Chapter Text
The boy learns that the door is not locked.
Master tells him so one day, when he’s telling him how lucky he is.
“Most slaves would be locked in, but as long as I’m home I always leave the door open in case you need me” he tells him.
“Thank you Master” he says without prompting, as he lies under Master and the cock slams in and out of him roughly.
Master always feeds him well, and the boy grows, of course, as all teenage boys do.
One day Master comments offhandedly “It will be a shame if you grow much more, I’ll have to sell you. You’ll get a good price though, only one owner and well trained like you are.”
The boy learns to be pliant and docile as his body is abused. He learns to retreat into his head, where there’s a spark of rage at the thought of being discarded, after all Master has put him though. He never lets it show, though.
He learns to make noises that Master likes – a sharp cry when he first enters him, soft whimpering as he builds up speed, sobbing as he finishes. It makes Master happy, and as long as he’s happy he doesn’t look too closely at the boy’s steadily growing frame.
The boy learns to keep himself small, to fold up his lengthening legs and hunch over his broadening shoulders, to keep his voice breathy and light as he cries. Master likes small boys, and he isn’t, not any more.
But he can’t hide the hair that begins to sprout on his face.
Peter leans over him one day, eyeing him critically, and runs his finger over his chin.
“I really don’t want to get rid of you, but we can’t have this. I need to think about this” and he leaves the room, locking the door.
He comes back with a straight razor and grabs the boy by his hair, tilting his head back and flicking the razor open.
The boy screams, convinced he’s about to have this throat cut.
But Master just taps the blade against the boy’s chin, considering.
“If I shave you though, it’s only temporary. We need to get rid of the root of the problem.”
One hand reaches down, and Master tugs on his balls sharply.
“Shall I just take these off? It would be easy enough, one slice with this,and then you’ll stay my boy” he says, eyes glinting as he holds up the razor tauntingly, and the boy has no doubt he’s serious.
The boy learns in that moment that terror and adrenaline can be enough to overpower a werewolf.
His hand whips out and he grabs the razor and slashes, dragging it across Master’s face and blinding him with a lucky stroke.
He uses all his strength to swing the razor wildly across Peter’s throat, and the gush of blood is hot against his skin as he severs the carotid artery.
He learns that straight razors are an effective killing tool.
Master crumples to the floor screaming.
The boy learns he likes that sound.
He likes it a lot.
He slashes and slashes at the throat, all of the rage pouring out of him as he screams “Say you like it! Say you like it!”
When he comes back to himself, there’s not much of Master’s throat left, or his face for that matter.
He starts to shake.
He’s covered in blood and gore.
He knows there’s no way Peter is coming back from his injuries, wolf healing or not.
He has no idea what to do next, but he’s a fast learner.
He’ll think of something.
He learns the pleasure of a hot shower without someone waiting to fuck him afterwards.
When he’s clean, he tries the door, and it opens easily under his touch.
He finds some of Peter’s clothes, they fit him well enough, and cash, and car keys.
He packs a bag.
He packs the straight razor.
He finds matches, and lighter fluid, and considers for a moment.
He knows Peter’s dead. But he has to be sure.
The boy learns that burning flesh has a sickly sweet smell.
The boy learns that driving is harder than it looks, but he takes the car anyway.
The car crawls slowly up the street as he figures out the pedals and the steering, but he’s always been a quick learner and soon he’s able to join the stream of traffic and cover some distance.
The boy learns that he has a taste for blood, now.
He looks for wolves that are alone, wolves with dark hair and goatees, wolves that remind him of master.
He learns that werewolves will always come to the aid of a poor, scared, human that pleads for help and says their master is hurt.
He learns to lead them behind buildings, to where the dumpsters are and where he won’t be disturbed.
He learns to cut so that it only takes one stroke of the razor.
He always burns them, after.
The boy learns how to cover his tracks, how to hide in plain sight.
He leaves a trail of dead and burned bodies across the country, and the blood sings in his veins with every kill.
And when they corner him, finally, five years and seventy three kills later, when he sees them approaching, the boy learns that the feeling of the razor as he drags it swiftly across his own throat isn’t that bad, really.
He savors it.