LMOM: Collared- Part 16
May. 16th, 2010 12:04 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katekintailTitle: Collared Part 16
Author: KateKintail
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Kinks: possible non-con
Pairing: Remus/OMCs?
Disclaimer: This story is NOT of JKR’s making. I make no money from this at all. I also do not condone the keeping of werewolves as unwilling sex slave love pets.
Summary: Unable to make ends meet after the war, Remus submits himself to the Ministry’s program for werewolves.
Word Count: 940
Notes: Written for pervy_werewolf’s Lusty Month of May 2010
The accommodations the Ministry put together to keep the werewolves during the full moon were impressive. When he had enrolled, Remus had envisioned a big, secure room full of every werewolf. But, as it turned out, that would mean the werewolves attacking each other. And if the Ministry was capitalizing on the werewolves, it made sense not to allow them to injure, main, or murder each other. To the best of its abilities, the Ministry took care of its merchandise. The Ministry drugged each werewolf pretty heavily and moved each to its own cage. The walls and floor were padded. The lights were dim. And there was plenty of raw meat available.
If Remus had felt better, it would have been an almost ideal situation. The problem was that he had never felt more alone in his life. Once upon a time, his transformations had been what he most looked forward to, a time to run free with his best mates, his pack. He had stupidly thought transforming alongside a hundred other werewolves would be similar. He would have others to romp about with. But the Ministry’s setup made this impossible.
After going from constant contact with a master, being told—and shown—what to do every second of the day, it was torture to suddenly be alone with no one to direct him or even just be with him. He lay curled in a corner of his cage, too weak and ill to get up. Remus was barely aware of what was going on. He slipped in and out of consciousness, feeling nothing but pain and heat and misery when he was awake. His head was splitting. His body was on fire.
He scratched himself when the savageness within got to be too much. And he bit his arm—gnawing almost nervously, repeatedly. Strangely, the injury was rather comforting. It was like the pain he’d felt over the past few days. It was a good, constant sort of pain. It made him feel alive.
When the dawn broke, Remus was barely aware of it. He lay there, bleeding, hurting. Remus’ cage was open, and he didn’t move. Someone called to Remus but it didn’t really register.
He was only remotely aware of hands upon him. He opened his eyes to see a wand but couldn’t keep his eyes open long enough to see what the wand was being used for. He felt a jerking sensation behind his naval. And he felt a hand on his forehead. He felt the hard mattress beneath him.
There were no swats to his behind, which is what he was looking for—something to tell him what to feel, what to do. So he just lay in his bed in Unit Eight and hoped for that to change.
There were muffled words fragmented sentences, random syllables. Things like “fever” and “potions are no good” and “stop the flow.”
He felt himself being jostled in one direction and then the other. He was poked and nudged and moved about. His limbs fell heavily down when released, and the urge to gnaw at himself returned though his arm was wrapped up in something like bandages.
He shivered uncontrollably and they pressed cold things to his forehead, neck, and cheeks. He tried to speak and tell him to stop, but when he tried, no sound at all came out. Remus thought he could still feel the tight pinch of his master’s collar around his throat and wished he wasn’t imaging it. He belonged. He had to. There was no way he could have made it this far and suffered so much without having achieved something.
But nothing made sense. His master wasn’t coming for him. The world spun, making strange, spirals in his head, twisting everything so it wasn’t right any more.
“…needs help!”
“That’s nothing we…”
“Fuck you.” That was Rolf’s voice; Remus was almost sure of it.
Somewhere far away a bell rang. Someone kissed him, felt him up, flipped his robes up over his waist. Someone moaned. Someone came. Remus tasted salt and stickiness. Oh Merlin.
“Is he gone?”
“He comes every day now.”
“…wants Remus.”
“Why?”
Someone pushed his head up and lowered it onto something warm—a thigh or a lap. Someone held a compress to his forehead. Someone caressed his arm with care. Someone yelled for a healer at the top of his voice. Someone performed a sleep spell that didn’t seem to work one bit.
“…to rest…”
“..no good…”
Light touch. Soft hum. The springs of the bed creaked as it swayed from a new weight. More touches. More hums.
“Just rest.”
Blackness everywhere. All-encompassing. Never-ending. Lonely.
Shouts. The shaking bed made him nauseated. A firm hand gripped his wrist. More shouts.
“Lupin. Lupin!”
Remus pulled his eyes open. Blurry dark figure. Dark-haired figure. Familiar figure.
Snape had called out to him this time instead of the other way around. Snape had sounded… strange. Not desperate. Not horny. But maybe… worried. Maybe angry.
Remus couldn’t speak. He couldn’t make his voice work and, even if he could, he wouldn’t know what to say. What was going on? Why was Snape there? Why was Snape in Unit Eight? Was this even Unit Eight?
“Lupin, you have to come with me. I’m taking you out of here. You just need to wear my collar.” Snape’s eyes stared right into Remus’.
Remus still couldn’t talk. He couldn’t move. But he blinked and, somehow, Snape understood that to be a “yes.” He felt himself being lifted up into warm arms and he drifted off to sleep, trying to fight it but being unable to.
Author: KateKintail
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Kinks: possible non-con
Pairing: Remus/OMCs?
Disclaimer: This story is NOT of JKR’s making. I make no money from this at all. I also do not condone the keeping of werewolves as unwilling sex slave love pets.
Summary: Unable to make ends meet after the war, Remus submits himself to the Ministry’s program for werewolves.
Word Count: 940
Notes: Written for pervy_werewolf’s Lusty Month of May 2010
The accommodations the Ministry put together to keep the werewolves during the full moon were impressive. When he had enrolled, Remus had envisioned a big, secure room full of every werewolf. But, as it turned out, that would mean the werewolves attacking each other. And if the Ministry was capitalizing on the werewolves, it made sense not to allow them to injure, main, or murder each other. To the best of its abilities, the Ministry took care of its merchandise. The Ministry drugged each werewolf pretty heavily and moved each to its own cage. The walls and floor were padded. The lights were dim. And there was plenty of raw meat available.
If Remus had felt better, it would have been an almost ideal situation. The problem was that he had never felt more alone in his life. Once upon a time, his transformations had been what he most looked forward to, a time to run free with his best mates, his pack. He had stupidly thought transforming alongside a hundred other werewolves would be similar. He would have others to romp about with. But the Ministry’s setup made this impossible.
After going from constant contact with a master, being told—and shown—what to do every second of the day, it was torture to suddenly be alone with no one to direct him or even just be with him. He lay curled in a corner of his cage, too weak and ill to get up. Remus was barely aware of what was going on. He slipped in and out of consciousness, feeling nothing but pain and heat and misery when he was awake. His head was splitting. His body was on fire.
He scratched himself when the savageness within got to be too much. And he bit his arm—gnawing almost nervously, repeatedly. Strangely, the injury was rather comforting. It was like the pain he’d felt over the past few days. It was a good, constant sort of pain. It made him feel alive.
When the dawn broke, Remus was barely aware of it. He lay there, bleeding, hurting. Remus’ cage was open, and he didn’t move. Someone called to Remus but it didn’t really register.
He was only remotely aware of hands upon him. He opened his eyes to see a wand but couldn’t keep his eyes open long enough to see what the wand was being used for. He felt a jerking sensation behind his naval. And he felt a hand on his forehead. He felt the hard mattress beneath him.
There were no swats to his behind, which is what he was looking for—something to tell him what to feel, what to do. So he just lay in his bed in Unit Eight and hoped for that to change.
There were muffled words fragmented sentences, random syllables. Things like “fever” and “potions are no good” and “stop the flow.”
He felt himself being jostled in one direction and then the other. He was poked and nudged and moved about. His limbs fell heavily down when released, and the urge to gnaw at himself returned though his arm was wrapped up in something like bandages.
He shivered uncontrollably and they pressed cold things to his forehead, neck, and cheeks. He tried to speak and tell him to stop, but when he tried, no sound at all came out. Remus thought he could still feel the tight pinch of his master’s collar around his throat and wished he wasn’t imaging it. He belonged. He had to. There was no way he could have made it this far and suffered so much without having achieved something.
But nothing made sense. His master wasn’t coming for him. The world spun, making strange, spirals in his head, twisting everything so it wasn’t right any more.
“…needs help!”
“That’s nothing we…”
“Fuck you.” That was Rolf’s voice; Remus was almost sure of it.
Somewhere far away a bell rang. Someone kissed him, felt him up, flipped his robes up over his waist. Someone moaned. Someone came. Remus tasted salt and stickiness. Oh Merlin.
“Is he gone?”
“He comes every day now.”
“…wants Remus.”
“Why?”
Someone pushed his head up and lowered it onto something warm—a thigh or a lap. Someone held a compress to his forehead. Someone caressed his arm with care. Someone yelled for a healer at the top of his voice. Someone performed a sleep spell that didn’t seem to work one bit.
“…to rest…”
“..no good…”
Light touch. Soft hum. The springs of the bed creaked as it swayed from a new weight. More touches. More hums.
“Just rest.”
Blackness everywhere. All-encompassing. Never-ending. Lonely.
Shouts. The shaking bed made him nauseated. A firm hand gripped his wrist. More shouts.
“Lupin. Lupin!”
Remus pulled his eyes open. Blurry dark figure. Dark-haired figure. Familiar figure.
Snape had called out to him this time instead of the other way around. Snape had sounded… strange. Not desperate. Not horny. But maybe… worried. Maybe angry.
Remus couldn’t speak. He couldn’t make his voice work and, even if he could, he wouldn’t know what to say. What was going on? Why was Snape there? Why was Snape in Unit Eight? Was this even Unit Eight?
“Lupin, you have to come with me. I’m taking you out of here. You just need to wear my collar.” Snape’s eyes stared right into Remus’.
Remus still couldn’t talk. He couldn’t move. But he blinked and, somehow, Snape understood that to be a “yes.” He felt himself being lifted up into warm arms and he drifted off to sleep, trying to fight it but being unable to.