Fic: "John, I'm only dancing" (Remus/Fenrir) R
John, I'm only dancing.
Remus/Fenrir (1982 ish)
Rating: R
beta-ed by eumenides1
A/N Started as a drabble - sort of grew like Topsy. Premise being the "missing years" of Remus (why am I always writing about this emo git when I have a blond god to play with?) It sort of struck me that in HBP Remus was accepted into the werewolves pretty easily, even though it was well known he was in the Order - so it could be rationally argued (by an irrational argumentative person) that he already was part of the pack. I'm not JKR *points to empty wallet* Heaven was "the" gay nightclub in London - opened in 1979.
The unmistakable strains of the sex call began; the prey stepped down from the ledge and onto the steel dance floor. Remus watched him, his eyes dark with lust, his mouth salivating. He could cut his scent from the throng of sheep, even at this distance. Smell the pointless aftershave on the stubble, the soap under his nails. The anticipatory sweat trickling in his groin.
Same lustrous black hair in shining waves on his shoulders. Same arrogant strut as he swung the obviously underage boy around in his arms.
what big eyes
And he could. He could almost feel his claws rip into the male, sweating, skin. He would.
The lust was heavy-wet; to Remus it seemed to cling to the dancers, settling on the unwary, infecting the needy, the wanton. It could wash you away.
The room pulsed; Remus hung onto the wall and the dance went on.
A gravel voice touched his ear. "You sniff after the same prey, my son."
Remus snarled sotto voce, knowing that the man would hear him, even though he was four tables away.
what big ears you have...
He moved forward, shrugging his shoulders under the thin shirt, satin bought by daddy, irritated by the paternal interference.
Fenrir was behind him, and he hadn't scented him. Blood and earth caused fires in his groin as Fenrir leaned forward, following Remus' gaze. Hot, wet breath on his neck. It took a millstone of control not to turn. To claim. To give. To surrender.
..approach your prey from downwind. You gain the advantage. Trouble is, little Remus, anyone approaching you downwind, has advantage of you...
Fenrir's hand gripped his waist, rough with impatience. "Don't waste your time," the big man growled. "He's not worth your remembrance, and that piece of Muggle filth," he spits out the word - a bone between his teeth - "turns my stomach." He stalked away, not bothering to look back to see if Remus was following. He didn't need to. Remus followed. Even out of Heaven.
~~~~~~~~~
There is iron and earth under Fenrir's fingernails and blood in Fenrir's mind. The wizarding world shrinks from him, revolted because they have lived for years smiling behind a pompous lie. They thought they had sanitised the werewolf. They thought that their metal and their antiseptic and their cages would be enough to hold back the primal. They sought control by taboo, shame and humiliation. They were used to the cursed being horrified by their infection; they never thought there would come one who was proud.
What they forgot, was that whilst the man can never understand the werewolf, the werewolf has always understood the man.
~~~~~~~~~
When the world collapsed into the embers of a bonfire that was never lit, Remus vanished. Went to ground to lick his wounds. It said a lot about the world he had lived in that no one noticed. With no employment and with what few Galleons he had been able to make from selling the few possessions he had, he was soon on the breadline, and often below it. While the world celebrated the demise of Voldemort and the miraculous survival of The Boy Who Lived, few remembered the other players in the story.
But a few did.
When Fenrir found him, Remus was one of Maggie's Lost, hidden deep in one of the huge cardboard cities in London. The last refuge of the hopeless. Dozing fitfully in an April night, shivering with fever and exposure, he'd hardly noticed when he'd been pulled out of his pitiful shelter and slung over a massive shoulder.
Days passed that he didn't notice, didn't miss, and when he did realise where he was and who had him, he accepted it with a numbness that showed in lifeless eyes.
Fenrir let him be, understanding without speech what the boy was going through. He stayed away himself, housing Remus near the children, but not too near to endanger anyone, thinking that perhaps the tears and laughter that sounded through the den would rouse him from his depression. Fenrir knew the signs - either the boy would die from it, or he would gnaw his past from his life and move on.
The older werewolves stayed away from him instinctively, as if he were already dead. Fenrir had seen that before too.
~~~~~~~~~
Back in the musk-warmth of the den, never still, never silent, Fenrir takes him. They clash, mock fight, but Remus is a Pretender of dominance, a clash of what he might be. Could be. Will be.
Teeth grip shoulders, hands deflect nails. The sex-fight is brutal, and Fenrir teaches as much as he takes, showing the boy how to use his strength to gain every advantage. There is blood and bruises, long, long before their lips touch. Remus murmurs, small gasps of pleasure that rip through Fenrir's gizzard more effectively than claws and he hides the delirium the need he has for the boy by further violence.
Even as Remus writhes beneath him, a blade of lust and resistance, Fenrir knows that this is an illusion. No matter that he's hunted wizard children in the hope he would find this boy reborn. No matter that Remus, his hair sweated slick to his face, clings to him and calls him "father." One day he will wake and Remus - who is already dancing to the Muggle freedoms of the London night - will be gone, until the day he returns to take over the pack. All the better to kill you with
It's the way they live.
There is iron and earth under Fenrir's fingernails and blood in Fenrir's mind, he understands about infection. He knows that some can never be cured.
Remus/Fenrir (1982 ish)
Rating: R
beta-ed by eumenides1
A/N Started as a drabble - sort of grew like Topsy. Premise being the "missing years" of Remus (why am I always writing about this emo git when I have a blond god to play with?) It sort of struck me that in HBP Remus was accepted into the werewolves pretty easily, even though it was well known he was in the Order - so it could be rationally argued (by an irrational argumentative person) that he already was part of the pack. I'm not JKR *points to empty wallet* Heaven was "the" gay nightclub in London - opened in 1979.
The unmistakable strains of the sex call began; the prey stepped down from the ledge and onto the steel dance floor. Remus watched him, his eyes dark with lust, his mouth salivating. He could cut his scent from the throng of sheep, even at this distance. Smell the pointless aftershave on the stubble, the soap under his nails. The anticipatory sweat trickling in his groin.
Same lustrous black hair in shining waves on his shoulders. Same arrogant strut as he swung the obviously underage boy around in his arms.
what big eyes
And he could. He could almost feel his claws rip into the male, sweating, skin. He would.
The lust was heavy-wet; to Remus it seemed to cling to the dancers, settling on the unwary, infecting the needy, the wanton. It could wash you away.
The room pulsed; Remus hung onto the wall and the dance went on.
A gravel voice touched his ear. "You sniff after the same prey, my son."
Remus snarled sotto voce, knowing that the man would hear him, even though he was four tables away.
what big ears you have...
He moved forward, shrugging his shoulders under the thin shirt, satin bought by daddy, irritated by the paternal interference.
Fenrir was behind him, and he hadn't scented him. Blood and earth caused fires in his groin as Fenrir leaned forward, following Remus' gaze. Hot, wet breath on his neck. It took a millstone of control not to turn. To claim. To give. To surrender.
..approach your prey from downwind. You gain the advantage. Trouble is, little Remus, anyone approaching you downwind, has advantage of you...
Fenrir's hand gripped his waist, rough with impatience. "Don't waste your time," the big man growled. "He's not worth your remembrance, and that piece of Muggle filth," he spits out the word - a bone between his teeth - "turns my stomach." He stalked away, not bothering to look back to see if Remus was following. He didn't need to. Remus followed. Even out of Heaven.
~~~~~~~~~
There is iron and earth under Fenrir's fingernails and blood in Fenrir's mind. The wizarding world shrinks from him, revolted because they have lived for years smiling behind a pompous lie. They thought they had sanitised the werewolf. They thought that their metal and their antiseptic and their cages would be enough to hold back the primal. They sought control by taboo, shame and humiliation. They were used to the cursed being horrified by their infection; they never thought there would come one who was proud.
What they forgot, was that whilst the man can never understand the werewolf, the werewolf has always understood the man.
~~~~~~~~~
When the world collapsed into the embers of a bonfire that was never lit, Remus vanished. Went to ground to lick his wounds. It said a lot about the world he had lived in that no one noticed. With no employment and with what few Galleons he had been able to make from selling the few possessions he had, he was soon on the breadline, and often below it. While the world celebrated the demise of Voldemort and the miraculous survival of The Boy Who Lived, few remembered the other players in the story.
But a few did.
When Fenrir found him, Remus was one of Maggie's Lost, hidden deep in one of the huge cardboard cities in London. The last refuge of the hopeless. Dozing fitfully in an April night, shivering with fever and exposure, he'd hardly noticed when he'd been pulled out of his pitiful shelter and slung over a massive shoulder.
Days passed that he didn't notice, didn't miss, and when he did realise where he was and who had him, he accepted it with a numbness that showed in lifeless eyes.
Fenrir let him be, understanding without speech what the boy was going through. He stayed away himself, housing Remus near the children, but not too near to endanger anyone, thinking that perhaps the tears and laughter that sounded through the den would rouse him from his depression. Fenrir knew the signs - either the boy would die from it, or he would gnaw his past from his life and move on.
The older werewolves stayed away from him instinctively, as if he were already dead. Fenrir had seen that before too.
~~~~~~~~~
Back in the musk-warmth of the den, never still, never silent, Fenrir takes him. They clash, mock fight, but Remus is a Pretender of dominance, a clash of what he might be. Could be. Will be.
Teeth grip shoulders, hands deflect nails. The sex-fight is brutal, and Fenrir teaches as much as he takes, showing the boy how to use his strength to gain every advantage. There is blood and bruises, long, long before their lips touch. Remus murmurs, small gasps of pleasure that rip through Fenrir's gizzard more effectively than claws and he hides the delirium the need he has for the boy by further violence.
Even as Remus writhes beneath him, a blade of lust and resistance, Fenrir knows that this is an illusion. No matter that he's hunted wizard children in the hope he would find this boy reborn. No matter that Remus, his hair sweated slick to his face, clings to him and calls him "father." One day he will wake and Remus - who is already dancing to the Muggle freedoms of the London night - will be gone, until the day he returns to take over the pack. All the better to kill you with
It's the way they live.
There is iron and earth under Fenrir's fingernails and blood in Fenrir's mind, he understands about infection. He knows that some can never be cured.