Title: Occult and Forbidden
Author: Lorielen ([email protected])
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Lucius/Draco
Category: Slash, Incest, Rape, BDSM, Angst, Depression
Summary: Draco’s is a very, very troubled mind. Especially when he muses about his and his Father’s relationship.
Disclaimer: no matter how badly I want them, I don’t have any illusions about owing the Malfoys. JKR pretends she does, though (they own their marvellous selves!), as do WB, Scholastic Inc and a bunch of great companies that drools so much over Dream Team (HP, RW, HG) that it just isn’t fair that they actually get to own the legal rights over Malfoys and Snape!
Warnings: Slash, underage sex, incest, rape, violence, borders lunacy

AN: Love is my Muse. And, more often than not, it hurts. Don’t mind the sequence of the events, or the verbal times Draco uses. He’s venting.

Occult and Forbidden

I lay on my bed, watching the flickering dance of a flame. I was too exhausted and by far too bruised to do much else that not hold a wand and will its tip lit. I lay on my stomach; several reddish cuts marked my previously pristine back. Some of them were bleeding still, but I didn't much care. There needed be a candle: that night was an anniversary. It had been two years since my Father had first taken me.
I guess he remembered it as well, for he made it double at the occasion.

The overall results were mostly a black eye, wounds on the side of my head and mouth, greenish-blue marks to my previously bounded wrists. The blood streamed from where the whip had hit my back. There was redness also on the corner of my smacked mouth and my - pounding - arse.

I didn't even try to move, or bothered with my state. He'd come back later to heal me. He always did. He used to say he couldn’t let anyone even begin to suspect of what was going on, so he’d wipe away all evidence afterwards. At a time, he smiled and said that he wouldn't want me if I were any less than perfect.

It never ceased to amaze me, the normalcy he’d address me with when he stepped inside my room for the second time in a night, intent on undoing all appearances of his deeds. How he could act as though it wasn’t anything major.
How he’d leave me, prey to my searing hurt and the shadowy voices that haunted my mind, before he came back to instil a second terror in me. To make his voice silky and his words sarcastic, to frighten me with his level of detachment.

But he always let it ache for a few lengthy and slow hours before returning.
It turned him on, to watch my terror, my misery, my pain. Once he bewitched a whip to hit me so that he could wank off to it.
I remember screaming in that particular night.

As the pale light cast shadows over my frail features, my eyes never left the flame. I could feel blood streaming, sticky against my sensitised skin. It lapped at the slits on my back, caressed me ever so softly, like a lover should. However, the pain caused by the bruises was easily overwhelmed by the aching within my chest. That was abuse and I was not content with it.

And to think of its start…

His first and only word to me was "Shhh." A whisper as he magically bound me still, only to undress slowly in front of me and reveal his throbbing hardness.
I remember gasping.

His eyes or manner weren't coated with kindness. As his hands felt all over me, distinguishing the tense muscles under my soft skin, he didn't look at me in the face. I held my ground and did not tremble, although that took the best of my willpower. I knew what laid in store for me, especially as he rubbed his groin against mine, moaning softly.
I was shocked, to say the least. I could not understand that. I couldn't grasp the meaning behind the lack of words and affection he had always showered me with, up to that night, our first. But I could very well place the sick hunger in his eyes, the wanton every touch of his dripped.

There was no preparation of any sort before the actual coitus; as a natural and obvious result, I bled profusely. And for some reason that scarred me more than all else. I wallowed in my own fear, shame, blood and pain as he left me for the night.

Since then, I had not a peaceful night's sleep. I dreaded the late hours, and my own face as well, for it held too strong a resemblance to his own pointy one.
He visited my room time and again, always silent, forever feeling like through me he sought relief from the pokes of his own inner demons.

What devilry resided in his soul to make him reach out like this, torture his own child, shatter a pride that used to equal his own? What could make him enjoy this ill act, want me?
Perhaps he wanted to destroy my link to him as means of breaking his own to me. Because his Lord was back, and the Dark Lord won't have any less than a man's soul.
I withheld my Father's; and knew it to be doomed to thrice the pain he caused me.
The man has castrated my yearnings, killed my desire, replaced it with his offending member.

At first it was disgusting, confusing and blindingly painful. It can be said that I eventually stretched, but at the same time what I really did was to curl up. Deadly ashamed of my own wants, of mirroring every facet of him, even this twisted desire for my own kin.
Even more so because that was bound to displease him.

I feared he'd spot the erections that were becoming more and more frequent during his night visits. I remember uselessly forcing myself to think unsexy thoughts as he breathed on the curve of my neck, groaning his pleasure. I remember the agony of first holding back an orgasm, for I had no clue about how he'd take it.
Or rather, I knew exactly what his reaction would be like. At least at the time it seemed so. I knew, and I was afraid.

There was a time... I moaned. He was riding and panting on top of me and I moaned. He looked down at my face, and I recall being startled with how I could not read anything in those eyes. How they’d remain as cool to me as they were to an outsider, when I was not one, when he was goddamn taking me.
How I had no means of knowing what was going on inside him during the moments he remained absolutely still, except for his chest going up and down with heavy breathing as he pondered, his face serious.
His voice was husky as he spoke next, and his eyes pierced through my cowering soul.

"Do that again."

I parted my lips and united them again, like a goldfish, rendered trembling and frightened under the intensity of his gaze. My erection twitched and all of me was sweaty.

"Moan for me, Draco."

It was a whisper. A commanding one, how could it not, Father was always in control of himself and those around him. But it was a whisper. And he had said my name.
I breathed out a choked meow, and my eyes never left his face as I scanned it for reactions. I was rewarded with a smile, a genuinely pleased one. I relaxed underneath him, and the corners of my thin mouth curled upwards.

That was the fist time my Father smacked me.

It was a strong blow to my chin. I held a shriek in my throat, although I knew my wide eyes were hiding nothing of my scarred state as I looked up at him. And he was still smiling. He kept the teeth display as he addressed me.

"Again."

Countless times did I execute his will, and at the end of each of them he'd strike against me anew. He put a menacing hand on my throat as he began to move on top of me again, going deeper, harder, breaking tissues. My back arched and all of me was tense, clamping tightly around him.
It was perverted and foul, the way his voice failed as he would approach climax but maintain his grip on me.

"...Scream."

I swallowed a whimper. His nails scratched softly at my Adam's apple and I did what he demanded. My voice betrayed my confusion and aching, for it faltered, though the yelp was deep-voiced and heartfelt. He was pleased.
He came, and seldom before had it hurt that much.

I was severely beaten up from then on, frequently. My lip would be swollen and there would be dry blood and purplish wounds all over me. A dark shade of red would stain my hair, my skin, maculate my perfection.
I knew myself to look divine right then, bleeding for my Father. Aching for him, and only him. He wanted me. Wanted my pained gasps, my struggles devoid of resistance to his claiming of me. He marvelled at the strength hidden within my frailty of soul. He got himself drunk on my raped love.

There was this one night when he didn't bind me. His wand and fists still did their usual job of arousing me and making me ravishing, covered in my own blood. But after that... he let me please him. He allowed me to kneel and caress his testicles with my chin and my lips. To take him into my mouth and make him groan in sheer pleasure as he gripped onto my hair, pulling me towards himself, thrusting.

Ah, but he would not come weren't he inside of me. I moaned loudly as his already hardened member entered me, my blood and saliva working as the lubricant that I did not need, for I had learned to take delight in the exquisite pain. I held onto him as he entered me, and my body followed the rhythm it had learned to cherish. My eyes sought his own, and they all but shone with my appreciation, my submission, my desperate pleasure and accomplishment, being able to bring him pleasure.

He couldn't stand me looking adoringly at him; I knew that. But I knew also that I had yet to look away. I was searching for something. Beyond discomfort and anger, I knew it lay.
I brought a hand to cup his chin as he rammed into me, and his face showed pain. Anguish.

I leaned up to kiss away a tear, and my bloodied lips left a mark on his face. He looked gorgeous and I shivered at the mere sight of him agonising like that.

He grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked at it, pulling my head downwards. My mouth opened in a soundless gasp at both the stinging pain and the approaching culmination that we were about to share.

He roughly pushed my face to the side, holding me that way. He could not stand to look at me, I guess. I did not protest and my hand remained in a soft caress to his scalp. He freed me soon enough, the pressure of his palm gone, and I fixated my eyes on him again.

All I could see was whiteness.

His lean body hid deceiving strength; his hand forced my head down and the fluffy pillow invaded my open mouth. There was no more life source. No more of Father.

My nails dug deep on his back and I ranked them down, slitting him in a mute plea. I had been about to explode and all of a sudden I was denied my orgasm, my air, my pleasure and my Father.
I pulled at his hair, let out screams that the pillow muffled. My chest burned, so did my throat and my mind, the bruised walls of my arse as his seed hit the fresh cuts to blend with my blood and my aching.

I never pushed him away. Instead, my back arched, my lower body filling itself with him as I writhed in the helplessness that has always been the most striking of my traits when it comes to my Father.

I didn't have a last sigh or request. I didn't have the loving kiss I lived on hopes of. But I will forever hold my Father's soul. For me, he has lost it and shall forever be condemned, just as I was, to be eaten away by this feeling we shared.

I have said that I was not content. It was true. I was unhappy because he was unhappy. I grew to like what he liked, treasure what he enjoyed and chose to bestow on me, the blood that is ours, the agony that comes with that particular brand of pleasure. I accepted and worshiped him as he was. No hurtful scream was faked, nor were the frantic little moans that would doubtless get me hit.
What made me downcast was that he should hold himself back. Every time he penetrated me, he looked into my eyes, daring me to protest. What he didn't know is that he was in truth challenging himself to keep up his uncaring facade and his control, trying himself over and over again. Deadening his own undying feelings through seemingly cruel deeds.

I wish he knew how much he loved me.