Fic: Liberalia (LM/DM)
Mar. 2nd, 2011 12:55 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
carolinelamb.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
hpkinkfestTitle: Liberalia
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
carolinelamb
Prompt Number: 16 submitted byeevilalice
Kink Showcased: Incest
Rating: NC17
Pairing(s): Lucius Malfoy/Draco Malfoy
Summary: For centuries the men of the Malfoy family have been honouring Liber, the Roman god of male fertility. They sometimes forget that Liber also means liberation.
Warnings: Incest, invented Roman history,
Word Count: ~18.200
Disclaimer The Harry Potter universe is in its entirety the property of JK Rowling and her affiliates. I, the author make no profit.
Author's Notes: I apologise for the lateness of this, and for the length. Brevity obviously is not amongst my talents.
I want to add a special Thank You for the patient mods! Thank you for being so patient and corteous with me! I really appreciate this!
I owe also a special Thank You to my betasstarduchess and azure_rosa who beta'ed this in lightning speed for me, scolded me only a bit for my random commas! Also Thank You to schemingreader who helped me find my way through this story.
Part I
Part II
Part III
On Friday I leave the office, late as usual. It was a good and a bad day. It was good because I could persuade one of our clients to spend much more money on us than he originally had intended to. I am good with confusing people with numbers and facts. It was a bad day because I was so busy I could not call my father, which kept me in a constant state of worry.
I pictured him trying to cook and setting the kitchen on fire like he did on one occasion. My father is not an idiot, but before he had left England he had never ever prepared a meal for himself. He did not know the simplest Cooking charms. It took me a very long time to understand the concept of a Muggle kitchen.
I was afraid he would board a train, and then find himself in another town.
I was afraid he would leave.
It always comes down to this, I know. I sound like a broken record, and I see my fears are quite transparent to you.
In modern language you would tell me that I have issues. I only manage to restrain my demons, but I don’t know how to chase them away for good. No matter how often my father reassures me, in unguarded moments they come back.
Sometimes I feel that my father does better than me, but then his father never left him.
This Friday I see him in that cafe, the one he likes despite the bad, overpriced coffee, the bland food. He likes the view. He likes that he is allowed to sit there for hours and look out, like a passenger waiting for his ship.
Like many other Fridays I find him there. I had bought dinner and two very good bottles of wine along the way to celebrate my new deal.
He is not alone.
He is talking to a young woman. Well, not that young. She is older than me. They look as if they are arguing. Then she laughs, and surprisingly he laughs with her. They talk and talk. There is a newspaper between the two of them, and she aggressively points at the paper while they are talking, then stabs her chubby finger into his face. He never flinches; he doesn’t even register it.
Back in England he would have incinerated anyone who would have dared to talk like this to him. Now it seems to make him happy.
What do you think? Of course, I am angry.
I am angry and sad. It’s not so easy to make my father happy. It’s hard work. This woman thinks it’s easy, that he is always that cheerful, I can see that from her careless behaviour. She waves the waiter over and orders more wine for the both of them without asking him, and Lucius doesn’t protest. When the bottle comes, they continue talking, and he uncorks the bottle.
When I next glance at my mobile phone, almost one hour has passed. Even if he would have looked out he probably wouldn’t have seen me, not with the dark Promenade, the sparse lighting, the traffic between us. Still. He never looked.
She makes him forget me.
I finally cross the street and enter the café. The heat envelops me immediately. I approach Lucius, who doesn’t see me yet, and bend down to kiss him, then put an arm around him.
“Lucius,” I say cheerfully. “I am so sorry I am late …”
The woman opposite raises her eyebrows. She doesn’t miss the similarity between us – no one ever does. She looks from him to me and back. Her eyes linger on the line of our lips, the identical jaw lines. The wheels in her brain are whirring.
I enjoy this moment, her confusion.
“Darling,” I say tenderly to Lucius, as if she isn’t here.
“Draco,” my father says in a scandalised tone, with his cheeks flushed and his eyes wide. “This is Mina. She comes here regularly.”
“Oh! Draco!” the woman exclaims. “I thought you looked similar! So you are his son?”
I rear back as if she has slapped me.
You see, there is this silent agreement between me and my father. We never openly discuss this, but we never ever tell others explicitly our connection. We introduce each other as Lucius and Draco. I often go so far as to deny that we are related by blood (like in my office). Most often both of us avoid the question. Sometimes we cannot avoid it, but in the last years often they don’t really notice.
My eyes are different than his. The grey of his eyes has washed out, while mine seem blueish in the white sunlight of Nice. While his hair is bright blond, almost silvery (and recently streaked with coarser, white strands), mine got darker. While he is still pale and ivory skinned, I am suntanned by the southern sun of Nice, from the occasional tennis and golf games I am forced to play with my boss.
I don’t understand why Lucius told her about me. I always knew him as a very private person.
“Why don’t you sit with us?” she says, eyeing me curiously. “We just ordered a bottle of wine.”
I look at Lucius, who remains seated and looks blankly at me.
“It’s late, and we both have to get up tomorrow,” I say, “so only one glass. Then we should be off.” I nudge Lucius’ arm as I sit down.
“Why do I have to get up tomorrow?” Lucius asks.
“What?”
“I am unemployed, son,” says Lucius. “I don’t have any obligations.”
I am so dumbfounded I don’t really know what to say. I don’t understand what is happening. Why is Lucius behaving so strangely. Why would he not come home with me? We always go home together.
After a while, when the awkward silence turned deafening, the woman – Mina – says: “Well, I think I have to get home soon, so I can’t stay here very much longer.”
“Oh, that’s a pity,” says Lucius, and I could strangle him. I could strangle him and kick this woman. How dare she smile at him the way she does?
“You seem a bit eccentric,” she says to me.
What kind of statement is this supposed to be?
“Well, he’s my son,” Lucius chuckles.
“Stop it,” I hiss.
The woman raises her eyebrow again. I suppress the urge to slap her.
“I am sorry. I meant it as a compliment. I didn’t mean to insult you,” she apologises.
“You are American, aren’t you?” I frown, trying to locate her accent. “Are you from New York?”
“Washington, D.C.,” she corrects me.
“Well, since you’re an American, I guess it’s only natural that you don’t know manners.”
“Draco,” Lucius exclaims. “What is the matter with you?”
“Are you two together?” the woman asks. She is holding her wine glass.
“No,” my father says.
“Yes,” I say, and I lean forward. She looks at Lucius, who stares out of the window, his face red.
“I see,” she muses and puts her glass down. “I spent the whole afternoon with a man who sleeps with his own son. It’s a lot to take in.”
“You don’t look very shocked.” I can’t help myself.
She shrugs. “I don’t know a thing about you, but from the way you act, I’d say you are way more into it than he is.” She points with her chin at Lucius, and in that moment I want to kill her. Just silence her.
She says to Lucius, “I had a very good time today. I don’t … think you are a bad person. But I am confused. I should go home now.”
She gets up and puts on her coat. Lucius gets up, too, and attempts to help her into the coat, but she flinches a bit. “Thank you,” she says, as he says loudly, “I am so sorry.”
She studies his face intently, and a slight crease appears on her forehead, then she says, “I know.”
She nods a goodbye at me, and I don’t move. I merely sneer at her, then take my father’s arm.
After the door has clattered shut behind her, the sound of the glass rattling in the wood frame jolts me into action, and I yank my father toward the exit. Underneath the anger and the fury I feel lies bone-deep, chilling fear.
When my father was younger, women adored him. Even as a child I could grasp the fascination my father exerted. When Lucius entered a room, there was a lull in the conversation. For a brief moment the room’s entire attention was focused on him, and the women wore a rapt expression when they saw him. Even pragmatical women like that horrible McGonagall could not help blushing a bit when my father addressed her. Girls smiled at him with dreamy eyes. When he stood close to them, they swallowed, bit their lips, their fingers plucked at the hems of their blouses or carded through their hair, their eyelashes fluttered.
Men feared him. They disliked him, like jealous cats. They liked to make disparaging remarks about his toiletry habits in the presence of their wives. When talking to or about him, their eyes narrowed to hostile slits, and their voices acquired an oily, nasty undertone of suppressed anger.
I had forgotten all this. Right after his return from Azkaban, he had looked so gaunt and thin. He had been missing teeth, and his skin had been greyish, and he had walked slowly and carefully. Azkaban had not merely aged him, it had ravaged his beauty, destroyed him. I still remember how one of the Death Eaters, maybe Dolohov or Yaxley, had, upon seeing him shortly after his arrival at home, viciously remarked: “Nobody wants to look at that . Compared to him, even Snape looks like a beauty queen.” Most of the gathered men had laughed.
But living in Nice has restored much of his former appearance. The white in his hair looks attractive, gives him something distinguished. He will never look immaculate again, never retrieve his former glory, but he still looks impressive. He has lost his youth but not his beauty. Maybe he is even more alluring now, more human.
His eyes never look cold these days. His mouth is never set in that arrogant line any more. When he smiles, he looks apologetic. The presence of pain and loss makes him approachable and somehow, if possible, more desirable.
During our cab ride home, I am silent, looking at him from the side. I try to see him with the eyes of a Muggle woman. He looks stubbornly ahead with a frown on his face. I know this look, of course.
At home we will fight. We will argue. I will accuse him. I can’t help myself. I wish I could. I want to be a good son, a good lover. Someone he wants to be with. I know I might drive him away with my fear. But then I’ll remember how he betrayed us to her, how he smiled at her, and my fear will get the better of me.
Why not, I think. A fight now and then isn’t too bad. Other people fight constantly. They hate each other, get bored of each other, mourn each other, betray each other, and maybe finally learn to love each other. My father and I, we are just on our journey, like everyone else.
Of course, he can’t see this woman again. That’s going to be the first rule.
Then I realise I cannot tell Lucius what to do. Not like this, not in such a matter. This would be the fastest way to lose him, because of course he will see her again, only to spite me.
We walk up the stairs in silence.
I watch every movement. The way he unbuttons his coat and lets it slip off his shoulder (I take it off him and hang it up), the way he walks into the bathroom. When he tries to close the door, I snap. I have no idea why, but suddenly I push against the door, and enter. Lucius lets go of the handle with an unreadable expression in his face and goes to the sink and washes his face. He looks at me through the mirror.
“Let us not talk about this,” he says.
“You told her … about us,” I say, already hating that whiny tone in my voice.
Without taking his eyes off my face, he opens the tap and waits until the tepid water warms. The smell of Muggle chemicals fill the room. Steam rises. My father always uses water that is much too hot. I scold him for that but not tonight. I am glad that the mirror clouds.
“I told her that I am a father. And that I have a son who I’m very proud of,” he says. I can see that his calm attitude is pretence, the way his eyes dart between my face in the mirror to the sink.
He sighs when I press my chest against his back, when my arms embrace him from behind.
“You should have told her then how I suck your cock,” I say viciously. “How you like it when I tease you with my tongue.”
I rub his crotch, like he's a whore. “How you hold yourself open for me, when I lick your hole.”
He is growing hard. “Draco, no,” he says weakly.
“I am tired of having to seduce you,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Then don’t,” he says immediately, and his hand is on mine.
“I am not forcing you, Father. You want me as much as I want you.”
“I know.”
He turns around to kiss me, and while we kiss, the tugging and desire in my groins get heavier and stronger. I rub my hard cock on him, and he pushes into me.
Then, breathlessly, he shoves me back. “Let me prepare.” He bends down to retrieve the shower bidet from under the sink.
One of the first things we bought was that shower bidet. First, we were both embarrassed about it, but then I developed a sort of odd fascination with the various items that can be perused on the Internet.
Mostly he uses it in privacy. He even locks the bathroom door. Once, when we both had been drinking, I refused to leave the bathroom and peed while he cleaned himself. Since then, he is not as tense about it. “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” I tell him.
It doesn’t always excite me, but it doesn’t disgust me either. It’s my lover’s body. We are human animals, who eat, fuck and shit. It would be ridiculous to not be able to face the reality of our bodies.
He still refuses to fuck me. It’s a line he just cannot cross, he says, and I got used to it. In the end all I want is to feel close to him. And in that moment when he is on top of me, riding me, it’s not about who is penetrating whom. It’s about being connected, being so close that we are one. Only this counts. And I trust that one day he won’t be afraid anymore, maybe when I don’t look so young to him anymore.
This night he shoves me out of the bathroom and locks it. I wait for him in bed, naked, stroking my cock, already pouring lube on it. Then he stands beside the bed, his flaccid cock still wet from the shower.
I begin stroking it, then bring my lips close to the head and breathe on it.
Lucius smiles.
I let him see my tongue, let him watch me circling the glans. The smell of rosemary soap clings to his pubic hair. He climbs atop the bed, and kneels over my head.
His body begins to sway gently as I begin to suck him in. He pushes his hips forward, and I take him deep, savouring the taste of his cock, the feel of the skin on my tongue, the growing hardness.
When it comes to sex we both find that being dignified is overrated. I moan and whine like a whore, beg him, make obscene, slurping noises, stroke myself frantically. He throws his head back, twists his nipples with one hand, holds my head up with the other, his fingers digging into my scalp.
Tonight I don’t wait until he rides me. I have still so much fury inside me; I need more. I grab him at his hips, and we roll around together. When I lie on top of him, I marvel at the desire in his eyes, the trust, the love.
I want him so badly. I need him. Without him I cannot live. Without him I would not be able to make it through the day.
He gently cradles my head against his chest, then brings his legs up.
Every time I enter him, the awe is renewed, the wonder inside me, that this is really, truly happening, that I am one with him, that in this moment he is open to me, waiting for me to touch his core.
I know that sometimes my love frightens him, that on some level it worries him, but not now. When we are together like this, we both know that this is right. That there cannot be a wrong in this.
He sighs, and then we begin to move as one. I bite his neck, nuzzle the tender, soft skin above the collar bone, dip my tongue into the hollow between. I rub his nipples. I pinch them, then roll them between my thumb and forefinger. He is not as sensitive there as I am, so I have to be firm. I bend and bite them, and he gasps, then arches against me, and now he needs me, and this is wonderful … this is all I ever want.
You know when there is so much happiness inside you, it almost hurts? When the world around you stills, the room becomes a cathedral, a high-ceilinged dome, a place of worship, of hushed silence and whispered prayers?
We kiss, and kiss and kiss, endlessly, and tonight I claim him with my kisses. He lets me pin his arms down, although he is strong enough to shake me off. It’s maybe an immature game, but sometimes I need to assert myself, and he knows and lets me. He knows that tonight I must be frantic, out of my mind. He makes soothing noises, and it angers me more.
No right or wrong, I tell myself. Only touch, feel, the beat of his heart. The lust coursing through our veins.
Every time I thrust, I invade more and more of him. I want to know him more intimately than he knows himself. I know there is something he holds back. I feel that I drown in the ocean that is his soul, while I search for the island that is his true self hidden away from my prying eyes, from my mad, violating search.
The words “You are mine” are on my tongue, the temptation to say them irresistible. I want him to be mine, irreversibly mine, but I also know that the moment I say them out loud I might lose him. I might find myself washed ashore far away with the seven seas between us.
Instead, I thrust harder, faster, more urgent. Our moans and gasps fill the room. Lucius writhes underneath me, so much stronger and powerful than I am, yet holding himself back, refusing to dominate me, offering me submission, forcing me into domination.
He begins to shift his left leg. It’s an old curse wound, I believe, but he regularly gets cramps in this position and he has to move it up. I automatically lift his leg on my shoulder and hold it there. Every time when his leg starts to shake like this, I know it means that he is close, that his body is tense with lust, that he is only moments away from his orgasm. His movements become irregular. He is focused on coming, biting his lower lip, his eyes tightly shut, struggling for breath.
One hand fists the bed sheets, the other one is pulling and stroking his cock. I thrust, waiting, watching him come undone. Can you imagine how beautiful my father is when he loses himself in his passion? When he gives up control? I cannot stop looking at him.
You and I both know that sometimes I wish I could.
My life, both of our lives, would be easier if I could, I know. Then I would marry a good woman, a strong-willed, fragile-looking person like my mother and have well-behaved children and a normal life where I wouldn’t fight to make it through the nights and days, where we wouldn’t have to struggle all the time.
But of course, in this moment, this is all irrelevant.
When Lucius finally does come, he manages to take me with him, the way he always does. It’s as if a dam breaks, and the water bursts onto the river bed, tearing all thoughts away, leaving no coherency, only absolute wonder, and white light and sparks and pleasure and love. There is no way to describe how real I feel, as if I am here, as if I really exist.
There is no escape from that. I know it, and in this moment he knows it, too.
Often we both simply fall asleep, but tonight we both lie awake after this, staring at the ceiling.
When I turn my head to the side, I see him looking at me, and my heart nearly stops at the expression of tenderness I see. He is caressing my hand, tracing the lines in my palm with his thumb.
* * * * *
It’s next week, and I see her again. This time she is wearing a dress the colour of the grey blue sea. He is walking beside her on the beach, and they are laughing. I watch them from the cafe, then follow them, watching the way my father strolls beside her in such a relaxed manner. I turn around at ten and walk back to the cafe, waiting for them. They return half an hour later, their hair dishevelled from the wind, their cheeks flushed, like carefree and high-spirited children.
They still, red-handed, caught doing something illicit.
“Hello, Draco,” the woman greets me.
I can’t bring myself to greet her. Mina. What a disgusting name. Short and primitive like a name for a pet.
“Draco,” Lucius admonishes me, and I nod tersely. I realise that her eyes are the same colour as her dress. Behind their calm friendliness I can see the challenge, the undercurrent of a deceptively peaceful sea. They are unruly, stormy, with hints of grey.
Lucius apologises to Mina for my impoliteness, but she only stares at me with her ocean gaze.
“I have been waiting for you,” I lie, “for over an hour.”
He reluctantly parts from her. On our way home, Lucius scolds me for my impoliteness and my jealousy, and he enthuses about Mina.
She is very smart and naturally elegant. She possesses an innate energy, yet is always dignified and collected. She is well read and educated.
I don’t make the mistake of arguing with my father. There is no use in that. I have to think of something else. For now I don’t really know how to treat this situation. I will have to wait. I’ll find a solution. The war, the final days, taught me to be patient, to lie still and wait.
* * * * *
The next weeks pass like this. My father meets Mina in the cafe, and they go for long walks at the beach. Sometimes I see them, two dark silhouettes against the afternoon sky. Sometimes it’s too dark already when I arrive at the cafe, and I stare into the darkness, trying to imagine them walking together, laughing about something undoubtedly silly and profane.
Every time, he slips away further.
The moment comes when I meet her alone one day.
I took the evening off on a whim. Even as I left the office, I already knew I was going to make a detour at the beach rather than going straight home. I think I hoped to catch my father alone and then persuade him to spend time with me. Maybe go to a movie (he loves the movies, although he never admits it), have a drink or two, then dinner, then another drink in that new bar, we both like, and then bed. A perfect day.
Instead, I meet her. She is sitting at her usual place at the window. Lucius is not here yet.
“Hello, Draco,” she says, closing the book she has been reading. I lift the cover. The Antique Greek Myths.
“Would you like to sit down?” she asks, ignoring my rude behaviour as usual.
“My father is not here,” I say, sneering. “No need to uphold your facade.” I know, I am such a child.
“Ah,” she says simply. She smiles lightly, as if I had said something nice. “Maybe you would rather stand?”
I sit down.
I study her face. It’s quite plain. Her features are even, but the paper-thin skin around her eyes is beginning to crinkle. Her lips are not very full. Really, the only remotely interesting feature in her face are her eyes. Large, with black lashes and filled with that wondering, stormy sea gaze.
“You are afraid of me,” she says.
“Perhaps you should be afraid of my father,” I say, smiling. “Who do you think he is? A harmless, elderly man besotted with a younger woman?”
“I am older than you think.” She takes a sip from her tea before she speaks again: “You know that he is not going to leave you for anyone else.”
“This is a very tasteless conversation.”
“Indeed,” she agrees.
The waiter arrives, greets me with a grunt, then puts my coffee in front of me with a clatter.
“Your father looks so lost. Like a boat on a stormy sea. He cannot decide if to drown, to give in or to fight. Part of him wants to close his eyes, and leave. And another part of him wants to protect you, to give you everything what you wish for, everything you need.” She stirs her tea, then her hand lies quietly on the dirty marble table. “If people would know how to love someone the right way. If they knew how to save them.”
“Do you think you can save him?” I hiss.
“Don’t you want him saved? Or do you keep telling yourself that he doesn’t need saving?”
She leans forward and puts her hand on my hand. For one moment her hand looks transparent, her too-fragile knuckles, too-soft fingertips. A current jolts through me, and I sit upright. Suddenly her face seems to dissolve, then to piece itself together again.
I blink, then she lays her hand on my cheek. In this moment I understand my father’s affection for her. It’s hard to explain. I wish I could find better words, describe more accurately how suddenly I feel I am someone else, someone stronger … someone better.
“Is the longing you feel for him enough for the two of you?” she asks. “Will it suffice? Will you always, every day, be afraid that one day you wake up, and he is gone?”
She caresses my cheek, and something tugs at my heart.
“Can you stand this? All your life waiting for him to leave?” She bends closer. Her lips are close to mine. “Are you strong enough for this?”
“Who are you?” I ask. I feel so cold, except for her touch on my cheek that burns like fire.
“Maybe one day you realise that you have to leave to survive. Some loves are too intense, too demanding to be lived. This love might break your heart, burn you up. And what will you do then?”
“Quiet,” I say, but I know she is right.
“Do you think you can hide here, until that moment arrives?”
“I am not meant to leave,” I say simply, and I realise I always knew that. “I belong to him.”
We look out of the window. The sky turns into a dusky lavender with a centre of orange. Slowly the sun sinks into the sea. The light on her face glows orange. I find that the day is always the most beautiful before it ends. There is something quiet and peaceful and still about it -- this last half hour of daylight.
“Let me show you something,” she says.
She bends toward me and kisses me. Her lips feel so good against mine. They remind me of southern fruits. I cannot tear myself away from her. Then she opens her mouth, and suddenly I am not in that cafe anymore.
We are lovers. We are in a house, our home.
I see her laughing, naked, brazen, the bright sunlight catching her hair. Happiness wells up in my heart.
I see her with child, heavy, leaning against me while we are sitting in a garden, looking at our house.
She is cradling our child.
We are making love in a room filled with candles, passionate yet gentle. She reaches up and pushes a sweaty lock behind my ear. I murmur endearments.
I see us walking to King's Station together with our son. He is tall for his eleven years, and my heart is breaking, knowing I won’t see him for months and months.
I see my whole life in front of my eyes and know with certainty that this was the life I was supposed to have had had I not followed Lucius after the war.
I see myself the way I was meant to be, the story of my life written in another book, that was never opened.
When she stops kissing me, she stares at me. “You have to make a choice,” she says. “It is our choices, that show what we truly are.”
I sit, with my hand on my lips, mourning the feeling of her lips against mine. “This was my life,” I say.
She gently shakes her head. “No. It never happened. You did not make this choice. You chose something else.”
“Draco.” My father stands beside me. I look up confused. My mind is still reeling from the not-memories, the images that were in my mind just a minute before. They felt so real, you see, that being here feels strangely dreamlike and surreal.
Then his hand takes mine. “Let us go!”
Mina looks at him, her gaze level. “It is not enough to make a choice. You have to know what you want and what you reject. Only then can you live with the consequences of your decision.”
“You are right,” my father says to her. He is so very pale.
She looks at the sea. “It’s time for me to go home,” she says. “Liber sends his regards.”
My father nods absentmindedly. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” he says. “You kissed him; you showed him what it would be like if he would not ...”
“Of course,” she replies immediately in her simple, straight-forward manner. “Did it help?”
“I don’t know,” my father says. “I am ashamed that I seem to be so possessive. Seeing you kiss makes me jealous. I do not think that I am so immature.” He smiles weakly.
“Did you really feel jealousy?” Mina smiles. “I feel flattered. I rather thought you had an epiphany, experienced a moment of truth, a rare occurrence with mortals.”
Lucius raises his chin. “We might be able to surprise you sometimes.”
Then he extends his arm and he puts his hand on my cheek like Mina did before.
“I made up my mind,” he says, and he smiles at me in a way he never smiled before. “Let us go home.”
When I turn around to say good bye to Mina she is gone, but the windows of the cafe are thrown open and a gust of sea wind sweeps the paper napkins from the table.
* * * * *
He fucks me with his fingers -- as skilful as ever -- and teases me until I am whimpering and mewling. Whenever I arch against him, he touches my flanks in a soothing motion. I spread my legs, hold them open, caressing the back of my thighs. His cock is so hard, so needy. One drop of milky precome wells up, and he swirls the moisture with his thumb, biting his lips and groaning as he does so.
“Come to me,” I whisper. I smile. Tonight I am not afraid.
And when he looks at me, smiling back at me, his irises dark and nearly violet from lust I know he isn’t either.
“Yes,” he says, his voice a low growl. Then he slithers down on the bed sheets, licks my cock, sucks at my balls and finally I feel his tongue on my hole. Oh yes oh fuck. It feels so fucking good, so good.
He gently licks circles, and it feels hot and wet. I moan and writhe until he stabs my hole with his tongue.
Then I scream. Oh, this is so perfect. He has done this many times before, but tonight I feel I might come just from this. My hand flies down to the base of my cock where I sharply tug my balls down, to prevent myself from coming too early.
“Oh god, please,” I beg.
Lucius smiles. He moves up again, takes hold of my legs, and steadies himself before he slides in.
My body welcomes Lucius when he enters me. He shudders when I clench around him and bites his lips. There is no pain. I hold him close with my legs. I clutch his shoulders, hanging onto him, and he and I melt into one, and there is no pain at all.
All there is is sweet, agonising want and greedy, mindless fucking, so glorious and wonderful.
Please, please, please, I think, I need you so much, and then maybe I don’t only think it, I scream it.
My father fucks me full of abandon, finally, after all these years, so much pent up lust and longing in every single thrust. I have been waiting for him, and as I spiral closer to my own climax, I realise that I had been ready to wait forever. I had not expected him to open up to me like this. Surely this kind of happiness can kill a man, too much light and burning brightness for the heart to take.
I throw my head back the way he does. I curl my toes; I arch up, every thrust brings us closer to each other. His cock is hard -- so perfect, so beautiful, oh fuck, oh so good -- then he bends and kisses me, and I feel his hot tongue against mine, feel his breath shortening, and soon it will be too much, too good.
I see his face above me, twisted in lust, his mouth open in an silent scream, and when he finally comes, he cries out my name: “Draco Draco Draco.”
It shouldn’t be possible to feel so much, I think, but I do -- every twitch, every pulse of hot semen, every spurt inside me -- and I, too, come undone. I push him inside me with my heels and scream, and it’s wonderful, and it lasts and lasts and lasts.
I can feel my own come splattering onto my chest while I beg him not to stop yet, not to leave me yet, just please stay with me, and he does. “Yes,” he whispers. “My beautiful Draco … my beautiful child!”
* * * * *
Our life is not free from difficulties. Our love is not uncomplicated. I understand how the idea alone of a father bedding his son is frightening. But this is your problem, not mine. I cannot help wanting this. I cannot help being content and happy with him, and it took us long enough to accept that we deserve happiness, too.
I don’t know what the future will bring. I cannot say that we only live in the present with no thought of tomorrow. We think often about it, comfort each other, assure each other. Sometimes I am still afraid, and he still has his doubts sometimes. But I have trust in myself now and trust in his love. We learned to have faith in each other.
There is today, there is tomorrow, and we will make it through together. Like anybody else, really.
fin
Author:
carolinelambPrompt Number: 16 submitted by
eevilaliceKink Showcased: Incest
Rating: NC17
Pairing(s): Lucius Malfoy/Draco Malfoy
Summary: For centuries the men of the Malfoy family have been honouring Liber, the Roman god of male fertility. They sometimes forget that Liber also means liberation.
Warnings: Incest, invented Roman history,
Word Count: ~18.200
Disclaimer The Harry Potter universe is in its entirety the property of JK Rowling and her affiliates. I, the author make no profit.
Author's Notes: I apologise for the lateness of this, and for the length. Brevity obviously is not amongst my talents.
I want to add a special Thank You for the patient mods! Thank you for being so patient and corteous with me! I really appreciate this!
I owe also a special Thank You to my betas
starduchess and azure_rosa who beta'ed this in lightning speed for me, scolded me only a bit for my random commas! Also Thank You to schemingreader who helped me find my way through this story.Part I
Part II
On Friday I leave the office, late as usual. It was a good and a bad day. It was good because I could persuade one of our clients to spend much more money on us than he originally had intended to. I am good with confusing people with numbers and facts. It was a bad day because I was so busy I could not call my father, which kept me in a constant state of worry.
I pictured him trying to cook and setting the kitchen on fire like he did on one occasion. My father is not an idiot, but before he had left England he had never ever prepared a meal for himself. He did not know the simplest Cooking charms. It took me a very long time to understand the concept of a Muggle kitchen.
I was afraid he would board a train, and then find himself in another town.
I was afraid he would leave.
It always comes down to this, I know. I sound like a broken record, and I see my fears are quite transparent to you.
In modern language you would tell me that I have issues. I only manage to restrain my demons, but I don’t know how to chase them away for good. No matter how often my father reassures me, in unguarded moments they come back.
Sometimes I feel that my father does better than me, but then his father never left him.
This Friday I see him in that cafe, the one he likes despite the bad, overpriced coffee, the bland food. He likes the view. He likes that he is allowed to sit there for hours and look out, like a passenger waiting for his ship.
Like many other Fridays I find him there. I had bought dinner and two very good bottles of wine along the way to celebrate my new deal.
He is not alone.
He is talking to a young woman. Well, not that young. She is older than me. They look as if they are arguing. Then she laughs, and surprisingly he laughs with her. They talk and talk. There is a newspaper between the two of them, and she aggressively points at the paper while they are talking, then stabs her chubby finger into his face. He never flinches; he doesn’t even register it.
Back in England he would have incinerated anyone who would have dared to talk like this to him. Now it seems to make him happy.
What do you think? Of course, I am angry.
I am angry and sad. It’s not so easy to make my father happy. It’s hard work. This woman thinks it’s easy, that he is always that cheerful, I can see that from her careless behaviour. She waves the waiter over and orders more wine for the both of them without asking him, and Lucius doesn’t protest. When the bottle comes, they continue talking, and he uncorks the bottle.
When I next glance at my mobile phone, almost one hour has passed. Even if he would have looked out he probably wouldn’t have seen me, not with the dark Promenade, the sparse lighting, the traffic between us. Still. He never looked.
She makes him forget me.
I finally cross the street and enter the café. The heat envelops me immediately. I approach Lucius, who doesn’t see me yet, and bend down to kiss him, then put an arm around him.
“Lucius,” I say cheerfully. “I am so sorry I am late …”
The woman opposite raises her eyebrows. She doesn’t miss the similarity between us – no one ever does. She looks from him to me and back. Her eyes linger on the line of our lips, the identical jaw lines. The wheels in her brain are whirring.
I enjoy this moment, her confusion.
“Darling,” I say tenderly to Lucius, as if she isn’t here.
“Draco,” my father says in a scandalised tone, with his cheeks flushed and his eyes wide. “This is Mina. She comes here regularly.”
“Oh! Draco!” the woman exclaims. “I thought you looked similar! So you are his son?”
I rear back as if she has slapped me.
You see, there is this silent agreement between me and my father. We never openly discuss this, but we never ever tell others explicitly our connection. We introduce each other as Lucius and Draco. I often go so far as to deny that we are related by blood (like in my office). Most often both of us avoid the question. Sometimes we cannot avoid it, but in the last years often they don’t really notice.
My eyes are different than his. The grey of his eyes has washed out, while mine seem blueish in the white sunlight of Nice. While his hair is bright blond, almost silvery (and recently streaked with coarser, white strands), mine got darker. While he is still pale and ivory skinned, I am suntanned by the southern sun of Nice, from the occasional tennis and golf games I am forced to play with my boss.
I don’t understand why Lucius told her about me. I always knew him as a very private person.
“Why don’t you sit with us?” she says, eyeing me curiously. “We just ordered a bottle of wine.”
I look at Lucius, who remains seated and looks blankly at me.
“It’s late, and we both have to get up tomorrow,” I say, “so only one glass. Then we should be off.” I nudge Lucius’ arm as I sit down.
“Why do I have to get up tomorrow?” Lucius asks.
“What?”
“I am unemployed, son,” says Lucius. “I don’t have any obligations.”
I am so dumbfounded I don’t really know what to say. I don’t understand what is happening. Why is Lucius behaving so strangely. Why would he not come home with me? We always go home together.
After a while, when the awkward silence turned deafening, the woman – Mina – says: “Well, I think I have to get home soon, so I can’t stay here very much longer.”
“Oh, that’s a pity,” says Lucius, and I could strangle him. I could strangle him and kick this woman. How dare she smile at him the way she does?
“You seem a bit eccentric,” she says to me.
What kind of statement is this supposed to be?
“Well, he’s my son,” Lucius chuckles.
“Stop it,” I hiss.
The woman raises her eyebrow again. I suppress the urge to slap her.
“I am sorry. I meant it as a compliment. I didn’t mean to insult you,” she apologises.
“You are American, aren’t you?” I frown, trying to locate her accent. “Are you from New York?”
“Washington, D.C.,” she corrects me.
“Well, since you’re an American, I guess it’s only natural that you don’t know manners.”
“Draco,” Lucius exclaims. “What is the matter with you?”
“Are you two together?” the woman asks. She is holding her wine glass.
“No,” my father says.
“Yes,” I say, and I lean forward. She looks at Lucius, who stares out of the window, his face red.
“I see,” she muses and puts her glass down. “I spent the whole afternoon with a man who sleeps with his own son. It’s a lot to take in.”
“You don’t look very shocked.” I can’t help myself.
She shrugs. “I don’t know a thing about you, but from the way you act, I’d say you are way more into it than he is.” She points with her chin at Lucius, and in that moment I want to kill her. Just silence her.
She says to Lucius, “I had a very good time today. I don’t … think you are a bad person. But I am confused. I should go home now.”
She gets up and puts on her coat. Lucius gets up, too, and attempts to help her into the coat, but she flinches a bit. “Thank you,” she says, as he says loudly, “I am so sorry.”
She studies his face intently, and a slight crease appears on her forehead, then she says, “I know.”
She nods a goodbye at me, and I don’t move. I merely sneer at her, then take my father’s arm.
After the door has clattered shut behind her, the sound of the glass rattling in the wood frame jolts me into action, and I yank my father toward the exit. Underneath the anger and the fury I feel lies bone-deep, chilling fear.
When my father was younger, women adored him. Even as a child I could grasp the fascination my father exerted. When Lucius entered a room, there was a lull in the conversation. For a brief moment the room’s entire attention was focused on him, and the women wore a rapt expression when they saw him. Even pragmatical women like that horrible McGonagall could not help blushing a bit when my father addressed her. Girls smiled at him with dreamy eyes. When he stood close to them, they swallowed, bit their lips, their fingers plucked at the hems of their blouses or carded through their hair, their eyelashes fluttered.
Men feared him. They disliked him, like jealous cats. They liked to make disparaging remarks about his toiletry habits in the presence of their wives. When talking to or about him, their eyes narrowed to hostile slits, and their voices acquired an oily, nasty undertone of suppressed anger.
I had forgotten all this. Right after his return from Azkaban, he had looked so gaunt and thin. He had been missing teeth, and his skin had been greyish, and he had walked slowly and carefully. Azkaban had not merely aged him, it had ravaged his beauty, destroyed him. I still remember how one of the Death Eaters, maybe Dolohov or Yaxley, had, upon seeing him shortly after his arrival at home, viciously remarked: “Nobody wants to look at that . Compared to him, even Snape looks like a beauty queen.” Most of the gathered men had laughed.
But living in Nice has restored much of his former appearance. The white in his hair looks attractive, gives him something distinguished. He will never look immaculate again, never retrieve his former glory, but he still looks impressive. He has lost his youth but not his beauty. Maybe he is even more alluring now, more human.
His eyes never look cold these days. His mouth is never set in that arrogant line any more. When he smiles, he looks apologetic. The presence of pain and loss makes him approachable and somehow, if possible, more desirable.
During our cab ride home, I am silent, looking at him from the side. I try to see him with the eyes of a Muggle woman. He looks stubbornly ahead with a frown on his face. I know this look, of course.
At home we will fight. We will argue. I will accuse him. I can’t help myself. I wish I could. I want to be a good son, a good lover. Someone he wants to be with. I know I might drive him away with my fear. But then I’ll remember how he betrayed us to her, how he smiled at her, and my fear will get the better of me.
Why not, I think. A fight now and then isn’t too bad. Other people fight constantly. They hate each other, get bored of each other, mourn each other, betray each other, and maybe finally learn to love each other. My father and I, we are just on our journey, like everyone else.
Of course, he can’t see this woman again. That’s going to be the first rule.
Then I realise I cannot tell Lucius what to do. Not like this, not in such a matter. This would be the fastest way to lose him, because of course he will see her again, only to spite me.
We walk up the stairs in silence.
I watch every movement. The way he unbuttons his coat and lets it slip off his shoulder (I take it off him and hang it up), the way he walks into the bathroom. When he tries to close the door, I snap. I have no idea why, but suddenly I push against the door, and enter. Lucius lets go of the handle with an unreadable expression in his face and goes to the sink and washes his face. He looks at me through the mirror.
“Let us not talk about this,” he says.
“You told her … about us,” I say, already hating that whiny tone in my voice.
Without taking his eyes off my face, he opens the tap and waits until the tepid water warms. The smell of Muggle chemicals fill the room. Steam rises. My father always uses water that is much too hot. I scold him for that but not tonight. I am glad that the mirror clouds.
“I told her that I am a father. And that I have a son who I’m very proud of,” he says. I can see that his calm attitude is pretence, the way his eyes dart between my face in the mirror to the sink.
He sighs when I press my chest against his back, when my arms embrace him from behind.
“You should have told her then how I suck your cock,” I say viciously. “How you like it when I tease you with my tongue.”
I rub his crotch, like he's a whore. “How you hold yourself open for me, when I lick your hole.”
He is growing hard. “Draco, no,” he says weakly.
“I am tired of having to seduce you,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Then don’t,” he says immediately, and his hand is on mine.
“I am not forcing you, Father. You want me as much as I want you.”
“I know.”
He turns around to kiss me, and while we kiss, the tugging and desire in my groins get heavier and stronger. I rub my hard cock on him, and he pushes into me.
Then, breathlessly, he shoves me back. “Let me prepare.” He bends down to retrieve the shower bidet from under the sink.
One of the first things we bought was that shower bidet. First, we were both embarrassed about it, but then I developed a sort of odd fascination with the various items that can be perused on the Internet.
Mostly he uses it in privacy. He even locks the bathroom door. Once, when we both had been drinking, I refused to leave the bathroom and peed while he cleaned himself. Since then, he is not as tense about it. “Nothing I haven’t seen before,” I tell him.
It doesn’t always excite me, but it doesn’t disgust me either. It’s my lover’s body. We are human animals, who eat, fuck and shit. It would be ridiculous to not be able to face the reality of our bodies.
He still refuses to fuck me. It’s a line he just cannot cross, he says, and I got used to it. In the end all I want is to feel close to him. And in that moment when he is on top of me, riding me, it’s not about who is penetrating whom. It’s about being connected, being so close that we are one. Only this counts. And I trust that one day he won’t be afraid anymore, maybe when I don’t look so young to him anymore.
This night he shoves me out of the bathroom and locks it. I wait for him in bed, naked, stroking my cock, already pouring lube on it. Then he stands beside the bed, his flaccid cock still wet from the shower.
I begin stroking it, then bring my lips close to the head and breathe on it.
Lucius smiles.
I let him see my tongue, let him watch me circling the glans. The smell of rosemary soap clings to his pubic hair. He climbs atop the bed, and kneels over my head.
His body begins to sway gently as I begin to suck him in. He pushes his hips forward, and I take him deep, savouring the taste of his cock, the feel of the skin on my tongue, the growing hardness.
When it comes to sex we both find that being dignified is overrated. I moan and whine like a whore, beg him, make obscene, slurping noises, stroke myself frantically. He throws his head back, twists his nipples with one hand, holds my head up with the other, his fingers digging into my scalp.
Tonight I don’t wait until he rides me. I have still so much fury inside me; I need more. I grab him at his hips, and we roll around together. When I lie on top of him, I marvel at the desire in his eyes, the trust, the love.
I want him so badly. I need him. Without him I cannot live. Without him I would not be able to make it through the day.
He gently cradles my head against his chest, then brings his legs up.
Every time I enter him, the awe is renewed, the wonder inside me, that this is really, truly happening, that I am one with him, that in this moment he is open to me, waiting for me to touch his core.
I know that sometimes my love frightens him, that on some level it worries him, but not now. When we are together like this, we both know that this is right. That there cannot be a wrong in this.
He sighs, and then we begin to move as one. I bite his neck, nuzzle the tender, soft skin above the collar bone, dip my tongue into the hollow between. I rub his nipples. I pinch them, then roll them between my thumb and forefinger. He is not as sensitive there as I am, so I have to be firm. I bend and bite them, and he gasps, then arches against me, and now he needs me, and this is wonderful … this is all I ever want.
You know when there is so much happiness inside you, it almost hurts? When the world around you stills, the room becomes a cathedral, a high-ceilinged dome, a place of worship, of hushed silence and whispered prayers?
We kiss, and kiss and kiss, endlessly, and tonight I claim him with my kisses. He lets me pin his arms down, although he is strong enough to shake me off. It’s maybe an immature game, but sometimes I need to assert myself, and he knows and lets me. He knows that tonight I must be frantic, out of my mind. He makes soothing noises, and it angers me more.
No right or wrong, I tell myself. Only touch, feel, the beat of his heart. The lust coursing through our veins.
Every time I thrust, I invade more and more of him. I want to know him more intimately than he knows himself. I know there is something he holds back. I feel that I drown in the ocean that is his soul, while I search for the island that is his true self hidden away from my prying eyes, from my mad, violating search.
The words “You are mine” are on my tongue, the temptation to say them irresistible. I want him to be mine, irreversibly mine, but I also know that the moment I say them out loud I might lose him. I might find myself washed ashore far away with the seven seas between us.
Instead, I thrust harder, faster, more urgent. Our moans and gasps fill the room. Lucius writhes underneath me, so much stronger and powerful than I am, yet holding himself back, refusing to dominate me, offering me submission, forcing me into domination.
He begins to shift his left leg. It’s an old curse wound, I believe, but he regularly gets cramps in this position and he has to move it up. I automatically lift his leg on my shoulder and hold it there. Every time when his leg starts to shake like this, I know it means that he is close, that his body is tense with lust, that he is only moments away from his orgasm. His movements become irregular. He is focused on coming, biting his lower lip, his eyes tightly shut, struggling for breath.
One hand fists the bed sheets, the other one is pulling and stroking his cock. I thrust, waiting, watching him come undone. Can you imagine how beautiful my father is when he loses himself in his passion? When he gives up control? I cannot stop looking at him.
You and I both know that sometimes I wish I could.
My life, both of our lives, would be easier if I could, I know. Then I would marry a good woman, a strong-willed, fragile-looking person like my mother and have well-behaved children and a normal life where I wouldn’t fight to make it through the nights and days, where we wouldn’t have to struggle all the time.
But of course, in this moment, this is all irrelevant.
When Lucius finally does come, he manages to take me with him, the way he always does. It’s as if a dam breaks, and the water bursts onto the river bed, tearing all thoughts away, leaving no coherency, only absolute wonder, and white light and sparks and pleasure and love. There is no way to describe how real I feel, as if I am here, as if I really exist.
There is no escape from that. I know it, and in this moment he knows it, too.
Often we both simply fall asleep, but tonight we both lie awake after this, staring at the ceiling.
When I turn my head to the side, I see him looking at me, and my heart nearly stops at the expression of tenderness I see. He is caressing my hand, tracing the lines in my palm with his thumb.
It’s next week, and I see her again. This time she is wearing a dress the colour of the grey blue sea. He is walking beside her on the beach, and they are laughing. I watch them from the cafe, then follow them, watching the way my father strolls beside her in such a relaxed manner. I turn around at ten and walk back to the cafe, waiting for them. They return half an hour later, their hair dishevelled from the wind, their cheeks flushed, like carefree and high-spirited children.
They still, red-handed, caught doing something illicit.
“Hello, Draco,” the woman greets me.
I can’t bring myself to greet her. Mina. What a disgusting name. Short and primitive like a name for a pet.
“Draco,” Lucius admonishes me, and I nod tersely. I realise that her eyes are the same colour as her dress. Behind their calm friendliness I can see the challenge, the undercurrent of a deceptively peaceful sea. They are unruly, stormy, with hints of grey.
Lucius apologises to Mina for my impoliteness, but she only stares at me with her ocean gaze.
“I have been waiting for you,” I lie, “for over an hour.”
He reluctantly parts from her. On our way home, Lucius scolds me for my impoliteness and my jealousy, and he enthuses about Mina.
She is very smart and naturally elegant. She possesses an innate energy, yet is always dignified and collected. She is well read and educated.
I don’t make the mistake of arguing with my father. There is no use in that. I have to think of something else. For now I don’t really know how to treat this situation. I will have to wait. I’ll find a solution. The war, the final days, taught me to be patient, to lie still and wait.
The next weeks pass like this. My father meets Mina in the cafe, and they go for long walks at the beach. Sometimes I see them, two dark silhouettes against the afternoon sky. Sometimes it’s too dark already when I arrive at the cafe, and I stare into the darkness, trying to imagine them walking together, laughing about something undoubtedly silly and profane.
Every time, he slips away further.
The moment comes when I meet her alone one day.
I took the evening off on a whim. Even as I left the office, I already knew I was going to make a detour at the beach rather than going straight home. I think I hoped to catch my father alone and then persuade him to spend time with me. Maybe go to a movie (he loves the movies, although he never admits it), have a drink or two, then dinner, then another drink in that new bar, we both like, and then bed. A perfect day.
Instead, I meet her. She is sitting at her usual place at the window. Lucius is not here yet.
“Hello, Draco,” she says, closing the book she has been reading. I lift the cover. The Antique Greek Myths.
“Would you like to sit down?” she asks, ignoring my rude behaviour as usual.
“My father is not here,” I say, sneering. “No need to uphold your facade.” I know, I am such a child.
“Ah,” she says simply. She smiles lightly, as if I had said something nice. “Maybe you would rather stand?”
I sit down.
I study her face. It’s quite plain. Her features are even, but the paper-thin skin around her eyes is beginning to crinkle. Her lips are not very full. Really, the only remotely interesting feature in her face are her eyes. Large, with black lashes and filled with that wondering, stormy sea gaze.
“You are afraid of me,” she says.
“Perhaps you should be afraid of my father,” I say, smiling. “Who do you think he is? A harmless, elderly man besotted with a younger woman?”
“I am older than you think.” She takes a sip from her tea before she speaks again: “You know that he is not going to leave you for anyone else.”
“This is a very tasteless conversation.”
“Indeed,” she agrees.
The waiter arrives, greets me with a grunt, then puts my coffee in front of me with a clatter.
“Your father looks so lost. Like a boat on a stormy sea. He cannot decide if to drown, to give in or to fight. Part of him wants to close his eyes, and leave. And another part of him wants to protect you, to give you everything what you wish for, everything you need.” She stirs her tea, then her hand lies quietly on the dirty marble table. “If people would know how to love someone the right way. If they knew how to save them.”
“Do you think you can save him?” I hiss.
“Don’t you want him saved? Or do you keep telling yourself that he doesn’t need saving?”
She leans forward and puts her hand on my hand. For one moment her hand looks transparent, her too-fragile knuckles, too-soft fingertips. A current jolts through me, and I sit upright. Suddenly her face seems to dissolve, then to piece itself together again.
I blink, then she lays her hand on my cheek. In this moment I understand my father’s affection for her. It’s hard to explain. I wish I could find better words, describe more accurately how suddenly I feel I am someone else, someone stronger … someone better.
“Is the longing you feel for him enough for the two of you?” she asks. “Will it suffice? Will you always, every day, be afraid that one day you wake up, and he is gone?”
She caresses my cheek, and something tugs at my heart.
“Can you stand this? All your life waiting for him to leave?” She bends closer. Her lips are close to mine. “Are you strong enough for this?”
“Who are you?” I ask. I feel so cold, except for her touch on my cheek that burns like fire.
“Maybe one day you realise that you have to leave to survive. Some loves are too intense, too demanding to be lived. This love might break your heart, burn you up. And what will you do then?”
“Quiet,” I say, but I know she is right.
“Do you think you can hide here, until that moment arrives?”
“I am not meant to leave,” I say simply, and I realise I always knew that. “I belong to him.”
We look out of the window. The sky turns into a dusky lavender with a centre of orange. Slowly the sun sinks into the sea. The light on her face glows orange. I find that the day is always the most beautiful before it ends. There is something quiet and peaceful and still about it -- this last half hour of daylight.
“Let me show you something,” she says.
She bends toward me and kisses me. Her lips feel so good against mine. They remind me of southern fruits. I cannot tear myself away from her. Then she opens her mouth, and suddenly I am not in that cafe anymore.
We are lovers. We are in a house, our home.
I see her laughing, naked, brazen, the bright sunlight catching her hair. Happiness wells up in my heart.
I see her with child, heavy, leaning against me while we are sitting in a garden, looking at our house.
She is cradling our child.
We are making love in a room filled with candles, passionate yet gentle. She reaches up and pushes a sweaty lock behind my ear. I murmur endearments.
I see us walking to King's Station together with our son. He is tall for his eleven years, and my heart is breaking, knowing I won’t see him for months and months.
I see my whole life in front of my eyes and know with certainty that this was the life I was supposed to have had had I not followed Lucius after the war.
I see myself the way I was meant to be, the story of my life written in another book, that was never opened.
When she stops kissing me, she stares at me. “You have to make a choice,” she says. “It is our choices, that show what we truly are.”
I sit, with my hand on my lips, mourning the feeling of her lips against mine. “This was my life,” I say.
She gently shakes her head. “No. It never happened. You did not make this choice. You chose something else.”
“Draco.” My father stands beside me. I look up confused. My mind is still reeling from the not-memories, the images that were in my mind just a minute before. They felt so real, you see, that being here feels strangely dreamlike and surreal.
Then his hand takes mine. “Let us go!”
Mina looks at him, her gaze level. “It is not enough to make a choice. You have to know what you want and what you reject. Only then can you live with the consequences of your decision.”
“You are right,” my father says to her. He is so very pale.
She looks at the sea. “It’s time for me to go home,” she says. “Liber sends his regards.”
My father nods absentmindedly. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” he says. “You kissed him; you showed him what it would be like if he would not ...”
“Of course,” she replies immediately in her simple, straight-forward manner. “Did it help?”
“I don’t know,” my father says. “I am ashamed that I seem to be so possessive. Seeing you kiss makes me jealous. I do not think that I am so immature.” He smiles weakly.
“Did you really feel jealousy?” Mina smiles. “I feel flattered. I rather thought you had an epiphany, experienced a moment of truth, a rare occurrence with mortals.”
Lucius raises his chin. “We might be able to surprise you sometimes.”
Then he extends his arm and he puts his hand on my cheek like Mina did before.
“I made up my mind,” he says, and he smiles at me in a way he never smiled before. “Let us go home.”
When I turn around to say good bye to Mina she is gone, but the windows of the cafe are thrown open and a gust of sea wind sweeps the paper napkins from the table.
He fucks me with his fingers -- as skilful as ever -- and teases me until I am whimpering and mewling. Whenever I arch against him, he touches my flanks in a soothing motion. I spread my legs, hold them open, caressing the back of my thighs. His cock is so hard, so needy. One drop of milky precome wells up, and he swirls the moisture with his thumb, biting his lips and groaning as he does so.
“Come to me,” I whisper. I smile. Tonight I am not afraid.
And when he looks at me, smiling back at me, his irises dark and nearly violet from lust I know he isn’t either.
“Yes,” he says, his voice a low growl. Then he slithers down on the bed sheets, licks my cock, sucks at my balls and finally I feel his tongue on my hole. Oh yes oh fuck. It feels so fucking good, so good.
He gently licks circles, and it feels hot and wet. I moan and writhe until he stabs my hole with his tongue.
Then I scream. Oh, this is so perfect. He has done this many times before, but tonight I feel I might come just from this. My hand flies down to the base of my cock where I sharply tug my balls down, to prevent myself from coming too early.
“Oh god, please,” I beg.
Lucius smiles. He moves up again, takes hold of my legs, and steadies himself before he slides in.
My body welcomes Lucius when he enters me. He shudders when I clench around him and bites his lips. There is no pain. I hold him close with my legs. I clutch his shoulders, hanging onto him, and he and I melt into one, and there is no pain at all.
All there is is sweet, agonising want and greedy, mindless fucking, so glorious and wonderful.
Please, please, please, I think, I need you so much, and then maybe I don’t only think it, I scream it.
My father fucks me full of abandon, finally, after all these years, so much pent up lust and longing in every single thrust. I have been waiting for him, and as I spiral closer to my own climax, I realise that I had been ready to wait forever. I had not expected him to open up to me like this. Surely this kind of happiness can kill a man, too much light and burning brightness for the heart to take.
I throw my head back the way he does. I curl my toes; I arch up, every thrust brings us closer to each other. His cock is hard -- so perfect, so beautiful, oh fuck, oh so good -- then he bends and kisses me, and I feel his hot tongue against mine, feel his breath shortening, and soon it will be too much, too good.
I see his face above me, twisted in lust, his mouth open in an silent scream, and when he finally comes, he cries out my name: “Draco Draco Draco.”
It shouldn’t be possible to feel so much, I think, but I do -- every twitch, every pulse of hot semen, every spurt inside me -- and I, too, come undone. I push him inside me with my heels and scream, and it’s wonderful, and it lasts and lasts and lasts.
I can feel my own come splattering onto my chest while I beg him not to stop yet, not to leave me yet, just please stay with me, and he does. “Yes,” he whispers. “My beautiful Draco … my beautiful child!”
Our life is not free from difficulties. Our love is not uncomplicated. I understand how the idea alone of a father bedding his son is frightening. But this is your problem, not mine. I cannot help wanting this. I cannot help being content and happy with him, and it took us long enough to accept that we deserve happiness, too.
I don’t know what the future will bring. I cannot say that we only live in the present with no thought of tomorrow. We think often about it, comfort each other, assure each other. Sometimes I am still afraid, and he still has his doubts sometimes. But I have trust in myself now and trust in his love. We learned to have faith in each other.
There is today, there is tomorrow, and we will make it through together. Like anybody else, really.
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Date: 2011-03-01 08:07 pm (UTC)I loved how you put Draco's needs, and the detail that he didn't feel Lucius was his father, but anyway he didn't stop think in him with that name.
And this last part with Mina.
Everything was gorgeous and so perfectly done.
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Date: 2011-03-02 06:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-01 09:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-02 06:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-02 03:11 am (UTC)A very interesting journey. Mina was very interesting as well. You worried me greatly for a bit, I was sure that she was just a woman that Lucius was trying to make himself interested in. I do like the idea that Liber intervened since he was the originator of the relationship.
Thanks for your note. I actually did not know where to look for the rest of the story so your note prodded me into looking. I'm not sure why but it just didn't occur to me to go to the next entry. I'm used to the easy click "go here for part 2" things at the bottom and without them I didn't realize there was a part 2 here. I'm really glad I said something or I really would have missed out!
Great story very well told. I think you were not wordy, you just told more of a story! Thanks so much for it. I really enjoyed it so much.
Clare
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Date: 2011-03-02 06:40 am (UTC)i too have a weakness for lucius and draco :) they are just so pretty!
i do enjoy the usual darker versions of these two, but i think i couldn't write it! i'm more of a romantic :S.
and of course i am especially happy you liked my oc mina!
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Date: 2011-03-07 10:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-09 03:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-11 02:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-11 06:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-28 12:32 am (UTC)Wow, what a talented telling of a relationship-driven story. I am a bit torn about Part 1 being the foundation for Part 2 and 3. In some ways I want Part 1 to be its own story and 2&3 to be its own story. It is hard to see how they inhabit the same physical world/timeline, but then I suppose that is part of the point.
I'll be thinking about this for some time.
Thank you!
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Date: 2011-08-28 03:29 pm (UTC)You are right, Part One seems to be its own story. I think there were some readers who read Part One but not the others, because it seemed complete to them.
I am very glad that you liked this!
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Date: 2011-12-31 08:31 am (UTC)Naphyla
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Date: 2012-01-01 02:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-01 10:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-14 12:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-14 06:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-06-26 12:04 pm (UTC)It is very, very well written. I've loved every single word of it.
I'm sorry, I'm a bit at a loss for words and will try to be more coherent!
The first thing is the amazing work you did on characterisation. How you expressed Lucius's doubts, his desire, the need, how everything he's been through took its toll on him, how it carved him into the man he is now, it was beautiful.
And then, there's Draco. Draco so much in love, his love for his father so strong and powerful and overwhelming, the way he tries to rationalise it, the struggle.
Then there's the story in itself; everything we learn about how Draco doesn't really see Lucius as his father, how he missed him when he was a child, and how much he needs to take care of him, to be with him.
The writing was beautiful, because you managed, through Draco's voice mostly, to show us how much of a struggle it was, but it was also very subtle, with words dropped almost innocently but exploding in our faces all the same. When Narcissa realises what there is between Lucius and Draco, or the scene in the taxi.
The liber part was also very well done, with Mina putting things into perspective, and showing Draco what could have been, and yet, in the end, there wasn't really a choice in the first place, it was just obvious.
And the sex. Absolutely brilliant, brilliant sex. A perfect mix between hotness and emotions, so many emotions, never boring, never the same, and always so much into the story.
This is a story that will go straight into my favorite fics folder, because I know I will read it over and over again.
Thank you so much for writing it!
no subject
Date: 2014-06-27 11:01 am (UTC)And then I saw the one where Draco is all beautiful, pale and blond and so withdrawn and tormented.
I sometimes think, if we were to know where the roads we don't take, would lead, we would not so much hesitate and regret our choices. if we understood what we say 'no' to, we could get on with our lives and not fear the things we say 'yes' to.
I am very glad you like it! I never thought it was a very popular story but I am so happy that you liked it and understood it the way I wanted it to be understood.
Thanks so much for your reading and liking it!
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Date: 2014-06-27 08:35 pm (UTC)The last part is absolutely beautiful and I think it perfectly sums it all:
Our life is not free from difficulties. Our love is not uncomplicated. I understand how the idea alone of a father bedding his son is frightening. But this is your problem, not mine. I cannot help wanting this. I cannot help being content and happy with him, and it took us long enough to accept that we deserve happiness, too.
This. So deep and intense and beautiful.
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Date: 2016-08-12 12:18 pm (UTC)I loved everything about it, really. The spiritualist fell of the first part, ant the ANGST of the second (i think it was my favourite, with the good days and the bad, and Draco confusing people with numbers and fact, and Lucius using abbreviations on text messages) and this sweet ending was just lovely, too.
I find it very realistic and original, specially in the sense that is Draco who is the one who can't get enough and Lucius the reluctant party...
Lovely read trough and trough! Lots of Kudos c:
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Date: 2016-09-18 04:32 pm (UTC)