it with an almost worshipful care. As if he were the finest china that
would shatter with the slightest breath of wind.
They would get no farther than that. Not on that night, or the next either. But
neither of them felt that anything more could possibly be wanting. He was safe,
and that was the only thing either of them knew.
Chapter End Notes
     Oh look at that, I gave myself a Sad...
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!