Entry tags:

fiction: lucius/draco, slash

A Perfect Forever
title: A Perfect Forever
author: stonegrad
pairing: Lucius/Draco
rating: NC-17
warnings: Incest, wine!smut, and sex toys - what more could you want?
A/N: Draco is 16 or 17 (or 18) in this, depending on how you feel.
Prompt: A sex toy, the colour silver, and the sound of violins...
Summary: A very different kind of parental affection.


//

A Perfect Forever

“It makes a new knot for us and condemns us, to drain our blood and burn together.”

- - Pablo Neruda, Love


The mistletoe was his first memory of that year without an end; the sunlight that glinted off the polished floors of the Entrance Hall, the wide swathe of manicured grass beyond that glistened wetly with the remnants of winter rain - the way Draco looked up when he remembered, once more, why Hogwarts was so dangerous during Christmas time.

Lucius had just been on his way out, having returned his son to school a day early after their short holiday in the south of France; Draco had wished to farewell his father from the gates, as he always did.

It was the light, turning his blond hair silver; the laughter that set his eyes alight, as he tilted his head upwards to find the culprit of the magical wards so suddenly sprung around them - it was the way his mouth formed the words, ‘the mistletoe’, that send a shiver down Lucius’ spine.

The purity of aristocratism passed between them, the flawed (fractured, broken) innocence as Draco smiled - such a gorgeous, wanton angel, his son… his only son.

Soft, the whisper of air between Lucius’ teeth as he, too, looked upwards and saw that damnable (perfect, wonderful) cause of his suddenly halted steps; it was a compulsion - a joking one, yet still quite insistent - and it would let neither of them go.

Not then… not yet.

He knew what it demanded; a mere chaste touch of the lips would do. But there was that light, and his son’s impish smile, and such a pressure-cooker of desire lying between them, built up over years to become more than just an unsettling distance that even Christmas could not bridge.

So if he never smiled, then there was reason for it - and if Draco’s eyes glinted, over-bright, then he knew it too.

Movement, so slow, as if through water; the fingers of Lucius’ gloved left hand cupped his son’s chin, tilted his head up, exposed the column of his throat to that hooded gaze. Hair, white blond, falling around them as he leant down and Draco went to his tiptoes, resting the palms of his hands against his father’s chest to keep his balance - he could feel the thrum of blood under his fingertips, smothered in silk and muscle and bone.

“Oppps,” the treacherous boy whispered, and smiled as he quirked his head to one side and closed the distance between them - soft lips (addictive), serpent tongues; and Lucius’ free hand slipped around Draco’s waist, pulled him closer as his son’s mouth opened under him.

As all masks of resistance gave way completely; it was only a matter of time.

Chocolate, on Draco’s tongue - chocolate and cherries and the remnants of a fine wine shared before a blazing fire, as the air became thick and cloying between them with the stifling closeness and the tight, shackled control.

The parted lips, and Lucius could feel the moan drip off them as his tongue stroked along the roof of his son’s mouth - could feel the vibration, the tightening of the hands fisted in his robes, pulling him down into that all-enveloping heat.

He might have laughed, had he possessed enough air in his lungs to do so.

Had it not meant letting go…

“For every lover is, in his head, a madman - and in his heart a minstrel.”

-- Neil Gaiman


Draco was addictive - he’d always known that.

He was also pure, and innocent enough to seem like fresh-fallen snow against the backdrop of his (bloody) heritage - there was something about him, so careless and fanciful…

There was something, also, about the way he would look up with heavy eyes and smile, so secretly, at his father as the train pulled away from the station and Lucius drew him close for the Apparation…

The contrast was a drug in and of itself.

Yet Lucius was a master - for every movement Draco made that had his blood burning, there was a word, a look, an action that could turn his son’s muscles to water; the swirling of his tongue against the rim of his wine-glass, the flitter of his fingers down the boy’s spine - a glance and a smile.

It was power, and he loved it.

But there was always the light, catching Draco’s hair as he circulated the crowds gathering in the Manor - the knowing smirk on his lips when he looked over to find Lucius watching him so intently; those lips so often kissed in the dark corners of the house, where Narcissa would never see.

She might have known, though neither cared.

It was late when the halls were filled only with stragglers, but they were not tired - the violins were still playing softly in the ballroom, and the Lady of the Manor had long since retired to the comfort of the silken sheets on the bed Lucius had barely slept in for months.

There were scarcely any eyes to see them together, and those that did were too drunk to care.

Draco always laughed when he danced, and the room rang with it, tangled within the thick black curtains, swirling through the air like smoke - he was full to the brim with wine and desire, and Lucius delighted in tracing the line of his son’s neck with his lips; peeling away the high collar to leave a series of dark bruises along his collarbone, while Draco writhed against him like a snake and moaned, softly, into the still air.

Delighted, also, at the sight of the small silver buttons popping apart one by one; the feel of the shivers that coursed up his son’s body as he ghosted his fingers up the back of that white silk shirt, tracing the ridges of Draco’s spine until the boy squirmed and gasped into the curve of his neck - the rush of breath against his skin, so heavy, so warm.

So wonderfully familiar.

They were cast in silver moonlight, backlit by the stars crowding the tall windows and the burnished gold motifs inlaid in the white-marble walls - Draco was pale and wane, a slip of temptation with a light flush filling his cheeks and his lips bruised and parted; and Lucius was as he always is… such an inhuman beauty, hawk-fierce, (fallen) angel-bright.

In the ballroom, there were no such things as fear or worry - and if Fudge saw something he shouldn’t, then he would forget it in the morning anyway.

“Please,” Draco breathed, and Lucius could feel his heart thudding (pounding, so fast) against his own chest, the blood sloshing through those veins, as he drew each wrist up to his lips and kissed the tracery of blue lines grouped beneath the pale skin - swirling his tongue and smirking softly as his son’s eyes glazed over, planes of frosted glass.

Lucius moved once more to kiss, softly, the ridged angle of his jaw, the arch of his high cheekbones, till every point burned and throbbed to the tune of Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto, to the strike of hour after hour from the ornate grandfather clock - till every inch of Draco’s skin itched so fiercely from the near-intangible glide of those fingers or the trace of that velveteen mouth, tripwire tongue as wicked as a snake as Lucius breathed into the curve of the boy’s neck, and whispered, so gently…

“Please what?”

And Draco choked on his desire and stifled a sob in the fine fabric of Lucius’ robes, with those long, supple fingers gliding along the curve of his stomach and down beneath the waistband of his trousers - the contrast of his father’s cool hand on his flushed cock, cupping it gently as he shivered and rubbed himself forwards harder into the grip, tossing his head back so lips could fasten onto the curve of his throat.

‘Please take me…’

There were no more words, no use for them - the violins and Lucius’ smile rendered all such things utterly worthless.

“Without you, I am your dream, only that, and that is all.”

-- Pablo Neruda, Sonnet LXXXI


It was a Muggle restaurant, a sprawling, elaborate thing, finely decorated and one of the most exclusive to be found in Southern France - a place where the fresh, crisp air of St Tropez fluttered the fine curtains and made a brilliant contrast to the heat of the kitchens, as they sequestered themselves away from eyes that would be too easily shocked (disgusted) by the lingering touch of their near-intertwined fingers.

They flirted discreetly between flutes of champagne and glasses of wine, plates of oysters and quail - amidst every serving, until each course followed one after the other with a chaste, almost innocent brush of lips against the back of Draco’s hand, the bite of gloved fingertips into the boy’s left thigh; the beginning of a flush that could so easily be blamed on the warmth of that gorgeous summer night, as Lucius smirked softly and summoned the waiter again.

If they surprised anyone in the place, then no one showed it - not even when the conversation degraded into a blatant display of seduction (adoration), swapping bites of fruit and rich dessert until Draco just gave in and started laughing over his glass of Sauternes. Then, and perhaps only then, did a ripple of disquiet spread through the place - the selective Malfoy breeding was prominent, and even if one did not notice the distinct age gap and the impression of Lucius’ blood upon Draco’s pale face, the similarities were still hard to ignore.

Not that they minded, and not that anyone who saw them understood the exact relationship between them, or, even, who they truly were beyond the walls - Death Eaters, wizards...

Family.

“It is not sufficient to see and to know the beauty of a work. We must feel and be affected by it.”

-- Voltaire


The silver glistened as if wet, the slick scales soft and smooth to the touch as the snake - animated and filled to the brim with magic - undulated between the cheeks of Draco’s arse.

He moaned into the thick rug, hands balling it into folds as he looked up at the sound of his father stepping across the parquet floor, eyes filled with the sight of Lucius’ black, polished boots before the man settled into a crouch, resting a wonderfully cool (ungloved) hand against Draco’s sweat-beaded back.

Lucius smiled, trailing his fingertips down his son’s spine until he could flick the tail settled between those white thighs, making the muscles quiver and clench - Draco hissed, peering up through the flimsy curtain of his bright blond hair; his cheeks were flushed red.

“Flip over,” Lucius ordered, and his son complied with no little effort - the snake lashed, then burrowed deeper as he twisted, and he bit the inside of his cheek to stifle the yelp as his back hit the rug, levering himself up on his feet so that his arse was barely pressed against the floor - two slim fingers, ungloved, made a pattern on his stomach.

With his other hand, Lucius raised a glass of Sauternes to his lips - he didn’t swallow.

Draco sighed, dropping his cheek down on the rug and allowing his eyes to fall partly closed as Lucius moved to settle between his spread legs, fingers brushing those angular hips as he leant in to press his lips to the tip of his son’s flushed cock, curved back until it nearly touched his pale stomach.

The dessert wine clung to his chin from where it ran in a single line from the corner of his lips, wet and glistening in the firelight; his eyes were heavy (dark, and full of promises), his hands splayed across pale skin, fingertips pressing down. The vintage streamed from his mouth as his tongue flicked out, tasting the hard, flushed skin - it ran in rivers the colour of blood when he slid slowly down…

Skittering the fingers of his right hand down Draco’s thigh, Lucius flicked the serpent’s tail lazily and moved to engulf the rest of his son’s straining cock completely in the same moment, making the boy curse sharply and writhe beneath him; stomach straining as he fought to press upwards into the velveteen heat of Lucius’ mouth, and yet still grind himself down upon the small silver serpent squirming against his prostrate.

Lucius hummed, closing his eyes and flicking the tail with his fingers once more; feeling the last traces of liquid spill over his lips, dripping down onto the rug and running in rivulets over Draco’s pale skin as he gasped and pushed upwards again...

"The night turns on its invisible wheels, and you are pure beside me as a sleeping amber."

-- Pablo Neruda, Sonnet LXXXI

During the night they slept under the silk sheets of the master suite, twined together like serpents; in the moonlight, even they could never really tell where one ended and the other began.

- fin -