Written By: Hikari Riku

Authoress Note(s): I've been sick and complaining about my lack of writing, so Asperger's told me I should try writing something I wouldn't normally write. I tried and this happened. Fear it for it contains semi-detailed man-sex.

Monster

On the upper floor of Malfoy Manor, in the overwhelming darkness of the master bedroom, the blonde boy shifts, moaning slightly as he enters the realm of conscious thought. He has been asleep for hours-unconscious really-lying on the cold hard floor, his left wrist chained to the footboard of the bed that, only a few months ago, had belonged to his parents. Of course, that was before.

Before his father fell from grace. Before his mother risked her life to protect her only son when he was chosen to complete an impossible task as punishment for his father's failure. Before the boy himself failed and was saved by a prince. Before. . .

Before their Master came to them, back when he had another name. A terrifying, but mortal name. A name the boy lying on the floor cannot hope to remember, even if he were to care enough to try. Not when, most days, he cannot even remember his own. Most days though, he doesn't mind it so much. It's easier this way, not remembering, not caring to. Living in a constant state of numb indifference. It makes everything. . .not really better, but less painful, so that it doesn't hurt as much.

But sometimes there are days when he does mind it. And sometimes he remembers, like he remembers right now, lying on his back on the cold hard floor, his whole body aching in the wake of his Master's wrath.

The same Master who likes the boy. Likes the way he cowers in his presence, the way his whole body tenses at the slightest movement of his hand, and how he trembles when he touches him and even more so when he doesn't. Like when he leans close and whispers softly into the boy's ear, almost touching him but not quite, keeping his voice soft but deceptive. Whispering things to him. Things that sound like a request, but that the boy can not refuse. To do so would result in him being "punished", though occasionally if his Master's mood is sour, to comply will have the same result.

Sometimes even worse.

Because sometimes the boy will be unable to control himself. Sometimes he will cry, then his Master will laugh and whisper in his ear, as though he couldn't possibly fathom what is wrong.

And sometimes he won't. Sometimes his Master will simply lick up the boy's tears until he's left sobbing, and sometimes he will run his hands all over the boy's body till the boy feels like throwing up or worse, like dying.

Just like he feels now, lying on the floor and remembering the feel of his Master's hands all over him. Without thinking, the boy sits up and wretches dry-heaving as tears sting the edges of his eyes. He hasn't eaten of course. His Master hasn't allowed him to eat. Not for so many days, and it's because of that that he is lying on the floor now, his whole body hurting from being tortured for hours. Because he couldn't stop. Couldn't keep his mouth closed, as he watched his Master sit upon the bed in a leisurely way, eating that stupid apple. The one the boy had cried over, begged for. The one the boy was promised, promised but only if he didn't scream.

But the boy couldn't help screaming, not with the cruciatuscurse cast upon him again and again and again and again until everything went numb, but not numb enough so that he couldn't feel his master's hands on him, pulling his shirt up, so that he could run his snake-like tongue over his skin. . .

The boy gags at the thought, but swallows the urge to vomit this time. It's pointless, he thinks as he shifts in his spot, leaning his head against the footboard, his whole body feeling limp and useless as he looks across the room at the open door. There is light beyond the hallway, and he can hear the sound of voices coming closer. They're loud and rough, and he knows it's them. Those monsters in Death Eater's robes. The beasts called werewolves that he had once acknowledged as his greatest fear.

They must have returned from a hunt, as they're howling with excitement, and the boy can hear the sound of glasses clinking together as they get closer. In the darkness, he sees them for a only a moment. Shadows in the light of the hallway. They walk right past the room he is sitting in, unaware of his presence, his existence. As he thinks this, he wants to scream at them. At anyone. All those people that pass by without a second glance. But he doesn't scream at them because they're werewolves and a part of him still fears them, and because he hasn't had anything substantial to drink in so long his voice is hoarse.

Small and useless like the rest of him, he thinks, as he hears it. The clunk of heavy boots moving back down the long hallway. Back in his direction. He knows the sound of those footsteps. The footsteps of the tall gaunt man, the one whose name he used to know. The leader of the werewolves, the one he used to fear above every other, and yet the one who has always fascinated him. In a way, not unlike his Master had once fascinated him once, when the boy's father used to speak of him as a great man that had once lived and might live again. It was a fascination that had faded quite swifty in his presence.

As the boy listens to the man's footsteps, he wonders if maybe he should scream at him. After all, it is him. The man who has been watching the boy, like a wild animal smelling of dried blood and unclean skin, with teeth that are sharp and inhuman. The man who often smiles at him in that grim way behind their Master's back. It's a hungry look, far more pleasing to the boy than the way his Master looks at him. It's the kind of look that makes the boy close his eyes and imagine what would happen if he were to call out to him as he passes.

After all, the man is alone and no one would hear him, the boy thinks as he imagines it. Imagines calling to him, or maybe slipping his wrist free of the shackle holding him to the bed and going to the man. That way he wouldn't have to speak, and the man would look at him in a less pleasing way and reach for him, like their Master reaches for him, and the man would touch him, but the boy wouldn't flinch away. Not because he isn't afraid, he is, but because allowing the man this hunger will make it easier.

It's what he desires, more than anything. And because he wants it, he will let the man run his hands over his body, leaving bloody marks as the man's nails dig into his flesh as the man smiles that hungry smile at him, and rakes his tongue against those sharp teeth in anticipation of a particularly pleasurable taste he has yet to savor. And then the boy imagines what the man's tongue would feel like against his skin, licking up his collarbone, to his ear or pushing against his lips and running along the inside of his mouth as he kisses him.

And the boy tries to imagine what a kiss like that would feel like. Not soft and sweet like his Master's kiss pretends to be but sharp and rough and full of pain. Like the boy imagines it will feel as the man presses himself against him, running his hands all over his skin, his nails digging into his arms, his chest, his waist and down his legs then back up along the inside of his thigh to his groin.

The boy imagines the man's hand gripping him so hard that he'll scream, and start to cry a little, while the man just laughs a deep laugh. Then the man will lick every inch of him, feeling the blood pulsing beneath his skin, before taking him into his mouth and the boy will cry out thrusting his hips up as hard as he can as the man moves his mouth against him, his sharp teeth digging into the boy's sensitive skin, until the boy screams, cuming and when he does the man will stop.

He'll stop and push the boy over, so that he is lying on his side, feeling the man push his body against him, then he'll tense as the man pushes inside him, gripping at anything he can as the man's sharp nails dig deep into his back and hips as he thrusts up, harder and harder, until the boy can practically feel his body ripping apart as he screams. And then the man too will cum, with a long howl and pull out of him gasping and panting as the boy rolls over onto his back, sobbing as the man lies limp beside him.

After a while though, the boy imagines his sobs will quiet-become less noticable, and the man will roll over back on top of him, dipping his head and licking up the blood and fluids that have pooled between the boy's legs, occasionally biting fresh skin, but the boy won't complain. He'll lie still, crying and let the man continue biting a steady path up along his chest to his shoulder, and feel his teeth graze against his neck. And that's when the boy will speak. Asking for it, begging for it, that other hunger. The kind he knows the man really wants.

And because the man is not a man, but a monster, just like their Master, he won't be able to resist the temptation of it and he'll look at the boy with that smile, that grim hungry smile that pleases the boy so, and, in one swift movement will turn the boy's head and dig his teeth into the boy's neck, tearing away the flesh of his carotid artery. And then the boy imagines, that he really will eat him, but it won't matter because he thinks, he'll be dead by then.

And then he thinks, that really, that makes him just as much of a monster as they are. Doesn't it? After all, how can anything human want to die in such a way? And then he thinks, that maybe he won't be so human by then. Maybe he'll be a monster the same as the man. He doesn't want that, but the boy isn't stupid. He knows it would be a risk, one he is far more than willing to take it it means he'll be free of his Master forever.

And as the boy thinks of this, he comes back to himself and opens his eyes to the darkness of the room. He is still sitting on the floor, still chained to the bed and the man is standing there in the doorway, staring at him with an amused expression. The boy looks back, feeling that old persistent fear crawl up inside him, despite how, only a moment ago, he had sat running his hands all over his body, gasping and moaning aloud as his imagination ran away with him. Which is of course why the man is watching him with that look on his face, amused and oh so hungry. But it's a hunger like his Master's hunger.

His Master, who could be back at any moment, the boy thinks. Still he looks at the man, too afraid to move but silently hoping he'll step into the room and make all those things the boy imagines into a reality, even if that means the boy will become a monster. Then the man's foot moves slightly forward, and his hand is on the inside of the door frame and the boy knows he is going to take that step, walk into the room and close the door but the slight creak of the floorboards down the hall make him stop and back away, swiftly turning on the stop he walks away.

As the boy watches him pull back and turn to leave he nearly sobs. Opening his mouth, he tries to scream. "No, please come back!" but his words are nothing but a hoarse whisper, and then he does sob as the door creaks and he looks up to see his Master standing in the doorway, watching him like the man had watched him a moment ago. The boy moves, instinctively, pushing himself back against the footboard trying to get as much distance as possible, real terror coming over his face.

A look that makes his Master laugh a cold, high-pitched bloodless laugh that echoes around the room, as his Master moves forward, seeming to float rather than walk. Almost instantly, the boy's body begins to shake uncontrollably as his Master kneels down before him and runs a pale cold hand along his jaw line. And as the boy feels his Master slide his other hand beneath the fabric of his shirt, fingers running along his chest, he stares at the door, imagining the man standing there again.

"Devour me." he pleads to the memory, closing his eyes and feeling his Master's tongue run up his neck, licking behind his ear. Make me a monster.

At his words the Dark Lord laughs, and whispers against the boy's neck. "As you wish, Draco."

Finis

Authoress Note(s): I'm almost afraid to ask but. . .comments?