Malfoy Fic.
Aug. 20th, 2005 12:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
midnightdiddleMmm, I'd say a hard R.
It was written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
30_songs. You should join!
The challenge was Red Hot Chilli Pepper's Scar Tissue.
His mother’s makeups are spread across a cracked and broken vanity, blushes and eyeshadows, lipsticks and liners. Every color imaginable is there, and Draco feels like he’s looking at a rainbow.
When he was a little boy, he used to stand next to his mother, small hands clutching the vanity’s edge to hold himself upright, and he would watch, entranced, as his mother did her makeup.
Foundation, spread it smoothly. It’s as pale as his skin, and blends the scars into his skin, making his face perfect again.
She would smile at him in the mirror, and he’d hesitantly smile back, not quite sure. She was a different person when she put on her makeup. When she was made-up, like a doll, she was high and aloof and so far away from him, places where he couldn’t catch up to her. When she was made-up, she’d disappear to parties and dinners, in robes of pale blue and dusty rose and wicked, wicked green.
Blush to his cheeks. It adds color to his cheeks, makes him look a little more alive, a little less like a corpse.
The times Draco loved his mother the most was at night, when she washed the makeup off her face, and became ‘Mummy.’ That’s when she would carry him, half-asleep, to his bed, and read him stories of dragons and wizards and Pure families. She was gentle, when there wasn’t a mask fitted over her face, making her into the perfect wife.
The liner is difficult. He has to lean forward on the small, padded stool, until his face is only inches from the mirror, in order to trace his eyes.
When he left for Hogwarts, he missed his mother more than anything. The day his parents took him to the train, he sat on her large bed, and watched her make-up her face. She watched him in the mirror, and he watched her back, and when she gave him a thin, lipstick-colored smile, he didn’t smile back.
Eyeshadow is brushed on lightly, a grey that makes his eyes stand out, and he smears it a bit. Lipstick is picked up, and painted onto his lips so carefully.
Every summer, Draco returned home, and every summer, he’d watch his mother at her vanity. He’d talk to her, about Harry-fucking-Potter, and Quidditch, and about how he was thinking of perhaps going into Potions, or maybe he’d work for the Ministry, and wouldn’t he do well working with wards? His mother would watch him, grey eyes hidden beneath drooping, colored eyelids, and she smiles, curving the pale lips before painting her small mouth.
He’s perfect, just like her. He looks like his mother, just like her, and when he smiles, it’s a twisting of red lips and widening of grey eyes and blushing of pink cheeks.
The summer after his sixth year at Hogwarts, Draco went home. His mother was lying on her bed, skin pale and cold, and he put on her makeup carefully. No matter how much blush he put on her cheeks, she stayed white, and when he brushed on her eyeshadow, her eyes remained closed. He painted her face, made her perfect, made her Narcissa, but she never smiled.
He stands up and leans forward, checking his whole face in the mirror. He can’t see the scars, or the small imperfections, the bruises and scrapes. He feels pretty, feels like he can smile and bring the world to its knees.
Draco begins dressing slowly, meticulously. A girl’s blouse, buttoned over his thin chest. Panties, then a short skirt. Knee socks, simple shoes. When he looks in the mirror again, a schoolgirl looks out at him. Her smile is higher on the left side of her mouth, and there’s the slightest of dimples. Draco smiles at her, and her smile widens in return. She’s ready.
__________
The man’s breathing hard against her neck, and she flattens herself against the wall, feet bracing her. The alley’s dark, and the air’s wet, or maybe it’s just her, sweating and moaning under the man’s hand. She’s not sure about much, except the way the man’s sucking her throat, his hands wrapped around her thin waist, the way his erection’s digging into her thigh. He drags a hand down her leg, then slides it up under her skirt, grabbing her dick through her panties. Her head falls back, and her pretty red mouth opens, and she bares her teeth at the moon peeking through the buildings.
She’s deliciously hard, deliciously numb, deliciously insane. Everything is delicious, from the taste of her bitten cheeks to the taste of the sharp night air, and she breathes deeper, drinking it in. The man rubs his thumb over her dick and her hips buck against his hand, harder and faster, and when he lets go, she moans, fingers skittering over the wall behind her, trying to find rhyme and reason. He sinks to his knees, pushing at her skirt until his head is underneath, and pulls her panties down her thighs, until her dick is free. He grabs it, fingers rough and calloused, and swallows her. Her hips snap forward, shoving herself deeper into his mouth, and she feels herself die a little.
__________
She stares at herself in the mirror, watches herself watch herself, and she’s somehow stuck, focused on how the lipstick is smeared and the cheeks are too flushed for the blush. She blinks, then begins unbuttoning her blouse, sliding it from her sharp shoulders. She tugs the skirt off, letting it slide down her legs. When she’s naked, she inspects herself. There’re bruises on her legs, and more on her waist, small, round bruises the size of fingertips. There’s a scrap across her shoulder blades, from rubbing against alley walls, and there’s another on her right palm. Her smile twists into something that’s almost sad, almost mocking, and she grabs a wet cloth, wiping at her face.
Her cheek stings, bruised and cut, and she pats at it gently, pulling the makeup off her skin. She looks into the mirror, and Draco stares back. She smiles, and he smiles, and he rubs the last bit of lipstick from his swollen lips. He rinses his face once more, then, still dripping, grabs his pants, pulling them on. A shirt follows, and he winces when it settles against his bleeding shoulders. He slowly puts on his shoes, tying them with long fingers.
Draco grabs a wad of money from the vanity, shoves it into his pocket, and leaves the tiny dressing room. His shoulders drop and his head lowers, and he shoves his hands into his pocket, hands that are soft and delicate beneath the scrapes. He ignores the way the girls watch him as he leaves, the way the men follow him with their eyes. He pretends that there isn’t dried come splattered across his body, or that his jaw is aching, or that he can’t walk steady, or that he wishes he was dead. He pretends that everything’s alright, and he tells himself that, again and again, in his head. He tells himself that he likes it, that it’s fun, that it’s just for kicks, that he’s going to make it, and that he’ll be fine. He pretends, and tells himself lies, and he believes all the little white lies that are blacker than his life.
Draco’s such a good little whore.
I have nothing else to say.
It was written for
30_songs. You should join!The challenge was Red Hot Chilli Pepper's Scar Tissue.
His mother’s makeups are spread across a cracked and broken vanity, blushes and eyeshadows, lipsticks and liners. Every color imaginable is there, and Draco feels like he’s looking at a rainbow.
When he was a little boy, he used to stand next to his mother, small hands clutching the vanity’s edge to hold himself upright, and he would watch, entranced, as his mother did her makeup.
Foundation, spread it smoothly. It’s as pale as his skin, and blends the scars into his skin, making his face perfect again.
She would smile at him in the mirror, and he’d hesitantly smile back, not quite sure. She was a different person when she put on her makeup. When she was made-up, like a doll, she was high and aloof and so far away from him, places where he couldn’t catch up to her. When she was made-up, she’d disappear to parties and dinners, in robes of pale blue and dusty rose and wicked, wicked green.
Blush to his cheeks. It adds color to his cheeks, makes him look a little more alive, a little less like a corpse.
The times Draco loved his mother the most was at night, when she washed the makeup off her face, and became ‘Mummy.’ That’s when she would carry him, half-asleep, to his bed, and read him stories of dragons and wizards and Pure families. She was gentle, when there wasn’t a mask fitted over her face, making her into the perfect wife.
The liner is difficult. He has to lean forward on the small, padded stool, until his face is only inches from the mirror, in order to trace his eyes.
When he left for Hogwarts, he missed his mother more than anything. The day his parents took him to the train, he sat on her large bed, and watched her make-up her face. She watched him in the mirror, and he watched her back, and when she gave him a thin, lipstick-colored smile, he didn’t smile back.
Eyeshadow is brushed on lightly, a grey that makes his eyes stand out, and he smears it a bit. Lipstick is picked up, and painted onto his lips so carefully.
Every summer, Draco returned home, and every summer, he’d watch his mother at her vanity. He’d talk to her, about Harry-fucking-Potter, and Quidditch, and about how he was thinking of perhaps going into Potions, or maybe he’d work for the Ministry, and wouldn’t he do well working with wards? His mother would watch him, grey eyes hidden beneath drooping, colored eyelids, and she smiles, curving the pale lips before painting her small mouth.
He’s perfect, just like her. He looks like his mother, just like her, and when he smiles, it’s a twisting of red lips and widening of grey eyes and blushing of pink cheeks.
The summer after his sixth year at Hogwarts, Draco went home. His mother was lying on her bed, skin pale and cold, and he put on her makeup carefully. No matter how much blush he put on her cheeks, she stayed white, and when he brushed on her eyeshadow, her eyes remained closed. He painted her face, made her perfect, made her Narcissa, but she never smiled.
He stands up and leans forward, checking his whole face in the mirror. He can’t see the scars, or the small imperfections, the bruises and scrapes. He feels pretty, feels like he can smile and bring the world to its knees.
Draco begins dressing slowly, meticulously. A girl’s blouse, buttoned over his thin chest. Panties, then a short skirt. Knee socks, simple shoes. When he looks in the mirror again, a schoolgirl looks out at him. Her smile is higher on the left side of her mouth, and there’s the slightest of dimples. Draco smiles at her, and her smile widens in return. She’s ready.
The man’s breathing hard against her neck, and she flattens herself against the wall, feet bracing her. The alley’s dark, and the air’s wet, or maybe it’s just her, sweating and moaning under the man’s hand. She’s not sure about much, except the way the man’s sucking her throat, his hands wrapped around her thin waist, the way his erection’s digging into her thigh. He drags a hand down her leg, then slides it up under her skirt, grabbing her dick through her panties. Her head falls back, and her pretty red mouth opens, and she bares her teeth at the moon peeking through the buildings.
She’s deliciously hard, deliciously numb, deliciously insane. Everything is delicious, from the taste of her bitten cheeks to the taste of the sharp night air, and she breathes deeper, drinking it in. The man rubs his thumb over her dick and her hips buck against his hand, harder and faster, and when he lets go, she moans, fingers skittering over the wall behind her, trying to find rhyme and reason. He sinks to his knees, pushing at her skirt until his head is underneath, and pulls her panties down her thighs, until her dick is free. He grabs it, fingers rough and calloused, and swallows her. Her hips snap forward, shoving herself deeper into his mouth, and she feels herself die a little.
She stares at herself in the mirror, watches herself watch herself, and she’s somehow stuck, focused on how the lipstick is smeared and the cheeks are too flushed for the blush. She blinks, then begins unbuttoning her blouse, sliding it from her sharp shoulders. She tugs the skirt off, letting it slide down her legs. When she’s naked, she inspects herself. There’re bruises on her legs, and more on her waist, small, round bruises the size of fingertips. There’s a scrap across her shoulder blades, from rubbing against alley walls, and there’s another on her right palm. Her smile twists into something that’s almost sad, almost mocking, and she grabs a wet cloth, wiping at her face.
Her cheek stings, bruised and cut, and she pats at it gently, pulling the makeup off her skin. She looks into the mirror, and Draco stares back. She smiles, and he smiles, and he rubs the last bit of lipstick from his swollen lips. He rinses his face once more, then, still dripping, grabs his pants, pulling them on. A shirt follows, and he winces when it settles against his bleeding shoulders. He slowly puts on his shoes, tying them with long fingers.
Draco grabs a wad of money from the vanity, shoves it into his pocket, and leaves the tiny dressing room. His shoulders drop and his head lowers, and he shoves his hands into his pocket, hands that are soft and delicate beneath the scrapes. He ignores the way the girls watch him as he leaves, the way the men follow him with their eyes. He pretends that there isn’t dried come splattered across his body, or that his jaw is aching, or that he can’t walk steady, or that he wishes he was dead. He pretends that everything’s alright, and he tells himself that, again and again, in his head. He tells himself that he likes it, that it’s fun, that it’s just for kicks, that he’s going to make it, and that he’ll be fine. He pretends, and tells himself lies, and he believes all the little white lies that are blacker than his life.
Draco’s such a good little whore.
I have nothing else to say.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2005-08-21 06:14 am (UTC)*dies*
Um, yes. It's a very nice, family fic. <_< Much glad you liked it, and so glad it was creepy. Creepy is good!
no subject
Date: 2005-08-21 07:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-08-21 06:50 pm (UTC)