This one's for Mulder, who taught me the inside of this addiction.
NC-17, folks. If you want it milder, go somewhere else.
He waited until I came home, until my voice had broken, until my shoulders had subtly broadened and I'd gotten used to my extra inches. Everyone said I look like him, but I knew that I was different. His hair, his build, his nose, his mouth, but I had my mother's eyes, soft and grey-blue like an unquiet sea, soft and wild and different from his chips of grey steel. She always kissed my eyes at night, before I thought I was too old for kisses, before the veil of potions fell before her eyes.
People think that when this happens, he goes to me, that I lie in bed waiting for the door to open, praying it won't, feeling my own space violated as much as my body. He's more subtle than that. You see, I always go to him.
I swear I won't, while I'm gone, all day and all evening. I ride my broomstick, practicing seeker's moves until the wind rips my very name from my mind, and ride and run until I shake with the sweat of my own frailty and muscles that have been pushed to their limits. There is dinner that night, and quiet proper conversation in which we speak in silences and half-formed statements and veiled smiles, honing our edges in the great game. The daughters of my father's friends flirt with me in subtle, practiced ways, and I play this lesser game too. There are always eyes on me. But I play best to an audience.
And then the house falls silent....and I sit alone and sleepless in my bed, aching, dark visions before my eyes, a subtle calling in my bones...and I give in. I put on my dressing gown, grey silk like my eyes, and unbraid my hair, and walk down the hall to my father's bedroom.
He's always there....sitting up before the fire, wearing his shirt and pants, or simply like a veiled god in his dressing gown. And he always asks, "What do you want, Draco?" No room for me to hide in. Never. He makes me speak. I hate him.
"I want you, Father," is all I say. And he smiles. He smiles at me, a real smile, and I think that's it, those smiles are like coming out into the sun after Potions class, on the first day of spring. And he stands, and kisses me. He can kiss....no girl I've tried has ever come close. His kisses roll over me like an ocean, and it makes me feel drunk, like pulling off the best, steepest, most daring Wronski feint ever. He tastes of brandy, and of power, and I love him.
And then he tells me to undress him. I know how it has to be done now, one button at a time. Care with the pants...he doesn't want me to touch him. Yet. I wonder if I will look like him when I'm done growing. It's not so far now..two more inches in height, perhaps another twenty pounds of muscle. And then I know I'm fooling myself. I already look like him. The extra growing will just polish it.
That's the eerie thing about it. I look down as he undoes the sash of my dressing gown, and it's my hands, my long elegant hands, undoing the knot. His fingers feel like mine on my skin. But the thing that does it for me is the knowledge. He always knew. From the first time, he knew where my sensitive spots were, when I didn't. He knew how to stroke and when to touch, and when to bite and how to lick. And when I tried clumsily to copy, it worked, worked too well, as though I were doing this to myself. He is my mirror. Every time I see the fringes of his control there, glimpsed in that moment before he comes, in the time when I moan and a strange hungry stillness comes over him, I think maybe this time I'll shatter him, break him, the way he breaks me. This time I can fuck him out of my skin, out of my head, purge myself of this.
It doesn't work. I suppose that's the difference between us, the one time has given. He's all smooth sleek control, pressing my hands over my head, a thumbstroke down the arms pinning me down by bonds forged of my own submission, his own will. He smiles then, again, tenderly, runs a hand over my face, and, well-trained, I arch into his touch, and he flays me sweetly with his mouth and his fingertips and his words. And when he does let me come, broken apart on his cock that is the mirror of mine, I sob and break and fall apart for him. I love him. He smiles, shuts his eyes, and gives a long sigh. But I can feel the muscles of his back quivering, and he does not immediately move.
There is a moment when I could speak. I could say, "This is it. Never again." And I somehow know that if I said that, he'd nod, and kiss me goodnight in a parody of paternal affection, and nothing would be said, no penalty exacted. But I know I can't ask. You see, I'm honest with myself. I know that once I did that...two nights later, my skin would demand his touch, and I would run, and fly, and try to outrun it and sweat it out from my skin. But that night I would pace my bedroom, trying to calm, to distract myself into sleep. And finally, I would put on my dressing gown and walk down to my father's bedroom, hating myself with every damned step. And I know that he would hold me to my word. He always keeps his word.
So I say nothing, and slide from the bed, put the robe on again. I need a bath, although there's not enough hot water to make me clean. He is watching me from the bed, lounging naked there, perfect, hair spilling in a satin sheet over one shoulder, like a marble statue, like an angel. But he has the smile of an incubus. I hate him.
"Sleep well, Draco," he says as I reach the door, and I want to scream. I don't want to sleep well. I shouldn't. I should toss and turn, branded by my own sin, my own wrongful knowledge. But again he knows me too well. I always do, and wake with the taste of failure in my mouth, and the bone-deep looseness of a well-fucked body, and I am always surprised, when I look at myself in the mirror, that it's only my eyes that have changed.
Now I have my father's eyes.
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