Draco lies flat on his back, his eyes fixed steadily on the cavernous ceiling high above his parents’ bed.
There are so many layers of fucked-up irony in this, Draco can’t even begin to count them; but they mean nothing to him now, nothing more than the empty spaces of air above him, the heap of his clothes shredded near the locked door.
You know I prefer ’em really young, Fenrir told him, on the night of his sixteenth birthday. Draco recoiled then, but the werewolf only laughed and pushed him down, pinning him to the bed. The thing about being so beautiful, Draco – everyone’s always ready to make exceptions for you.
But let’s not waste precious time.
Now Draco lifts his head, stares down his naked body at the bowed head of shaggy hair hovering over his chest. He doesn’t move as the wet mouth closes around a nipple, sucking hard; but when he feels the blade of teeth shear against bare skin, he tenses.
"Don’t mark me," Draco says, in a whisper.
Fenrir Greyback stops, and raises his head.
"What did you just say?" he snarls; and a lesser person will have wilted at the dark, violent amusement that swirled in those grey eyes, glinting to black.
Draco doesn’t falter.
"Magic can’t heal your kind of scars," he answers, then pauses. "And it upsets my mother."
Fenrir reaches forward, suddenly; Draco tries to jerk away, but Fenrir grabs hold of his arms, clawed fingers digging deep. Draco chokes back a cry as sharp nails rip into flesh, but he knows better now than to struggle.
"So if you could make this exception," Draco continues through clenched teeth; he holds Fenrir’s gaze defiantly, and raises his chin ever so slightly. "For me."
Greyback’s laughter, low and feral in his throat, sends a cold, knowing dread coiling deep within Draco.
"Well, let me tell you something, little cub," Fenrir says; he grips harder and twists, his nails still embedded in Draco’s arms. Draco winces as the puncture holes tear, and he feels the warm trickle of blood ooze from the fresh wounds.
Fenrir’s lips curl back, revealing cruel teeth beneath an even more vicious smile.
"I don’t need to bite to mark you," he says.
The flesh-stained claws retract, and before Draco can notice the bright spurt of blood Fenrir roughly flips him over, onto his stomach. Draco lies still; his cheek is pressed into the silken bedspread, and the bed dips as he feels Fenrir’s weight move on top of him. He holds his breath.
"Knees up."
Draco swallows hard, and silently complies.
Fenrir mounts him; and the explosion of pain through his body is always a new-familiar memory, scorched into the deepest part of him. Draco gasps and feels his knees collapse; but Fenrir’s hands encircle his waist and firmly hold him up to meet each brutal, ruthless thrust.
When it’s finally over, Fenrir lets him fall bonelessly back on the bed and climbs off. Draco rolls away, instinctively; the bitter copper tang fills his mouth and nostrils from his lip, bitten through, and Draco feels the warm stickiness of blood, and more, on various parts of his body.
It is a long moment before he can force himself upright, mechanically getting to his feet. As his consciousness floods back he’s already cataloguing the bruises from this encounter. He still remembers how mortified he was at Madam Malkin’s, when she almost rolled up his sleeve in front of Potter and his friends.
If Potter saw the marks on his arm…
"I’ll be sorry when you’re off to that school tomorrow," Fenrir says lazily.
Draco glances back to catch Fenrir’s eyes flickering hungrily down his naked body. He turns away, sickened, and goes to the wardrobe for a new set of robes.
"But I’ll be here every so often, just to make sure everything’s all right," Fenrir continues; his mouth twists in a grin. "Check in on your dear mother – she upsets so easily these days."
Draco spins around. "Don’t you dare touch my mother!"
He knows he can’t hide the horror he feels, and Fenrir’s smile widens.
"I don’t think you’re the one who should be making threats."
Abruptly Fenrir seizes him; Draco lets out a strangled yell and thrashes as Fenrir wrestles him around, shoving and trapping him face-forward against the wall. At the sharp warning pressure of bared teeth against his shoulder, Draco’s struggling immediately stills to a tremble.
"I don’t belong to you!" he spits at the werewolf pressed up against his back; his voice is filled with anger, helplessness, and fear. "Just because the Dark Lord appointed you to train me in my father’s absence doesn’t make me yours!"
"True," Fenrir replies languidly; his hand moves down to grasp Draco’s cock, stroking it. Draco gasps at the sharp caress of long claws on sensitive flesh; he jerks back reflexively and promptly feels the heated cut of teeth just breaking skin on his shoulder. His entire body goes rigid, and to Draco’s horror, even his cock.
"But you’re special only as long as you remain useful to the Dark Lord. And if you fail," Fenrir licks his lips salaciously, and his tongue laves out greedily against Draco’s bleeding skin, "I’ll be more than willing to show you some other uses I have for your flesh. And your lovely mother’s, too – I think I’ll save her for full moon."
"You leave her alone!" Draco clenches his fists, and the desperation and hopelessness makes his eyes sting with unbidden tears. "You’ve already –" he breaks off, and his voice cracks, "you’ve already had what you… you wanted."
"Indeed." The smile in the werewolf’s voice broadens; in response, Fenrir’s hand pumps Draco’s cock harder, and Draco’s panting from trying not to react. "I could almost say the same about you."
Draco flinches at his own body’s betrayal – he feels Fenrir press his own cock against the already blood-slicked cleft of his ass, and then Fenrir begins humping him, slowly, without penetration, a mockery of what he had already done.
"You won’t disappoint us," Fenrir whispers harshly; he takes Draco’s earlobe between his teeth, and the rhythm of his rutting becomes more forceful, feverishly stabbing in counterpoint to his fist around Draco’s cock.
The very act is savage, animal – leaving invisible marks of dominance, scars of lessons taught and learnt all too well, the leader of the pack fucking the young wolfling into submission.
It is nature.
Draco screams in anguish as he finally loses control – he comes, right there and then in Fenrir’s hand, and every part of his body pulses with hatred, revulsion, shame. Fenrir strokes him mercilessly, milking every drop from him until Draco twitches and shudders, and can give no more.
His body is still trembling as Fenrir turns him around, pressing him up against the wall; and Draco doesn’t open his eyes as the present floods back to him in a single, harsh whisper:
"We can count on you, can’t we, Draco."
Draco’s legs can barely hold up under him; and it’s only Fenrir’s strong, clawed hands that keep him upright, hold him where he is. Draco chokes back a quiet, broken sob.
And nods, wordlessly.
- fin -