dingochow (dingochow) wrote in lupin_snape, @ 2008-08-29 18:33:00 |
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Entry tags: | fic: nc17, prompt: fantasy fest 08 |
FANTASY FEST FIC: The Secret Sketchbooks of Hebi no Komori, NC-17
Title: The Secret Sketchbooks of Hebi no Komori
Author: Dingochow
Rating: quite NC-17
Pairing: Snape/Lupin, with a brief appearance by LL
Prompt: Short prompt #19 -- S. is manga artist. R. is manga character. Panel-breaking hijinks ensue.
Summary: summarized pretty well by the prompt.
Warning: very mild possible dub-con (if you really, really squint), monster sex (sort of), wanking, rimming, oral, anal, some role playing and fantasy play. NWS sketchbook art described. Attempts at humor. Ramen being eaten in a manner not consistent with proper table manners.
The Secret Sketchbooks of Hebi no Komori
i
"Professor, can you draw a werewolf?" Sigh, pause, keyboard clicks. "Not a scary one, a brainy, handsome one that loves books and chocolate and is gentle and kind, but still very sexy?" His assistant's dreamy voice broke his concentration just as he was twitching his brush with that special little swish and flick that would put the perfect shadow under the lower lip of the very pretty young man whose portrait filled the page taped to his drawing board. Luckily, his swish and flick was impervious to Ms. Lovegood. One could even say he was accustomed to seemingly random comments from the other side of the room. Annoying as they had been at first, her overall cleverness provided sufficient compensation.
The fluttery blonde with her bottle cap necklaces and radish-shaped earrings was superb at drawing boring backgrounds and doing all the fiddly computer bits involving toning, layout and lettering, and then doing them over and over until the finished pages met his, and his editor's, approval. He was a storyteller, a weaver of fantasies and a creator of memorable characters, not an industrial designer. If he wanted to keep her in his studio, doing his scutwork (and there were plenty of other mangaka who would be eager to hire her away), he had no choice but to talk to her occasionally.
"Of course I can draw a werewolf, Ms. Lovegood. The question is why would I want to do so? And don't call me Professor."
"Yes, Professor. I was talking to Granger-san yesterday while you were out taking your constitutional, and she mentioned that werewolf stories are increasing popular. She was wondering if you might be interested in trying one as your new series, since Broomsticks is winding down."
"And what do you think of this lycanthropic proposal, Ms. Lovegood?"
The blonde pursed her lips and tapped her burnisher against her pointed chin. She said the damn thing was made of mammoth ivory (the tool, not the chin), and she was just odd enough for it to be true. "I think I might agree with her. All that lovely beastliness. And the element of magic would connect it in the readers' minds with your previous work. You might even want to reuse some of the worldbuilding you did for Broomsticks."
Ah yes. That might be an excellent idea. He was going to miss Broomsticks, the series that had cemented his reputation as a top flight creator of erotic fantasy yaoi-- red hot erotic fantasy yaoi, if he did say so himself. A detailed background, including a completely original magical sport involving sexy teen boys flying astride barely symbolic broomsticks, gave a fresh look and feel to what was basically a traditional school story with the classic themes of class rivalries, sexual attraction between sworn enemies, and locker room sex. It was a good manga, and had given him a great ride, but the last episode was on the drawing board. He had a grudging respect for Granger-san; she might be a superannuated schoolgirl know-it- all, but one of the things she knew was the market for male-homoerotic comic books in the Japanese style-- a limited specialty, but her own.
If all the little girls (of all ages) who loved stories of boys who loved other boys wanted wild werewolf passion this season, then he was perfectly prepared to give it to them. And if Ms. Lovegood agreed that it was so, and furthermore thought that a werewolf who was gentle and scholarly in his human form would make their effort stand out from the "pack" in ways both erotic and lucrative, then he was prepared to consider taking her advice as well. Not that he was going to tell her that, of course.
"Thank you for your input, Ms. Lovegood, and remember that I have changed the floral background of the final kiss from cherry blossoms to single flowered peonies, if you please."
"Of course, Professor. There wouldn't even be cherry blossoms in Scotland in June, would there?"
He didn't bother answering that, having returned to his inking and his mulling over of this idea for a new series. As it so happened, he rather liked werewolves. If his memory was correct, and it always was, he had a suitable character already partially developed, somewhere in the depths of his trove of sketchbooks. He felt a momentary pang of guilt. The werewolf was a fantasy companion he had deeply loved, one that had given him a great deal of comfort at a particularly bad time in his life, and the thought of exploiting it, exploiting him, for mere profit was somewhat distasteful. But needs must. Scruples do not feed the snake.
And perhaps that past attachment would bleed through into the manga he was already creating in his mind, and elevate it to a higher level than mere escapist erotica. Or perhaps not. At least he knew that writing and drawing it would be hot.
ii
At six pm Ms. Lovegood left the studio in a jingle of bones and coins and marbles, bound for an editorial meeting of the slightly demented "online journal of cryptozoology" that was her spare time passion. The professor locked the door behind her, made himself a mug of instant coffee in the kitchen of his one room flat behind the studio, and pushed his sofa across the room. Underneath the sofa, and the rug under the sofa, was a trap door, and under the trapdoor, in a shallow, climate controlled compartment was a box.
The box was full of books, randomly assorted in size and cover materials. These were his secret sketchbooks. He'd always been careful of his artistic privacy. He sat down to sort through them; his werewolf, and with him the next best selling series from Hebi no Komori was somewhere in this very attractive pile. He picked up the topmost book and began to leaf through it.
There was the rumpled dark haired boy and the sleek blond one, the ones who became the protagonist of Broomsticks and his nemesis-slash-lover, and there was the page where he had decided what their pricks looked like and which was circumcised and which was not. That had been a heady time ... he loved the design and planning process. But he needed to go back further.
Here were the red headed twins: well hung and lavishly freckled, pranksters extraordinaire, whose taste for mischief extended into the bedroom ... they had enjoyed passionate (and kinky) affairs with practically every man that crossed their paths while maintaining a wildly incestuous relationship of their own, in his first successful serial.
Further back, there was the aging boarding school headmaster with the long white beard who so delighted in viewing the sexual hijinks of his students and staff in a magical crystal bowl. Those short stories, sold as filler bits in the bigger yaoi anthologies, had saved him from starvation in those first months after he'd been sacked from the Chemistry department at the University.
Ah, there were the notes from his favorite; the school greenhouse story that had gotten him his contract. And why not? Was their anything hotter than a plump, pretty young man with brown curls, wriggling and squirming in the tentacular grip of a lustful sentient plant, tendrils wrapped around his fat, juicy prick while a thick, knobbly stem forces its way into his tight little arse? No, he didn't think so. The sketches for that scene still made him twitch.
But the werewolf went back even further than even that.
Further down the pile , then, to the secret sketchbooks he had kept back when he was still a professor of chemistry; a professor of chemistry with a secret ability: drawing, and a secret hobby: drawing pornographic comics with all male casts. Well, almost all male. He'd had this strange idea, for a while, that the best erotic comics had a female lead character.
There she was, the beautiful redheaded woman who he'd based on his best friend from childhood; the girl he'd never quite been able to fall in love with no matter how much he'd wanted to. Their friendship had survived his coming out, had survived everything except a car crash the same year he'd been sacked. It had been a long time since he'd been able to look at this book.
She'd always been both cheerfully uninhibited and a bit of a fag hag, so she probably wouldn't have minded the scenes where her paper self, in the character of a not very innocent schoolgirl, watched the sexual acrobatics in the boys' dormitory with one hand busy under her short uniform skirt. But he never would have shown her the threesome scene, where her character (a warrior with a well hammered breastplate) lifted her leather kilt in the alchemist's laboratory and wholeheartedly enjoyed a bout of double penetration with two apprentices, the one at the rear entrance being an idealized version of himself. He shut that book quickly.
The next volume was an old favorite; a thick, heavily worn black book that held the first drawings he'd really been proud of. There the secret fantasies of his boyhood, filtered through his abandoned art career, had begun to resurface when he'd been working toward his doctorate: another redhead, this one a muscular, tattooed youth who tamed dragons in a very sensual way, and yet another one, with long hair this time, who broke curses in dusty Egyptian tombs while disporting himself with nubile Egyptian boys.
One thing was certain: the lead character in his new series was not going to have red hair.
But there were other treasures in the book-- like the beautiful aristocratic daredevil, all grey eyes and elegant bones and devastating grin, with a taste for rough trade and the distinctly unusual ability to turn himself into large black dog. And there, with him, was the werewolf, all strong, slender, hairy limbs and dark blond hair (carefully tipped in with marker) and expressive, even melting, amber eyes. He'd forgotten about that pairing, his werewolf and the dog man. Perhaps the double canine factor had been the inspiration, but the result was the classic dog's breakfast.
No matter, there were plenty of sketches of the werewolf alone ... sleeping, studying amid a heap of nicely rendered books and papers, posing angstily before a mirror, reading in a hammock (in the nude) stretching, shirtless, his unfastened trousers falling away from his furry, muscular belly, wanking in a forest with the same trousers around his ankles. And then pages of his wolf form, sketches from the zoo, sketches taken from photos, the photos themselves, taped onto the pages. There was even a full set of designs for the transformations (he had really liked this project!): notes and plans showing anatomy of man morphing into anatomy of wolf, and then the transitional forms themselves, fleshed out and terrifying. And blisteringly erotic.
Oh yes, there was plenty here, more than enough threads to weave into the protagonist of a manga that wasn't just titillating, though it would certainly be that, but one which might possibly have some genuine literary quality. Themes of serene civilization and wild freedom and excess, images of skilled lovemaking in well equipped bedrooms and matings on a bare hillsides under stark moonlight, and a character who loves and fights for both: ideas swirled around him as he pulled a fresh blank sketchbook off his shelf.
By the time he stopped, exhausted, at midnight, he had pages of sketches of a revised and refined version of his werewolf character, and half a yellow legal pad scrawled over with story ideas. He washed and slid into bed, thinking that the scenario where the werewolf came to life and elegantly seduced his own creator (while clearly far too self-indulgent to ever make it into the finished comic) was still his personal favorite. He snorted with private laughter; the secret to creating successful erotic art was simple: when in doubt, go with the idea you find personally arousing.
His imagination, for years something to be squashed and now the wellspring of his prosperity, easily wove the shadows in the room into a lean, muscular figure standing near the bed. It let the meager scraps of light pick highlights off soft, glossy hair on chest and leg and shoulder, and make amber eyes glow gold. Severus Snape, also known as the mangaka Hebi no Komori, pushed the thin summer blanket off his body and took his heavy, needy prick in hand.
Watch me wank, you lovely beast, watch me fondle myself, watch me stroke it, watch me grab it and tug hard, imagining your tongue on me, your teeth on me. Sniff me, smell my musk, smell what's dripping out of me, smell my spunk, come here and lick it off my belly, you filthy animal.
He dozed off to thoughts of a slightly, deliciously, rough tongue delicately lapping him clean, but whether it was a man's tongue or a wolf's was not entirely clear.
iii
It was the smell first; a deep, harsh, woodsy, smoky smell, built on musk and wet dog and a hint of shit. It crept into whatever dream Snape was having and turned it rugged; he felt coarse, greasy hair scraping on his clean bare skin, and then a wide, rasping, sandpaper tongue passed horribly across his belly, squirming obscenely in his navel.
Whatever it was, it was huge and it was hot and it writhed against him. He felt small and soft under its weight, the sheer animal force of it. He was its prey and he was ready to be devoured.
The tongue ran up the center of his body, not down, never down, but when it rasped over one of his nipples his disappointment abated slightly. Rough, thick, long fingered hands held him flat to the bed as the creature assaulted his chest, sucking his nipples, nipping them, biting them, then "soothing" them, if that was the word, with that harsh tongue. Over and over again, growling and hissing and slurping, holding him down so he couldn't escape even when the pleasure turned to wonderful torment. Were those long fingernails that he felt, or claws?
Finally the beast was done with his nipples and sat back, its full weight on his legs-how big was it?-and began stroking his entire upper body, arms and belly and abused chest. If you could call it stroking. Those were definitely claws. He could hear the creature's breathing speeding up. It seemed to be aroused. Hot drops fell on his face and shoulders-its sweat, or its spit.
Thicker, hotter drops dripped onto his quivering belly. Oh, it was definitely aroused. He wriggled beneath it, aching to rouse it even more. When he succeeded, it was terrifying; it was beyond thrilling.
The creature grabbed his wrists and held them over his head-the king size bed had been a wise purchase, a fragment of his mind commented-and thrust its face, its snout, its muzzle into his armpit, snorting and sniffing. It licked him; it bit him; it moved to the other side and did the same. It went for his neck, but didn't tear him open, just licked him and nipped at him and scraped him with its long, long teeth. Down his chest, (his poor tormented nipples) and the it was licking his navel again, awakening him again, rousing his lust to previously unconsidered peaks.
Then the beast slid further down the bed, grabbed his thighs in its claws, spread his legs until his hips creaked , and buried its greasy, shaggy head in his crotch. He howled.
Long, long sniffs and then a contented purr. The thing liked his smell, and he was absurdly pleased. And then he stopped thinking as that ghastly tongue met his scrotum. It was more erotic than anything his trained imagination had ever come up with-a monstrous beast, wild and stinking and strong enough to rip him to shreds, lapping at his balls with its harsh, broad, clever, writhing, long, long tongue.
And not just his balls, behind them, and to either side. It bit the insides of his thighs; it bit his belly; it soaked his pubic hair with spit and juice as it bit the flesh right above the base of his cock.
Then it lifted up, and before he could rise up on his own elbows to try to see its face, it plunged. Its mouth was open; he could feel its hot breath on his engorged prick, and then it had swallowed him whole.
What a good ravening monster. Sandpaper tongue and knifeblade teeth and all, the creature was a superb cocksucker. It brought him to the edge over and over again until, greatly daring or insanely frustrated, he grabbed two handfuls of its greasy mane, well soaked with sweat and held it down so he could fuck its hot throat and finally come.
It let him do it, and grunted happily as it drank him down. Yes, feed the beast. Such a hungry beast, slurping at his softening prick.
The room was quiet except for the thing's breathing. He felt quite amazingly relaxed. The creature turned him over on his belly with irresistible gentleness, and he offered no resistance.
It snuffled in the hair at the base of his skull, and licked and nipped at his spine. He began to recover some level of consciousness while it was licking his feet. Was it actually biting his toenails? By the time it was scratching down his legs gently with its long blunt claws, he was more or less aware, and when it reached his ass, he was hard again, and panting with lust and fear.
It was a bestial, animalistic creature. Of course it was going to stick its nose in there. It grabbed his asscheeks hard enough to draw blood and ate him out for all it was worth, grunting and slurping in the most disgusting way. It was exquisite. When the huge harsh tongue reamed him out for the first time he screamed in earnest, over and over again until he thought his heart or his throat or his prick would rupture.
But when it pulled its tongue out and reared up over him with its full weight held up by its grip on his shoulders he was silent. He bowed his head, and lifted his hips as high as he could, bracing himself for the inevitable. His prick dangled, harder than it had ever been. He was going to take what was coming to him. The beast was going to mount him, and he was going to submit.
The creature fell on him, biting him with all its strength in the thick muscle where his neck met his shoulder and shoving its enormous prick into his quivering, slobbery asshole at the exact same time. Its first push was enough to shove him to the bed. The monster fucked, well, like a beast-hard and fast and utterly instinctually.
The wild thing was hot and slick and slid in and out, bashing his prostate hard at every stroke, and he rose easily, still silently, toward orgasm as the beast thrust into him. In and out, in and out until he felt he might already have gone mad. Then it shoved in deep, deeper than anything he'd ever felt, and rested there, throbbing against his prostate and pumping in what felt like gallons of thin, hot come. He was full, so very full, and he came into the sheets without making a sound.
The beast raised its head, and although he couldn't see it, he knew its mouth was red with his blood. He thought it whispered in his ear.
He thought it said "Mine.".
iv
Snape woke at the usual time, feeling a most unusual, and extremely pleasant, satiety and lassitude. Oh, he was sore in a variety of places, one in particular, and the scratches on his chest, shoulder and back stung slightly. And the bite, the one where his neck met his shoulder, the one where the beast had gripped and restrained him as it mounted, was throbbing. He put his hand up, dreamy as his assistant at her worst, and found the place exquisitely tender and swollen. That had been a truly wonderful dream, probably the best wet dream of his life. He'd never had a great enthusiasm for the rough stuff, at least not for being on the receiving end of it, but apparently his new story idea was both inspired and inspirational
He was groping around on the bedside table for his notebook, hoping he could hold on to at least a few details of his dream long enough to write them down, the better to mine them for the new comic, when he heard the water running.
Someone was taking a shower. In his bathroom. Someone who had left long yellow-brown hairs on his pillow, and torn a heavy, close woven, not inexpensive cotton sheet to ribbons. He was thinking a little more clearly now, and it was suddenly obvious that there was more spunk in the bed, and on his body, and still sluggishly dripping out of his body, than could be accounted for by a wet dream. Or even a whole night of them, however spectacular. And the pain where his neck met his shoulder was very real, and very wonderful.
He should call the police. He had been assaulted, at minimum. Or had he been attacked by an animal? Whichever-it had to be against some kind of law. Probably several. But he found himself unable, or at least unwilling to move. He plumped up the pillows and leaned back with his arms behind his head, and waited for his visitor to finish its ablutions.
It, or rather he, slipped softly out of the bath, wrapped in one of Snape's towels and rubbing his head with another: a slender, well built man about Snape's own age (which was about forty), with a nice amount of chest and leg hair and a long, wet, brownish mane that brushed his shoulder blades. He had thick eyebrows and lashes and a gentle, intelligent expression. Snape found him rather attractive, even more so when he dropped both the towels onto the freshly swept floor, revealing a very nice half hard prick, quite thick and uncut, just the way he liked it.
He was even more attractive sliding up next to him in the well used bed-- he had very soft skin, a few charming freckles across his shoulders and the bridge of his nose, and a sweetly rounded arse. In spite of all of this he was well prepared to engage his visitor in a blistering interrogation, but the stranger preempted this by kissing him tenderly and rolling over onto his back, taking Snape with him and cradling him in his widespread legs.
Snape couldn't resist. He buried his face in his visitor's shoulder. Just for a moment. A brief moment of weakness. He was just so lovely, and so warm. And he smelled like a clean, civilized version of his bestial lover from the night before. To say Snape was confused was the grossest of understatements.
"Good morning, my mate." The stranger rubbed his own freshly shaven cheek against Snape's stubbly one. "Oh, bristly! I like bristles. You're a lovely bristly boy."
"What in the world are you talking about?" Snape was offended and spluttered aggressively, but had trouble keeping his mind on his work with the other man looking at him like that. How very odd. The stranger had very pale hazel eyes, the color of pale amber-almost yellow in the morning light..
"Mmm." He kissed Snape again, sucking gently on his lower lip and tickling both his ears with his fingernails, which Snape noted, with the part of his mind that wasn't tonguing the stranger's soft mouth, were short, well trimmed, and filed smooth. "You wake up slowly. I'll have to remember that. Maybe tomorrow I'll make you some tea and toast before I come back to bed. Or do you prefer coffee?"
"Tomorrow, indeed. Arrogance!" Snape was amused in spite of himself. "Never mind my beverage preferences, and tell me what you're doing in my house."
"Kissing you." Lips brushing Snape's chin. "Touching you." Brushing his cheek. "Maybe sharing a fuck with you again, if you'd like that." He lifted his hips and ground gently against Snape's groin, which appreciated the attention. "I wonder how that would feel inside me. Maybe you'd want to mount me this time around?"
That did sound rather pleasant. His visitor had a deep, slightly husky voice, and an intent way of looking at him that made him feel … warm? And not just in a sexual way. In a warm, furry, very wolfy way, which was appallingly soppy, but also an appallingly accurate description.
"Perhaps. Answer a few questions, wolf, and I will consider obliging you."
"You already have one answer, I think." Snape gave him an eyebrow. "Wolf is indeed the operative word. I am a werewolf, and you are my mate."
"Of all the absurd, presumptuous, nonsensical statements to make to a complete stranger!"
"Complete stranger? After last night?" Damned wolf had a gorgeous grin, with fine white teeth no sharper than human average.
"All right; of all the absurd, presumptuous, nonsensical statements to make after a one night stand. Though if it comes to that, I don't remember letting you in last night."
"It's vampires that have to be invited in, not werewolves. We run free, go where we smell we're wanted. And, oh, last night you smelled like you wanted me very, very much." The wolf pulled Snape down to him and kissed him again. His tongue was smaller and softer this morning, but still just as skillful, and he wriggled underneath Snape in way they both knew was going to distract both of them from the conversation sometime in the immediate future.
"And what about the "mate" business?"
The wolf lowered his brows and touched the sore place on Snape's neck. The scabs rasped under his fingertips.
"What do you think this is?" A hint of temper, even of snarl, in the husky voice now. "A little red love bite from your milktoothed schoolboy sweetheart?? I wanted you just as much as you wanted me. I approached you and you welcomed me. I mounted you and you yielded to me willingly. True?"
"True-if you accept the position that it all actually happened, which is beyond unlikely. Even for a fantasy, it's rather farfetched. It's much more likely to all have been a dream. And that includes this conversation."
The wolf smiled up at him serenely.
"If that's all it is, then all you need do is wait until wake up. What would you like to do while you're waiting?"
Snape knew the answer to that. He rested his full weight on the wolf, who was strong and fit but a good five inches shorter than he was, at least in this form, and scraped his black and grey bristles along his soft cheek. He got a very satisfactory growly purring sound in response. This, he concluded, was a werewolf happy noise, which was the most absurd concept yet. Not that that meant he didn't want to hear it again.
In the back of his mind he began to work out a few new scenarios for what had happened, what was happening, in his bed over the last few hours. The first few kept the dream explanation for the first event (at least for the monster component). This was combined with either madness on either his or his companion's part or amnesia (temporary, he hoped) on his own to explain why he was currently sucking on a superbly crinkly brown nipple in a nest of tawny hair.
The last two scenarios made great stories, but terrifying realities. One, he'd actually made a character of his own creation (for want of a better phrase) "come to life". Or the wolf was telling the truth, and after a life a more or less palatable solitude he was now mated to a werewolf who was (horrible prospect) a cheerful morning person who wanted to make him tea.
He did have a very lickable navel, however. And strong thighs, and big, handsome balls (quite lickable, too) and lots of thick golden brown pubic hair to run his fingers through. The wolf seemed to like this particularly well. But nothing could distract Snape from that prick. Even fully hard it wasn't terribly long, but it was thick and sturdy and veiny, with a gorgeous foreskin, and it had been many years since Snape had been that hungry for anything.
He kissed the purple-brown head. Lapped at the slit and filled his tongue with salty, slightly bitter pre-come and spread it up the big vein. Tickled the sweet spot at the base of the head with a hint of tooth. So it began. He didn't know when he'd decided to give the wolf the best blowjob of his (insane, or possibly imaginary) life, but he was only about halfway finished when a strong hand in his hair pulled him gently but forcibly away.
"No, please, love, no."
What did he mean by that, the ungrateful furball?
"I need you inside me. Please fuck me."
Ah, that was what he meant.
"Impatient creature! Roll over, then."
"Certainly. I love it that way."
Grin that could almost be called … wolfish. Of course you love it that way, you canine.
The wolf assumed the position like he was born to it, in spite of last night's performance, Snape thought as he lubed his fingers. And he did look enticing like that, presented like a submissive animal, eager to be mounted. He slid his fingers into the crease, spreading the muscular furry cheeks apart so he could see the brown pucker. He smeared lube across it with his thumb and got another growlpurr, which made him grin like an idiot. Luckily, the wolf couldn't see it. When he slipped the first finger in, though, he got a real growl and an angry twitch.
"What now, beast?"
"None of that fiddly stuff-just grease up and give it to me. Now, my mate!"
Snape was more than willing to cooperate with this thread of their shared fantasy, though he was careful to use an extra generous amount of lube. He rose on his knees, feeling quite the alpha male, and mounted his lower-ranking wolf in as beastly a manner as he could manage, including what he thought was a fairly realistic growl.
His little wolf seemed to love it. He squealed deliciously as Snape shoved all the way in, and kept up a steady stream of purrs as he rocked back and forth under his thrusts. He was hairy and tight and eager. Snape, used to restraining himself with his occasional lovers, found the wolf could take everything he had to give, and the harder he pounded him the more he seemed to like it.
But as he got close, he was somehow moved to change the pace and take long, slow, slick strokes, while reaching around to cup, to grasp, that wonderful prick. The wolf sighed and took over the rhythm, thrusting into Snape's tight greasy hand. They came almost together, the wolf starting first, and his spasms against Snape's prick pulling him to follow.
As they collapsed together onto the much abused sheets there was a great deal of purring, not all of it from the wolf.
They lay close together for a long time, mates sated with coupling, resting in their den. What a soppy idea, and why didn't Snape want to run away from it, screaming?
He reached out and touched the dark blond hair, dry now, crisp and soft.
"Where do you come from, beautiful wolf?"
The beast rolled over onto Snape, rising above him with hard brown hands braced on his narrow white shoulders so their groins were pressed together. He stared down with his mane falling around his face to brush against Snape's face, but his expression was mild.
"From ink ground fine on the stone of fear and loneliness and trouble, from paper and dreams and spunk. Or perhaps you wove me yourself on your loom of stories, o dreamweaver."
"You're an idiot. Or a featherhead. Or both."
"Yes, Severus."
"And how do you know my name?"
"It's on your diploma." The wolf lifted his tawny head and nodded to the wall where that dubious document hung in a dusty frame. Severus didn't bother to follow his eye line, Why look at his own wall, when he could follow instead the sunlight along the wolf's fine cheekbone. The sunlight tangled in his lashes and turned his eyes to liquid gold.
"And what's your name, then?"
"Remus Lupin."
Well, of all the possible ridiculous, overblown, heavy-handed, Dickensian names! He was terribly relieved. He hadn't gone mad, and he certainly wasn't in bed with a figment of his own imagination. He was going to call his werewolf character Ralph something. Or Ralf something. Ralf something elegant. Something that didn't necessarily suggest "wolf". The first name was enough, wasn't it? Or was there something to be said for a heavier hand?
"Tell me, Remus Lupin. Would you like to top again, in your human form this time?"
"I will mount you any time you wish it, in any form you choose. You are my mate, remember? And if you have forgotten so soon, it may be necessary to remind you."
A hackneyed line if he'd ever heard one, but to pleasant to the ear nonetheless, particularly when accompanied by sexy growls.
v
Remus Lupin was living with Severus Snape in his flat behind the studio, napping and reading manga and getting fitted for reading glasses and teaching himself Photoshop and InDesign on the spare computer. Right now the wolf was slurping ramen while channel surfing, two appalling habits that he found himself too lazy to correct. Or, more properly, too besotted. Where had he come from, his annoying, brilliant, delectably ill-mannered werewolf?
Severus had never felt less curious about anything in his life, and that, in itself was a profound curiosity. He never bothered to seriously question the comforting presence of his new lover in his life; never followed up on any of the wild (and widely varying) stories he told about his past history, never did so much as a lick of research. This, from the man who did illicit criminal background checks on the local pizza delivery boys before he opened the door. It was very strange, but it was as if Remus was already part of him, an old, old friend he loved and trusted automatically, without having to second guess himself.
It was sad, in a way, that he had never had that before. But it went a long way to explain his strangely complacent attitude. He was almost willing to believe the wildest of the wolf's explanations for his own existence; that he was a stray bit of storytelling wandering loose across the narrative universe, and that he and Severus had once been fellow characters in an extremely popular series of books, characters who had known each other from childhood, and been enemies and friends and lovers in an endless series of variations on the basic plot of that famous story.
Pure crap, of course, but he supposed, as he slid to the floor beside Remus, it was as good an explanation as any.
He rested his head on the wolf's sweet bony hip, and let his fingers play across the rising groin, stroking down and pushing up, cupping. Slurp, sigh. He unfastened the button on the tight jeans and slid the zipper down. One of the best things about werewolves, he thought in his last fully coherent moment, was that they absolutely refused to wear underpants.
Very gently, he tugged out the thick, uncut wolf cock. It rose almost straight up out of the nest of thick, coarse, curly old gold hair that filled the V of the open fly. Beautiful, so beautiful. He stroked along the vein, then played with the loose foreskin for a while, slipping it back and forth across the head, rubbing his fingertip underneath it as far as it would go, feeling the thickness and hearing Remus' breath speed up as he pulled it and stretched it. Finally the sheath retracted as far as it would go; the beast was fully rampant, but still slurping the damn ramen.
Snape rose up on his elbows, licked his lips to soften them, and did a little slurping of his own. No salty convenience food had ever tasted so good.
vi
Moonsong, the long awaited follow up to Hebi no Komori's best selling series, Broomsticks, was an instant hit for Lionhouse Publishing. A wide range of fans devoured the adventures of an elegant yet angsty werewolf who struggled to maintain his humanity while coming to terms with the monster inside himself, all while investigating esoteric mysteries and exploring his erotic attraction to various wizards, vampires, kitsune, psychics, beings from other dimensions and, of course, other werewolves, all of whom were as hunky as he was. The long running manga was also a critical success, with several episodes being reprinted in quite respectable literary anthologies.
Hebi no Komori himself remained an obscure figure. It was fairly widely known that the mysterious Professor had parted ways with his longtime assistant, Luna Lovegood*, replacing her with an previously untrained man known only as RL. Insider gossip, in turn, whispered that RL shared the great mangaka's bed as well as his studio.
It was an unfounded and extremely silly rumor that this man, a slim, innocuous, tawny haired person in wire framed glasses, was actually the model for the deliciously wild werewolf hero, Ralf Romulus.
*Ms. Lovegood left "to pursue independent projects" and established her own career as the creator of the first "ecomangas" Sasquatch Storm and In Search of Nargles, which soon developed a small but intense fanbase of their own.
Notes
1) "Hebi no Komori" is a Japanese nickname meaning, roughly, The Snake-Bat.
2) Hebi no Komori, like many contemporary gay mangaka, has no use for the traditional stereotypes of uke and seme.