Took a break from tidying my room to do some light housework, more or less located in the terror zone that is my room. :) It's actually looking a little better now.

Got talking with neverforgets today. We already ordered our advance tickets, so on June the fourth, there we are! Can't wait. The reviews were just driving me off the wall with jealousy. I had to stop reading them, I'm spoiling all the good parts. ^_^

Here's some smut, please review, tried something a little different this time.

Title: War Spoils
Author: misted_oracle
Reviews: yes please, priestess_oracle@yahoo.ca
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Remus/Lucius
Warning: non-con, grossness, angst
Summery: Lucius Malfoy was surprised by his choice at a prisoner.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter, because if I did book five would have ended very differently, nor am I making any money off my writings.
Author’s Notes: Written for the Lusty month of May at pervy_werewolf.

War Spoils

He lays completely limp when I come into his room, his gray hair fluffed out against the silken pillows, his skin pallid and smooth, only the odd old scar blemishing his thin body. I lean over him and stroke his face, wondering why I chose such a man.

I could have had Wood; he looked a strapping you lad, probably would have put up a fight, too. I could have had Snape. He’s not much to look at, but punishing a traitor such as Severus would have proved more fun than this promises to be. I could have even had young Potter, or at least I could have shared him. My Lord wouldn’t give up full possession of his new favorite toy.

But no, I’ve chosen the werewolf, an ill, old looking, though younger than myself, crippled man, who looks half dead as he lays on my bed, sleeping due to the potions he’d ingested.

I’m not quite sure why I chose him. He’s a monster, a foul beast that will burden me heavily once a month. He’s not stunningly attractive, nor does he appear to have any remarkable skills I should like to harness. But he’s an Order member nonetheless and they have to be dealt with accordingly.

Not many upper class Death Eaters would want such a prisoner. He’d likely be given to one of the younger, inexperienced lot, who’d go easy with him and let him get away with murder. It’s for the best that I claimed him as my own, even if he was on his deathbed when I did so.

He doesn’t look much improved now, regardless of what the healer said. Though he is less bloody and not strung with the Cruciatus, nor does he smell like wet dog. I smile to myself, thinking my new little pet’s reaction when he wakes up. He’ll be disoriented for sure; the potions he’s been fed with assure that much. I can’t wait to see the look on his face. Oh how the proud have fallen. Once the brave, righteous little Gryffindor, now shackled to my bed, waiting to service me.

It is good to have such power.

His eyes flutter weakly as he wakes, blinking in rapid succession like a man blinded. He gazes up at me, his hazel eyes falling over me, scanning me as if to assure him I am real. He opens his mouth to speak, but I silence him with a wave of my hand.

“You’ll not speak unless spoken to,” he seems to realize what’s going on, or at least has gained some conscious. He tugs uselessly at the chains pinning his arms and legs to the bedposts, his brow knit in concentration.

I smile. He’s rather a pretty sight when he’s trying to fight.

“You belong to me now,” I tell him, grinning as he startles.

“But Harry…” I backhand him swiftly, causing him to jerk to one side.

“You’re not to speak,” I tell him again, not able to stop from smiling, “And you’re little mudblood savior is dead. He was killed last night,” he pulls again at the chains, his eyes darker than before, a grim look of determination on his face, “You won’t get anywhere by doing that,” I warn him, “they’re magically bound and you have no power. You’re wand has been snapped, and I’m afraid you won’t be acquiring a new one,”

For the first time a look of panic appears on his aged face. He doesn’t say a word and falls limp onto the bed, loosening his pull on his binds.

“Tonight you’ll be moved to your own rooms,” I do not tell him that his rooms are hardly larger than a small closet and are padlocked on the outside, with no windows, “For the time being you’re to stay here. You were hurt rather nastily by Macnair,” I also do not point out that in the end the wolf actually managed to do away with Macnair. I don’t think he remembers, so I risk little.

He looks away defiantly, a scowl covering his pale face. I cannot resist indulging in asking him.

“What seems to be the matter, Lupin? Are you not happy with your new station?” I lean in and hold his chin to face me. His eyes meet mine, then look away hastily. This is good; he knows his place already.

But he does not answer; he only keeps his gaze focused on the door behind me, staring at it fixedly. I scowl.

“It can’t be all that new a concept to you. After all, you served my baby cousin for quite some years before he landed in prison, didn’t you?” what I’ve heard are only rumors of course, but from the way he jerks from my touch and closes his eyes painfully, I can tell they are all true.

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” he hisses, biting his lip to keep from whimpering as I slap him hard across the face.

“You will not speak to me that way, wolf,” I whisper, dangerously low. I take my cane from where it is propped up against the bedside and stroke the silver snakehead idly, “Do you know, Lupin, that this cane is pure silver?” I ask him pleasantly and see the grimace that appears on his face as he jerks as far back from me as the chains will allow.

I grin and lightly caress the open mouth, bringing it down to touch Lupin’s bare shoulder. I press it in, firmly holding it still. He hisses and doesn’t manage to suppress a shudder. His eyes press closed and he lets out a guttural sob.

I remove the cane and where the red was once pressed the skin is burned deeply, flushed red with ugly boils over it.

“Did that hurt, little wolf?” I ask, watching in glee as tears appear at the corner of his eyes. He refuses to let them fall. Yet.

He doesn’t answer, keep his watery eyes stationed away from me at all times. I know what will make him respond. His shabby old robes have been long since removed, replaced with clinical white ones, simply made with little shape to them. I pull them up over his waist, watching as the look of horror grows on his face.

“Do you know your place yet?” I ask, he doesn’t respond.

I wait no longer, holding my cane firmly in my hand I press it down against his inner thigh, making sure it doesn’t move. A sob escapes his throat and he tries to writhe away, but he gets nowhere.

I hold it down for much longer than before. When I pull it off the skin has broken and blood issues forth in small amounts. A streak of smooth tears falls down his cheek, dripping down his chin and onto his neck.

“Do you know your place yet?” I repeat. He looks away, tears still falling.

His flaccid cock falls between his legs, long and thin, much like the rest of him. I cannot resist such a temptation. I take it in one hand and rub it to hardness, evoking soft whimpers from his mouth. He doesn’t remove his eyes from the door.

When his erection stands jutting out against his stomach I smile and idly play with the silver snakehead. His breath catches in his throat, realizing what I’m planning. I look down at him, running my fingers through his gray hair, “If you promise to be a good little wolf I’ll stop right now,” he holds my stare longer this time, his brows wrinkled, his lip bitten. Finally he pulls his gaze away, a few stray tears still trickling down his cheeks, “Have it your way,” I breathe as I lay the head of my cane against the head of his cock.

He screams, hoarse and begging. His hips thrust upwards and then downwards, but he can’t escape it. The tears return full force, covering his cheeks and chin as he sobs, pulling his hips awkwardly away from my grasp. His eyes roll back and he moans, crying out in a weak scream.

When I finally remove my cane, much later than I should have his erection is completely diminished, his cock head still swollen from burn, which leaves angry red bumps and boils over it. He looks up at me, his eyes squinting from the pain. His head has hit the pillow and he lays completely limp, breathing harshly.

I lean over him, knowing I’ll get the answer I want now, “Do you know you’re place yet?” I ask.

His eyes open weakly, tears still pouring from them. He nods, unable to summon the strength to speak. This doesn’t bother me; in fact I like this much better. I smile and stroke his cheek in what he knows is a mock caress. Suddenly Wood, Snape and Potter don’t seem like such prizes anymore.