"Burial" Lucius/Severus (R)
Burial
by underlucius
Warnings: chan. Lucius is 19, Severus 13.
Disclaimer: JKR owns Lucius and Severus not me. Sadly
Notes: beta-ed by the inestimable eumenides1 who has to battle with the ebil Microsoft grammar check just to beta my scribblings. Dedicated to sinick for being this very Severus.
Burial
The sky is that leaden nothing only England seems to spawn, the spectrum torn from it, leached into an impossible colour that hurts the senses as you look for more than the sky will give. The rain piledrives into the ground, waging war on the grass, turning it brown with anger. It is colder than my father's hands.
I had refused all fuss from stupid elves - and one other - to wear a hat, and was soaked. Nose cut as far off my face as I could make it. My face is icy, as it presses against the well-meaning condolences of aunts, my hair plastered to my skin. My tears, which were what they'd all come to see, are not on display. Unshed. Unborn.
My father is dead.
The lines of hypocrisy pass and his coffin is spattered with the earth of the sycophant, but one gloved hand at least holds tight to the earth given, jealously withholding its benediction.
As the weight of a thousand sins incarcerates him in the cold hell he deserves, an elf follows its new master into the house, picking up the mud as it falls barren-fallow onto the parquet.
The guests congregate, fluttering awkwardly like broken swans, black wings huddled together in the massive ballroom bedecked with the feathers of the dead. I stand and receive in a sullen line of one, but I will not circulate, and my eyes burn through the welcome of the feast table with funeral meats and gradually they make pathetic excuses and fracture from the flock. Picked off one by one.
Slughorn is first to leave, with tiny feet, effusive regrets and pattering relief. The others trickle through the widening gap in the ballroom doors, all hope of the wake they expected, the wake they considered the monster deserved, vanishing with last mournful toll of the mourning bell.
The house empties, and as the silence encroaches, it echoes with the roars of a man who will not roar again. I seek the safety of the study, staying away from the iceberg of his desk, staring into the park, half expecting to see the shade of Abraxas rise from the muddied earth to continue his war on life.
Come on then, father. Do your worst.
But the only silver is the serpentine trail of the rain on the windows and Abraxas does not come. The dark comforts me in a cloak of cold; my fingers numb against the glass and I can almost feel the worms rapping at the roof of his coffin, and I revel in his prison until light steals into the room through a golden sliver of lamplight, spilling unlooked-for life into my reverie of death.
As I turn, there's a pang in my chest, a knife of disappointment, and I wonder what he had to do that was more important than continuing to ruin his son's life. I wonder, even now, why I feel I've failed.
My father is dead.
"Lucius?" His voice, not piping still, but teetering on the razor edge of adolescence, cuts through the dark, with the same clarity and precision that its owner does most things. The lamp lights on the desk at my invocation. "There you are."
"Where else," I say, stepping forward and sitting down heavily. The desk seems to snarl at me. Usurper. Pretender. Dead man's shoes.
This desk will have to go.
"They've all gone," Severus says. He steps into the pool of light around the desk and I can see those dark-peat eyes filled with concern. "Dobby had to levitate your Great Uncle Hegarty to his coach."
"The Calvados," I sigh. It won't be missed. Pears will taste like blood hereafter.
"I'm afraid so."
The boy slides into the room, noiseless, considerate. Precious. "Can I get you anything?" He's too far away. My arms rise almost without instructions.
"Nothing else." I say.
He's warm, still too thin, despite the best that my kitchens can offer him, his seat bones digging delightfully into my legs, seeming more full of angles and elbows than he ever did as he grows from boy to man. Furious heat radiates from him as he settles in my lap, fitting perfectly, the missing part of my soul. He's too tall now for my head to rest on the top of his and I miss that, miss the sweet childishness that started all this. Maybe one day he'll consider even this contact unsuitable and will revile the comfort for stronger, more masculine forms of expression.
"You're freezing," he murmurs, and he mutters a warming charm, heating my clothes, drying my hair completely. "Let me warm you." His hands, still small, but with long, deft fingers, pluck at my cravat and throw it aside. "Lucius, let me…"
My father is dead.
Something breaks as he tips his mouth up to be kissed, something hard and brittle, something filled with venom and ice, something 19 years in the forging. His mouth is eager, sweet with stolen brandy and Malfoy strawberries to which he's addicted; he groans into my mouth, pleading, asking, while he seeks every clasp, every button that bars him from my skin. Please. Let me. Please. Words he does not say, but words he's been thinking for months. Please.
He's inside my waistcoat, a squirming bundle of fingers on nipples, a seeking tongue dipping into my navel as he slides off my lap onto the floor and I'm lost in him, lost and clinging to his thoughts as they whip through my mind in vortex of smoke and need. In-between the whirling words are visions; of a past -
A child crying in the dark and the lit wand of a prefect on his rounds
the sensation of silken hair in his fingers - and a sense of wonder
of a present
A dark defiant figure dancing on a grave
of a future - clouded, but picture pink perfect.
kneeling on all fours and crying my name with tears in his throat.
held tight in my arms, feeling safe.
His mind withdraws as his tongue, wet, sweet dagger, finds my foreskin and I hear him chuckle - child - as my cock seeks him out, like a plant bending to the sun. He's so certain of his power over me. I feel his hands on my cock, pulling the skin back. My fingers tighten in his hair as he blows cool air hard across the weeping head.
"Severus…" A warning.
"If not now…" he whispers, without taking his eyes from my cock, "when? He kept us apart."
My father is dead.
He swallows me and I can't think, can't speak.
Who taught him the trick of that? Who taught him to press right there? Who taught him to edge the ridge with his teeth? How does he know about pain and reward?
Ahhhhh....That would be me… Following in Father's footsteps. "We agreed..." I manage, thickly. "You agreed..."
He sits back on his heels and looks up at me with that same damned look of aggravation he'd given me the first time I'd caned him. "If you re-wind the conversation," he says, a crooked grin on his face, "you'll find YOU agreed to wait till I was fifteen. All I said was, 'If that's what you want.'"
I frown, pulling the conversation back into my mind, wondering if he is playing me, wondering when my trousers had vanished. Wondering when he'd learned vanishing spells. untrustworthy minx
I grab a slender arm, somehow the little horror has lost his own clothes too. "Is that door locked?" I say, crushing him to me. He laughs, that viscous rumble that promises to be a molasses delight in years to come, and waves his wand at the door with a word. The wand clatters to the floor as we kiss, no longer the man and his boy, but two men who want to wring out every sensation mouths can offer. He's as bruising as I, invasion to invasion, vital, copper and fire, taking his rightful place with such ease it seems like he's always been there.
I lift him - he's still so slight that my mind gives the smallest misgiving before he wipes it out with a command - small tyrant. "Now, Lucius." The oil appears on the desk and I grasp it, lifeline, all choices made, debts paid, ship sailed - as he rubs against me, bony hips pushing, his cock leaving wet trails on my stomach. He opens for me, this at least is practised, fingers impaling, rubbing, easing - giving him pleasure, watching his face as it twists before he claims my mouth again, this time with a hunger he's never shown before.
He takes control, raising himself up on his knees, moving forward, one arm hooked around my neck. His hair clings to his back, and I lick at his neck, letting him take his time. As he pushes down, swallowing my cock head with one swift movement, we cry out in unison. I bite his shoulder in delirium, his fingernails dig into my upper leg. I think he's saying my name like a mantra, but it could simply be yes. His other arm flies around my neck, and we are closer than thoughts, closer than breath, nothing but the slick of sweat as I move in him, kissing the tears from his eyes.
He comes with a strangled sob, the impossible, almost painful tightness gripping me so hard I have to pull out to come, mingling my semen with his.
And then it's over; such a simple act, such anticipation, gone in the blink of childhood.
I hold him while he clings, his breath sweet and sharp against my ear. I tell him cabbage and king things, I tickle him - for he is still my gangling ticklish boy - and make light of the moment, even though I know it's nothing to be light about. We have stepped into the future and everything I will have, everything I will do has him tangled through it in a ganglion of complication, a minuet of life with him beside me.
My father is dead.
One life ends, and we dance.
Two lives begin.
And we dance.
by underlucius
Warnings: chan. Lucius is 19, Severus 13.
Disclaimer: JKR owns Lucius and Severus not me. Sadly
Notes: beta-ed by the inestimable eumenides1 who has to battle with the ebil Microsoft grammar check just to beta my scribblings. Dedicated to sinick for being this very Severus.
Burial
The sky is that leaden nothing only England seems to spawn, the spectrum torn from it, leached into an impossible colour that hurts the senses as you look for more than the sky will give. The rain piledrives into the ground, waging war on the grass, turning it brown with anger. It is colder than my father's hands.
I had refused all fuss from stupid elves - and one other - to wear a hat, and was soaked. Nose cut as far off my face as I could make it. My face is icy, as it presses against the well-meaning condolences of aunts, my hair plastered to my skin. My tears, which were what they'd all come to see, are not on display. Unshed. Unborn.
My father is dead.
The lines of hypocrisy pass and his coffin is spattered with the earth of the sycophant, but one gloved hand at least holds tight to the earth given, jealously withholding its benediction.
As the weight of a thousand sins incarcerates him in the cold hell he deserves, an elf follows its new master into the house, picking up the mud as it falls barren-fallow onto the parquet.
The guests congregate, fluttering awkwardly like broken swans, black wings huddled together in the massive ballroom bedecked with the feathers of the dead. I stand and receive in a sullen line of one, but I will not circulate, and my eyes burn through the welcome of the feast table with funeral meats and gradually they make pathetic excuses and fracture from the flock. Picked off one by one.
Slughorn is first to leave, with tiny feet, effusive regrets and pattering relief. The others trickle through the widening gap in the ballroom doors, all hope of the wake they expected, the wake they considered the monster deserved, vanishing with last mournful toll of the mourning bell.
The house empties, and as the silence encroaches, it echoes with the roars of a man who will not roar again. I seek the safety of the study, staying away from the iceberg of his desk, staring into the park, half expecting to see the shade of Abraxas rise from the muddied earth to continue his war on life.
Come on then, father. Do your worst.
But the only silver is the serpentine trail of the rain on the windows and Abraxas does not come. The dark comforts me in a cloak of cold; my fingers numb against the glass and I can almost feel the worms rapping at the roof of his coffin, and I revel in his prison until light steals into the room through a golden sliver of lamplight, spilling unlooked-for life into my reverie of death.
As I turn, there's a pang in my chest, a knife of disappointment, and I wonder what he had to do that was more important than continuing to ruin his son's life. I wonder, even now, why I feel I've failed.
My father is dead.
"Lucius?" His voice, not piping still, but teetering on the razor edge of adolescence, cuts through the dark, with the same clarity and precision that its owner does most things. The lamp lights on the desk at my invocation. "There you are."
"Where else," I say, stepping forward and sitting down heavily. The desk seems to snarl at me. Usurper. Pretender. Dead man's shoes.
This desk will have to go.
"They've all gone," Severus says. He steps into the pool of light around the desk and I can see those dark-peat eyes filled with concern. "Dobby had to levitate your Great Uncle Hegarty to his coach."
"The Calvados," I sigh. It won't be missed. Pears will taste like blood hereafter.
"I'm afraid so."
The boy slides into the room, noiseless, considerate. Precious. "Can I get you anything?" He's too far away. My arms rise almost without instructions.
"Nothing else." I say.
He's warm, still too thin, despite the best that my kitchens can offer him, his seat bones digging delightfully into my legs, seeming more full of angles and elbows than he ever did as he grows from boy to man. Furious heat radiates from him as he settles in my lap, fitting perfectly, the missing part of my soul. He's too tall now for my head to rest on the top of his and I miss that, miss the sweet childishness that started all this. Maybe one day he'll consider even this contact unsuitable and will revile the comfort for stronger, more masculine forms of expression.
"You're freezing," he murmurs, and he mutters a warming charm, heating my clothes, drying my hair completely. "Let me warm you." His hands, still small, but with long, deft fingers, pluck at my cravat and throw it aside. "Lucius, let me…"
My father is dead.
Something breaks as he tips his mouth up to be kissed, something hard and brittle, something filled with venom and ice, something 19 years in the forging. His mouth is eager, sweet with stolen brandy and Malfoy strawberries to which he's addicted; he groans into my mouth, pleading, asking, while he seeks every clasp, every button that bars him from my skin. Please. Let me. Please. Words he does not say, but words he's been thinking for months. Please.
He's inside my waistcoat, a squirming bundle of fingers on nipples, a seeking tongue dipping into my navel as he slides off my lap onto the floor and I'm lost in him, lost and clinging to his thoughts as they whip through my mind in vortex of smoke and need. In-between the whirling words are visions; of a past -
A child crying in the dark and the lit wand of a prefect on his rounds
the sensation of silken hair in his fingers - and a sense of wonder
of a present
A dark defiant figure dancing on a grave
of a future - clouded, but picture pink perfect.
kneeling on all fours and crying my name with tears in his throat.
held tight in my arms, feeling safe.
His mind withdraws as his tongue, wet, sweet dagger, finds my foreskin and I hear him chuckle - child - as my cock seeks him out, like a plant bending to the sun. He's so certain of his power over me. I feel his hands on my cock, pulling the skin back. My fingers tighten in his hair as he blows cool air hard across the weeping head.
"Severus…" A warning.
"If not now…" he whispers, without taking his eyes from my cock, "when? He kept us apart."
My father is dead.
He swallows me and I can't think, can't speak.
Who taught him the trick of that? Who taught him to press right there? Who taught him to edge the ridge with his teeth? How does he know about pain and reward?
Ahhhhh....That would be me… Following in Father's footsteps. "We agreed..." I manage, thickly. "You agreed..."
He sits back on his heels and looks up at me with that same damned look of aggravation he'd given me the first time I'd caned him. "If you re-wind the conversation," he says, a crooked grin on his face, "you'll find YOU agreed to wait till I was fifteen. All I said was, 'If that's what you want.'"
I frown, pulling the conversation back into my mind, wondering if he is playing me, wondering when my trousers had vanished. Wondering when he'd learned vanishing spells. untrustworthy minx
I grab a slender arm, somehow the little horror has lost his own clothes too. "Is that door locked?" I say, crushing him to me. He laughs, that viscous rumble that promises to be a molasses delight in years to come, and waves his wand at the door with a word. The wand clatters to the floor as we kiss, no longer the man and his boy, but two men who want to wring out every sensation mouths can offer. He's as bruising as I, invasion to invasion, vital, copper and fire, taking his rightful place with such ease it seems like he's always been there.
I lift him - he's still so slight that my mind gives the smallest misgiving before he wipes it out with a command - small tyrant. "Now, Lucius." The oil appears on the desk and I grasp it, lifeline, all choices made, debts paid, ship sailed - as he rubs against me, bony hips pushing, his cock leaving wet trails on my stomach. He opens for me, this at least is practised, fingers impaling, rubbing, easing - giving him pleasure, watching his face as it twists before he claims my mouth again, this time with a hunger he's never shown before.
He takes control, raising himself up on his knees, moving forward, one arm hooked around my neck. His hair clings to his back, and I lick at his neck, letting him take his time. As he pushes down, swallowing my cock head with one swift movement, we cry out in unison. I bite his shoulder in delirium, his fingernails dig into my upper leg. I think he's saying my name like a mantra, but it could simply be yes. His other arm flies around my neck, and we are closer than thoughts, closer than breath, nothing but the slick of sweat as I move in him, kissing the tears from his eyes.
He comes with a strangled sob, the impossible, almost painful tightness gripping me so hard I have to pull out to come, mingling my semen with his.
And then it's over; such a simple act, such anticipation, gone in the blink of childhood.
I hold him while he clings, his breath sweet and sharp against my ear. I tell him cabbage and king things, I tickle him - for he is still my gangling ticklish boy - and make light of the moment, even though I know it's nothing to be light about. We have stepped into the future and everything I will have, everything I will do has him tangled through it in a ganglion of complication, a minuet of life with him beside me.
My father is dead.
One life ends, and we dance.
Two lives begin.
And we dance.