Summersmut Mod (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} summersmutmod) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} hp_summersmut,@ 2007-09-05 11:46:00 |
 |
|||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Originally Posted Here on 28 August 2006
Title: Weeks, Months
Recipient:
maidenform Author:
ficlette Pairing: Harry Potter/Lucius Malfoy
Rating: R
Warnings: D/s, non-con, brief torture, chan
Summary: In the end, there was only acceptance.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling and various associates. No copyright infringement intended.
A/N: This fic absolutely would not exist without all the help and amazing support from my beta, who will remain nameless for the moment. Just know that it wouldn't be here at all if it weren't for everything she did to encourage me and point me in the right direction when I was led astray. :) I hope you enjoy this, maidenform!
It had begun with fear.
Fear of the gloom, of that dungeon, of the minimal light cast by too-few torches. I was afraid of that dark, of those footsteps, of the voice that said “welcome” in a way that meant everything else. I trembled because I knew; knew who and why and all I needed was how.
“Malfoy,” I growled out, and tried to mask the tremble in my voice. Lucius recognized it anyway.
And I was afraid, so afraid of his touches that weren’t gentle and of his hands that were everywhere. At fifteen I hadn’t experienced anything but my own hands on my body, and being shackled and naked in front of Lucius Malfoy made me more frightened than I had ever been. His smiles were malicious, his words taunting and teasing as he raked his nails up my thigh.
And if I thought I feared that, it was child’s play to what Lucius had in mind. I was almost panicking as he had me bent over a wooden table, my face pressed to the side against the cold surface and my glasses nowhere to be found. I wouldn’t beg, afraid because I still clung to my foolish pride, but it took all of my self-control to keep my mouth shut.
His voice sent shivers down my spine, because of its tone and his words and “a slut like you deserves no better, pet. I’d take you off this table but you deserve no better.”
Even then I almost believed him, because I was too afraid to speak out in defense of myself. Too young, too naïve, too alone to face Lucius and fight.
Mercilessly he used me, like a rag doll and a whore. I screamed when he entered because I hadn’t been prepared and I knew that it could only be my own blood that ran down my legs. It was a searing hot agony and each time he moved it was as if I was being torn in two. He bent over me, possessing me as he thrust in again and again. He reached down between my legs and tugged fiercely at my limp cock, and I cried out at the sharp, blinding pain of it.
“Don’t pretend as if you don’t like this. Don’t pretend as if you aren’t begging for it.” He laughed, but I did pretend. I pretended I didn’t feel tears, or blood, or Lucius release himself inside me. I pretended I felt nothing at all.
Weeks, or perhaps months later, my fear turned to anger.
It was directed mostly at myself, and I couldn’t forgive any of the events that replayed in my head. The first night wasn’t the only time that Lucius demanded his rights as my captor. Using his prisoners as his pleased was something he took extreme pleasure in, and he was not to be denied.
Time passed and I was used: two, eight, fifteen times since I was captured. My anger didn’t grow because Lucius changed; no, he stuck to routine. I grew angry because what had changed was me.
“Get up,” and I scowled.
“That was not a request.” I was horrified to find then that the feeling of Crucio had become familiar, the pain fitting around my body like a well-worn glove.
My vocal cords were still frozen when the curse was lifted, and I was furious at Lucius for tormenting me and myself for being weak and the supposed side of Light for not coming to my rescue. No one came to rescue me.
“Liking it after all, aren’t we, pet?” Anger. Betrayal of my own body, but it was useless to argue the fact that I was becoming aroused by Lucius’ touches. And my blood was boiling, face flushed in such anger that I didn’t express. Mouth closed, lips trapped between teeth.
“You may come now, pet.”
More weeks, months passed. Anger slowly morphed into shame.
Shame not only that I came by Lucius’ hand, but at his command and that my body had felt alive with such ecstasy at the release of it. It was another betrayal, of myself and of all that I stood for.
And more shame still at other, smaller details. The aspects of my capture that didn’t bring me to orgasm, the actions of Lucius that didn’t involve physical pleasure. Curled up at his feet while he read to me, smiling almost contentedly as he stroked my hair away from my brow. I should have been sickened. The mere thought of his hands touching me should have made me physically ill.
These things I knew, and yet couldn’t bring myself to feel. My shame festered within me, like poison and disease.
I refused to eat, I refused to drink or talk or move because at the back of my mind it was all I could think of. I pictured Ron and Hermione, Professor Dumbledore and Remus, and their faces haunted me. A voice constantly taunted me, reminded me who I was and why I should be so ashamed of myself. Forced me to realize the new, growing feeling in me.
It was eagerness. A part of me longed for Lucius’ visits; ached for his touch and his voice and the unlikely companionship. This part of me forgot the shame and anger and fear. This part of me forgot my friends, my destiny, my past. This part of me had long ceased being Harry, molding itself into something else. Someone new.
“Good afternoon, pet.”
And the arch of Lucius’ foot tasted sweet.