This is an offshoot of my larger Isaak fic which will probably never be finished. I couldn’t use it, as it is in Dietrich POV, and it makes a better stand-alone anyhow. It’s also completely disgusting. Canon: Isaak adopted Dietrich at seven and raised him. Fanon: Isaak raped him several years later. Isaak’s tattoos.

Some insight into Dietrich’s relationship with Isaak and how his inability to comprehend love has led to such disastrous results.

This fic is rated R for a reason. Non-con/rape of a minor (Di is thirteen), violence, language, child abuse, etc etc… Extremely dark.

This fic takes place on Valentine’s Day, for sheer irony.

Feeding the Jackal

By PikaCheeka

“Isaak, Isaak…not now…” Dietrich scared, Dietrich in pain, Dietrich anticipating what is to come. Dietrich outside of himself. Dietrich is me.

“Isn’t it that human holiday of love?”

I hate him. Hate him hate him hate him. There is no way he was ever human. He pushes me back against the wall and I flinch, convulsively clutching his shoulders. He only smiles vaguely in that creepy detached way of his, black eyes already stripping me down. His cologne intoxicates me. I still remember the time he drugged me. I guess it wasn’t any worse than all the other times he did it without drugs, but the principle of it…He can do whatever he wants to me, whenever he wants, and he can make me purely helpless as he does it. “I thought you didn’t know what love was.” I hiss at him, flattening against the wall, trying to avoid the heat of his body.

“Oh I know what it is. Just don’t care for it very much. But you say funny things sometimes.”

Yes, yes I do and I don’t expect you to understand. I don’t understand myself. Can’t comprehend how I can possibly love someone who assaults and abuses me for entertainment, who kidnapped me and robbed me of my innocence and even now, a year and a half later, continues to do it. Someone who can’t be human, who sold his soul to Satan for a bit of magic, someone who drinks blood and sadness but is beyond vampirism. Someone entirely incapable of ever feeling the same as I do. To any degree. I honestly can not even understand his lust. Growing up I’d always been warned against men like him, who take boy children and hurt them, but I never thought much about it. Not even when he first kidnapped me. It only hit me the first time he forced himself on me. But the truth is I love him. Not for any good reason. Not even because he buys me whatever I want, not because he’s taught me more than I could have ever learned in my entire life. No. It isn’t for any selfish reasons. And even now as he grabs my throat and forces me to look up at him and I feel his tongue slide into my mouth, his other hand slide up the back of my shirt, I love him. Despite knowing that in a matter of minutes I’ll be down on his bed with him on me, in me, despite knowing that he’ll rape me and beat me half a dozen times before the night is out, that I’ll be helpless and sobbing in pain, fear…I still moan and collapse against him now. I can feel him smile and he bites my lip until I cry out.

“Dietrich when will you learn?” he whispers into the hollow of my throat as he picks me up now. I shudder but don’t fight. There is no point. He is stronger than me, and if I fight he only hurts me more. Better to be limp, languid, and just cry and scream when he hurts. Because the one time I managed to keep it all in he calmly snapped my fingers until I begged for mercy. Although I got minor satisfaction from the way he had to coax me into the car and not explain what happened at the hospital as the bound my hand up. That was the only time he hurt me enough to need help. The other times, when I’ve needed stitches, he usually ignores it. Or works his shoddy voodoo magic on me just enough so that I don’t die. He admitted I’m the first person he’s ever had to heal. I suppose everyone else he’s just killed. And I know that in his weird, twisted way, it means something that he hasn’t killed me yet. He can’t live without me. I’m inclined to think there’s more going on with him than I can see. But I can only turn away and avoid his mad eyes. Just stare blankly at the wall, prepare for the deluge of pain, try to not think on how many times I’ve been ravaged on these sheets, try to think instead of how soft it is at least. Velvet and damask. He has fulfilled every rumor of seductive, cruel, evil men and I’ve wondered more than once if I love him at all or he just forced me into it. Although my emotions for him make him uncomfortable as far as I can understand. He runs his hands up and down my body, momentarily squeezing up between my legs before stripping me entirely. No no no. “Isaak, please…” But he ignores me. He usually does. “Just hurry up this time. I can’t…” finish. Can’t finish because he is idly stroking now and I break off, gasping. Why must he do this? Why must he force me into a state of excitement beforehand? Does it make him feel justified…? I’m thirteen. My God, I am thirteen and I know more about fucking than most adults. I have been raped close to a hundred times now probably and it never, never, never gets any easier. Oh, Isaak, Isaak, why do I still love you after all this? He hasn’t even done anything yet but I can already feel him forcing his bulk inside of me, swollen and alive and unwanted, ripping me open with every thrust. He doesn’t care that he’s more than twice my size and so much stronger, doesn’t care that in his mad passion for me he makes me feel the pains of hell every night, doesn’t care that I haven’t once in a year and a half been able to do anything, anything normal. Everything is him. I catch a scent of him somewhere, even at school, and I jump and shake. I haven’t used the toilet without biting back tears since he first did this, without blood. I haven’t been able to run or be active likes boys my age should, because I’m always in pain and I’m weak from the blood he drinks from me every night. A gentle slit where no one will see, and he watches it pour into his wine glass and then he sucks it from me until it stops and it makes me writhe, laughing at me with those cold dark eyes…Isaak.

“My languishing little devil child.” He smiles then, sitting back, slipping out of his coat. No, Isaak. You are the Devil. You are the Devil and I am in Hell and this is my life forever. I curl up, away from him, reveling in my last moment of freedom before he will penetrate, using these last few moments to cover my own awkward state of anticipation, which I despise myself for having. It is perhaps even worse than the pain and humiliation. The whole idea that my body still enjoys it and reacts to him, still surrenders itself to him while I’m struggling for control and screaming in agony lost deep, deep inside. It always has, before he ever touched me at all. And the first few times he would suddenly grab me or kiss me for reasons I couldn’t then understand, I was electrified with pleasure and excitement. Until I found out. Until he left me broken and bleeding internally on his bed while he left to sit on the balcony and calmly smoke, like nothing ever happened. Like there wasn’t a sobbing twelve-year-old boy crumpled on his bed, one he had only moments ago brutally raped and nearly killed. That’s what it is reduced to now. Night after night of this. Every so often he leaves me alone, but increasingly often he takes his unnatural lusts out on me. I cannot even begin to describe the guilt I feel over it, over still loving him despite it all.

“Di.” He whispers suddenly, touching my back. He loves my shoulder blades. There have been times when he pulls me into his lap and lifts up my shirt and kisses and gently bites them until I manage to squirm out of his grasp. And then he will laugh and sigh and continue reading. “Do what you want tonight.”

I stare up at him incredulously. “Seriously?” I whisper.

He laughs again. “No. Just felt like confusing you, I suppose.” His long fingers idly stroke my hair. He has beautiful hands. From playing the organ and the piano and all of their precursors, back to the earliest ones, from playing my body which he does so well. He can make me climax faster than I thought possible. He can shove me against the wall and it will be over in a matter of minutes, he calm and fully dressed again while I fall to the floor, bloody and still in the throes of ecstasy, still struggling to regain control of that other part of me he owns. “I love you.” He says then, rubbing my temples, forcing me to look up at his eyes.

“You lie.” I whisper dully.

He smiles. “Do you know how many lovers I have had? How many sweet little boys like you I’ve had at my disposal?”

I pull away from him. “Yea, when you were one of those ‘sweet little boys’ too.” I can just picture it, horribly. Isaak the devil child, twelve years old and already touching the boys in the class below him, making them cry in confusion. “Besides, something tells me you were more…sane back then.” I don’t know what made me say it, but it made him pause so I went on, knowing I would regret it later but not caring. “I bet you didn’t hurt them on purpose. I bet you did care about them.”

“A few of them. I’ve only had two lovers who have lasted as long as you. And if and when I grow bored with you, I have no intention of killing you.”

“Isn’t that just dandy!” I snap but he grabs my shoulders and pulls me to him.

“I only ever let one go. The other is Cain.”

“So what about me?”

He shrugs. “I might let you go. Otherwise I’ll just stop ravaging you and-“

“Treat me like a human?” I was hissing, spitting. He was lying. He had to be. And yet his dark eyes were strangely sad, distant.

“You’re more than that to me.” I feel his hand on my thigh and I try to jerk away but he’s too strong.

“Isaak, please.” Lurching fear taking over again, the hatred already dwindling. He’s going to do it again, and now that I’ve angered him it will only be more painful. “If you love me you wouldn’t do this to me.” He’s forced my legs apart now and pushed me back into the pillows, already lifting my hips up and stroking me with his fingers. And I know without him even saying it that I am already wet and wanting and I hate myself for it as he pushes gently and I finally break.

“You’ll get used to it.” He always says it, like its no big deal, looking down at me with that sick hungry leer. He is happy with how my body reacts. He doesn’t care about the rest of me.

“It’s been over a year!” I’m already crying and he hasn’t even done anything yet.

“You’re still only a child.” He is laughing silently now. The tattoos across his chest scare me. He is lean and hard and the black symbols on his body are from forgotten cults, terrifying and evil. Scars. And they change. But the one that never changes is the jackal in a place I won’t speak of, can’t speak of. The devouring beast that is him.

“Children aren’t supposed to do this.” I try to say but he has his tongue down my throat again. I used to pray to God that he would leave me alone. Until he told me that I was no child of God, that I could never be heard, that I was damned because of what he did to me. What he did to me. Now I have nothing. I can only close my eyes and succumb, sobbing in fear and, seconds later, screaming in pain. And it is all blood and ecstasy now.

I know it’s my fault. That’s one of the worst things about it. I played the devil to seduce him, to make him love me because I had never known love and was desperate. I played it wrong. I showed my interest in him too much. I displayed my curiosity in such a matter-of-fact way that I aroused him. I would rub against him the wrong way and encourage him and would tell him it was okay and I knew all about it and why didn’t we try it. I didn’t honestly think he would do it, and finally he did. I did not know that this was not the love I wanted, did not know love came in degrees. I was begging with him to stop before he even began, but he ignored me. And ever since that night, this has been my life.

Feeding the jackal.