
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/247428.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Veronica_Mars_(TV)
  Character:
      Aaron_Echolls, Logan_Echolls
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Child_Abuse, Whipping
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-09-01 Words: 1410
****** Family Rituals ******
by Lenore
Summary
     Pride and punishment.
Logan opens the closet door and lingers there, not out of fear or dread. That
will come later, but this—this is almost reverential. They are not religious
people, his family, this town—if they worship at all, it's down on their knees
praying to the god of cold, hard cash—so they have to take their rituals where
they can find them. The scent of leather is strong in the enclosed space, as
dark and thick as incense. Logan steps inside, drifts slowly past the tidy rack
of belts, occasionally stopping to finger a contender. Each one is different,
and he knows them all intimately, its heft in his hand, the way it sings
through the air, the harsh timbre when it comes cracking down onto flesh, the
sound as unique as its workmanship.
He chooses the Italian leather with the silver buckle and the embossed design
that will leave raised welts all over his back. There's something strangely
honest about carrying the evidence of his decisions on his skin, and he's
pretty sure his father will understand it as the fuck-you gesture it's meant to
be. I picked the scariest mother-fucking belt in your closet, Dad, because you
can't break me. Logan isn't sure when his life devolved into one big game of
chicken—it's been going on so long now that he can't remember anything else—and
he can't seem to fight this driving need to ratchet up the stakes, even when
there's no such thing as winning, at least not for him.
His father is getting impatient, even from the next room he can feel it.
Walking back down the hall is like moving underwater, every step slow and
deliberate. His mother is holed up in her sitting room, consoling herself with
another round of Scotch. When it's over, if she says anything at all, it will
be merely to ask him, "why?" She's tried so hard to teach him capitulation.
Don't antagonize your father and You know he doesn't like it when you talk back
to him and Why can't you just learn to stay out of his way? And he will have
nothing to tell her. How can he begin to explain rebellion to a woman who has
conceded her entire life away?
In the bedroom, his father is standing by the windows. A harsh slant of light
seems to fasten on every wrinkle, every crag of his face, distorting his
features until he looks almost like someone else. Logan makes his offering,
eyes cast down at the rug. His throat is clenched and he can't swallow, but
there's a light feeling in his chest, as if some desperate thing is beating its
wings against his ribs, trying to get out. He can't explain this either, this
tortured hope that refuses to die even when there's nothing left to feed it.
It's as much the reason he put his father in that half-a-million-dollar bind in
front of the cameras as the urge to defy him. Because maybe this will be the
time when it's all finally different, when he can screw up and there will be
only forgiveness.
It isn't, and his father takes the belt without a word. There's no need to give
instructions. It's their ritual, and Logan knows what to do, understands what's
expected. His arms feel like dead weights as he raises them over his head and
pulls off his shirt. He stands as still as the air, barely breathing. His
father snaps the belt a few times against the bed, just to see if he'll jump.
The first blow is always the worst. No matter how hard he tries to hold on to
the memory of pain, the cold reality of strap on skin always comes as a fresh
shock. He doesn't cry out, though, won't flinch or gasp or beg. His father
beats him soundly. He seems to keep a balance sheet in his head, carefully
calculating the ratio of punishment to crime, and Logan can only hope this will
be enough to even out the columns. That this ounce of bruised flesh is all
he'll take.
The pain blurs into nothing. Logan stares stonily at the wall in front of him,
and when it's finally over, his father is the one breathing too hard. Logan
tightens his grip on his shirt and turns to go. He is almost to the door when
his father catches his arm and whirls him around. His face is heavy and red,
and there's a look behind his eyes that Logan has learned to be terrified of,
as if there's something monstrous locked away in that dark grotto of skull that
should never be allowed to escape.
His lip curls back from his teeth, and he throws Logan face down onto the bed.
It's happened before, more than once, and yet it still always comes as a
surprise. Logan tries to get up, tries to get away, his heart pounding in his
throat. His father brings his knee down hard into his back, and mutters through
clenched teeth, "You aren't nearly sorry enough."
He reaches under him, unfastens his pants, and yanks them down to his ankles.
Dad, please! thrums through his head, but it won't do any good, and Logan won't
give him the satisfaction. His father holds him down with one hand on the back
of his neck, and Logan hears the sliding of the nightstand drawer, the rustling
of foil, the glide of his father's zipper. He's always used a rubber, every
time, and there's a part of Logan that would pathetically like to believe it's
for his protection, a barrier between him and his father's many whores, but the
realist in him knows it's probably just to keep from leaving behind any
potentially embarrassing evidence.
His father lays heavily on top of him, pushing him into the mattress, the
buttons of his shirt digging into his wounds. He has to bite down hard on the
bedspread to keep from screaming. A second later, this agony is all but
forgotten as he father forces his way inside him, and it's so far beyond pain,
so much more than loss, there's not even a word for it.
"Fucking brat." His father breathes hotly against the side of his face. "I'll
teach you to defy me."
Logan digs his fingernails into the blankets and closes his eyes and tries to
make his mind a perfect blank. It seems to go on forever, his father taking and
taking, everything he has, everything he is. By the time it's finally over,
he's whittled out, dangerously empty. His father pulls out and gets up, and
Logan slides his pants back up his legs. When he stands, he can't feel his feet
or the floor beneath them, like he's nothing now, and gravity has no hold on
him.
His father straightens his clothes, clears his throat. "When I was young, my
father taught me some hard lessons, too. I didn't always understand back then,
but later I could see he was only trying to do what was best for me, and I
learned to be grateful."
Logan nods mutely. He's heard this story before, knows what his answer is
supposed to be, but he doesn't want to say it.
It's a ritual, though, and there's no power if it's no completed. His father
won't stand for that. He puts his hand on Logan's shoulder, as if this is some
Hollywood father-son moment. "Now, don't you have something you want to tell
me?"
Logan ducks his head. "Sorry, Dad." The words feel like sand in his mouth, like
he's going to choke on them.
His father fixes him with a prompting look. "And what else?"
He bites his lip, but it won't be over until he's said it. "Thank you." His
voice is a scratchy whisper.
His father nods, appeased at last, and lets his hand fall away, lets Logan
escape.
It's quiet in the rest of the house. He pauses for a moment in the hall, but
his mother doesn't stir, doesn't come out to see if he's all right, doesn't do
anything, as usual. He takes the steps two at a time up to his room and locks
the door behind him. In the bathroom, he throws his clothes in the hamper,
washes up, inspects his back. It's bad, but it's been worse, and it doesn't
matter anyway, because he doesn't feel a thing.
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