Sex. /Their/ sex. Their sex was always different from any other he'd had.
It was always wild, full of claws and scales and fur and teeth. They both
came out of it bruised, scratched, cut and sore, but they would always,
usually over a tube of Neosporin, agree that there would be another
meeting.
Remus couldn't remember when they had started seeing each other. These days, it was a mass of hot, bloody and - hah - orgasmic encounters. When he was lying in bed later in the nights, his partner's body pressed up against him, he could remember when he thought they started.
They'd tried to recruit him to the Death Eaters. 'A useful tool,' Voldemort had said. That was all any Death Eater was to the Dark Lord. He, of course, had refused. But he hadn't been able to escape. They'd locked him in a basement cell with minimal food and water, hoping to change his mind.
That's where they'd met, anyway. Tom had been another curled pathetic figure in the stone block next to his. Another 'useful tool' to the Dark Side. Every full moon, Remus would see what exactly was so 'useful' about the thin, saucy-mouthed prisoner of the Dark Lord.
Other than the fact that Voldemort was operating off of Tom's guise, Tom was very different. He too would change every full moon, and that was when Remus for the first time saw what exactly made him indispensable to the Dark side.
The night was cool, Remus could remember, and he was starving. The wolf inside was fighting to get out, ravening and drooling. Beams of the moonlight slid through the cracks in the stone, and the transformation began. But as the human in him was sliding away it caught an unusual sound. Remus had long-since grown accustomed to the noises of his transformation, but from somewhere in the dungeon, his wolf-sensitive ears were picking up a slithering, hissing sound.
The transformation complete, the wolf had begun to fight to get out. It threw itself at the bars, saliva flying from its jaws and hanging in silvery tendril from the fangs of the wolf. The Death Eater on guard was a new recruit and stopped to look in fascination at the wolf. He knew the wolf could not get through the bars, and therefore he was safe to observe all he liked.
The wolf, enraged, had paused to snarl and memorise the Death Eater's scent. It was then that Remus found out.
The scent the wolf had inhaled had been nothing approaching human. It was dark blue mixed with purple, heavy and spicy. It was the scent of a dragon. The wolf crouched against the far wall in horror.
The Death Eater came into view once more. He was backing slowly away from the cell next to Remus's, his eyes trained on what Remus thought had been the depleted Tom Riddle. There was a low reptilian hiss and a growl, deep and rocky in a throat made for both a deafening roar and articulate speech, should the dragon choose. The Death Eater ran in fright, looking for a safer sect of the dungeons to patrol.
That was when they had met, Remus remembered. And when the Dark Lord had fallen, that was when they had escaped. Remus had clung to the leathery neck of the dragon and felt the wings, not enormous like a true dragon's but in proportion to the body of the were-dragon, beating the air on either side of him.
And when they had landed, yes /that/ was when they had fucked for the first time. When they landed outside of the neighborhood in Little Hangleton and Tom had changed back and they had found the remains of James and Lily's house, /that/ was when they had their first encounter. Remus had fled into the forest and Tom had followed and Remus had wanted something, /anything/ and Tom had given it to him.
The first time Remus had fucked Tom with all the rage and frustration and Tom had taken it, moaning and writhing and changing. Remus had noticed before that he lost control of the wolf during sex long ago and therefore avoided sex at all costs. But Tom, Tom was the same. The first time, Remus had growled and snarled and howled and Tom had taken it, skin becoming lathery scales beneath Remus and the soft growls of self-control emerging between the moans.
The second time, Remus had still needed it. But Tom wasn't going to just take it anymore. The second time it was a battle for power, a test of will. Remus would growl and Tom would snarl back at him. They'd cut each other, they'd bitten each other with inhuman fangs and they had drowned in the pleasure of it all.
When they were finished they'd just lain there. Tom had wrapped himself lazily in leathery wings, half-transformed by this point and Remus had curled up next to him, licking his wounds.
Quietly, they'd decided that their lives followed different paths. Remus's was to remain a member of the Order and Tom . . . Tom knew that Voldemort was quite dead. Tom had to hunt him down. But they had also agreed that when Tom returned to England with intelligence, they would meet. It was usually a letter with a single date written on it, and they'd meet and they'd fuck until they were ready to rip each other apart with desire.
But with Voldemort back and Sirius gone forever, Remus needed it more than ever. He would send Tom the letters. Tom would come without fail every time, too. But he'd never taken it the way he had the first time. He always pushed back these days. If Remus was beginning to take control of the situation, a snarl and a rough buck of the dragon's hips were his punishment.
And Remus, as much as it was hard for him to admit it, would stop. He would settle back in their rhythm and Tom would set the pace again and they'd be off, slashing and biting and losing control and enjoying it so very, very much.
Remus couldn't remember when they had started seeing each other. These days, it was a mass of hot, bloody and - hah - orgasmic encounters. When he was lying in bed later in the nights, his partner's body pressed up against him, he could remember when he thought they started.
They'd tried to recruit him to the Death Eaters. 'A useful tool,' Voldemort had said. That was all any Death Eater was to the Dark Lord. He, of course, had refused. But he hadn't been able to escape. They'd locked him in a basement cell with minimal food and water, hoping to change his mind.
That's where they'd met, anyway. Tom had been another curled pathetic figure in the stone block next to his. Another 'useful tool' to the Dark Side. Every full moon, Remus would see what exactly was so 'useful' about the thin, saucy-mouthed prisoner of the Dark Lord.
Other than the fact that Voldemort was operating off of Tom's guise, Tom was very different. He too would change every full moon, and that was when Remus for the first time saw what exactly made him indispensable to the Dark side.
The night was cool, Remus could remember, and he was starving. The wolf inside was fighting to get out, ravening and drooling. Beams of the moonlight slid through the cracks in the stone, and the transformation began. But as the human in him was sliding away it caught an unusual sound. Remus had long-since grown accustomed to the noises of his transformation, but from somewhere in the dungeon, his wolf-sensitive ears were picking up a slithering, hissing sound.
The transformation complete, the wolf had begun to fight to get out. It threw itself at the bars, saliva flying from its jaws and hanging in silvery tendril from the fangs of the wolf. The Death Eater on guard was a new recruit and stopped to look in fascination at the wolf. He knew the wolf could not get through the bars, and therefore he was safe to observe all he liked.
The wolf, enraged, had paused to snarl and memorise the Death Eater's scent. It was then that Remus found out.
The scent the wolf had inhaled had been nothing approaching human. It was dark blue mixed with purple, heavy and spicy. It was the scent of a dragon. The wolf crouched against the far wall in horror.
The Death Eater came into view once more. He was backing slowly away from the cell next to Remus's, his eyes trained on what Remus thought had been the depleted Tom Riddle. There was a low reptilian hiss and a growl, deep and rocky in a throat made for both a deafening roar and articulate speech, should the dragon choose. The Death Eater ran in fright, looking for a safer sect of the dungeons to patrol.
That was when they had met, Remus remembered. And when the Dark Lord had fallen, that was when they had escaped. Remus had clung to the leathery neck of the dragon and felt the wings, not enormous like a true dragon's but in proportion to the body of the were-dragon, beating the air on either side of him.
And when they had landed, yes /that/ was when they had fucked for the first time. When they landed outside of the neighborhood in Little Hangleton and Tom had changed back and they had found the remains of James and Lily's house, /that/ was when they had their first encounter. Remus had fled into the forest and Tom had followed and Remus had wanted something, /anything/ and Tom had given it to him.
The first time Remus had fucked Tom with all the rage and frustration and Tom had taken it, moaning and writhing and changing. Remus had noticed before that he lost control of the wolf during sex long ago and therefore avoided sex at all costs. But Tom, Tom was the same. The first time, Remus had growled and snarled and howled and Tom had taken it, skin becoming lathery scales beneath Remus and the soft growls of self-control emerging between the moans.
The second time, Remus had still needed it. But Tom wasn't going to just take it anymore. The second time it was a battle for power, a test of will. Remus would growl and Tom would snarl back at him. They'd cut each other, they'd bitten each other with inhuman fangs and they had drowned in the pleasure of it all.
When they were finished they'd just lain there. Tom had wrapped himself lazily in leathery wings, half-transformed by this point and Remus had curled up next to him, licking his wounds.
Quietly, they'd decided that their lives followed different paths. Remus's was to remain a member of the Order and Tom . . . Tom knew that Voldemort was quite dead. Tom had to hunt him down. But they had also agreed that when Tom returned to England with intelligence, they would meet. It was usually a letter with a single date written on it, and they'd meet and they'd fuck until they were ready to rip each other apart with desire.
But with Voldemort back and Sirius gone forever, Remus needed it more than ever. He would send Tom the letters. Tom would come without fail every time, too. But he'd never taken it the way he had the first time. He always pushed back these days. If Remus was beginning to take control of the situation, a snarl and a rough buck of the dragon's hips were his punishment.
And Remus, as much as it was hard for him to admit it, would stop. He would settle back in their rhythm and Tom would set the pace again and they'd be off, slashing and biting and losing control and enjoying it so very, very much.