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The Dragon and His Wrath
Summary: Draco watches Daddy work.
Pairing: Harry/Lucius (implied Harry/Draco)
Categories: Non-con. PWP kink.
Kinks/Warnings: Non-con. BDSM.
Notes: For the Pornish Pixies Fantasy Fest request made by cellia -- "Harry/Lucius, non-con/ravishment (ie no extreme violence, victim gets some pleasure) Draco watches his Father work, but can't join in."
Thanks to betas florahart and shaggirl.
The title is from Shakespeare, King Lear, I, i: "Come not between the dragon and his wrath."
Draco Malfoy never gets anything he wants.
He'll tell you so himself: insist it, swear it all the way to his grave, despite all evidence to the contrary.
Nothing that matters. And that's all that matters.
And it's only his fear of discovery which prevents him from whimpering it aloud as he watches his father work over yet another thing he's been denied.
Draco didn't even know the bleeding little bastard was in the dungeons until a day ago, when a house-elf let it slip in front of him (for which it was mangling its ears in a waffle iron, a minute later). Draco immediately went to confront his father--a mistake; Lucius Malfoy could not be outclassed when it came to confrontations. Draco had wheedled, begged, and pouted his case to be given a crack at the filthy little halfblood, only to be told no, and no, and no again. It wasn't bloody fair.
But this was too important for him to leave at no. Which is why he paid careful attention to the time his father went to the dungeons that night, and to what time he returned.
And why he followed, the next night.
The dungeons below the manor had doors ideal for furtive observation: thick wooden affairs with barred windows set into the upper half. Perfect to peer into and duck below.
The sight was so satisfying that for a moment he forgot to be jealous. Potter, chained. Potter, naked. Potter, suffering. Oh, fucking bliss.
Potter was restrained standing in a set of Serpent Shackles: one coiled about each of his ankles, their tails sunk into the floor at a distance that kept his legs spread wide. A third, rooted in the ceiling, descended to bind Potter's wrists together above his head, pulling him upright in so taut a line he nearly had to stand on his toes. The position alone must have been a bitch to stand in for any length of time.
His face looked all wrong without the eyeglasses, older and yet younger at the same time. And strange that that should be the next thing to have Draco's attention, but it was. Potter lacking his glasses was Potter suffering a nudity more complete--and indignant--than the loss of even his clothing.
By contrast, Draco's father was half-dressed, and looked no less intimidating for it than were he dressed in formal robes for a Ministry function. The breeches had to be doeskin and the boots dragonhide--what his father favored--and the dungeons were too chill for sweat to be showing on his father's nude torso just yet. Even his exertions were done with a precision, a minimum of movement that spoke of decades of control, and very little sweat. Draco couldn't help but admit it was impressive.
The exertion his father was currently engaged in--well, that was where the jealously surged back in. Draco would have been delighted, had it been him wielding that riding crop over Potter's tender skin. Potter's mouth was open, and he wasn't pleading, not yet, but he gasped as that crop flicked over his chest, the end of it slapping against a nipple or the sensitive slope of the pectoral each time. And it was all wrist action on his father's part, the crop landing with as much force as if it had been raised over-the-head high each time, but with far more elegance. Potter's chest was covered with dozens of the red, loop-shaped marks, and Draco could see how he strained at the bindings, using his weight to drag at the one on his wrists, his thigh and calf muscles jumping as he tried to pull his thighs together.
The sight of that, and of Potter's toes trying to find purchase on the stone floor, and of his pale cock, lying vulnerable and quiet in its black nest of hair between those spread thighs, had Draco on the verge of thrusting his hand into his trousers to finger his own heating cock. So fucking tasty.
He had to tear his eyes away just to watch Potter's face, and the workings of that riding crop again. Potter kept gasping, and, oh, there was more noise to it now, too. Grunts, little half-shouts of uhn from his throat, louder as the crop continued working. The redness was more intense now, in a nice U-shaped concentration over his tits, and growing redder still. Draco wanted to draw a single fingernail down that skin, hear Potter yell, watch the skin weal in its wake.
The crop moved lower. Now his father was using it on Potter's belly, scourging the skin just below the navel, where the dark trail of hair began. Potter was all leanness there--some muscle and some hollows, but no fat for padding. Draco wondered if that would make it sting less or more. Not that it mattered. His father was making sure it hurt either way, and it did, as Harry continued to whine, the little ponce. Draco noticed that his father had a smile, just a small one, on his lips, and his eyes caught and reflected the smile every time Potter made a noise. That affected Draco too, to see that his father remembered to appreciate his efforts, and openly. Wasn't right to be so focused on what you were doing that you forgot you were having fun. Damn, he was experienced at this.
The crop was heading lower still, lingering at the very crest of the thicker growth of pubic hair. Then it dove down, not striking but pushing under Potter's cock, lifting its shy length with the body of the crop almost lovingly. Potter made a noise as he sucked in his lower lip and bit it, his eyes starting to show panic and his limbs trembling in their bonds. Draco had to bite back his own moan.
His father's eyes were half-lidded--bedroom eyes, Draco understood for possibly the first time as he watched--as he lifted Potter's cock and began to tease it with the riding crop. The loop stroked the length, pushed underneath to flicker gently, demandingly at his balls. Potter made another noise, then Draco heard his whispered, "You bastard," as his hips gave a little jerk, his cock thickening, stiffening against the crop and its sly movements. Draco watched as it filled, its paleness turning ruddy, head fattening and emerging from its foreskin as if begging for more. "Fuck," Potter choked, squirming beautifully.
His father's arm twisted; Draco saw he'd caught the loop of the crop around Potter's cock, slid it down to the very base. Another twist tightened the loop, and Potter sucked in a breath.
"So much of you I have at my mercy, boy," said his father, and his voice held all the sneer that was necessary; he was still able to smile, and maintain his elegance. "You know how much I will hurt you, and yet you respond. Anguish, arousal, respite...all mine to give you, if I so choose." Another twist of his wrist, another gasp from Potter.
Harder, thought Draco.
"Circumvenio. Adstringo," murmured his father, and pulled his arm--and the crop--back. There was a flare at the end as he did so, and a ring of silver light seemed to disengage from the loop of the crop, remaining in place about the base of Potter's cock. Potter hissed, and his erection seemed to deflate momentarily, but it was as if the moment was anticipated, for the ring of light slid even further down, slipping about his ballsac and tightening. Potter's hiss was even louder, and then he cried out, for Draco's father was using the crop to slap at his shaft lightly, and the cock swelled back to erection, crimson and bulging within that circle of light, which did not change size to accommodate it this time.
Draco had never thought the word pretty to describe another boy's cock, but oh, this was. Even prettier for the suffering.
The crop slapped Potter's erection again. And again. And the next one was harder than a slap; it was a strike, no less cruel than the ones that had been used on Potter's chest. Potter uttered another of those noises which shot straight through to Draco's own groin, and it was all he could do not to pant as his father punished Potter's cock with that crop. It didn't seem it could turn any redder--oh, he had to be suffering. The blows were making Harry cry out with each one, yowls halfway between ah and ow that echoed against the stones.
And there was that same little smile on his father's face. It mocked Draco, and his need to be the one abusing Potter--would have left him seething had he not been so bloody hard and half-blind with wanting. He pressed himself against the door and kept his hands away from his own groin only with the greatest effort.
At last his father stepped back, sliding the crop into his boot. Draco found himself almost howling a protest; his father couldn't be done with that so soon. Potter's back wasn't even marked! Draco wanted to see that go crimson as well: his back, his arse--oh, especially his arse, every inch--his thighs, those straining calves. He wanted to throw open the door, wrest the crop away and correct that crime, now.
But his father had produced a box. Nothing larger than the size used for pipe tobacco; it even had a sliding top. His father was setting the box on the floor at Potter's feet; he slid the top off, and stepped back.
Something crawled out. Many somethings, scurrying over the stone floor, heading in two directions only--towards Potter's ankles. They reached his feet, began to swarm upwards over his skin. Potter's every muscle jumped when the first one touched him, his eyes so, so satisfyingly wide and staring at the swarm crawling up his legs. Draco could see them against the whiteness of his calves: beetle-like things, in blue with flashes of gold--lapis or faience, he never could remember which that was. Animated scarabs. Yes. He'd found a dormant set of them years ago, hadn't known what they were for but had made vague guesses.
They were on his thighs now, and splitting into several divisions: some continued to march upward, crossing to his lower belly, sparking ticklish, panicky gasps from him. The others moved fore and aft, and Draco clutched at the door for support in near-swooning joy as he watched Potter's panic surge, as the scarabs crawled into his groin, burrowing into his pubic hair, swarming over his constricted balls, forging down the length of his cock. And as Draco watched, each found a spot upon his skin to stop, to turn its tiny pincers against, and cling to in satisfied, sadistic purpose.
Potter had begun to babble. "N-no! Oh, fuck, Lucius, get them off, get them off! No! Oh, my--fucking GOD, please! Get them OFF! Oh, holy fuck, NO!"
Draco thought he knew what this last was directed at--not all of the scarabs had moved forward; there were others to account for. He'd seen those, cresting over the curve of Potter's bum, or moving around his ballsac as if not intending to stop there. He couldn't see, but he could in his mind's eye, the scarabs crawling into the crack of Potter's arse, finding that pucker, pushing in past it despite all of Potter's frantic, arse-clenching efforts to keep them out, imagining what they must feel like to Potter, squirming in deeper, maybe stopping to pinch the inner walls as they went, hard, harder, deeper...Draco gave up trying and wrapped his hand about his own aching cock, barely able to keep his moan silent.
He tried to focus on the sight beyond the window. Six of the scarabs proceeding along the length of Potter's cock--those that had not stopped--had reached the head. Two seized the corners of the eye in their pincers, two bit and clung to the edges of his foreskin, but the remaining two dove under the rim of the foreskin and burrowed. Draco could see them moving under the skin, as if chasing each other in circles. Potter's cries rose in pitch. "Fuck! Oh, f-fuck! Lucius!"
Draco had no doubt his father was smiling, but he couldn't look, couldn't stop watching Potter. The scarabs had reached his nipples, were pinching those in a ring of no less than a dozen each, with three at the very center. A few more did not stop, but simply continued to march up and down his torso, questing along his sides, into his armpits, back down to his belly. Draco imagined that alone would be likely to have Potter squealing, were he not already tortured by the other little beasts.
His attention was taken by a sweeping gesture of his father's: riding crop in hand--Draco had at last decided that must have been his transfigured wand--he sent a wave of green sparkle towards the Serpent Shackle binding Potter's wrists. It dropped from the ceiling like lifeless rope--though it did not release its hold on his wrists. Potter, accordingly, also fell--to his knees, as his feet hit the floor solidly from the sudden release and lost him his balance. But the tail of the Serpent Shackle, released from the ceiling, then shot into the wall well above and behind Potter, pulling his bound wrists over his head and forcing him to arch backward like a bowshaft, unable to sink down to his heels or to rise from his knees.
Draco watched in fascination that no longer had the time to be bothered by petty jealousy as his father stepped close to Potter again, the riding crop back in his boot, and his hands at the fly of his doeskin breeches. Draco also could not be bothered to be disturbed as his father opened the breeches and took out his own hard cock, nearly vertical at this point, and, cupping it in his hand, stood with the head of it not more than an inch from Potter's panicked, gasping mouth.
Suck him, thought Draco, amazed he was not screaming it. He needed to see Potter's lips open wide and suck in his father's cock, and he needed to see the bloody prat choke on it, swallow it down to the root and gag and make noise around it like he couldn't breathe. To see Potter's jaw work just that little bit enough to show Potter was trying to work the cock with his tongue, and unable to keep it up because of the depth of the cock down his throat. To watch Potter's eyes close in misery as he was reduced to sucking, sucking with lips and throat to try to get his father off just so he could fucking well breathe again, and swallowing every goddamn drop for the same reason--though Draco knew he'd love it no less if his father pulled his cock from his lips and spewed his pureblood spunk all over the little fucker's face.
Potter did not disappoint.
Neither did his father--who chose the swallowing over the spewing. Draco clutched at himself in a haze of ever so close as his father forced Potter to stay there, the scarabs still tormenting him, face still pressed into the blond fur of his father's groin, whimpering for breath and release and a universe of lost dignity.
At last Potter was given his breath, though nothing else, as Draco's father withdrew his cock, tucking himself back into his breeches and stepping backward. The riding crop was in his hand again, and he used it to tip up Potter's miserable face, which had slumped forward.
And it was to that face that he said, "Draco."
It froze Draco. Then he realized that his father wasn't speaking to him.
Then he realized that he was.
He couldn't think what to do. Running was out of the question. So he took his hand out of his trousers--his cock protesting mightily--stood upright behind the door, and said, "Yes, Father."
"Come in. It will open."
A push, and it did. Draco tried not to bite his lip as he walked into the cell. It was made easier by keeping his eyes on Potter, who had his on Draco. It wasn't his imagination--there was just a bit of deeper despair in those eyes, now, wasn't there? Now that he was here?
Draco hadn't come yet. But neither had Potter, so, there.
"You disobeyed me."
Draco tried to raise his eyes defiantly, or lower them contritely, but the truth was he couldn't take them off of Potter's face. Fuck it. "Yes, Father," he repeated.
"You chose the risk, despite my orders."
He nodded, not wanting to echo himself again. Still looking at Potter, at the eyes, the face, the scarabs moving over him, the hard cock in its magical constriction.
Draco looked at his father--at the amusement in that well.
"That's rather how my father knew I was ready." He extended the riding crop, handle first, to Draco. "There's more to using one of these than just flailing away. Let's begin, shall we?"
Draco Malfoy always gets everything he wants, in the end. He'll tell you so himself.
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