"Digging" (Fenrir Greyback/Scabior, Rated NC-17)
Title: "Digging"
Author: skellywag
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Fenrir Greyback/Scabior
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Bloodplay, masochism, animalistic sex, written in present tense
A/N: Written for kink-n-squick, for carmela-largo's prompt for some Greyback/Scabior set during DH. Beta-ed by the lovely fitz-y, many thanks for the continuing support.
He finds Greyback in the basement. Ever since the prisoners escaped, Greyback is always in the basement, sniffing at the filthy rags that they slept on. The little blonde girl, probably, was his favourite. It has been three days. Three days of failed searches. Three days closer to the full moon, which lasts three days, and is only three days away, now.
None of the prisoners had been children, not really. Greyback's tastes run to younger, sweeter blood, not teenagers. But the blonde girl had had a wide-eyed naïve look to her and Scabior, all of twenty-four, is nothing like a child and hasn't been for a very long time. He knows she is the one Greyback is thinking about, obsessing about. Pacing the large basement, growling under his breath, frustrated, since because the house elf engineered the escape, there is no scent for him to follow.
When Scabior is halfway down the stairs, Greyback goes quiet. This is worse than the sound of Greyback's over-long nails scraping the stone walls, the wordless snarls, because it's dark and now Scabior has no idea where in the basement Greyback might be. But Scabior has to continue, because they've been given an assignment, and because he would have eventually come down here anyway. He had to stand before Bellatrix Lestrange as she dictated their orders, when rightfully that should have been Greyback's job as leader of their group of Snatchers, and now Scabior descends into this darkness a full day before he otherwise would have.
The attack comes not from the front or back, but from the side, and though Scabior has expected something like this, it nonetheless takes him by surprise. He lands hard on his hip, and Greyback rolls him over, pins him to the grimy floor on his back. He can feel mildew and probably worse soaking into his clothes, warm and slightly damp, like Greyback's fetid breath panted into his face.
It's dark. Too dark to see anything but the outline of Greyback's hulking form above him, and the dim, reflective luminescence in Greyback's pupils. But Scabior can smell him, and the reek is almost overwhelming to his sensitive nose. The stench of sweat and unwashed hair and, somehow, wet fur. The faint odour of blood, likely from beneath Greyback's nails-blood buried so deep it probably can't be scrubbed out, even if Greyback were to try. And then, barely recognizable, the trace of animal musk all half-breeds bear, even in their untransformed state. Tonight it is stronger, so thick and close Scabior can taste it on his tongue.
The loud, sharp sounds of Greyback shredding his clothing race down Scabior's spine like physical sensation, sudden and jarring-Greyback hasn't even said anything to him. He knows better than to struggle, though. Certainly Greyback would enjoy it more if he struggled, but nails sharp enough to rip through cloth like paper are certainly sharp enough to open him up the same way, and Greyback isn't being careful. Those nails draw blood in a few places, shallow nothing-cuts that do little more than sting, and it is everything Scabior can do not to arch and squirm. He pants harshly through his nose-if he opens his mouth he'll say something and Greyback can't be interrupted right now.
When Greyback finishes, nothing is left of Scabior's clothing but a nest of scraps, large swathes and narrow ribbons-a veritable mess all around him. And then Greyback speaks. Low, gravelly, and hoarse, but pleased. "It's been awhile, hasn't it?" Greyback's fingers are slow, exacting. Tracing Scabior's thin chest, the curves of his ribs. Blood creeps across his skin, down his sides, but Scabior forces himself to remain still because now Greyback is cutting deeper.
Other times, with other people, there were immobilization charms, but Scabior isn't even sure he's ever seen Greyback's wand, if the beast still has one. Greyback won't even use something as rudimentary as rope because he likes to see Scabior fighting not to squirm, and he loves it when Scabior inevitably twitches and his nails slip farther in.
"Since before the last full moon," Scabior answers when Greyback's fingers still-when he can breathe again. He imagines his blood coursing in narrow runnels, soaking the fabric beneath him that was formerly his clothing. Shiny-slick and black in the darkness, but it is actually too dark for Scabior's eyesight. He knows Greyback can see it though; the beast's gleaming eyes are moving, devouring his torso, his abdomen, his shoulders-anywhere he's been opened up.
Then Greyback dips his head and Scabior is consumed by the feel of a hot tongue lapping up his blood, insistently probing his torn flesh to make the cuts sting more sharply. Now Scabior can squirm, and he does, groaning softly and reaching up to dig his fingers into Greyback's greasy hair. Scraping his blunt nails across Greyback's scalp. It's not entirely deliberate, but Scabior allows himself the lapse, doesn't try to control the clenching of his fingers.
What Greyback is doing hurts, yes, but it is something else, too. In allowing Greyback to do this-and despite all appearances, Scabior knows he is allowing it-there is risk. Greyback has savaged people with the crooked human teeth he's dragging across Scabior's collarbone. Scabior bears their marks as well: perfect half-moons of punctures scarring his chest, legs, and back. No amount of healing spells and ointments could completely obliterate the leavings of a werewolf, and Scabior is only lucky Greyback didn't choose to take flesh, too, rather than just marking his territory, as it were.
When Greyback closes his teeth on Scabior's shoulder, around one of the deeper cuts, Scabior grits his teeth, too. He hisses as his blood oozes into Greyback's mouth, and yanks the matted hair between his fingers until he knows Greyback can feel it, growling against his skin, hard and bucking into his groin. Scabior thrusts back, up against Greyback's coarsely-made robes and the dense muscle of his thigh, and the friction is as sharp and exquisite as the ache of teeth worrying a fresh wound.
This is all the encouragement Greyback needs-and in reality he doesn't even need this much, except that usually he likes to savour-and he stands to remove his clothes. Scabior chokes down a groan of protest as the pressure of Greyback's body is lifted away from him, but makes no other objection. It wouldn't do any good anyway, and he lies perfectly still as fabric rustles above him.
Greyback strips carefully, unlike his treatment of Scabior's clothing. It may be easier now for Greyback to get the things he needs, but it still not easy. Scabior scavenges from the homes of people they've Snatched, but Greyback is above average in almost every way; they rarely find Mudbloods in his size.
Even given time to adjust to the lack of light, Scabior's eyes can't make out much in the darkness, but he can tell when Greyback finishes undressing because the scent of his arousal thickens until Scabior can nearly taste it in the back of his throat. His skin pulls and tightens at half a dozen wounds as he sits up, shifts, levers himself to his hands and knees, and each little stab twitches along nerve endings straight to his cock, heavy between his thighs.
Greyback is almost feverishly warm behind him; Scabior can feel his proximity without looking for the glow of his eyes. And then Greyback is right there, nosing between Scabior's cheeks, pushing his legs further apart. Scabior doesn't really need a reminder that his lover is a half-step up from being an animal, but this is more like a slap across the face than a reminder, anyway. Greyback is sniffing at him, growling softly and nipping at the curve of his ass. And Greyback's tongue is everywhere, teasing his balls, his perineum, his cleft, before thrusting into Scabior's hole so suddenly his legs nearly turn to water and his arms do give out, so that his face is pressed into the grimy floor while his ass sticks up in the air. The quick and sloppy tongue-fucking feels so good Scabior almost doesn't care that Greyback is effectively licking out the lubricant he prepared himself with earlier. Most of the time, Greyback doesn't bother with even this much foreplay, and Scabior has learned to take precautions.
He's given no real warning before Greyback rears back on his knees, covers Scabior's back with his much heavier body as he sinks himself to the hilt inside Scabior's ass. Scabior groans as Greyback fills him up, trying so hard to dig his fingers into the basement's stone floor that his nails ache. Greyback has the thickest cock he's ever taken, and his prep-work does only half its job.
Greyback fucks him like they are dogs in heat, his hips snapping forward with more urgency than rhythm. Scabior is yanked back onto his hands and knees so that Greyback can wrap his arms around Scabior's torso for support, the weight of his body falling squarely across Scabior's shoulders. He's being pounded so hard it feels like he could easily split apart, and it's the best sex he can ever remember having, until the next time. The only sounds he can make are raw, wordless, halfway between grunts and moans, but Greyback sounds more wolf than man-nothing but deep guttural snarls with each inward thrust.
It doesn't take Greyback long at all to finish, and when he does, he bites down hard on the thick scar tissue between Scabior's shoulder blades-the site of a dozen healed bites, layered one on top of the other so that Scabior can barely feel this one, though he knows Greyback has broken the skin because he always does.
He considers resenting this as Greyback pulls out, and he can finally lift a hand from the floor to wank himself the rest of the way to climax. It's been months and months since he could consider himself a normal wizard. However, before Greyback, he was only a mediocre Snatcher-now he can track by scent almost as well as an untransformed werewolf, which is still leaps and bounds ahead of any normal person.
Scabior jerks himself hard, fast, and frenetic while Greyback looms above him, watching with an alien, predatory amusement that somehow only helps to get him off faster. He collapses into the nest of his shredded clothes and a puddle of his semen and winces as his weight settles on the wounds to his chest and stomach. Greyback's leavings slowly trickle out of him, a sensation that, paired with the dank chill of the basement, makes him shudder, and he can feel Greyback's eyes drinking in the movement.
"Someday," Greyback tells him, "you will join me for a full moon." And Scabior shivers again, because he knows Greyback is right, and he is afraid that he'll enjoy it.
~Fin.
Author: skellywag
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Fenrir Greyback/Scabior
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Bloodplay, masochism, animalistic sex, written in present tense
A/N: Written for kink-n-squick, for carmela-largo's prompt for some Greyback/Scabior set during DH. Beta-ed by the lovely fitz-y, many thanks for the continuing support.
He finds Greyback in the basement. Ever since the prisoners escaped, Greyback is always in the basement, sniffing at the filthy rags that they slept on. The little blonde girl, probably, was his favourite. It has been three days. Three days of failed searches. Three days closer to the full moon, which lasts three days, and is only three days away, now.
None of the prisoners had been children, not really. Greyback's tastes run to younger, sweeter blood, not teenagers. But the blonde girl had had a wide-eyed naïve look to her and Scabior, all of twenty-four, is nothing like a child and hasn't been for a very long time. He knows she is the one Greyback is thinking about, obsessing about. Pacing the large basement, growling under his breath, frustrated, since because the house elf engineered the escape, there is no scent for him to follow.
When Scabior is halfway down the stairs, Greyback goes quiet. This is worse than the sound of Greyback's over-long nails scraping the stone walls, the wordless snarls, because it's dark and now Scabior has no idea where in the basement Greyback might be. But Scabior has to continue, because they've been given an assignment, and because he would have eventually come down here anyway. He had to stand before Bellatrix Lestrange as she dictated their orders, when rightfully that should have been Greyback's job as leader of their group of Snatchers, and now Scabior descends into this darkness a full day before he otherwise would have.
The attack comes not from the front or back, but from the side, and though Scabior has expected something like this, it nonetheless takes him by surprise. He lands hard on his hip, and Greyback rolls him over, pins him to the grimy floor on his back. He can feel mildew and probably worse soaking into his clothes, warm and slightly damp, like Greyback's fetid breath panted into his face.
It's dark. Too dark to see anything but the outline of Greyback's hulking form above him, and the dim, reflective luminescence in Greyback's pupils. But Scabior can smell him, and the reek is almost overwhelming to his sensitive nose. The stench of sweat and unwashed hair and, somehow, wet fur. The faint odour of blood, likely from beneath Greyback's nails-blood buried so deep it probably can't be scrubbed out, even if Greyback were to try. And then, barely recognizable, the trace of animal musk all half-breeds bear, even in their untransformed state. Tonight it is stronger, so thick and close Scabior can taste it on his tongue.
The loud, sharp sounds of Greyback shredding his clothing race down Scabior's spine like physical sensation, sudden and jarring-Greyback hasn't even said anything to him. He knows better than to struggle, though. Certainly Greyback would enjoy it more if he struggled, but nails sharp enough to rip through cloth like paper are certainly sharp enough to open him up the same way, and Greyback isn't being careful. Those nails draw blood in a few places, shallow nothing-cuts that do little more than sting, and it is everything Scabior can do not to arch and squirm. He pants harshly through his nose-if he opens his mouth he'll say something and Greyback can't be interrupted right now.
When Greyback finishes, nothing is left of Scabior's clothing but a nest of scraps, large swathes and narrow ribbons-a veritable mess all around him. And then Greyback speaks. Low, gravelly, and hoarse, but pleased. "It's been awhile, hasn't it?" Greyback's fingers are slow, exacting. Tracing Scabior's thin chest, the curves of his ribs. Blood creeps across his skin, down his sides, but Scabior forces himself to remain still because now Greyback is cutting deeper.
Other times, with other people, there were immobilization charms, but Scabior isn't even sure he's ever seen Greyback's wand, if the beast still has one. Greyback won't even use something as rudimentary as rope because he likes to see Scabior fighting not to squirm, and he loves it when Scabior inevitably twitches and his nails slip farther in.
"Since before the last full moon," Scabior answers when Greyback's fingers still-when he can breathe again. He imagines his blood coursing in narrow runnels, soaking the fabric beneath him that was formerly his clothing. Shiny-slick and black in the darkness, but it is actually too dark for Scabior's eyesight. He knows Greyback can see it though; the beast's gleaming eyes are moving, devouring his torso, his abdomen, his shoulders-anywhere he's been opened up.
Then Greyback dips his head and Scabior is consumed by the feel of a hot tongue lapping up his blood, insistently probing his torn flesh to make the cuts sting more sharply. Now Scabior can squirm, and he does, groaning softly and reaching up to dig his fingers into Greyback's greasy hair. Scraping his blunt nails across Greyback's scalp. It's not entirely deliberate, but Scabior allows himself the lapse, doesn't try to control the clenching of his fingers.
What Greyback is doing hurts, yes, but it is something else, too. In allowing Greyback to do this-and despite all appearances, Scabior knows he is allowing it-there is risk. Greyback has savaged people with the crooked human teeth he's dragging across Scabior's collarbone. Scabior bears their marks as well: perfect half-moons of punctures scarring his chest, legs, and back. No amount of healing spells and ointments could completely obliterate the leavings of a werewolf, and Scabior is only lucky Greyback didn't choose to take flesh, too, rather than just marking his territory, as it were.
When Greyback closes his teeth on Scabior's shoulder, around one of the deeper cuts, Scabior grits his teeth, too. He hisses as his blood oozes into Greyback's mouth, and yanks the matted hair between his fingers until he knows Greyback can feel it, growling against his skin, hard and bucking into his groin. Scabior thrusts back, up against Greyback's coarsely-made robes and the dense muscle of his thigh, and the friction is as sharp and exquisite as the ache of teeth worrying a fresh wound.
This is all the encouragement Greyback needs-and in reality he doesn't even need this much, except that usually he likes to savour-and he stands to remove his clothes. Scabior chokes down a groan of protest as the pressure of Greyback's body is lifted away from him, but makes no other objection. It wouldn't do any good anyway, and he lies perfectly still as fabric rustles above him.
Greyback strips carefully, unlike his treatment of Scabior's clothing. It may be easier now for Greyback to get the things he needs, but it still not easy. Scabior scavenges from the homes of people they've Snatched, but Greyback is above average in almost every way; they rarely find Mudbloods in his size.
Even given time to adjust to the lack of light, Scabior's eyes can't make out much in the darkness, but he can tell when Greyback finishes undressing because the scent of his arousal thickens until Scabior can nearly taste it in the back of his throat. His skin pulls and tightens at half a dozen wounds as he sits up, shifts, levers himself to his hands and knees, and each little stab twitches along nerve endings straight to his cock, heavy between his thighs.
Greyback is almost feverishly warm behind him; Scabior can feel his proximity without looking for the glow of his eyes. And then Greyback is right there, nosing between Scabior's cheeks, pushing his legs further apart. Scabior doesn't really need a reminder that his lover is a half-step up from being an animal, but this is more like a slap across the face than a reminder, anyway. Greyback is sniffing at him, growling softly and nipping at the curve of his ass. And Greyback's tongue is everywhere, teasing his balls, his perineum, his cleft, before thrusting into Scabior's hole so suddenly his legs nearly turn to water and his arms do give out, so that his face is pressed into the grimy floor while his ass sticks up in the air. The quick and sloppy tongue-fucking feels so good Scabior almost doesn't care that Greyback is effectively licking out the lubricant he prepared himself with earlier. Most of the time, Greyback doesn't bother with even this much foreplay, and Scabior has learned to take precautions.
He's given no real warning before Greyback rears back on his knees, covers Scabior's back with his much heavier body as he sinks himself to the hilt inside Scabior's ass. Scabior groans as Greyback fills him up, trying so hard to dig his fingers into the basement's stone floor that his nails ache. Greyback has the thickest cock he's ever taken, and his prep-work does only half its job.
Greyback fucks him like they are dogs in heat, his hips snapping forward with more urgency than rhythm. Scabior is yanked back onto his hands and knees so that Greyback can wrap his arms around Scabior's torso for support, the weight of his body falling squarely across Scabior's shoulders. He's being pounded so hard it feels like he could easily split apart, and it's the best sex he can ever remember having, until the next time. The only sounds he can make are raw, wordless, halfway between grunts and moans, but Greyback sounds more wolf than man-nothing but deep guttural snarls with each inward thrust.
It doesn't take Greyback long at all to finish, and when he does, he bites down hard on the thick scar tissue between Scabior's shoulder blades-the site of a dozen healed bites, layered one on top of the other so that Scabior can barely feel this one, though he knows Greyback has broken the skin because he always does.
He considers resenting this as Greyback pulls out, and he can finally lift a hand from the floor to wank himself the rest of the way to climax. It's been months and months since he could consider himself a normal wizard. However, before Greyback, he was only a mediocre Snatcher-now he can track by scent almost as well as an untransformed werewolf, which is still leaps and bounds ahead of any normal person.
Scabior jerks himself hard, fast, and frenetic while Greyback looms above him, watching with an alien, predatory amusement that somehow only helps to get him off faster. He collapses into the nest of his shredded clothes and a puddle of his semen and winces as his weight settles on the wounds to his chest and stomach. Greyback's leavings slowly trickle out of him, a sensation that, paired with the dank chill of the basement, makes him shudder, and he can feel Greyback's eyes drinking in the movement.
"Someday," Greyback tells him, "you will join me for a full moon." And Scabior shivers again, because he knows Greyback is right, and he is afraid that he'll enjoy it.
~Fin.