Happy Springsmut, redcandle17! Author:lunalelle Recipient:redcandle17 Title: Black Dove Pairing: Hermione/Fenrir, suggestions of others Rating: MA Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. Summary: (AU: Voldemort wins) Fenrir has to prove his willingness to submit to new terms. Warnings: dub con, manipulation, rough sex, s&m Word count: 4860 words Author's Notes: I think that your intention in asking for Hermione/Fenrir was for a different dynamic, but I was simply unable to come up with a passably original idea for that dynamic. However, I love the pairing. As a result, I've flipped the dynamic completely, and I hope that you enjoy it as much this way as the conventional way. Betaed by M.
He leaned his scarred back against the stone. His hands lay limp between his spread legs, his cock flaccid and hanging to the left side. The shackles were cold and heavy against his neck and wrists, and the chains draped over his body. If one of the Death Eaters had looked in, they would have seen the picture of defeat. They would not have known what they were seeing. Fenrir Greyback could not be defeated. He would simply bide his time. A wolf could wait. Months. Years. He could wait.
To tell the truth, he only half-expected that Voldemort would keep his end of the bargain. When he gave the man his allegiance in exchange for acknowledgement and respect, he knew that all Voldemort gave him was a show. But he had known the man's reputation for fulfilling promises to those who gave their loyalty completely and did exceptional work. And Fenrir did this, sold his pride to that serpent devil. And what did he have to show for it? A medal? Freedom and acceptance for his brethren? A simple thank you?
A prison. A cage, a collar, treated like a dog. No different from what had been his prospect before he gave himself to the Dark Lord. He should have known better than to trust a wizard, especially one as high-minded and egotistical as Voldemort. He should have seen the silver disgust in that man's eyes whenever Fenrir walked into the room, as though his form of torture was better than Fenrir's; As though pleasure in destruction was so plebeian; As though Voldemort himself never made a mess in his games.
Fenrir supposed he shouldn't throw stones – he hated Voldemort just as much as Voldemort hated him. Voldemort disgusted him as much as he disgusted Voldemort. But he thought the work he did for the man had been enough, had proved that he kept up his part of the bargain. Instead of giving Fenrir the fresh meat at the end of the last battle at Hogwarts and then the last battle at the Ministry, he gathered Fenrir and his brethren (pack) and threw them into the remnants of Azkaban. Of course, there weren't any Dementors there anymore, even though Voldemort had control of them. The man had other uses for them that were better than sacrificing their singular abilities on werewolves. Here, there were guards. The guards didn't do anything but throw water, bread, overcooked meat, overcooked vegetables, and potatoes into the cells once a day. They had been instructed never to interact with the prisoners. That was smart. The minute someone tried to rough him up as though he were some common criminal would find their throat in his gullet. They knew better.
He never expected another soul to walk within biting distance, which was why he was more than a little surprised when the door to his prison slid to the side. Fenrir leapt to his feet, crouching down so that he could have the power of his legs if he needed them. His chains did not allow for a great deal of movement, but it allowed enough. This was why he may not have been in the shape he had been when he ran free, but he had figured out a way to exert his excess energy, straining against those bonds. If he needed to, oh yes, he could attack. Even wanted to attack.
If he had expected a body to come into his cage, he would not have expected the wee girl with her dignified bearing and damaged innocence, a girl growing into maturity in the shape of her jaw and the line of her cheekbones. There was kindness in her expression, but also calculation. Fenrir was sure that he had seen her before under less collected circumstances. He was also sure that she had belonged to the other side.
She waved to the guard on the other side of the door. The heavy metal slammed shut behind her reluctantly. He wondered at the conditions that would lead anyone to let a little girl like this into his cage. He knew she was a witch, though, and witches and wizards tended to overestimate their power with a wand. He shifted on his toes agitatedly.
"Fenrir Greyback," she said. That was really all that needed to be said, and the name hovered between them, charged with electricity. There was intensity in her gaze, and Fenrir saw beyond the childishness and into the woman. She may not be his type, but he would eat her anyway, just to taste such an intensity in such a small body. So breakable. Who would throw her to the wolves?
"We have a proposition for you. If you take the proposition, I am assured that other werewolves will follow." She let the silence sit again. Fenrir was not interested in talk. Talk was cheap. Talk had him in this mess in the first place. "The Dark Lord put you here because he was uncertain of your loyalty under new circumstances. He wishes to allow a discourse in which to test that loyalty… under probationary standards, of course."
She deliberately gave him reason to question, and although Fenrir had the questions that she wanted him to ask, he was certain that she would answer them on her own. He pushed his hair back and continued to prove that he was at least listening. She was nice to look at, in any case.
"I am sorry to say that this test is entirely in my heads, and it will be unpleasant for you in some ways. In others, however, I expect you'll enjoy yourself just fine." She pulled her wand from her sleeve and smiled slightly. "You were far more talkative when I saw you last. Then again, I was the one bound at the time. I don't suppose you remember me. Back then, people knew Harry, of course. And they knew Ron because his family was old and large and distinctively red-headed. They didn't think much about me unless Skeeter decided to smear me across the pages of the Daily Prophet. And then they'd promptly forget about me again. Not that I minded. And I don't really have to worry about that now, do I?"
With a wave of her wand, the chains binding him yanked him against the wall hard with his limbs spread. He tugged against them reflexively, but they did not let him move much more than an inch. He growled with the effort. He was used to not wearing clothes, but he couldn't remember feeling so naked before.
"But you wouldn't know, would you? Locked up in here, you have no clue what goes on outside." She walked up even closer until she was standing just before him, staring up at him. He couldn't even lunge down to bite that pert little nose of hers. Her mouth curved in a smile far too cruel for her face, and she stroked the tip of her wand down his chest.
"Then let me put it into simple terms. The Dark Lord is everything. He owns everything, he rules everything. When people try and rebel, he either convinces them to repent of their ways or kills them outright. I tried to rebel, like most of us did. I was given a choice. I may have chosen wrong. Harry and Ron would have said I was wrong. But they're gone. They're not dead, but they're gone. And it damn well feels right to me. Everything's changed. I've changed. The Dark Lord has changed, or at least he's different than we expected. The initial impurity culling was just the beginning. He could have killed me with the rest. But he didn't. He recreated me – he filled me, he completed me, and he controls me as much as I allow myself to be controlled."
"So you're his concubine," Fenrir said. It must have been his first words in years. They felt unfamiliar in his throat.
She didn't even blink. She must have heard the accusation a million times before. "Nothing so crude." Her wand drifted along the line of his hips and stomach. In spite of himself (years and years of nothing but his hand and finding even that tedious), his cock began to twitch. "And I don't have a Dark Mark on my arm. There isn't much use in a secret society when we aren't secret anymore. Everyone belongs to him now. Even you. That's what I'm here to tell you. I volunteered to tell you that it doesn't matter if you're out there or in here. He owns you. But take heart – you aren't alone."
Her wand move away from his stomach, and she passed it to her left hand so that her right hand could encircle the rapidly swelling flesh of his cock.
"You've decided to stroke submission out of me?" Fenrir asked, almost disbelieving.
"Submission," she purred, and the sound went straight to his erection. He groaned as she tightened her grip. "That's such an excellent word for what I plan to do to you." She began to pull – no finesse, no sensuality, just pulling, almost painful.
"You're a pack leader, an alpha wolf," she continued. "And there's no room for those in the Dark Lord's regime. He needs someone who can take orders – and more importantly, someone who wants to take those orders."
"Do you like to take orders?" Fenrir asked. He hissed as she ran her nails up his length. His back arched as well as it could, and it felt like he was growing fur. So long…
"Depends on the order," she said, moving closer. Her robes licked his inner thighs, and her breath was warm on his chest. "There are exceptions to his preferences. You are not one of those exceptions."
He grunted as the rough treatment (always liked it rough) started to really have an affect. His cock was huge in her hand, red, turgid, and glistening at the head. The precome was not enough to lubricate him adequately; he chaffed under her ministrations. But her lips pressed lightly against his chest, nuzzling the hair there, laving at his nipples and the skin around them, contrasting with the urgency between his legs. He heard the clatter of a wand as it fell at his feet. Her other hand slid around his waist and down his back until it settled between his cheeks, her index finger pressing against the hole there. She wasn't… this bit of a woman with the cruel-innocent face was not going to… He could not suppress a moan, another, and another as she slipped into him dry and harsh. Pressed. There were no words as his vision darkened with his impending orgasm, quick and unexpected as the girl before him smiling into his chest.
He came onto her pretty robes, and when she stepped back, she smoothed those dirty hands on her hips.
"One among many days, Fenrir," she said. She bent down to retrieve her wand, and his eyes were drawn to the firm roundness of her arse. "I'll see you again."
"And what exactly do you hope to accomplish, little girl?" he asked as she walked back to the door. "You can't fuck loyalty into me."
This time, it was she who didn't say a word. She rapped on the metal door three times. Before she left, she released his chains to their normal length, and she looked back at him with an almost apologetic smile, as though she knew something he didn't.
---
The next time she came (three days later, three weeks later, who knew?) found him strapped to the ground with his mouth sealed so that he could not scream. Just remembering the last time made his prick betray him, and she smiled beatifically before she straddled him, pulling her robes to her hips. He caught a glimpse of those great legs and scars on the right thigh before the fabric covered her again. But he could feel her. She wasn't wearing any knickers, and she was wet against the base of his cock.
As soon as she reached down and held him in her tiny hands again, he was gone. She took his girth without complaint, bit her lip until it was full and dark under her teeth, threw back her head as he stretched her. His breathing was harsh through his nose as she rode him. She did nothing to quicken his pleasure. Her eyes were closed, her hands on his chest to brace herself, and because he couldn't thrust up into her, all he could do was feel the wetness surrounding him and listen to the slapping sound of their skin as she rose up and crashed down again. She bucked and tossed like a wild thing, using him. Her nails dug into his chest as she began to reach her climax, and his eyes rolled back in his head with every clench of her cunt. He was just on the brink of coming when she stood up. Laughing, she left the cell, and this time, she did not release the chains.
He lay there with his cock hard, his balls drawn in, no way to relieve himself, and no way to shout his anger. The spell wore off three hours later, but by then, there was only pain and a desire to destroy what was no longer there. He roared at the walls, feeling them press in around him for the first time.
---
He refused to let her know how much that simple act had affected him. He wanted to throw himself against the chains the minute she walked through that door again. He wanted her beneath him, buried in that arse while she screamed for his mercy rather than him screaming for hers. He wanted to feel her skin tear beneath his claws, feel the flesh give way under his teeth. He wanted her to know the real meaning of submission, to know what real torture was. He could guarantee that Voldemort had taught him better than this standard feminine technique.
This time, he was bound against the wall again. She took her time coming over, watched the heat and fury in his eyes as she approached, but she did not seal his mouth. He growled as she knelt down.
"Is this what you call making me submit, silly girl?" Fenrir asked. "If I told you to suck my dick, would you obey my orders?"
"I see no reason why not. It was what I was planning to do anyway," she said pleasantly. And she bent down and swallowed him whole. Now, he wasn't so monstrous flaccid, but he was still large. Larger still as he watched her consume him. He noticed that she struggled to accommodate him, and that made him grin toothily, but she managed, swallowing constantly as he grew down into her throat. She moaned into his flesh.
"Yes, you were made to suck it. Just like that." She had not strapped down his hips, and he could thrust shallowly into her. He expected her to gag, but she never did. The girl must have been at the mercy of every Death Eater before the Dark Lord would agree to keep her in order to garner this kind of experience. That was one thing that he could thank Voldemort for. "Take it all, take it until I come in your pretty little mouth." She ate him, consumed him like he was everything she had ever wanted. It made him feel unexpected – like he wanted to be wanted. He wanted to take her, but somehow, as she bowed her neck before him, she was still the one taking him.
"No," he growled as she pulled away. Her wand (how he hated those things) came up against his sac, and black threads snaked out, binding him until his balls ached and his cock stood straight up in repressed need. "God, woman, what the hell do you think you're doing?" He meant to ask what was the point, but he was distracted by the precome on the corner of her lips.
She whipped the wand against his mouth. "No, no, time for me to talk now. And I want you at full attention." Her fingers played with the leaking head as she stared up at him. How did a girl so small seem to fill his vision, her voice fill his head?
"What do you want, Fenrir?" she asked.
"Your lovely body bare on a platter sounds tasty to me," he replied.
"And beyond that?" she said. "The Dark Lord would have your head."
"I think you greatly overestimate your importance to him. Aside from your ability to make men quiver for your body, which can't interest the Dark Lord too much, what talents do you have?"
"You only see what I wish you to see," she said. "I volunteered for this assignment, and the Dark Lord agreed with my choice of method. I have other uses. I am more than this outside these walls. As you can be more."
"More than just your plaything?"
"Of course more than that," she said, drawing her fingers down his scruffy cheek, dangerously near his mouth. He opened his mouth, and those fingers pressed into his mouth, challenging him. He could bite. He could take those delicate fingers between his teeth and feel her blood spilling into his mouth. He could change her even just a little. He could make her his without taking her on his cell floor. But there was something in the openness of her expression, honest in all its wonderful and terrible intentions, that stopped him. His closed his mouth over her fingers, licked and bit, but not enough to draw blood or even break the skin. He was rewarded when her eyes darkened.
"He knows what you would like," she said, a little breathless. He continued to suck on her fingers and never took his eyes from her. "No one agrees with him, but in the end, it doesn't matter what they think. He wants you at Hogwarts. Near the Forbidden Forest, prowling the halls, all those children under your careful, watchful eye. There would be conditions, of course. You couldn't run wild among them. We need children for the future, not for your enjoyment. But there would also be… opportunities." She slipped her fingers from his mouth with a slight pop.
"What kind of opportunities?" he asked. His voice had gone lower, huskier, and she licked her fingers to taste him. "Enthrall me."
She enthralled him, but not as he expected. Never as he expected. She pulled her robes open, letting them fall to the floor. Her body was flawless in its youth and full in its age. Her breasts were ripe, plump, and God, how he wanted them in his mouth. And he could smell her, that musky scent between her legs as it came off of her in waves. His cock ached to be released. Everything ached to be released. His body felt too big for the its skin.
"Do you plan to play nice?" she asked. "It goes without saying that the offer is off the table if you don't."
"Tell me what I want to hear, little girl, and you'll see how nice I play."
"That's not an answer."
He grinned. "Release me, and I'll play as nice as you please."
"No chance those chains are coming off," she said. "I'm not stupid. However, there are other ways to play."
And she proved that very well by taking hold of his shoulders firmly and curling her legs around him until she was face-to-face and cock-to-cunt with him. The smell was all around him now.
"You said something," he struggled to say through clenched teeth, "about opportunities."
She encased him like a warm glove, moving too slowly. "Yesss, opportunities…" She clenched her muscles around him, and he felt his body struggle to come, but he couldn't. "Opportunities with the children who need to be… punished." Oh God, her nails, digging into his shoulder blades hard enough for him to feel trickles of blood down his back. He groaned and thrust up into her, drawing a slight mewl from her as the movement pressed her clit against bone.
"Nothing permanently damaging. Nothing extreme. No turning. But you could still have fun with them. Like you… once had… fun with… me…" She began to move more quickly. He admired her strength to hold onto him and control her movements so easily yet still maintain her diction. He left sentences about ten thrusts back. He was barely left with words.
"Want… you… under… God yes… beneath…"
She shook her head, her laughter catching as she squeezed him. And still, he couldn't come, the damn witch. This time, he could roar, and he did, thrusting as hard as he could until her wavering cry filled the room. Right before he lunged to bite that vulnerable expanse of neck, she slid down, pulling his erection down with her. He didn't roar – he howled at the excruciating pain.
She undid the spell that held his erection and sac captive, but he was no longer interested in coming. Ever fiber of his consciousness was focused on the singular stretched pain of his groin.
"Sorry," she said, and in spite of the satisfied look on her face (and why shouldn't she be satisfied?), her voice sounded sincere. "You don't get me. I get what I want. You don't get anything you want. Until he gets what he wants. It's that simple."
---
He struggled. He struggled every time that she came to his cell. That rolling and clanking of hinges inspired both fear and anticipation – he was not used to fearing anything, especially of someone as unassuming as the girl. She was all he saw aside from the hand throwing food in. She was all he felt. All he talked to. All he knew. Soon, she was in his dreams. Soon, he would wake with an erection begging his attention and a writhing, sickening feeling of self-loathing. He had not hated himself for longer than he could remember. He had grown accustomed to being a werewolf, grown to embrace it – upon embracing it, he left any shame behind.
But now his shame was in losing the sense of self-control he had cultivated so closely. Perhaps others would not see what Fenrir did as self-control. He was impulsive, violent, a creature of passions and instincts. However, these were things that he chose to allow himself – he chose to let himself go, and if other people were any indication, this was quite a feat indeed. But when it came to sex… when it came to dominance… he was supposed to have the control. That was what he had worked for, and the wolf in him would accept no less. He howled, snarled, snapped, clawed, thrust, twisted, everything he could do to deter her. She even came to him right before the full moon when he almost felt like he could pull the chains from the walls with his strength. She gave him a wildness that matched his own, except that hers had the real power, the real control. Just as he wanted to break her, he realized that she was this close to breaking him.
She had him on his knees, a conjured switch in her hand as she rained the sharp stings on his back, his arse, his legs, his stomach, even his cock, which stretched an angry red over his navel in conditioned response. She had him trained physically, and all he had to do was submit completely and utterly to her command (and by virtue, Voldemort's) to have it all go away. It would mean that she domesticated him, but as time went by, he wondered why this was such a terrible thing. If it meant that he could have her beneath him, controlling his own movements, controlling his own thoughts, even if he couldn't hurt her… such a thing much be worth a little pride. Even the wolf inside him recoiled at the thought of being broken into submission, detested being chained, collared, and punished like a dog. He was supposed to be free, with thunder at his feet.
And even wolves understood that there were boundaries. If this woman was one of them, perhaps the wolf could accept that in time. So it was ultimately up to Fenrir the man to give himself to her. With the pain blossoming in his head and the smell of his blood and her sex making his mouth fill with saliva, he finally caved. The words were filled with hatred. He hoped that he could forgive himself. He never even thought that he should hate her instead. Even though he had fought all these sessions, he couldn't find it in himself to hate her when he wanted her so much, when she was just the messenger and as much a prisoner as he was.
"The Dark Lord's new terms… are acceptable."
He heard the swish of the switch, but it never hit him. A breath of air indicated that the girl had halted the strike barely an inch from his lacerated flesh.
"Excuse me?" she asked.
"You heard me the first time, witch."
There was silence. Then a murmur of words. She must have been holding her wand because after she finished, his back knit itself together and the pain lessened to a mere memory. He heard the pad of her feet as she stepped before him.
"And this is what you want?" she asked.
Yes. Anything. Anything better than this. The Dark Lord's work was not nearly so degrading. He nodded.
"I need you to say it," she said. "A vocal contract. He watches us."
"I want to serve him. I accept the terms of the Dark Lord's service."
He looked up at her and saw that there were tears in her eyes, but she was happy. "There's my boy." Her left hand cradled his face, and he could not help but lean into her hand. Her wand flicked, and the chains disappeared completely. "Now, come. I know what you want. I'm not blind."
His hands, his feet, his neck… there was no longer the pull of weighty metal, no longer anything holding him back from the destruction he had long lacked. He saw the girl before him, and he saw red.
She was beneath him, her robes ripped from her body, before she could protest or cry for help. But when his mouth plundered hers, she clutched at him, meeting his ferocity with her own. According to the conditions of his vocal contract, he could not turn her, which meant that he could not bite and break the skin. But his clawed nails dug into her sensitive nipples, twisting them erect until she squirmed against him, a perpetual whine and the white skin of her neck and belly making her submissive to him. His mouth, his teeth, traveled down her body. Where he could not bite, he clawed. Where she smelled best to him, he devoured her until she screamed. Her arms and legs curled and clutched at him as he finally entered her with every bit of power he ever had. He plunged into her so hard that her back arched painfully, but it was pain that she wanted with every gasping breath, every hissed 'yes' as he filled her over and over and over.
It was over too quickly for him. The girl had taken so much of his time tormenting him, he would have wanted to do the same to her. But he was drunk on power and her acknowledgement of that power. His orgasm ripped through him as violently as everything else he had done, and he plunged his teeth into his own arm to keep from doing it to her. She bucked against him, bringing about her own orgasm as he slumped down onto her, crushing her with his weight. But she did not push him away, simply shifted so that there was no chance his blood would mingle with hers. He was the one who forced himself to kneel, to stand, to offer her his hand. He kissed her again, using his height to control the kiss.
When he pulled away, she stared at him through heavy-lidded eyes. "Are you pleased now?" she asked.
"Are you?" he asked back. Sated as he was, he could not find the energy for animosity. The choice was made.
"He is pleased," she replied. "Therefore, I am pleased." She reached for her robes and her wand, which she had let fall to the floor when Fenrir took her. She conjured clothes for him first, then repaired her own robes and put them on over her scratched and bleeding body.
Her hand slipped into his own, like a child and yet not. "Come," she said. "Meet your master."