Disintegration II: The sun ain't gonna shine no more

In a dark room at the upper floor of Spinners End, a ticking clock was the only sound made. The shape of a boy or a young man squatted in the corner of the room. He seemed to barely even breathe; his silvery, almost white, blond hair hung down in his pale, pointy face which was buried in his hands.
Draco Malfoy was alone, guarding Severus Snapes residence as the Death Eaters were on a mission to finish off the last remnants of the Order of the Phoenix.
He had got it now; it was burning hot-white on his left arm… the Dark Mark was carved into his very skin for eternal time.
Draco got up off the floor. Quietly, he lit a lamp which stood on a small, rickety table, only to examine the Mark. The Mark, however, was not the ugly part of Dracos arm. Ever since his father Lucius had been imprisoned in Azkaban, something strange had been happening inside of Draco. All the fear he had felt towards his father, all the shame and guilt, had not disappeared when Lucius did. Instead, Draco was constantly tormented by his own thoughts. When Lucius wasn't there to inflict pain on his son, he did it to himself.
As Draco now took an old family heirloom of Eileen Princes – Snapes mother – which was a sharp-edged dagger, out of his pocket where he always kept it whenever he was alone at Spinners End, he concentrated on the mantra he forced himself to think of over and over again:
"I am the most vile and worthless person to ever have existed on this planet. I disgust myself. I cannot blame my father for hating me. Everything inside of me is filthy and rotten. I deserve to suffer; I deserve nothing but pain and misery."
He pressed the blade onto his already scarred arm and saw, with a fascinated gasp, the familiar glittering dark-red blood trickle from the made wound. He wanted to hurt himself. He wanted the guilt to go away, or to feel more of it, he wasn't exactly sure.
Draco stared at the window. It was so dark outside that the only thing he could see was his own reflection. Slowly, he moved his hand, with the knife in a trembling grip, towards his face. He felt a sudden urge to destroy those hated features, to be unrecognisable. Draco hesitated. His face; he was about to ruin his own face…! He stared into his window reflections bright, blue eyes and decided that they were the only two things that his mother would recognise him with once she got home.
The feeling itself was similar to cutting his arm, leg or stomach; that fierce stinging of pain and – wait – what? Pleasure? Draco let out a gasp of horror. Sure – that was the truth. The piercing, the pain, the itching, the blood crawling out from the deeper and deeper cuts… it was satisfying, a relief; a pleasure, for sure.
Furious because of the realisation, Draco could no longer hold back his hatred for his own person; he loathed himself more than anything and so he forced the dagger deep down in the middle of his own stomach.
A sort of numb, hollow pain soared through his body. He had never felt anything of the sort before, not even when his father had been torturing him. Dracos robes were covered in blood within a few seconds. Tiny, golden spots that reminded him of stars appeared before his sight as he started to get dizzy. He was about to lose his balance and fall to the floor when he felt a cold, long-fingered and strong hand seize him by his shoulder.
"What on earth are you doing!" snarled Severus Snape calmly, almost as if what he saw was comical, "having one of your nightly little private blood baths again? Don't you ever get sick of yourself? You look disgusting."
Snape dragged Draco to his bedroom and resolutely placed him upon the rather large bed covered in blood-red sheets.
"Your face wont be able to recover", Snape said, "but I doubt anyone will miss it much."
Snape took out his wand and put a few healing spells on Dracos most severe wounds. Draco coughed and felt the taste of blood in his mouth.
The most strange thought had popped into his head; he wanted Snape to hurt him… to cut him, to torture him, to take out all his anger and bitterness on Draco.
"Please…", Draco wheezed, "Master."
Snape raised his eyebrows, but did not speak.
"Master", said Draco, now with a clearer voice, "do you want to... hurt me?"
"…Hurt you?" said Snape, almost with a trace of fear in his voice.
"I want you to hurt me", said Draco, refusing to open his eyes and meet Snapes piercing gaze.
Slowly, Snape made his way to the bed. He had never thought this – this fantasy would ever come true. He had wanted to inflict pain on this boy since the first day he saw him, but not only physical pain, but… sexual pain.
He bent like a beast of prey over Draco and ripped his robes apart in one powerful move. Draco gasped, more blood flowed from his face and mouth, suddenly his eyes were wide open and he saw his own, now naked, body almost fully covered in blood and Snapes hook-nosed face with the long, black curtains of greasy hair that reached his shoulders. He felt the blood raising to his genitals and realised how completely hard he was. When Snape took a firm grip of Dracos cock, Draco thought he was going to burst. At the same time, Snape had also slid down two fingers into the freshly made wound on Dracos stomach. This confusing mixture of pleasure and pain was almost too much for Draco; it was so arousing and the ecstasy and the anxiety spread in equal parts of both his body and mind. Snape started to move his hand gently and stroked Dracos cock; caressed his glans while picking up the dagger from the floor and started to make deep cuts all over Dracos torso.
The stinging, almost unbearable, pain from the dagger as it scratched deeply into Dracos skin made him scream from pain – along with Snapes faster and harder strokes of his dick which made him shiver from pleasure…
As Snape forced the dagger blade deep into Dracos Dark Mark, the boy couldn't hold it any longer. He came, violently, into Snapes clutched hand and the sperm mixed up with blood as he screamed, not quite sure himself if it was from pleasure or from pain.
Snape didn't say a word, but left immediately.
Draco laid there, panting, in a mess of his own come and blood. He knew it was insane, knew it was wrong, sick and twisted, but he didn't care.
As he fell asleep, Snapes scent and the taste of blood lingered in his dreams.