HP fanfic: Reaper (Fenrir/Narcissa)
My submission for deatheaterdrabs Round Two: Fenrir Greyback.
Title: Reaper
Word Count: 500
Rating: PG-13 at face value, but darker implications
Summary: Fenrir decides to keep Narcissa company while Lucius is in Azkaban.
Warnings: non-con, implied but offscreen (sorry, pervs! ;)
Prompt: "Woman's destiny is to be wanton, like the bitch, the she-wolf; she must belong to all who claim her." ~ Marquis de Sade
He could smell her the second he walked into the house, and smiled when he noticed her husband's scent was faint, almost completely gone now. He would replace that scent with his own, in the house and, most importantly, on her. Humans had a funny sort of morality about that kind of thing. She, a bitch still in her prime and a fine catch indeed for any man who took her, was meant to remain untouched for the sake of her absent husband - who was as good as dead even if their master was victorious - to let those hips and breasts go to waste instead of putting them to the use they were meant for. They had seen that use only once, and he thought the whelp was a sorry reward for her troubles.
He walked down the corridor toward her, dismissing the house elf who tried to lead him with a snarl. He hated the stink of those things.
She looked up from her book as he stepped through the door and gasped in surprise. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, and he smiled at her fear. It always gave him such a rush, more even than killing, though he certainly loved that too. In her it was especially nice because she always tried to hide it, control it, as if it were something she could lock away and ignore. But fear, like he himself, was a wild animal.
"I came to keep you company," he replied with a toothy grin as he walked into the room.
"I'm doing perfectly well without company, thank you," she sniffed. Always so prim and proper, collected. He wanted to see her undone, her silky hair spilled across the floor like wheat after the sickle. He wondered, if he bit her, what color her fur would be. The thought made him smile. Wouldn't that be something for old poncy-pants to come home to? If he ever got out.
Blue eyes flicked to her wand on the side table. "No need for that," he said as he sank onto the sofa near her chair, gratified she didn't make a grab for it anyway.
"I didn't think werewolves make social calls," she said calmly, though she blanched - impressive for one already so pale.
Her poise was faltering, but he wanted it shattered. He would come back with the full moon, to satisfy the wolf in him. Now he would satisfy the man. "You're an exception," he drawled.
She glanced at her wand again and her hands twitched in her lap. "I'm flattered..." she lied. He didn't let her finish.
One large hand shot out and covered her mouth, pushing her out of the chair and onto the ridiculously expensive foreign carpet. She tried to scream, her tiny hands batted at his shoulders, and he laughed. Then, to his delight, she broke. Her tears fell past his dirty fingers on her cheeks and into her hair, strewn across the floor like felled wheat.
Title: Reaper
Word Count: 500
Rating: PG-13 at face value, but darker implications
Summary: Fenrir decides to keep Narcissa company while Lucius is in Azkaban.
Warnings: non-con, implied but offscreen (sorry, pervs! ;)
Prompt: "Woman's destiny is to be wanton, like the bitch, the she-wolf; she must belong to all who claim her." ~ Marquis de Sade
He could smell her the second he walked into the house, and smiled when he noticed her husband's scent was faint, almost completely gone now. He would replace that scent with his own, in the house and, most importantly, on her. Humans had a funny sort of morality about that kind of thing. She, a bitch still in her prime and a fine catch indeed for any man who took her, was meant to remain untouched for the sake of her absent husband - who was as good as dead even if their master was victorious - to let those hips and breasts go to waste instead of putting them to the use they were meant for. They had seen that use only once, and he thought the whelp was a sorry reward for her troubles.
He walked down the corridor toward her, dismissing the house elf who tried to lead him with a snarl. He hated the stink of those things.
She looked up from her book as he stepped through the door and gasped in surprise. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, and he smiled at her fear. It always gave him such a rush, more even than killing, though he certainly loved that too. In her it was especially nice because she always tried to hide it, control it, as if it were something she could lock away and ignore. But fear, like he himself, was a wild animal.
"I came to keep you company," he replied with a toothy grin as he walked into the room.
"I'm doing perfectly well without company, thank you," she sniffed. Always so prim and proper, collected. He wanted to see her undone, her silky hair spilled across the floor like wheat after the sickle. He wondered, if he bit her, what color her fur would be. The thought made him smile. Wouldn't that be something for old poncy-pants to come home to? If he ever got out.
Blue eyes flicked to her wand on the side table. "No need for that," he said as he sank onto the sofa near her chair, gratified she didn't make a grab for it anyway.
"I didn't think werewolves make social calls," she said calmly, though she blanched - impressive for one already so pale.
Her poise was faltering, but he wanted it shattered. He would come back with the full moon, to satisfy the wolf in him. Now he would satisfy the man. "You're an exception," he drawled.
She glanced at her wand again and her hands twitched in her lap. "I'm flattered..." she lied. He didn't let her finish.
One large hand shot out and covered her mouth, pushing her out of the chair and onto the ridiculously expensive foreign carpet. She tried to scream, her tiny hands batted at his shoulders, and he laughed. Then, to his delight, she broke. Her tears fell past his dirty fingers on her cheeks and into her hair, strewn across the floor like felled wheat.