I Confess To No ShameAuthor: ldymusycCharacters/Pairings:
Draco Malfoy/Lucius MalfoyRating:
Masturbation, spectrophilia.Other Warnings:
Only in death can Lucius confess what he has felt for years; only as a ghost may he have what he desired.Author's Notes:
This wasn't what I was planning to write this month, but it jumped on and pummeled me until I did.
I am proud of you, Draco. I regret, somehow, that I am only able to say these words now that I am dead, but it seems that pride is one thing that followed me beyond the grave.
No. That is not precisely accurate. Foolish pride did not follow me, or perhaps I should term it arrogance. However I name it, it no longer accompanies me as I walk the corridors of our home, my boots silent on the marble tiles. I still possess some pride, but it is no longer for myself. It is only for you. I am proud of you, Draco, and I am sorry I could not say it to you before. I shall say it now, say it again and again, whisper it in the corridors as you pass, murmur it over every cup of tea in the afternoons. I am proud of you, of all you have become, of the man you have grown to be.
You have grown, and into such fine form. The awkward lankiness of youth has shifted into a languid grace, your stride full of elegance and power. I cannot help but admire the breadth of your shoulders now, the confidence in your stance. I knew, even in your youth, that you would do our family well in this regard. Pure beauty in pure blood.
And now, as I see you in this beauty, as I watch you stand on the terrace in the moonlight, your skin gleaming silver, the muscles in your back rolling and lengthening as you stretch, I can apologize to you. I was cold and distant in your youth, I know, but this was the reason for it. This.
I knew you would grow to be handsome, to be beautiful, and it is the sort of beauty that cries out to be touched. The lean length of your arms beg to be stroked, the white column of your neck demands to be caressed.
It is not necessary, for I do not breathe, but I hold my breath when you lean against the balustrade, a marble statue under the shine of the moon. You have grown out of that puppish slenderness, grown past the thin and hungry years of the war. Now your torso is strong and sculpted, now your hipbones have lost their knifeblade edge. Again, you are beautiful, and I wish -- I confess. I confess
that I wish my form was not that of a specter.
I wish I could trail my fingers down the ridge of your spine.
I wish I could set my lips against your temple.
I wish I could lick the pulse that beats in your throat.
It should be shocking to say those words. Should be a scandal to speak them aloud, but I am a ghost. I did not bring arrogant pride into death, and neither did I bring shame. I am not embarrassed now to admit what I could not permit then. I have always known you would grow to be a beautiful man, and I was distant to you so that I would not surrender to that beauty.
Now I am gone beyond, and you stand alone in the moonlight, your wife asleep in your bed, with your seed drying on her thighs. She was a wise choice of brides, but I watch you, every night, sinking between her wide-spread thighs. You find a physical release with her, forehead and shoulders beading with sweat, arms tense and taut as you hold yourself over her. I watch you, and I see that it is not enough. You need more.
Perhaps I lie to myself. Perhaps falsehoods can exist in the grave, but if I can confess my attraction to your beauty, to the lean strength of your body, what can be a lie? She does not give you enough
I would that I could.
Here in the quiet hours, here on the moonlit terrace, I wish I could put action to long-hidden desires.
If I stand beside you, do you think it is the chill of the night that touches your skin? If I brush phantom fingers through your hair, do you think it is only a breeze that stirs those locks, gleaming silver under the moon? If I lean in and press the shadow of a kiss to your mouth, do you think it is the wind, the night?
You close your eyes and tip back your head and your throat calls to me. Desire still exists beyond death, and I confess, I confess
that I desire you. I desire to touch you, to hold and clasp your beauty, to cup the planes of your cheeks in my incorporeal hands and taste the warmth of your mouth.
Open your eyes and see me. See my desire, see your beauty reflected in my gaze. See how I admire your perfect form, see how I yearn to caress and stroke your body. See me.
You see me.
In the moonlight, your eyes gleam silver, and you see me. Your lips shape my name in silence. Perhaps you think me a dream, a hidden process of your mind as you sleep in the lavender scent of your bedclothes, but it matters little to me. You see me, and that is enough.
I slip my fingers over your mouth, I outline your face, and your eyes darken. Your eyes are a mirror for mine, your gaze a perfect match, and as I let my hands drift down your chest, my desire is reflected in you. Small, flat nipples stiffen under intangible touch. I would moan if I had breath for it, but you make breath unnecessary. You make breath impossible, for you moan in my stead.
It is a quiet, almost silent moan, but it is, without doubt, the most glorious noise I have ever heard, in life or in death. Had I believed in angels, I would have thought their voices no more than the screech of claws on metal in comparison to the beauty of your moan.
Follow my touch. Make my caresses yours. Let me watch as your hands smooth across your chest, as your thumbs brush the pale discs of your nipples. Beautiful, so beautiful, the hitch in your breath as you tweak them. Glory and beauty in your mouth as you catch your lower lip in your teeth.
More. Give me more. Show me all of the vision I avoided years ago. I turned my eyes from you, put a chill between us, but now there is nothing but heat, and I crave it. Even a ghost is warm again, your skin and your breath so hot. So lovely. Follow my touch, my hands.
Follow fingers that trail down your chest, over the taut muscles of your stomach. Follow thumbs that hook into the waistband of the loose cotton trousers you tugged on for your walk outdoors. Lower them.
Pull them low and let me see. Let me touch.
Touch with me.
Pale and gleaming in the moonlight. Hard as marble. Curl your fingers around your cock and lift it up. Moan again, head thrown back, pulse quivering.
My touch is yours. My fingers are yours. Hard, heated cock in ghostly touch. Stroke. Stroke
. Long, slow strokes from thick root to blood-gorged head. Slowly, run thumb around the ridge; slowly, tighten fingers around the shaft. Desire, pent-up and aching desire.
Lick your lips and stroke your cock and let me see. Let me take the heat of your body, the strength of your glory, silver eyes and white skin and stiff cock, so alive. I am sorry now I never permitted myself this pleasure in my life.
Close your eyes and let me kiss you, let me place phantom lips to yours, touch phantom tongue to yours. My insubstantial fingers slip around your solid cock, and you are coming. Coming, moaning, head back, throat tight. I wish you could feel my mouth on your neck, licking your pulse as it races, wish you could feel my lips trail down your chest and stomach to surround the head of your cock as you come.
In the dim candlelight of your bedroom, your seed seeks your wife's womb; in the bright moonlight of the terrace, your seed fills my ghostly throat. I have no need to swallow, in this form, but I swallow, my eyes closed against the sound of droplets spattering onto the stones at your feet. My lips around your cock, I swallow to take in your heat, your beauty, and I can taste salt on my lips.
I am so proud of you, of your beauty, and I am sorry to have left that unsaid, sorry to have left this
undone. You have my apologies, you have my admiration, and now, as your body relaxes, your cock softens, you know you have my love.
You have my desire, and I have no shame.