WARNING: This contains sex somewhat akin to rape. If this bothers you, please do not read.
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the copyrights associated therewith. This is purely a work of fan fiction, please no one sue me.
Sex was not at all what Draco had thought it would be like while he was a teenager.
Pansy was… Squishy. Squishy and floppy and loud. And she was on top of him. Her mouth goes around everything that seemed would fit. Wet and clammy, groaning in the unpleasing tone he had come to associate with her. Draco does all he can not to grimace at the disgusting contact but accidentally lets a cringe pass over his face.
She must have been looking at him, because suddenly her face is in front of his, a disgusting, sticky white grin that haunts him in his most uncomfortable of dreams. If it weren't for magic he'd never be able to produce an heir with her, and if it weren't for this purest society he'd never have had to marry her. Draco avoids thinking about the what-ifs, because every time he does this life only seems to get more miserable.
Pansy seems to have come to the conclusion that the cringe was one of pleasure, surely. She has added hands, and as they travel across his chest, her mouth draws closer to his. Draco turns his head and the mouth lands over his ear and begins to nibble like some nightmare version of a mouse eating its cheese.
Closing his eyes to help him keep from making any of the sounds of disgust that are trying to push past him, another face flashes before him. A pale face, a shock of short messy hair. Black? Brown? Dark red? It doesn't matter. That isn't his… wife. So whoever it was doesn't matter since it can't happen. It isn't the first time seeing the face though. The eyes are always closed and it seems to always be missing the bottom half of facial features. Hair, forehead, closed eyes with dark lashes, and the bridge of a nose.
Once Draco went to the darker corridors in the outskirts of Hogsmead and found a street walker with the face, thinking that perhaps it would make this ungraceful act more enjoyable—more like he remembered it to be. It wasn't, and again he had to use magic to come to the finish. He never went back, and he never told Pansy.
Pansy had moved away from her ministration upon him with her hands and mouth, and now sat over him, moving her weight up and down like a twisted parody of riding a horse. Her screams were painful and reminded him unpleasingly of the sounds tortured muggles would sometimes make. Blood dripping from their hovering bodies, screaming as the life escaped them. Pansy screaming as the life left him. Every time they did this he felt less and less attached to this world. Soon, Draco thought, I will be just like my father. Cold and calculating and unable to care about anyone.
Pansy collapses on top of him, breasts squishing wetly over his chest, mouth attacking his before he has the chance to look away. He participates purely as a physical act going through the movements he mimics from her. Mind blank except for that shock of hair and those elegant, strongly defined eyes. When she finally gives up and goes to sleep, he picks himself out from under her and takes a shower. The scalding water cleaning his body off but doing little else for him. The empty feeling in Draco grows one step more, the face fades as he tries to shut it out. Hope and desire will only make the situation even more painful, so he sits down in the corner, letting the water flow over him unnoticed as he tries to pick the broken pieces of himself up so he can walk back into that reviled room, face the squalid stench, and lie back down with his beast of a wife.
This is the life of a pureblood. This is what is expected of him. This is who he has to be. He does everything he can not to run away into the strong, toned arms that part of him seems to know belong to the one with the black shock of hair. He will not—cannot run from this.