Ten Steps Further Into The Fire
Title: Ten Steps Further Into The Fire Author: stonegrad Rating: NC-17 Pairings: Lucius/Narcissa, Lucius/Regulus, Lucius/Severus, Lucius/Draco, and implied Lucius/Fabian Prewett. Warnings: Various character deaths (not Lucius), incest, slightly angsty - dark. Prompt: A snitch, the colour red, and the sound of footsteps. Notes: Headers from "Scheherazade" by Richard Siken. Dedicated to sm_malfoy because she deserves love (plus it inadvertently cannibalized her story!)
Summary: It's a game - it's all one big game of hate and lust and love and war, and the best anyone can do is come out at the other end more or less alive...
Ten Steps Further Into The Fire
1. Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again
Only the cultured slide of silk through his fingers keeps him anchored to reality enough to breathe; only the constant flash of firelight dazzling his eyes – even the frost of his skin is starting to burn.
Slide of chains against the flagstones, and Lucius looks down, through the darkened haze of something nameless; a flicker of a pink tongue, the flash of a white canine, and he whispers “Hush” like the soft slip of water off his lips - though whether to the man bound before him or to his own steady, unfaltering heartbeat, neither of them know.
He tips his head to one side: listens to the ragged breathing, the drag of smoke-laden air into aching lungs, past bloodied lips; and he barely feels it when he slips the glove from his right hand, but he smiles nonetheless at the sudden speckling of golden light against his palm.
Lucius has never touched a Muggle before – never needed to, and certainly never wanted to; but there is a bright flare of curiosity lost somewhere in his eyes, tangled amidst the grey of starlings wings, the brutal silver of a polished blade. He wonders what they feel like; for all his father’s tales, he half expects something akin to the rough grind of uncut stone, enough to rub his fingers raw.
But it’s not, and he doesn’t know if he’s disappointed with the discovery.
The flesh of the man’s cheek is smooth, if a little hollowed, and Lucius frowns as his slides his thumb down the curve of a cheekbone, into the rough edges of stubble and then across to the small indentation at the corner of his mouth – and he can feel the prisoner shiver, can see his eyes roll, hear the grating of the chains; fear is sweet as honey.
“Don’t,” he pleads, and Lucius pulls away slowly, narrowing his eyes to slits to ease the ache of blinding pressure suddenly building behind them; magic crackles between his fingers, at the hollow of his throat – he swallows, and the shadows in the corners seem sharper, the fire at the other mans back burning hotter; he doesn’t care how.
The silk is cool, and he uncurls it leisurely, passing it from one hand to the other, suddenly intrigued by the contrast it presents against his naked skin, and then the black leather of his glove – he smiles again, softer this time, as if at some pleasant memory.
A swift strike, quick as a serpent and twice as graceful, and the red of the fabric seems absurd as he fastens it around the man’s throat, garish, contaminated, plebian – Lucius hooks it with two fingers, nails scraping the fine hairs at the back of that neck; the man opens his mouth to scream.
“Hush,” Lucius breathes again, and pulls, so that the noise turns garbled and incoherent and he can see the slow spread of mottled crimson, the sudden bulging of those wild eyes; and there is no time, and no feeling, and nothing in the world but the haze that obscures his own vision and the throbbing rhythm of power threatening to split his skull in two.
He shuts his eyes for a moment, and when they open again the room has turned dark as dried blood and even the shadows seem to be laughing.
2. How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running until they forget that they are horses
The hot pulse of something heavy in the air between them, and every time she presses her fingers to his skin the touch lingers, bright and brilliant, and he knows she loves him, she loves him…
“Please;” a whisper, half of it lost to the sunlight and the bright spill of his hair across her collarbone – and she presses her lips to the curve of his jaw, a spark of magic sliding down his spine alongside her nails; they’re surely already up in flames, just burning, burning…
Her ribs seem fragile under his fingers, bendable – and when he presses against her that much harder, Lucius can feel her heart fluttering like a caged bird, thudding in her chest.
But she won’t break.
Their shadows move upon the white marble of the walls, intertwined, shameless, beautiful; she thinks of the sharp flash of snake fangs waiting somewhere just beyond his smile as he looks down at her, with hair bright enough to blind and a single strand clinging to the thin sheen of sweat at the base of his throat - and he moves himself against her with that strangely boneless sensuality that makes the air seem to hum, and she gasps and twists underneath him, writhes in sudden animal abandon… cracks her façade amidst the heat and the pleasure.
“Lucius,” she whimpers, and he smirks; smirks and narrows his eyes and laughs against the shell of her ear, and she doesn’t care that’s she’s lost the mask, and he doesn’t care because she’s his, after all.
Light slides across his back, across the arch of his spine, the dark bruises her fingers have left, and catches in the hair she’s got gathered in her fists as she pulls him towards her into a clash of teeth and tongues and ecstasy; he tastes like wine and blood and power and god, oh god, she can’t breathe and she’s lost, lost just like he wants her to be.
Lucius laughs again when he has pulled away, and Narcissa has stopped wondering when her legs wrapped around his waist because it doesn’t matter; and their fingers twine together somewhere among the sheets when she releases his hair, promises, promises, and for one breathless moment she manages to believe that she’s the only one in the world who won’t wonder when it is that he’ll betray them.
Clatter of footsteps in the hallway, and a voice saying “Lucius!” and there’s a flicker, a flicker through those silver eyes as they freeze that Narcissa doesn’t want to think about – so she doesn’t.
A press of lips to her temple, a flutter of breath against her cheek – since when has the world ever mattered, anyway?
3. It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere; it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio
It’s funny, he thinks, how hard life is when compared to the ease with which it is ended.
To Lucius, there is nothing but a palpable silence and an unnatural awareness of the thin prickle of sweat sliding down the nape of his neck; even the polished wand gripped between his fingers and the gentle pull of the ligaments in his wrist does not penetrate – such a common, familiar feeling that it fades away, slips out of all awareness but that of a simple muscle memory.
His vision has distilled to one narrow path of light, one tunnel with one ending, and time has slowed to match the sharp hiss of air against the fabric of his robes as he turns, the whirl of dust around his boots as fine shards of debris grind away to nothing beneath them – there is no one else but them.
The departed lie upon the earth like discarded dolls, limbs spread, mouths full of dirt and bitter death - an eddy of wind, and the cloaks are waving, waving and tumbling and spilling apart to bare shattered bones and blood, and they have no names now but ‘hero’ and ‘villain’ and those mean nothing at all.
Because it’s a game - it’s all one big game of hate and lust and love and war, and the best anyone can do is come out at the other end more or less alive.
For the split second it takes for the words to leave his lips – and they taste thick, hot on his tongue, blistering, burning – Lucius can admire how realization hits before movement, like the sound of a fist impacting before the pain sets in; and it’s beautiful, it’s so beautiful it hurts.
“Avada-” swirl of hair and robes, a faint trickle of blood down from the cut to Fabian’s cheek; the tensing of his shoulders, and the sudden sway that comes with the switching of his weight from one foot to the other, glass crushed beneath the toe of his left boot as he starts to spin…
“-Kedavra!”
Death moves quicker than anyone gives it credit for, and yet it all seems so slow, wavering in and out of focus as the light skims across the metal of his mask and is lost, lost somewhere within those silver eyes and the shadows that conceal them; and he’s not thinking of that spine bending under his fingers, he’s not thinking of that same skin flushed red in passion and the wet trail his tongue makes as it moves up that neck, because it’s green, it’s all green…
It’s war.
The savage crack of Lucius Disapparating manages to match the slow, impossible thunder of Fabian’s body and the floor colliding; even in the midst of battle, every single back is turned to the moment.
There can be no regrets.
4. How we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days were bright red
A flash of gold in that fist, and Lucius’ fingers curl around it until there’s only the tinted bronze of Regulus’ skin peeking through the gaps where the black leather of his glove can’t quite cover; sunlight spills across the bed like water.
“Lucius,” the boy says, and his teeth are pure white against the darkened red of his lower lip. “Lucius.”
Dried sweat on his skin; Regulus’ free hand twists within Lucius’ hair, strewn out across the pillow beside him, and he smiles when it slides through his fingers and leans forwards just enough to press their foreheads together, closing his eyes.
“I love you,” he whispers, and Lucius says “I know” and they both feel like there should be something more, something else, but there isn’t and there never has been.
Words fail, fall dusty, and Regulus’ tongue trips and he can’t do anything but watch the shadows play on the insides of his eyelids and focus on the feeling of their hands intertwined on the mattress between them; Lucius’ breath is warm against his face, and he can’t do this, he can’t do this…
“I know,” Lucius repeats, and his lips are cool where they press to Regulus’ cheek, his tongue is hot and it’s good, so good, but Merlin it hurts to think that he can’t keep this, has never truly had it – doesn’t know what he’ll do when he’s forced to give it up.
It’s too late.
Star-drunk, his eyes flutter open, and Lucius pulls back enough to smirk before he leans down to kiss Regulus’ throat, their bodies tumbling together as if slow motion, their grip on each other lost for a moment and then reinstated with the ease of long familiarity; gloved palms against the sweeping flare of Regulus’ ribs, and slender fingers digging into the hard muscle of broad shoulders that are paler than pale.
Lucius throws his head back, and the ends of his hair sting Regulus’ cheeks when they whip past, caught in the sunlight in a savage curve of spine and neck; a twist of his hips, and there’s a press of hard cock to hard cock and someone hisses, but neither know who it is and they don’t care.
There’s not enough air; not enough time to draw a breath, and when Regulus says “Please” it’s all in a rush that he’s not sure even he understands.
But he doesn’t need to.
“Oh, fuck, Lucius, please!” he moans, and there’s no denying, there’s no anything except the way his legs wind around that slender waist and the heartbeat it takes for the charm to coat his insides, because then Lucius is there and everything else that might matter no longer exists.
There’s a mouth on his throat once more, and when he swallows, Regulus can feel the prick of teeth against his Adam’s apple; he starts to laugh, but Lucius’ fingers mark his sides with bruises and there’s a thrust and his voice spirals away into something that sounds primal, carnal, and not anything near human at all.
“Animal,” Lucius whispers fondly, and his teeth leave indents in that tanned skin when he thrusts again; Regulus shudders, gasps, and can’t seem to find mind enough to speak and ask ‘Who’s the animal now?’
Glints of burnished gold, and the Snitch falls forgotten from the bed, dropping down to bounce once upon the floor and then roll listlessly to a stop amongst the discarded remains of its shattered wings.
5. And every time we kissed there was another apple to slice into pieces
Dusk; footsteps ring from the flagstones, torchlight flickers; in the shadows there’s a soft voice crooning it’s way into madness – and in the dungeon a doorway opens, splashing light and heat and noise, and someone, somewhere, presses grimy fingers to the stone and says “They’re coming, they’re coming.”
Regulus opens his eyes, and the first thing he sees is a flash of pale skin and then a face, swimming drunkenly into focus, tense and wary and worried and why? Why it is worried? Lucius is the only one that worries and it can’t be him…
Can’t be him.
“Regulus?” and oh god it is, it is, because no one else says his name like that and no one else looks at him like that - and Regulus wants to throw his arms around him but they won’t move, he’s numb, so numb.
Broken noise in his throat, and Lucius’ palm is hot against his cheek; or maybe it’s the blood that’s burning – he can’t tell.
“Shh, I’m here, I’m here,” and the words stick uncomfortably in Lucius’ throat, but he has to say them, has to say something and he can’t lie, can’t lie and tell him that everything will be alright because it won’t be. Won’t ever be.
Lucius leans down, and Regulus is cold and bruised all over, naked and limp in his arms as he pulls him against his chest, mindless of the blood and the filth that stains the white fabric of his shirt; and there’s a soft hiss of breath when he presses his chin to that grimy black hair.
“Lucius?” Regulus doesn’t have the air to speak louder than a whisper. “Lucius, I want you to fuck me;” and the arms around him tighten, and somehow he thinks the light in Lucius’ eyes is reflecting off the walls and bouncing back at him, blinding him.
“Please,” he says, and there are warm lips on his throat and that, that he can feel, running through him, and it hurts, it hurts… he wants it to hurt.
“Yes,” Lucius says, and it’s all bravado, because they both know that Malfoys can’t be weak and a lie is still good enough to prove it; the skin under his tongue tastes like sweat and blood, sharp and acidic, but he doesn’t care. “Yes, I though you might.”
Hot press of bodies in the darkness as Regulus draws himself up onto his knees, and Lucius can still see the arch of his spine and when he runs his fingers down it there’s a deep, shuddering moan and everything’s alright for a heartbeat or two.
“You’re beautiful, you know,” he breathes, and the buckle of his belt is slippery under his fingers but he gets it open, undoing his trousers to let them hang from his hips and he’s hard, he’s oh so hard and there’s barely any thought that takes place between the time he curls his tongue around his fingers and the moment he slides them inside Regulus, three at once and maybe it hurts, and maybe it doesn’t.
“Fuck,” Regulus hisses, and presses back, fingers splayed over the stone floor, a dark curl of hair caught at the corner of his mouth; Lucius’ shirt is soft against his back, his breath warm at the shell of one ear, and he doesn’t know where he gets the strength to keep himself from falling and it doesn’t matter.
“So beautiful,” Lucius whispers, and his fingers move in, out, in, out. “Even when you shatter.”
In, out, in… Regulus throws his head back, moaning.
“Ple-” he starts, and there’s a hand over his mouth that tastes like honey and the fingers slide free, running down to grip his thigh and there’s something pressing against him and he closes his eyes as Lucius slides home, because it burns, it fucking burns and he wants to scream and laugh and cry all at once.
Spinning, spinning away out of orbit and he’s high, so high there’s no way he’s not dieing; a hot pulse of words at the back of his neck, and he can’t understand what Lucius is saying and he thinks he’s not the only one who doesn’t know what it means – bruises flower on his skin under the weight of those fingers, and Lucius pulls out, slowly, and then in again until everything throbs and melds into the flutter of one single struggling heartbeat.
“Regulussss,” Lucius hisses, and there’s blood on his lip as he bites into it, sliding free again – “Snake,” Regulus replies, and then everything is gone but the snap of hips and the burning and the ecstasy; he moans so loudly he thinks his voice might just give out.
Lucius does it again, and again, and again…
“Animal,” he breathes, and his forehead rests between Regulus’ shoulder blades as he moves, grinding their bodies together until the figure under him shudders and he gathers determination enough to drag Regulus with him as he pulls himself upright, burying himself just that tiny bit further.
Regulus screams, and there’s a shiver and heat and oh god, oh god, oh fuck he’s coming and there’s nothing, there’s nothing…
A moment of perfect white-light immortality before the world comes falling back around them, the pain thunders in, and he winds one arm around the body in front of him as Regulus tips his head back to rest on his shoulder, staring up at him with eyes that are full of stardust and fire; he smiles.
"Don't break," Regulus whispers, and Lucius can't breathe, can't breathe. "Don't break, angel - don't you ever break."
A soft brush of lips to his cheek, and he wants to ask 'Is it worth it?' but he doesn't because he knows it is, he knows it is; and his fingers curl around Regulus' jaw, warm and wet with blood, and his hair tumbles down that bronzed chest when he twists to bring their lips together and for a moment there's no pain and they're falling, they're falling again...
His arm jerks, and Regulus' neck breaks with a crack that cuts right through him; Lucius presses a kiss to the dark hair at his temple - it's too late, the light's gone out.
This is love, isn't it?
6. Look at the light through the windowpane
Taste of thunder in the air and he feels comfortable in the high collar and the clinging fabric, in the glow of hundreds of hovering candles and the slowly dampening heat of a spring evening steadily dragging itself into night; light plays across his profile, brings a dazzling heat to his silver eyes – he raises the wineglass up to his lips with a half-smile.
A whisper of silk to his right, and Narcissa glides past, graceful still though the dress clings to her belly and for a moment, a single moment, he thinks he might sweep her from her doubtlessly tired feet and leave the guests to their revelry – firelight makes the braid down his back seem slick and bright as sunlit water when he turns away, abandoning his glass on the closest House Elf borne tray as he moves towards the open doors at the far end of the ballroom.
When the wind brushes across his cheeks, Lucius raises his head to study the black clouds looming on the horizon, driven swift across the expanse of Salisbury Plain; there is a noise at his back, but he does not turn.
“Ah, Severus. I was afraid you would have more pressing matters occupying your time.”
Perhaps Severus hears the wry amusement in the tone, or perhaps he does not; it hardly matters.
“Not through lack of trying.” He steps closer, and if those dark eyes brighten, if his heart flutters, then at least he’s the only one that knows it. “These sorties are hardly my style, Lucius. I really don’t know why you keep insisting on inviting me.”
“Habit?” he replies airily, and waves a flippant hand through the air between them, twisting to look back over his shoulder – a strand of hair has escaped from its confinement and is brushing the line of his jaw, curling slightly at the end so that the tip rests against his throat; Severus’ eyes follow it, transfixed by the contrast of blonde against that pale skin.
Lucius smiles and turns away, watching the mist wreath itself amongst the roses in the garden; the sun is almost all the way down – the air smells like rain.
“Come for a walk, Severus?” Lucius asks, and there’s something in the way he says it that makes it sound like ‘come to bed, Severus’ or maybe, maybe that’s just wishful thinking – his mind gone mad within the pulsing gravity of Lucius’ orbit, drawn along in the comet tails; and he wants to say ‘You’re ruining me, Lucius. You’re ruining me’.
“Where?” he questions instead, already following down the polished marble steps, out of the spill of warm light and noise and into the darkness of gravel crunching beneath their feet - the mist is rising…
It’s cold out tonight.
“Does it matter?” Lucius questions, and there again is a look thrown over one shoulder and this time, this time Severus sees his smile and his knees feel weak, he thinks he might fall. “I simply thought you might wish to get away from my ‘sortie’ for a while.”
The gentle mockery makes him dizzy, breathless - only a stubborn streak keeps him from stumbling; it is a weakness he will not suffer, and certainly not here, not now.
Hedges rise around them, dark and thick - Severus can’t hear anything from the party now, and it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all.
He’s guided into the maze of the Malfoy gardens by the moonlight flashing from Lucius’ hair, following a star, he’s too bright, too bright, and he thinks he might burn away to nothing if they ever actually touch.
“Are we to walk forever?” he jibes after a moment, and hears a soft chuckle from ahead and a smooth voice reprimanding, “Patience is a virtue, Severus.”
Lucius spins, and for one insane heartbeat Severus wonders if his clothes are spelled to flare they way they do, but no Malfoy would ever stoop so low and it’s just uncanny grace and power and Lucius…
“Surely you know that, Potions Master?” he teases, and his smirk appears so much sharper in the moonlight, his eyes so much brighter; he turns away again before Severus manages to loose himself within them – disappointment seems a great deal crueler when edged with unmistakable relief.
A moment more, and the world opens out again to a perfect square of clipped grass bordered on all sides by roses and the dark, looming shapes of hedges and they’re enclosed, they’re enclosed here together and he can’t think, he can’t think…
They pause beside an old wooden bench, and Lucius is standing too close when he says “It’s going to rain, Severus” and it’s an incredible statement, incredible.
"I don't like the rain," Severus growls because it’s the first thing he can come up with, and Lucius throws his head back and laughs and fuck, he's beautiful, unearthly and it's impossible, isn't it, for him to be real?
"Yes you do," he says with a smile, and the mist has beaded on his skin; there's a droplet that runs right down the curve of his neck and under his collar, and Severus watches it, dazed and maybe, maybe he's broken...
"Of course you do," Lucius adds, and leans forwards to press his mouth to a sallow cheek and it's a blinding point of contact, a shipwreck moment; nothing will ever be the same.
"Yes," Severus replies, and angles his head until their lips brush. "Of course I do."
7. That means it’s noon, that means we’re inconsolable
Almost alone in the silence that follows the closing of a door, and the glass vial is cool when he weighs it in his palm, the swaying light above them moving the shadows unceasingly, cutting his flesh into uneven segments of bone-pale and black.
“Too many mistakes,” Lucius says, and his gaze is fixed on the wall above Walden Macnair’s head, as if searching for something unreachable, something beyond the grimy stone – a small smile tugs up one corner of his lips, but there is no feeling in it.
He reaches out, and a thumb swipes across those bloody lips, pressing down softly in the center of them in a mockery of an affectionate caress – the glove tastes like leather, warm against the tip of Walden’s tongue as he speaks.
“We all make mistakes, Lucius.”
A bright flicker of starlight through those narrowed silver eyes, and Lucius looks down with a flash of one white canine, lips curling. “Yes,” he replies softly, and closes his fist completely around the vial; the drag of his knuckles over Walden’s cheek is deceptively light. “We do.”
Sharp hiss of breath, and when Lucius opens his hand again Walden knows where this is going; knows exactly where this is going and he feels so heavy with the chains wrapped tight around him, constricting, and his body is just a distant buzz in the background of his thoughts.
“You’ve done it once too often Walden;” and the heat radiating from Lucius’ fingers runs down his body like a brush of silk and pools somewhere lower, a spike of sick pleasure in his gut and his cock is hard, rubbing against the course fabric of his trousers – he looks down to the glint of an axe, the tip of the blade resting against the toe of his boot.
The cork pops out from the bottle with a soft, almost indiscernible sound, the air rushing in to fill the gap and the liquid is thick, like tar, and red as blood.
Lucius’ finger moves from his lips and there’s a hand at the back of his neck and the world is tilting, tilting around him as a soft voice orders “Get to your knees” – and he’s going down, going down until the chill of the stone seeps through his trousers and up his bones and makes his cock throb; a grim smile slashes his lips.
“You deserve to be punished,” Lucius says without inflection, and his palm burns, his fingers dig in until Walden can feel the sharp prick of his nails through the glove and there’s a jolt of lightning rocketing down his spine, curling around his balls and he’s growling back like one of the animals he’s swung his axe into the skull of and split right in two.
A soft breath of laughter at his reply, curling through the air like smoke; the vial is cold when Lucius puts it to Walden’s lips, and he opens his mouth and swallows and the poison tastes like nothing and he’s not glad, never glad, but he’s still hard, so hard, and he wants to let go.
"You failed," Lucius whispers, and there's hot breath on Walden’s cheek, a tightening of his throat and the world is wavering, darkening, spinning, and it’s too much and he's coming, he’s coming and it’s over, it’s over, it’s done…
8. Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us
A quirk of one eyebrow, and he can feel Draco’s tongue pulsing as it curls around his fingers, wet and hot and here, twined together in the searing abandon of a summers night, they are the same, the same, the same…
Brush of wind across his face and Lucius presses his lips to his son’s slender throat, feels the flicker of a blood racing through his veins and sighs, lost somewhere in the rapture of an incomparable melding of sweat-glistened flesh, bodies thrumming together and it’s beautiful, it’s unrivaled and inescapable and pure enough to break the heart.
“Father,” Draco whispers, and Lucius’ fingers leave gleaming marks as they slide down his chin; move further downwards to find him already open and waiting, the hot flesh parting around him as slender legs twine around his waist - he moans and closes his eyes and focuses, instead, on the tickle of grass against his naked skin least he looses himself completely.
Hand in his hair, tugging him gently up and there’s a flutter of breath against his cheek and when he looks again his son is staring right back at him. “Father, swear you won’t leave me,” Draco breathes, and their lips are touching, he can’t resist; Lucius leans forwards, and there’s a slick curl of tongues and heat and promises and pleas spoken and swallowed in the dark of their mouths merging seamlessly - “Never leave me, don’t ever leave me –”
Lucius’ fingers bend in the tightness of his son’s body, and as Draco arches underneath him awareness of the world itself drops away with an abruptness that is near startling, the pair of them breathing air treacle-thick with desire, and there is nothing and no one but each other - and even they cannot be truly separate, surely?
“Please,” Draco whispers again, and there’s dew in his hair and starlight in his eyes as his body moves, hips rising and falling - and when Lucius kisses him again only the confinement of their skin stops them from melting into each other and that, that is the one thing that manages to sour the sweetness, if only for a heartbeat.
Grey eyes harden, turn to flint, a breath of frost over breaking glass as Draco watches his father’s composure crack – and if he believed himself lost before, he knows now that there will be no way of getting back; that neither of them want to go back.
His hands shake as he presses them to Lucius’ chest, and there’s a heartbeat thudding against his palms and moonlight is spilling through their hair and to the stars they could be anyone, anyone at all.
Hot stab of pleasure up his spine, and Draco spreads his legs just that little bit wider, feeling the muscles in his thighs strain even as his stomach contracts, another burst of white light in his eyes, leaving him dizzy, leaving him panting and more than a tiny bit desperate – he presses one cheek to the wet grass, and moans until he can’t breathe any more.
There are lips against the fine, damp hairs at the back of his neck; a tongue trailing down the curve of his throat to the hollow where his collarbones meet, teeth leaving imprints in his skin – a thumb runs across his cheek, twines through his hair, and Draco whimpers as Lucius’ fingers slide from him, stroking lazily up his stomach, palm pressed to the shivering skin.
A flash of scorching pain, and then Draco’s arching, mouth open, eyes closed, as Lucius pushes into him inch by glorious, intoxicating inch; and they’re alive, they’re so terribly, wonderfully, beautifully alive…
“Luciussss,” Draco hisses, and there are no more words, no need for them.
Because this – this is everything.
9. These, our bodies, possessed by light
Blood in the back of his throat and he’s floating, he’s disconnected and outside of his skin and nothing matters except the bodies pressed in around him and his fingers around the hilt of the dagger, the hot splash of life across his face, the streaks of red through his hair – a subtle edge to his thoughts that might just be a sort of controlled desperation.
Flare of a spell and Lucius ducks, feels it sear across his shoulders, feels his skin prickle and the magic pulsing and he doesn’t think, only moves in the split second of stillness that follows and there’s a scream when the blade of the knife sinks through the black fabric of the man’s robes; a choking howl when Lucius’ wrist twists and there’s blood on his hands when he pulls it free, spins again, ducks another streak of blinding red light and he’s forgotten it already.
He doesn’t know where his wand is, doesn’t know what the Dark Lord has done with it – doesn’t care and doesn’t need it, because there’s still power flooding him, magic skittering down his spine and that’s enough, that’s more than enough.
He will not die here – he refuses to die here.
The Dark Mark is a scorching heat on his arm, burning it’s way further into his flesh with every second, a constant buzz of pure, undiluted anger; and he ignores the call of it, except to allow the warmth of it to flood him, for the fury to claw it’s way into him - as long as it’s burning, he manages to belong here, in the screams and the explosions, the horrors so like the ones that used to make him shake at night, curled up on the cold floor of his cell with the slap of the sea threatening to drive him mad.
Detonation to his right, and there’s a spray of dirt and something sharper, slicing through his cheek even as he turns his head away, a blazing strip of pain that dulls almost immediately, wiped away - and he’s still floating, barely thinking as he twirls the knife in his hand and there’s a flash of a fist, another scream and a body falling into him, the suddenness of the muddied ground and his back colliding.
Lucius pushes the man off, rolls to one side, is on his feet and moving again towards the lights of the castle, the doors of Hogwarts drawn wide open, desperate fighting on the steps and it’s madness and somewhere, somewhere… there! Bright head of hair and a pale face, the sharp outline of his son against the haze of spells all mixing together in the entrance behind him.
He doesn’t even know he’s moving until he’s almost there, halfway up the steps, and there’s a body in front of him, someone familiar, a wand raised and Draco is turning so slowly, too slowly…
Swirl of robes, and there’s a palm pressed to Dolohov’s mouth, a flash of light off the blade as it moves through the air and then a grunt when it meets the side of his neck, a sudden shift of weight; and Lucius is the only thing keeping the man up when it exits cleanly out the other side in a spray of warm, wet blood, splashing over his face even as he lets his former comrade drop.
Fingers around Draco’s wrist, and Lucius pushes him back into the relative safety of a darkened corner; crackle of magic, and the shield glows, flashes, settles.
Lucius won’t die here… at least, not unless he has to.
10. Tell me we’ll never get used to it.
The press of Draco against him in the dark, and even the sharp edge of grief doesn’t seem to bite so deeply, doesn’t tear into him so fiercely as it did in the aftermath - first Narcissa’s glazed eyes staring up at him and then Severus, blood at his throat and blue lips that tasted like venom.
Fingers in his hair, mouth at the base of his throat, and Lucius leans back against the wall, closes his eyes; pulls his son forwards by the hips, rolls his own, and the spark of pleasure it creates helps him to forget for a little while – helps them both to forget.
Draco tips his head to one side, and Lucius leans down without looking, kisses him gently - and everything tastes like bruises, like blood, like pain… or maybe it’s just him, maybe he’s the one that does.