Title: Things that Go Bump in the Night Recipient:vikingcarrot Pairing: Fenrir/Draco Rating: NC-17 Word count: 3000 Warnings: non-con, violence Summary:Revenge is sweet. Notes: Love to W. for the beta.
The boy was skilled, but there was no pleasure in the expression on his pale face, only loathing and feverish terror. He stared down at Fenrir and managed to make the curse hurt as if he were holding his own wand and not the Dark Lord's.
They'd sold him out instantly, of course--blamed the entire fiasco on Fenrir. It was the Lestrange bitch who started it, but the others followed along as sure as turning follows the full moon. He'd opened his eyes to see them all surrounding him, looking down. He still felt groggy from the Stupefying Hex, and their bodies appeared grey and formless, their voices echoing through his skull. By the time his head had cleared it was too late; the Dark Lord was there and they were all cowering in terror for their lives.
He had the boy punish Fenrir. The Cruciatus Curse--over twenty minutes of it. Fenrir had thought he'd go mad. When it was finally over he lay on the floor in a mess of his own sweat, drool and urine, and forced himself to look up at his tormentor, to meet his hazy grey eyes and make them go sharp and bright.
I'll get you, he thought, his chest heaving, his muscles still twitching.
The boy's eyes widened and he gave a tiny gasp.
I'll have you, you little Pureblood shit, and I'll do more than bite.
The wand slipped from the boy's fingers and clattered to the floor. His face went grey, and it was only his mother's hand on his shoulder that stopped him from falling.
Despite the pain, despite the remaining humiliation of being treated like a worthless animal by a group of thin-blooded, smooth skinned aristocrats who'd have been torn to bits by his pack in a matter of seconds, Fenrir smiled.
The boy's eyes fluttered shut and he sagged backwards into his mother's arms.
* * *
Security had become lax now that the Dark Lord was dead and the Malfoy's were wandless. It had been easy to break through their wards. Fenrir had found a weak spot near the back of the garden gate and torn his way through. It was then only a short jog and a matter of sliding in through a window.
The whole house smelled clean, like lemons and flowers. Fenrir's bare feet left smears of mud across the carpet. He crept—silent, despite his bulk—through the entry rooms and up the grand staircase. The walls were hung with paintings of Malfoys—thin and pale, sneering at him in their fancy robes, wrinkling their noses and smirking. Fenrir drew his claws through the canvas of a particularly haughty looking witch's portrait. She shrieked and pulled up her skirts away from him. Fenrir silenced her with his wand and smiled.
The manor was a labyrinth of useless rooms. One held a billiards table, another countless books; a third was empty and painted entirely black. Finally, after exploring at least seven empty bedrooms, Fenrir saw moonlight glinting off white blond hair and grunted with satisfaction.
The boy looked peaceful in sleep—clean and pure, his long eyelashes leaving feathery shadows on his cheeks. He rolled beneath his blankets, clutching them to his chest and sighing.
Fenrir cast a muffling spell on the room. He could have silenced the boy, but that would have taken away half the fun. Then he made the door fly shut and locked it.
The bang of the slamming door made Malfoy stir. Sleepily, he turned; his eyes slit open and then he froze. He closed his eyes, rested that way for a second, and then opened them again.
"I'm no dream, boy. A nightmare, maybe, but real enough, you'll soon see."
Malfoy shot up, making a sound like kitten being strangled. There was a frantic rustling of sheets and blankets as he tried to throw himself out the far side of his bed away from Fenrir. In his escape, he became tangled in his bedclothes and fell to the floor with a hard thunk.
And there was that smell—the particular, pungent tang of clean fear mixed with fancy cologne that hung about the boy like a cloud. It had always driven Fenrir wild. He supposed the boy could tell, what with the way he instantly shrunk away whenever in Fenrir's presence. The fear, of course, had only made Fenrir want him more. He was older than Fenrir generally preferred, but he was willing to push boundaries when it came to someone so pink and unsoiled. The boy was begging to be marked, whether he knew it or not.
"Show yourself. You going to cower under your bed like a little girl hiding from the bogeyman? That's the trouble with you Purebloods. No stomach for a fight unless you've got the upper hand. A bunch of blustering, soft-bellied whelps, the lot of you."
A long moment passed, and then Malfoy's head appeared over the far side of the bed. His hands were clutching the edge, holding on as if he'd fall if he let go; shakily, he rose to his feet. He was wearing pyjamas--light blue ones with a scarlet 'M' embroidered on the breast pocket.
"Wh…" The boy paused to swallow his fear away, eyes looking down, to the side, anywhere but at the man standing in the room with him. "What do you want, Greyback?"
"Thought you'd know the answer to that without asking, Malfoy. I want my due. I want what's owed me for taking punishment for you and your whole cursed family when I'd done naught to deserve it."
Shrugging his thin, trembling shoulders, Malfoy said, "Money, then. Is that it? I… I've got some Galleons in the jar on my—"
Fenrir snorted and then smiled, making sure to show off his teeth, watching as the boy's eyes darted to his face and quickly away again. "Not money. Not favours. You paid me in pain, and I'll have it back with interest." He leered and slowly ran his eyes up and down the boy's body.
Malfoy's face went white. "You… You can't…" His gaze shot longingly to his bedside table, his voice growing slightly louder and taking on an edge of hysteria. "Just stay away! Don't touch me. You're not even human. An animal. A monster!"
Fenrir laughed, loud and rough, and began prowling slowly around the bed towards his prey. "Right enough, that. An animal. A monster. And you'll have my monster cock up your arse before the night's through, boy. Better get it through your head before you mouth off once too often."
Malfoy's hand flew to his lips and he stumbled backwards, turning away. He grabbed a vase from the dressing table and then retched into it, his shoulders shaking violently. When he'd finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and turned his head to look at—to plead with—Fenrir. It was the first time the boy had actually met his eyes. The boy's were red rimmed and shiny. His lips were parted; his body hunched, tense and trembling like a frightened rabbit. Fenrir had yet to touch him, but already he looked blurred with shock. It hit Fenrir with hot pleasure that shivered over his skin and through his muscles: he could make the boy do anything—anything—he wanted. His cock was swollen and strained against the confinement of his undergarments; the back of his throat vibrated with a sound between a growl and a purr.
The sound seemed to drain what little fight was left from the boy. He sagged to the side, grabbing the edge of the dressing table to support himself.
"You want to live, boy?"
Malfoy nodded frantically, his brow creased.
"Then you'll do as I say."
More nodding. His sleep-mussed hair fell into his face and he brushed it away with shaking fingers.
"First thing—take off those fancy pyjamas. I want to see what I'll be having." He licked his lips and lazily ran a hand against the front of his robes over his crotch.
Malfoy sank back against the window frame, his eyes glued to Fenrir's hand. "P…please," he whispered.
"You're not moving fast enough." Fenrir stalked over to him, following him step for as he stumbled away into the corner, his hands raised in front of his chest. With one claw, Fenrir snapped off the top button of Malfoy's pyjama top. The boy's face turned adamantly away from him, his eyes closed. Fenrir leaned in, pushing his nose into his soft, pale throat, sniffing him as he tore through the flimsy silk covering his chest. He pulled back far enough to watch the boy's face and see his nose wrinkled in disgust.
Fenrir chuckled deep in his chest. The boy was far too clean for his own good. Not for long, though.
He whimpered as Fenrir pulled his pyjama top off and his skin broke out in goosepimples. Fenrir trailed a claw down the side of Malfoy's neck, over his collarbone, and circled it round one soft, pink nipple. The boy bit his lip, and when Fenrir gave the nib a quick, hard flick, he jumped, turned sharply towards Fenrir and said, "Don't!"
It had been an automatic reaction that the boy clearly regretted. Fenrir raised his eyebrows, gave him a big, toothy grin, and then backhanded him across the face hard enough to make him crumple to the floor.
He lay there, curled into a quivering ball. Finally, Fenrir kicked him hard in the shins, making him squeal and then give a shuddering sob.
"Get up, you pathetic little shit. On your feet."
Malfoy only curled into a tighter ball. Fenrir reached down and grabbed a handful of his hair, yanking him up. He pressed him flat against the wall with his body, keeping his fist twisted against his scalp, and bent his neck back. The boy's heart was beating hard and fast; Fenrir could feel it against his own chest.
"Just get it over with then," said Malfoy, his voice thin, his eyes glazed.
"Eager now, are you?" said Fenrir, stepping away.
The boy's eyes flashed and bright pink splotches bloomed on his pale cheeks, but he kept his gaze turned from Fenrir's face.
"Get the bottoms off," said Fenrir, gesturing towards the boy's pyjama trousers. "Or do you want more of my help?"
Hands shaking, the boy complied, his eyes going glassy again as he bent over to pull off the pale blue silk and step out of it. He didn't seem to know what to do with his naked body after that, but stood silently, skin blotchy, shoulders hunched, arms hanging at his sides. His neck was bent so that his hair hung in his face, hiding his expression.
"On the bed. Face down." Fenrir could feel the need to rut burning through his groin and stomach. His cock was swollen and throbbing, his mind hazy with anticipation as his pulse began to race and sweat began to prickle through his pores.
Shuffling, the boy stepped to his bed and laid himself down flat on his stomach, feet still touching the floor. Fenrir quickly came up behind him and kicked his legs apart, making him cry out. He ran a nail over the boy's buttocks, which were hard as rocks with tension—so smooth, round and pale… perfect. His claw left a red scratch in its wake. He trailed it though the boy's crack and then pressed inwards. Malfoy's arse was clenched tightly closed, but Fenrir pried the cheeks apart, exposing his pink arsehole.
Malfoy shook from his head to his feet. His hands were tightly fisted in the blankets. When Fenrir pushed his fingers inside him the muscles of his back rippled and he gave a muffled cry of despair.
Huffing, impatient, Fenrir lubricated himself with his wand and then pressed the head of his cock against the boy's tight entrance, pushing forwards. Malfoy seemed to lose something then. He'd been so passive, almost limp with obedience once Fenrir had brought him in line, but now he squealed and bucked. His arms shot forwards, grabbing the far side of his bed, and he wriggled violently under Fenrir, trying to pull himself away.
Feeling a surge of fury and frustration, Fenrir raked his claws viciously down the boy's bare back, making him scream and struggle even harder. He threw down the full weight of his body and then forced the boy to flip over and face him. Malfoy hit, kicked and pushed. Finally Fenrir smacked him across the cheek—once and then again—and the boy dissolved, trapped and resigned beneath Fenrir's body.
This way Fenrir could see his face. The fear coming off the boy—virtually steaming from his skin—was so spicy, so heady that Fenrir felt dizzy with lust, but Malfoy's face brought a whole new world of delight. His eyes were foggy, his pupils dilated. The skin of his face was bone pale but for vivid swatches of dark pink on either cheek. He was sucking in rapid, shallow breaths through his open mouth.
Fenrir was overcome with the need to know what the boy would do, what he would look like, once he was actually being fucked. He quickly hoisted the boy's shaking legs over his shoulders and forced his cock between his buttocks. Malfoy was shaking his head back and forth. "No. No." Fenrir found his entrance and once again pressed forwards, this time gaining entry through the clenched muscle.
The boy jerked his arms and twisted his torso from side to side, his voice high. "No. Oh, God, no. Please. Please."
As Fenrir forced his way in, the boy's face clenched tight as a knot of rope. Tears were leaking out of the corners of his squeezed-shut eyes. When Fenrir thrust deep into him, however, his eyes shot wide open, staring sightlessly upwards, and he screamed.
Merlin, the boy was tight. The muscles of his arse clamped down around Fenrir's cock. Fenrir gasped and then growled, adjusting his arms so that one hand clutched the boy's throat and the other pressed into the mattress, supporting the weight of his body. After several slow thrusts, the boy loosened enough for Fenrir to begin fucking him in earnest. Malfoy was twisting the blankets in his fists, his face turned to the side, eyes closed again. Fenrir let his instincts take over and gave into the pleasure of pumping into him, watching him wince and whimper over and over again. Fenrir's mind went red with the burning in his belly, the climbing itch of pleasure in his groin, the sound of his hips hitting the boy's thighs, his balls slapping against his arse. He moved faster; Malfoy began to struggle again. Fenrir pressed his claws deeper, breaking the skin this time.
"Not so proud now, are you?" he huffed. "Not so superior when your blood is painting my cock." He dropped flat and grabbed Malfoy by the hair, "Yeah. Yeah. There." He dug his teeth into his neck. He was close. His movements became fast and frantic and then he howled and bit down. Malfoy's hysterical scream pierced Fenrir's ears as he came hot and hard, the taste of the boy's blood in his mouth, the smell of his terror filling his nostrils.
Ahh... He lay on top of Malfoy, slick with sweat, breathing hard, feeling immensely satisfied. Once his pulse had slowed, Fenrir pushed himself up, pulled himself free of the boy and rolled onto his back, enjoying the softness of his bed, spent and satisfied.
Malfoy immediately slid off the bed and scuttled into a corner where Fenrir could see him crouched and trembling, breathing heavily, his face white, his lips almost blue with shock. His eyes moved back and forth, staring at nothing. Fenrir grinned, knowing exactly what was going through his mind.
"I'll make it quick," he said. "Slice through your jugular. You'll be dead in seconds."
The boy shook harder as if he couldn't stop it happening. It took him several tries to get the words past his lips, and once he did his voice was hoarse and wet. "You won't kill me," he said. "You don't dare."
Fenrir barked a laugh. "Impudent little shit. You watch your tone. I'll kill you when I'm good and ready."
"Then why haven't you done it? What are you waiting for?"
"Maybe I like to play first. Watch you squirm."
"You've… played. And here I am. Still breathing. You won't kill me. My father would find you, skin you, and hang your pelt on the wall in his study."
"He'd have to find me first. And you're telling me he won't mind the fact that I've shoved his baby boy full of werewolf cock? That, he'll overlook?"
Malfoy's throat fluttered as he swallowed. His voice was quieter as he spoke this time. "You know I won't tell him. I won't tell anyone. It would kill my mother, and I couldn't live with them knowing."
Fenrir sat up on the bed, watching the boy, considering his options. He imagined Lucius Malfoy's face at finding his precious heir dead on the floor of his bedroom, torn, bloody and stinking of spunk. The vision made him shiver with vicious delight.
Then he had another thought. There was something worse—or much, much better—he could do. A dead son would be bad, but a son who'd been turned… Fenrir would give a hell of a lot to see Lucius Malfoy's reaction to that.
"Right," he said standing and straightening his trousers and robes. "Can't argue with that kind of logic, can I?"
His smile didn't seem to reassure the boy at all. While his shoulders sagged with relief, fresh tears coursed down his face. He hugged his knees to his chest.
It was two weeks until the next full moon. Let the boy think he was finished with him. Fenrir could wait. Fenrir had patience—he'd bide his time like a predator waiting for his prey to stick his head out of his lair and sniff at the wind.
He crept back down the lushly carpeted stairs, wondering how the boy was feeling now, if the lesson had sunk in yet or if he'd need another taking down the next time they met.
Fenrir would be back, and next time the Malfoy boy would wish he'd had his throat torn out when he'd had the chance.