|Envinyatar (envinyatar15) wrote in envinyatar_fics,|
@ 2008-10-01 20:34:00
|Entry tags:||pairing:hp:draco/fenrir, pt:100quills:hp:death eaters, pt:challenge_the:hp:general|
[Fic] Jaded (Draco/Fenrir, NC-17)
Author: Envinyatar (aka envinyatar15)
Highlight for Warnings: *non-con (oral), underage (16), facial*
Canon-compliance: up to Half-Blood Prince, as it's set post-HBP
Word Count: 1,820
Summary: "Ah," Fenrir whispers, his voice rasping consummate darkness as he takes another step forward, "you know this is your punishment, don't you? Failed the Dark Lord - couldn't kill Dumbledore - no way out of here. No one to save you."
Notes: Mostly written for the lovely melusinahp (more or less in late honour of her birthday), who also graciously offered to beta this and returned to me within what, three hours of receiving it. Wouldn't have written this without you ♥ Lyrics at the beginning from Three Days Grace's "Animal I Have Become", because the chorus seemed fitting. YAY FENRIR! He's fun. >.>
For challenge_the: #031 unforgiving; 100quills: #09 justice.
So what if you can see me
The darkest side of me
No one will ever tame
This animal I have become
Fenrir watches and listens. His ears twitch with the rhythm of the sounds his young prey is making. He sniffs the air, relishing the rich smells; adrenaline runs high in his veins, and yet he keeps perfectly still while holding eye contact with his victim.
There's nothing better than the thrill of the anticipated kill.
Fenrir smirks at the thought, baring his teeth, and wishes he could go as far. His prey flinches and whimpers under its breath. No human ear could hear the sound, but Fenrir savours the frantically uneven staccato of his prey's heartbeat; the small whimper drawn from his prey's throat is just the icing on the cake. Delight races up his spine and makes him stiffen, and then he takes a step closer. His prey's eyes widen in fear, pure fear, all cockiness lost. Fenrir's smile widens, grows monstrous.
"My boy," he growls as he stalks closer. His feet are silent upon the floor, but the way young Draco Malfoy reacts they might just as well have been exploding bombs against impenetrable stone walls. Fenrir snickers while holding the boy's panic-stricken eyes.
How well young Malfoy understands him already.
"Ah," Fenrir whispers, his voice rasping consummate darkness as he takes another step forward, "you know this is your punishment, don't you? Failed the Dark Lord - couldn't kill Dumbledore - no way out of here. No one to save you." Fenrir knows full well his eyes shine yellow in the gloom of the cell, expectation making the wolf anxious. Fenrir feels antsy, wants to get on with this already, but young Malfoy trembles so beautifully. His light skin and lighter hair shine in the darkness, and Fenrir licks his lips as he keeps watching. Then he growls low in his throat, the desire to own slowly taking over. He tilts his head to the side, chin-out nose-up, and breathes. Young Malfoy must have recognised his stance - the danger in the darkness, hidden from the human eye except for vague shapes, and dread creeping up the spine - for the strong, biting odour of pure panic is released into the air. Fenrir instinctively closes the distance between them, one leap forward, and leans down, running his nose against the smooth skin of Malfoy's neck. Malfoy shudders, tries to turn away, but to no avail. Fenrir's grip on the boy's arm is sudden and strong, and young Malfoy cries out under the force of Fenrir's hands. The smell he releases increases both from proximity and growing fear, and it serves to break the tight chains of control Fenrir had worn around the wolf.
The wolf calls, the human answers.
He greedily inhales the smell of young Malfoy, still so pure and innocent, sucks it into his lungs; he stills in his effort to keep it there and never let it go, hang onto it, live by it as he desires to do with his every victim. Eventually though the call for air becomes too much. He exhales, losing the wonderful odour, and chuckles humourlessly against Malfoy's white skin.
Too pure, too innocent. Fenrir licks a wet stripe across his young prey's neck and delights in Malfoy's jerk and rough breathing.
The sort of punishment Fenrir distributes is easy to describe: tarnishing that which shines, pulling it down into the abyss.
"Young Draco," Fenrir whisper-growls. His fingernail caresses Malfoy's smooth cheek, draws a line up to the eye and makes Malfoy stiffen. Fenrir smiles, feels satisfied. Malfoy is predictable, true, but there's a core to him Fenrir is waiting to bring out - and break.
With a jerk of his wrist his fingernail cuts into Malfoy's skin, the smooth patch just below his eye, and makes it bleed. Malfoy whimpers - it seems his favourite sound to make, not loud enough to actually be disgracing, but still something to release the pain and fear into the damp, black air of the cell.
Fenrir smirks again, then leans down towards the small scratch. He breathes out across Malfoy's face and in response feels him try to flinch away. Then Fenrir proceeds to lick across the cut, lapping at the blood. Malfoy tries to thrash in his grip, but Fenrir holds onto him, and only when he's licked away all the blood and has fully enjoyed the flavour of copper on his tongue does he loosen it.
Promptly Malfoy frees himself, and because the darkness is impenetrable for him, continues on his way down. He falls flat on his face over the foot Fenrir extended into the invisible shadows.
A sickening sound that overjoys Fenrir rings through the air as Malfoy tries to stop his fall, and Fenrir hears low moaning escaping the boy rolling on the floor. He can see how Malfoy holds his hand tightly, a grimace of pain masking his face.
Yes, Fenrir thinks to himself, now he's beginning to show his real beauty. This is how young Malfoy ought to look. Fallen angel, now, and Fenrir will debauch him thoroughly until no one will want to have him back.
He leans down and grabs the boy's hair. Roughly he drags him up to his knees, ignoring the cries of pain. "Stay," he orders. Malfoy at least knows when to obey, for he does as he's told and doesn't move. It gives Fenrir another moment to sniff the air, indulging in the various smells that now inhabit this cell: damp salt, copper, the stinging odours of sweat and fear and pain. Fenrir relishes each and every one of them, bathes in them and the effect they have on him is unmistakable. The musky smell of arousal joins the delicious mix he's created, and in another moment he wishes to perfect his work. A growl escapes his throat, and then he's freeing himself. His cock is hard and straining in his hand as his trousers fall to the floor, pre-come already oozing from the slit. He strokes himself hard, once, twice, moans loudly because of it, and then he leans down to young Malfoy, who is so dutifully kneeling before him.
"Open your mouth," he rasps in Malfoy's ear, low and dirty. He feels Malfoy shudder through the hand clutching the base of Malfoy's neck and smirks into the darkness. He knows Malfoy won't open up without a little more coaxing, so he slowly pulls his hand away from his cock. Gathering some of the fluid leaking from the tip, he begins to caress Malfoy's cheek again, leaving trails of pre-come from cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. Then he forces his way between Malfoy's lips with his thumb; with his index finger he puts pressure on the spot where the jawbone connects with the skull; with his other hand buried in soft blond hair, he yanks Malfoy's head back.
Malfoy stands no chance. With a pained grunt he opens up. The sound is smothered by Fenrir's thumb that slips in, salt and semen meeting tongue.
Malfoy's reaction is not quite unexpected. Fenrir barely reacts when his prey, in a helpless defensive gesture, bites down hard on his thumb and splits his skin. Blood fills Malfoy's mouth and makes him gag, releasing Fenrir's finger.
Fenrir growls. This one, he's something different for sure, and Fenrir is infinitely glad the Dark Lord handed Malfoy over to him for punishment. The pain from his thumb shoots up his arm, down his spine and pools low in his belly. A rough tightening of his grip in Malfoy's hair, and the boy inhales sharply. Then there's a slap reverberating from the walls, white skin that Fenrir would love to tarnish further reddening invisibly in the darkness. One hand still secure at the base of Malfoy's neck, Fenrir forces Malfoy's mouth open with his other, wounded one. Pressure applied to the jaw, and Malfoy opens up anew, struggling against the threatening invasion but helpless to do anything about it. Anger is straining Fenrir's abdominal muscles, his cock jerking with his every motion and demanding attention.
"You'll get worse," Fenrir promises roughly, his teeth bared as he looks down. Then shoves his cock forward with a grunt. Wet heat envelops him, soothing his want and heightening his need. The danger of his movement - the threat of teeth closing around him again - is imminent, but facing it doesn't faze him; never has. For someone who has embraced his inner darkness so completely, nothing except the light holds the possibility of inducing fear.
Teeth scrape over his cock as he begins rolling his hips in forceful motion, choked whimpers escaping Malfoy's throat as Fenrir slams home, hits the back of his prey's throat. Malfoy's tongue curls around his cock, tries to push it back out, but he doesn't try to bite down, which makes Fenrir grin humourlessly. Anger still sits tight in him, the muscles of his thighs tense because of it. His grip is tight, powerful, and he handles Malfoy like a puppet. The boy has gone almost slack in his hands, not fighting anymore. Not broken yet, not at all, but he understands the situation and allows it so it will be over as soon as possible.
Fenrir grits his teeth. Pleasure mingles with exquisite pain and he wishes, wishes, wishes so much this wouldn't be the end of it, that he could go farther, allow the wolf to satisfy his desire to kill. Wishes that he could come and let young Malfoy choke on it, wishes he could snap his neck when he shoots down his prey's throat. But this is all it's going to be, so Fenrir doubles his effort, gasping for breath for entirely different reasons than his prey. He's getting close, the edge is near. Yanking at Malfoy's hair, he feels his prey's jaw tense around him, and that's it, it's enough, it pushes him over.
At the last moment he withdraws from Malfoy's mouth with a sick wet pop, and when he comes, growling, he shoots all over Malfoy's face.
As he leaves the cell, pants zipped again and lapping the blood from his thumb, young Malfoy's mother rushes in. Fenrir has no idea how she got to know where her son would be, but it doesn't matter to him. She lets out a shriek when she sees her dirtied son lying on the dirtier floor, the light from the hall outside the cell falling directly on his body. Fenrir smirks to himself, sunning himself in the scorching, hateful look old Malfoy's wife throws him before she kneels down beside her son.
One more set down on the road to Hell.